There were parents here--chaperones, he guessed. That would make this more difficult. But he didn't have time to worry about it. The police might be mobilizing, but they weren't anxious to look at the big picture. Myron was getting it now. It was coming into focus. Randy Wolf, he knew, was one of the keys.
The festivities were nicely partitioned. The parents hung out in the house's screened-in porch. Myron could see the adults in the dim light. They were laughing and had a keg. The men wore long shorts and loafers and smoked cigars. The women sported bright Lilly Pulitzer skirts and flip-flops.
The seniors gathered at the far end of the tent, as far away from adult supervision as possible. The dance floor was empty. The DJ played a song by the Killers, something about having a girlfriend who looked like a boyfriend that somebody had in February. Myron headed straight for Randy and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
Randy shrugged Myron's hand away. "Get off me."
"We need to talk."
"My father said--"
"I know all about what your father said. We're talking anyway."
Randy Wolf was surrounded by about six guys. Some were huge. The quarterback and his offensive line, Myron figured.
"This butt-face bothering you, Pharm?"
The one who said that was huge. He grinned at Myron. The guy had spiky blond hair, but what you first noticed, what you couldn't help but notice, was that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Here they were at a party. There were girls and punch and music and dancing and even parents. And this guy wasn't wearing a shirt.
Randy didn't say anything.
Shirtless had barbed-wire tattoos around his bloated biceps. Myron frowned. The tattoos couldn't have been more wannabe without the word wannabe actually being stenciled in. The guy was slabs and slabs of beef. His chest was so smooth it looked like someone had taken a sander to it. He rippled. His forehead was sloped. His eyes were red, indicating that at least some of the beer had found its way to the underaged. He wore calf-length pants that might have been capris, though Myron didn't know if guys wore those or not.
"What are you looking at, Butt-face?"
Myron said, "Absolutely--and I mean this sincerely--absolutely nothing."
There were several gasps from the crowd. One of them said, "Oh man, is this old dude gonna get a beating or what!"
Another said, "Bring it on, Crush!"
Shirtless aka Crush made his best tough-guy face. "Pharm ain't talking to you, you got me, Butt-face?"
That got a laugh from his friends.
"Butt-face," Myron repeated. "It's even funnier the third time you say it." He took a step toward the kid. Crush didn't budge. "This isn't your business."
"I'm making it my business."
Myron waited. Then he said, "Don't you mean, 'I'm making it my business, Butt-face'?"
There was another gasp. One of the other guys said, "Oh, mister, run and hide. Nobody wises off to Crush like that."
Myron looked at Randy. "We need to talk now. Before this gets out of hand."
Crush smiled, flexed his pecs, stepped forward. "It's already out of hand."
Myron didn't want to take out a kid, not with the parents around. It would cause too many problems.
"I don't want trouble," Myron said.
"You already got it, Butt-face."
Some of the guys oooed at that one. Crush folded his massive arms across his chest. A stupid move. Myron needed to get this out of the way fast, before the parents started noticing. But Crush's friends were watching. Crush was the resident tough guy. He couldn't afford to back down.
Arms folded across the chest. How macho. How dumb.
Myron made the move. When you need to take out somebody with a minimum of fuss or mess, this technique was one of the most effective. Myron's hand started at his side. The natural resting spot. That was the key. You don't cock the wrist. You don't pull the arm back. You don't wind up or make a fist. The smallest distance between two points is a straight line. That's what you remember. Using his natural hand speed and the element of surprise, Myron shot the hand in that straight line, from the resting point near his hip to Crush's throat.
He didn't hit him hard. Myron used the knife edge below the pinky and found the neck's sweet spot. Few points on the human body are more vulnerable. If you hit someone in the throat, it hurts. It makes them gasp and cough and freeze. But you have to know what you're doing. You hit it too hard, you could do some serious damage. Myron's hand darted in and struck cobra-like.
