Sullivan's Law (25 page)

Carolyn was amused that Harrison's widow had ruffled the detective's feathers. She'd found the woman aloof, but she didn't detect any evidence that she was cruel. Mrs. Harrison might prefer to live inside an institution for reasons they would never know. What had impressed Carolyn was her strength. She had every right to resent their questions. No matter what type of relationship they'd had, her husband was dead and they had stirred up painful memories regarding her son. The more powerful the man, the more threatened he became when confronted by a woman who refused to give in to his demands.

“Hey,” Carolyn said, leaning over in his face, “bridge is a serious game. I bet she plays duplicate. She's probably a master. I used to play duplicate years ago.”

“I can't believe it,” Hank said, glaring at her. “You liked her, didn't you? You have me running my ass off trying to catch whoever shot your pathetic little genius. Then when we interview a possible suspect, you suddenly become a turncoat. Women are nuts.”

“Try interrupting a bunch of men when they're watching the World Series or the Super Bowl.”

“Can it,” Hank said gruffly. “I'm tired, I'm hungry, and the traffic is probably backed up halfway to Ventura. If we don't come up with some solid evidence by next week, the captain is going to yank me off the case.” Reaching the car, he tossed her the keys. “You drive. I'm going to take a nap and forget I ever heard the name Daniel Metroix.”

 

While Hank snored in the passenger seat, Carolyn called her home to check on her children. She had spoken to John at school after leaving Ralph's house, advising him that she was going to Los Angeles and might be a few minutes late coming home. “Hi, honey,” she said when her daughter answered. “Put your brother on the phone.”

“He's not here,” Rebecca told her. “He didn't pick me up at school today.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

“Isobel gave me a ride,” she said. “Nothing happened or anything. I thought you said we should only call you if it was an emergency. John is probably over at Turner's. You programmed the police's number and yours into my phone, but you never gave me John's.”

Carolyn felt acid bubbling back in her throat. How could she have been so negligent? She'd had no business spending even an hour with Paul with all the things that were going on. “Do you have the number at Turner's house?”

“No,” Rebecca told her. “What's wrong, Mother?”

Carolyn was stuck in rush hour traffic on the 101 Freeway. She slapped the detective on the shoulder, waking him up, then continued speaking to her daughter. “Go to Professor Leighton's house and stay there until I get home. Don't go outside. If John shows up or contacts you, call me right away on my cell.”

“What's going on?” Hank mumbled, straightening up in the seat.

Carolyn ignored him and punched the auto dial for her son's cell phone. After ten rings, she hit the off button. They hadn't set up voice mail. Both of the children had been instructed to keep their phones turned on except when they were at home sleeping. She glanced at the wall of traffic in front of her. There must have been an accident, as they were at a complete standstill.

“You drive,” she told the detective. “Something's happened to my son.” They got out of the car at the same time, circling around to exchange places.

“For God's sake, are you going to tell me what's going on?”

Carolyn ignored him, dialing John's number again. “John's missing.” She stared at the cars around her, feeling panicked and trapped. “He didn't pick up Rebecca at school, and he's not answering his cell phone.”

Hank reached into the backseat and grabbed the emergency light, leaning out the window as he attached it to the roof of the unmarked police unit. Before he turned on the siren, he contacted the dispatcher over the radio, informing her to get a unit over to Ventura High as well as Carolyn's residence.

“I told Rebecca to go to Paul Leighton's house,” she told him. “It's two houses down from ours on the right. The address is 518 Wilton Drive. They should watch both houses in case John comes home.”

“Could he be at a friend's house? What about your brother?”

“Maybe,” Carolyn said, her voice shaking. She called Neil and got his answering machine. He was probably at the art gallery setting up for the show. She tried her mother. “Have you seen or heard from John today?”

“No, darling,” Marie Sullivan told her, her words carefully enunciated. “What's wrong? Why haven't you called me? I know Neil is engrossed in his painting, but I always hear from you.”

“My job, Mother,” Carolyn said. “I can't talk right now. I promise I'll call you either later tonight or tomorrow.”

She closed the phone and shot a furtive glance toward the detective. “John spends most of his time with a boy named Turner Highland. I don't have his phone number and address with me. I know the street and I can describe the house, though. He lives on Oakhurst, and the cross street is Windward. The house is the fourth down from the intersection, and the only one with a circular driveway. The exterior is light blue. There's a balcony on the second floor. Oh, and his mother drives a white Ford Explorer.”

Hank relayed the information to the dispatcher, then flipped on the light and siren. Several cars pulled over to the shoulder, providing them with an opening to reach the nearest exit. Punching the Ford's big engine, he sped over the surface roads. “Don't worry,” he yelled over the noise of the siren. “He's probably goofing off somewhere.”

Carolyn chewed on a ragged fingernail. The detective was trying to comfort her, so there was no reason to argue. John was a responsible young man. Something terrible had happened, or he would have called or picked up his sister.

 

John reached a blue Dodge Stratus on the street adjacent to Ventura High, then waited while Wade unlocked the passenger door. As soon as he turned to get in, Wade twisted both his arms behind his back and secured them with a thick strand of rope. He tried to escape, but the boy had his knee in the center of his back. Wade quickly shoved him into the car and slammed the door.

John screamed for help. He turned sideways and attempted to kick the window out. Once Wade was in the driver's seat, he removed a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment and used it to cover John's mouth.

“Don't try anything else,” Wade said, “or I'll kill you.”

They drove for approximately twenty minutes, finally pulling up in front of a rundown house in a residential neighborhood. The paint was cracked and peeling, and the yard was overgrown with weeds. Wade drove into the open garage. He wouldn't allow John to get out until he'd closed the door and bolted it.

