“Yes.”
That was news to me. If Dr. Emma Jackson was there, I hadn’t seen her. “I don’t know if she’ll be able to or not. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her or the Medic One guys either. They’re working on him right now.”
“It was the bad man, looking for me again, wasn’t it? How come? Why can’t you stop him?”
The simultaneous accusation and cry for help cut to the quick. “We’re trying,” I said. “We’re doing our best.”
“It’s all my fault,” Junior Weston whimpered. “It’s because of me Mr. Lindstrom got hurt.”
“It isn’t your fault, Junior. None of it is.”
“But what does the bad man want? Why’s he still looking for me then?”
“Because he knows you saw his face,” I answered quietly. “He’s afraid you can identify him.”
Junior Weston raised his head then and looked at me, his small chin set in staunch defiance. “And I can, too,” he said determinedly. “I will.”
“But until you do,” I cautioned, “we’ve got to make sure you’re safe. I thought you’d be safe here, at this house with the Walterses, but the bad man found you anyway. What would you think of coming home with me for a day or two, Junior? I live in a downtown high rise with a swimming pool and a hot tub and a rooftop garden.”
“A garden on the roof? Are you kidding? Gardens don’t go on roofs. The dirt would all fall off.”
“The dirt doesn’t fell off this one because it’s flat. And there’s a duck that lives there, too. Her name is Gertrude and she has five little ducklings. We even put out a wading pool for her so she could teach them how to swim.”
“Are there any other kids?”
“Some. Two anyway. Their names are Heather and Tracie. I’m sure they’d be happy to play with you.”
Junior grew quiet and seemed to be considering my offer. “What would Reverend Walters think?”
“More than anything, Reverend Walters wants you to be safe,” I answered. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
Junior frowned. “It sounds okay, but I really want to go home. To my home.”
“You can’t go there, Junior. Nobody can. And you wouldn’t want to, either, not right now. It’s a crime scene.”
Tears welled up in Junior’s eyes. “But what about all my stuff?” he demanded. “What happens to my toys-my dad’s matchbox cars and the old transformers Dougie gave me and the baseball I won signed by Ken Griffey and his dad? What about those?”
“I’ll tell you what, Junior. In fact, I’ll make you a promise. When it’s time to go back to your house, I’ll go with you and so will Big Al, if he’s well enough. We’ll help you get all your stuff gathered up and other things as well, things you should have from the rest of your family, mementos. They may not mean that much to you right now, while you’re young, but they will later, when you’re older.”
“So I won’t forget?” Junior asked.
I felt a catch in my throat and tears blurred my own eyes. “You won’t forget, Junior. Don’t worry about that. No matter what, you’ll never forget. Will you come stay with me?”
“Okay.”
With a warning squawk of siren, the Medic One van eased down off the curb and began nudging its way through the crowd. While everyone busily focused on that, I smuggled Junior back to my car and belted him into the passenger seat. As I did so, I caught sight of Knuckles Russell’s briefcase still sitting in back where I’d left it.
Captain Powell came up behind me. “What’s going on, Detective Beaumont?”
“I’m taking Junior here home with me for the time being. Go let the Walterses know, would you? They can tell old Mr. Weston if they want, but under the circumstances, the fewer who hear about this the better.”
“What’s Child Protective Services going to say?” Powell asked.
“Screw Child Protective Services!” I growled. “If Big Al couldn’t handle it, what the hell do you think CPS would do?”
“Not much,” Powell agreed. “Go ahead, Beau. I’ll back you up on this one.”
I paused long enough to drag Knuckles Russell’s briefcase out of the car and handed it over to Captain Powell. “Here’s this,” I said.
“What is it?”
“A present from our Doghouse summit meeting. It needs to go down to the Crime Lab. You might ask Janice Morraine to take a look at it. She’s close enough to the case to know what’s going on. And one other thing. If you could, try to find out who on the task force if anybody is working on Ben Weston’s Day-Timer.”
“Day-Timer? I don’t remember anything about a Day-Timer,” Powell said with a frown. “Where is it?”
“It was on the floor of Ben Weston’s bedroom the last I saw it, but I don’t have any idea where it is now. I’d like to talk to whoever’s working on it, and I’d like to see it if it’s at all possible.”
Powell nodded and stepped away from the car while I climbed into my seat, fastened my own belt, and started the engine. “Can we stop long enough to get my Nintendo?” Junior asked. “I could show you how to play.”
“No,” I said. “Not tonight. We’d better get you home and into bed.” I didn’t want to voice my real reason for not wanting to stop-the need to limit the number of people who saw me with Junior Weston and who might guess where he’d been taken.
If Junior was disappointed about leaving the video game behind, he didn’t complain. On the drive into the city, he stayed mostly quiet. I wondered how this tough little kid was managing to cope with the chaos that had suddenly descended over his entire life, leaving him nothing to hold on to but a soon-to-be-scruffy brown teddy bear.
We had come up the I-5 corridor and were about to turn off on the Mercer/Fairview Exit when Junior sat up straight and peered out across me at the myriad lights that make up downtown’s nighttime skyline.
“You live in one of those tall buildings?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The tall one nearest the Space Needle.”
“Which floor?”
“The top one, the twenty-fifth.”
“Does your house have a basement?”
I knew at once why he was asking that question, and I didn’t blame him. “Yes,” I told him, “the building does, but you can’t get into it without either a garage door opener or a key to the building.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding relieved.
When we reached Belltown Terrace, I let Junior punch the button to open the garage door. Then, I let him work the numbered combination lock that controls the door into the elevator lobby on P-1. I thought it was important that Junior Weston know for sure that someone couldn’t just walk into the building anytime they pleased. On that particular night it was important for J. P. Beaumont to know that too.
On the way upstairs in the elevator, it dawned on me that maybe I should have called ahead to warn Ralph Ames that I was bringing home company. After all, he might have been entertaining guests of his own, but I needn’t have worried. When we walked into my condo, we found Ralph rousing himself out of a sound sleep, floundering to his feet from my rehabilitated but comfortable leather recliner.
“Junior, this is Ralph Ames,” I said, introducing them. “He’s a good friend of mine. Ralph, this is Junior Weston. I’m going to have to go back out again for a while, but the two of you will be all right here together.”
He may have been groggy, but Ralph Ames is always quick on his feet. He reached down and shook the boy’s hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Junior,” he said gravely, “but I’m very sorry to hear about what happened to your family.”
“You know about that?” Junior asked wonderingly.
“It’s been in all the newspapers,” Ralph replied. “I’ve been reading about it.”
“Junior’s going to stay with us for a day or two,” I interjected matter-of-factly. “I thought we’d fix up a bed for him on the window seat here in the living room.”
“Sure,” Ralph said. “I can handle that. What’s going on?”
“Big Al’s been hurt. I’ve got to go get Molly.”
“Hurt badly?” I nodded. “You go do whatever you need to do,” Ralph said. “Junior and I will be fine.”
He turned to Junior Weston with the kind of ease and rapport that only people without children of their own