Crush's eyes bulged. A choking sound got locked in his throat. With almost casual ease, Myron swept out Crush's legs with his instep. Crush went down. Myron did not wait. He grabbed Randy by the scruff of the neck and started dragging him away. If any kid so much as moved, Myron froze them with a stare-down, all the while hustling Randy into the neighbor's backyard.
Randy said, "Ow, let me go!"
Screw that. Randy was eighteen, an adult, right? No reason to go soft on him because he was a kid. He took him behind the garage two houses down. When Myron released him, Randy rubbed the back of his neck.
"What the hell is your problem, man?"
"Aimee is in trouble, Randy."
"She ran away. Everyone said so. People talked to her online tonight."
"Why did you two break up?"
"What?"
"I said--"
"I heard you." Randy thought about it, then shrugged. "We outgrew each other, that's all. We're both going to college. It was time to move on."
"Last week you went to the prom together."
"Yeah, so? We'd been planning for it all year. The tux, the dress, we rented a stretch Hummer with a bunch of friends. The whole group of us. We didn't want to ruin everyone's time. So we went together."
"Why did you two break up, Randy?"
"I just told you."
"Did Aimee find out you were dealing drugs?"
Randy smiled then. He was a handsome kid and he had a damn good smile. "You make it sound like I'm hanging in Harlem hooking kids on heroin."
"I'd get into a moral debate with you, Randy, but I'm a little pressed for time."
"Of course Aimee knew about it. She even partook on more than one occasion. No big deal. I was only providing for a few friends."
"One of those friends Katie Rochester?"
He shrugged. "She asked a few times. I helped her out."
"So again, Randy: Why did you and Aimee break up?"
He shrugged again and his tone quieted just enough. "You'd have to ask Aimee."
"She broke up with you?"
"Aimee changed."
"Changed how?"
"Why don't you ask her old man?"
That made Myron pull up. "Erik?" He frowned. "What does he have to do with it?"
He didn't reply.
"Randy?"
"Aimee found out her father was screwing around." He shrugged. "It made her change."
"Change how?"
"I don't know. It's like she wanted to do anything to piss him off. Her dad liked me. So all of a sudden"--another shrug--"she didn't."
Myron thought about it. He remembered what Erik had said last night, on the end of that cul-de-sac. It added up.
"I cared about her, man," Randy went on. "You have no idea how much. I tried to win her back, but it just backfired in my face. I'm over her now. Aimee's not a part of my life anymore."
Myron could hear the crowd gather. He reached to grab Randy again by the neck, drag him farther away, but Randy pulled back. "I'm fine!" Randy yelled out to his approaching friends. "We're just talking here."
Randy turned back to Myron. His eyes were suddenly clear. "Go ahead. What else do you want to know?"
"Your father called Aimee a slut."
"Right."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?"
"Aimee started seeing somebody else?"
Randy nodded.
"Was it Drew Van Dyne?"
"Doesn't matter anymore."
"Yeah, it does."
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"Nah, not really. With all due respect, none of this does. Look, high school is over. I'm going to Dartmouth. Aimee is going to Duke. My mom, she told me something. She said that high school isn't important. The people who are happiest in high school end up being the most miserable adults. I'm lucky. I know that. And I know it won't last unless I take the next step. I thought . . . we talked about it. I thought Aimee understood that too. How important the next step was. And in the end, we both got what we wanted. We got accepted to our first choices."
"She's in danger, Randy."
"I can't help you."
"And she's pregnant."
He closed his eyes.
"Randy?"
"I don't know where she is."
"You said you did something to try to win her back, but it backfired. What did you do, Randy?"
He shook his head. He wouldn't say. But Myron thought that maybe he had an idea. Myron gave him his card. "If you think of anything . . ."
"Yeah."
Randy turned away then. He headed back to the party. The music still played. The parents kept laughing. And Aimee was still in trouble.
CHAPTER 48
When Myron got back to his car, Claire was there. "It's Erik," she said.
"What about him?"
