“Taser!” a guard yelled.
That was the last thing he heard before his body was lit up.
Jack hit the ground and his body flopped like a fish out of water before a guard and two landed on top of him, restraining his hands and feet. Yelling ensued as he struggled but it was pointless, the Taser had taken the fight out of him.
Later that afternoon, two hundred and seventy-six miles away, Dalton was having lunch in Apalachin, New York. He sipped on coffee, and took another bite of home fries, eggs and bacon. Kelly sat across from him while Zach talked to the café owner, showing a picture of Jack Winchester. A few minutes later he returned and slid in next to Kelly.
“The owner says she remembers him. He stood out from the regulars, sat in that booth over there. Met with some kid in town called Joey Marlino. Said he skates around here with a bunch of kids. Said if we stick around they usually come in for milkshakes every day.” He glanced at his watch.
“Right then, we’ll just wait,” Kelly said.
Dalton was doing a search on his phone for the address of the doctor who handled Jack’s case. “He has an office in Owego.”
“That’s about ten minutes from here,” Kelly said. “Listen, Zach, you stay here while we head over there.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I want to speak with the doctor.”
“There’s no point going. You won’t get to speak to him.”
“And you’re so sure because…?”
“Because it takes me almost two weeks to get an appointment with my own doctor. You remember that time I was getting that chesty cough.”
“That’s because you’re a hypochondriac.”
“I am not! And I resent you saying that,” he said leaning back and scooping up his coffee to take a sip.
“It’s true. Every month there is something wrong with you. Your chest, your foot, your arm, your neck.”
“See, Dalton. See what I have to put up with.”
Dalton might have found the banter amusing if he had not endured it for four hours on the journey down. In the end he told them to go and visit the doctor while he waited for the kid. Zach continued to protest even as he and Kelly left the restaurant, promising to meet him again that evening at the same place.
Dalton sat there for another two hours, eventually he assumed the kid wouldn’t show so he tossed his napkin on his plate and went to pay his bill. While handing over cash he looked out the window and saw a group of kids, teenagers, some on bicycles, others on scooters and skateboards performing tricks as they headed towards the diner. He gave the waitress a tip and asked the owner, “That them?”
She looked and nodded.
“Which one is Joey?”
She pointed him out.
“The string bean. The one on the skateboard with dark skin.” Seizing the opportunity, Dalton headed out of the café without calling or texting the other two. The less they knew, the better. He was already second guessing tagging along as he was concerned that if they ended up publishing a story his name would be in it. The was the last thing he wanted.
Outside, the kids were laughing, and Joey was smoking a joint as they stopped near the diner. One of them punched another on the arm and made a joke about him being a virgin. Dalton strolled over.
“Joey Marlino?”
The kid turned and looked at him, his brow furrowing. “Yeah.”
Dalton beckoned him over. “I need to speak with you.”
The kid got this deer in the headlights look before throwing his skateboard and bolting.
Like a flash, Dalton took off after him only to have two of the other kids knock him to the ground. He scrambled up and sprinted. Joey darted across the road, looking over his shoulder, then went around the back of a funeral home. As soon as Dalton came around the corner he was gone. “Shit!” he said. He scanned the terrain thinking he might be hiding in the tall brush, or behind some of the dumpsters, but there was no movement. Just about to turn he heard a phone ring. Dalton turned towards a row of garbage cans and saw the kid burst out — it was his phone — probably his friends calling him. Dalton raced after him, weaving between alleys, over a field and across a parking lot before he caught him trying to scale a chain-link fence. Dalton latched onto his coat and threw him on the ground.
“Get off me, man. I didn’t do it. This is police abuse.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“What?”
“Jack Winchester. You know him?”
“Who?”
Dalton reached into his pocket and fished out a photo.
The kid shook his head. “Never seen him before.”
“You’re lying. That’s not what the owner of the restaurant said.”
“She don’t know shit.”
“C’mon, kid.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Then I guess I’ll take you in.”
“But you’re not a cop.”
“Citizen’s arrest.”
“For what?”
“Being an asshole,” Dalton said shoving him forward but keeping a firm grip on him.
“All right. All right. I met him. Okay.”
They stopped walking and Dalton turned him around. “Start talking.”
“He showed up four months ago asking about some woman. He approached our group and showed us a picture of her. Asked for our help.” He sighed. “Wanted us to let him know if anyone new had shown up in town, maybe rented or bought a place. I said I could help for some cash.”
“And?”
“I found the place. The old tavern at the crossroads.”
“Then what?”
“He paid me and said he would meet me the next day at the restaurant to pay me some more. He never showed.”
“That’s all?”
The kid looked down.
“What are you not telling me?” Dalton asked.
“I just wanted to make some money. They said they would give me some