"He ran out of the house. With his father's old gun."
"Did you call his cell?"
"No answer," Claire said.
"Any idea where he went?"
"A few years ago I represented a company called KnowWhere," Claire said. "You heard of it?"
"No."
"They're like OnStar or LoJack. They put a GPS in your car for emergencies, that kind of thing. Anyway, we got one installed in both cars. I just called the owner at home and begged him to get me the location."
"And?"
"Erik is parked in front of Harry Davis's house."
"Jesus."
Myron jumped into his car. Claire slipped into the passenger seat. He wanted to argue, but there was no time.
"Call Harry Davis's home," he said.
"I tried," Claire said. "There was no answer."
Erik's car was indeed parked directly in front of the Davis residence. If he'd wanted to hide his approach, he hadn't done a very good job.
Myron stopped the car. He took out his own gun.
Claire said, "What the hell is that for?"
"Just stay here."
"I asked you--"
"Not now, Claire. Stay here. I'll call if I need you."
His voice left no room for argument and, for once, Claire just obeyed. He started up the path, keeping a low crouch. The front door was slightly ajar. Myron didn't like that. He ducked low and listened.
There were noises, but he couldn't make out what they were.
Using the barrel of the gun, he pushed the door open. There was no one in the foyer. The sounds were coming from the left. Myron crawled in. He turned the corner and there, lying on the floor, was a woman he assumed was Mrs. Davis.
She was gagged. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her eyes were wide with fear. Myron put a finger to his lips. She looked to her right, then back at Myron, then back to her right again.
He heard more noises.
There were other people in the room. On her right.
Myron debated his next move. He considered backing out and calling the police. They could surround the house, he guessed, start talking Erik down. But that might be too late.
He heard a slap. Someone cried out. Mrs. Davis squeezed her eyes shut.
There was no choice. Not really. Myron had the gun at the ready. He was about to leap, preparing to turn and aim in the direction where Mrs. Davis had been looking. He bent his legs. And then he stopped.
Jumping in with a gun. Would that be the prudent move here?
Erik was armed. He might, of course, react by surrendering. He might also react by firing in a panic.
Fifty-fifty.
Myron tried something else.
"Erik?"
Silence.
Myron said, "Erik, it's me. Myron."
"Come on in, Myron."
The voice was calm. There was almost a lilt in it. Myron moved into the center of the room. Erik stood with a gun in his hand. He had on a dress shirt with no tie. There were splatters of blood across the chest.
Erik smiled when he saw Myron. "Mr. Davis is ready to talk now."
"Put the gun down, Erik."
"I don't think so."
"I said--"
"What? Are you going to shoot me?"
"Nobody is shooting anybody. Just put the gun down."
Erik shook his head. The smile remained. "Come all the way in. Please."
Myron stepped into the room, his gun still up. Now he could see Harry Davis in a chair. His back was to Myron. Nylon cuffs were around his wrists. Davis's head lolled on the neck, chin down.
Myron came around the front and took a look.
"Oh, man."
Davis had been beaten. There was blood on his face. A tooth was out and on the floor. Myron turned to Erik. Erik's posture was different. He wasn't as ramrod as usual. He didn't look nervous or agitated. In fact, Myron had never seen him look more relaxed in his life.
"He needs a doctor," Myron said.
"He's fine."
Myron looked at Erik's eyes. They were placid pools.
"This isn't the way, Erik."
"Sure it is."
"Listen to me--"
"I don't think so. You're good at this stuff, Myron, no question. But you have to follow rules. A certain code. When your child is in danger, those niceties go out the window."
Myron thought about Dominick Rochester, how he had said something so very similar in the Seidens' house. You couldn't start off with two guys more different than Erik Biel and Dominick Rochester. Desperation and fear had rendered them near identical.
Harry Davis raised his bloodied face. "I don't know where Aimee is, I swear."
Before Myron could do much of anything, Erik aimed his gun at the ground and fired. The sound was loud in the small room. Harry Davis screamed. A groan came from behind Mrs. Davis's gag.
Myron's own eyes widened as he looked down at Davis's shoe.
There was a hole in it.
It was near the edge of the big toe. Blood began to run. Myron raised his gun and pointed it at Erik's head. "Put it down now!"
"No."
He said it simply. Erik looked at Harry Davis. The man was in pain, but his head was up now, his eyes more focused. "Did you sleep with my daughter?"
"Never!"
"He's telling the truth, Erik."
Erik turned to Myron. "How do you know?"
"It was another teacher. A guy named Drew Van Dyne. He works at the music store where she hung out."
Erik looked confused. "But when you dropped Aimee off, she came here, right?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
They both looked at Harry Davis. There was blood on his shoe now. It oozed out slowly. Myron wondered if the neighbors had heard the gunfire, if they'd call the police. Myron doubted it. People out here assume the sound is a car backfiring or fireworks, something explainable and safe.
"It's not what you think," Harry Davis said.
"What's not?"
And then Harry Davis's eyes darted toward his wife. Myron understood. He pulled Erik to the side. "You cracked him," Myron said. "He's ready to talk."
"So?"
"So he's not going to talk in front of his wife. And if he did something to Aimee, he's not going to talk in front of you."
Erik still had the small smile on his face. "You want to take over."
"It's not about taking over," Myron said. "It's about getting the information."
Erik surprised Myron then. He nodded. "You're right."
Myron just looked at him as if waiting for the punch line.
"You think this is about me," Erik said. "But it's not. It's about my daughter. It's about what I'd do to save her. I'd kill that man in a
second. I'd kill his wife. Hell, Myron, I'd kill you too. But none of that will do any good. You're right. I cracked him. But if we want him to talk freely, his wife and I should leave the room."
Erik walked over to Mrs. Davis. She cowered.
Harry Davis shouted, "Leave her alone!"
Erik ignored him. He reached down and helped Mrs. Davis to her feet. Then Erik looked back at Harry. "Your wife and I will wait in the other room."
They moved into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. Myron wanted to untie Davis, but those nylon cuffs were tough to do by hand. He grabbed a blanket and stemmed the blood flow from the foot.
"It doesn't hurt much," Davis said.
His voice was far away. Strangely enough, he too looked more relaxed. Myron had seen that before. Confession is indeed good for the soul. The man was carrying a heavy load of secrets. It was going to feel good, at least temporarily, to unburden himself.
"I've been teaching high school for twenty-two years," Davis began without being prompted. "I love it. I know the pay isn't great. I know it's not prestigious. But I adore the students. I love to teach. I love to help them on their way. I love when they come back and visit me."
Davis stopped.
"Why did Aimee come here the other night?" Myron asked.
He didn't seem to hear. "Think about it, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-plus years. With high-schoolers. I don't say high school kids. Because many of them aren't kids. They're sixteen, seventeen, and even eighteen. Old enough to serve in the military and vote. And unless you're blind, you know that those are women, not girls. You ever check out the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue? You ever look on the runway at top fashion shows? Those models are the same age as the beautiful, fresh-faced ones that I'm with five days a week, ten months a year. Women, Mr. Bolitar. Not girls. This isn't about some sick attraction or pedophilia."
Myron said, "I hope you're not trying to justify sexual affairs with students."
Davis shook his head. "I just want to put what I'm about to say in context."
"I don't need context, Harry."
He almost laughed at that. "You understand what I'm saying more than you want to admit, I think. The thing is, I am a normal man--by that I mean, a normal heterosexual male with normal urges and desires. I'm surrounded year after year with mind-bogglingly beautiful women wearing tight clothes and low-cut jeans and plunging necklines and bare midriffs. Every day, Mr. Bolitar. They smile at me. They flirt with me. And we teachers are supposed to be strong and resist it every day."
"Let me guess," Myron said. "You stopped resisting?"