The house was unfurnished and stank, a musky combination of mildew and sewage, along with other odors John couldn't identify. The kitchen sink had been ripped out, and the threadbare carpet was stained.

Wade shoved John down onto the floor, removing more rope from his back pocket and using it to tie up his legs. He then ripped the duct tape off his mouth. “Here's the deal,” he said, a phone dangling from his left hand. “Give me your mother's number. I dial, you talk. Tell her to meet you in the lobby of Methodist Hospital in thirty minutes.”

“If I do what you say,” John told him, trying to free his hands from the ropes, “my mother will show up with a dozen cops. Is that what you want?”

“No, no,” Wade said, walking around in a panic. “Tell her you got hurt and a friend is taking you to the emergency room.”

John felt like an idiot for letting the guy lure him to his car. Daniel Metroix was at Methodist Hospital. Wade wanted to use his mother to gain access to Metroix. If he managed to kill Metroix, John reasoned, Wade would probably kill his mother, him, and no telling how many other innocent people. He had to find a way to stop him.

“I don't know how to get in touch with my mother,” he lied. “She said she was leaving the office early today. She had to stop off at the grocery store.”

“Call her on her cell phone.”

“She doesn't have a cell phone.”

“You're a damn liar!” Wade shouted, moving closer so John could see the phone in his hand. “Where do you think this came from, jerk-off? I lifted it out of your back pocket. Are you trying to tell me that your mother doesn't have a cell phone but her kid does? That's bullshit. Give me the number or you'll be sorry you were ever born.”

“My mom has a cell phone, okay, but she isn't allowed to use it except for official business.”

“If I call her, she won't answer?”

“You'll get her voice mail,” John said. “She won't check it until tomorrow morning.”

“I don't believe you, you little prick,” Wade shouted, becoming even more agitated. “I guess the only way to get you to cooperate with me is to hurt you.” He walked over and picked up a saw from the kitchen counter. “Maybe I'll start sawing off your toes and fingers.”

John's mind was clocking at lightning speeds. His mother had called him earlier, mentioning that she was driving to Los Angeles that afternoon to check out something related to the Metroix investigation. He doubted if she'd return to her office at the courthouse. Wade was on either cocaine or speed. Because of his father, John knew how to spot it. The boy's eyes were darting all over the place, and his mannerisms were jerky and frenetic. He couldn't seem to stand still, and he kept licking his lips.

Staring at the saw, John decided to give him his mother's direct line at the office, praying he was right and Wade would reach her voice mail. With his hands behind his back, he couldn't see his watch. It had to be close to five. School let out at three-thirty and he'd stayed maybe twenty minutes longer.

“Here's the number to my mother's cell phone,” John told him, rattling off her office number.

Wade punched in the digits, then held the phone in front of his captive's face.

After a few minutes, John said, “Listen for yourself. It's her voice mail. Do you want me to leave a message?”

“Fuck,” Wade said, tossing the phone across the room. “What am I going to do now? Metroix has to be dead by eight o'clock tonight or I don't get paid.”

“So you're a professional killer?” John said, thinking the longer he kept him talking, the more time he would have before Wade killed him. No matter how terrified he was, he forced himself to speak in a low, measured voice. “Who hired you?”

“The Easter Bunny, moron,” Wade tossed out. “Like I'm really going to tell you who hired me.”

“They'll catch you and send you to prison.”

“Ooh, scary,”‘ the other boy said, mocking him. “Prison doesn't scare me. It's living and dealing with people like you that makes me want to puke. I could kill you right now and it wouldn't mean a thing to me. I was only fourteen when I killed the first time. It's the best high around.” The drugs had made him loose-lipped. “They caught me last time because of your bitch of a mother. They'll never catch me again. I'm smarter now. You think I live in this dump? I only used it because it was vacant. I have fifteen different ID's. I never stay in one place longer than a few days. I stole the Dodge only an hour before I grabbed you.” He spun around and faced John, tossing his hands out to his sides and smiling. “Look at this face. Does this look like the face of a killer? Shit, you went with me, didn't you?”

John had to admit it: With his neatly trimmed hair and the scattering of freckles across his nose and forehead, Wade didn't appear menacing. His clothes were somewhat slovenly, but that wasn't unusual among teenagers. He noticed some black spots on his knuckles, thinking they might be paint. “Are you a handyman or something? Are you supposed to be fixing up this house?”

Wade set the saw down where he'd found it, then crouching in the corner, stared off into space.

The guy's belief that he was invincible had to be drug induced, John decided. Wade would never have told him the things he had unless he intended to kill him.

He had to escape.

The minutes ticked off like hours. John watched as Wade stood and removed a beer from a Styrofoam cooler in the kitchen, popping the cap and sucking it down almost in one swallow. John thought if he could distract Wade and get his hands on the saw, he could cut through the ropes. Wade was scrawny. John had built up his body lifting weights. He thought he could take him.

“I've got another plan,” Wade said, walking over and yanking John to his feet. Before John could ask him what the plan was, the boy had covered his mouth again with tape. John did his best to walk with his legs tied together as Wade pulled him along.

They reached the steps leading into the garage. On the floor by the door, John saw a small white sneaker. The shoe had some type of design on it, but he couldn't make out what it said. Hearts, he thought, straining to see. He saw another shoe a few feet away splattered with paint. Next to the second sneaker was a red-stained towel. When he realized he might be looking at blood instead of paint, he experienced a violent wave of nausea. A young girl had been raped. His mother had been the rapist's probation officer. But it couldn't be Wade. The police had already caught the man.

Something awful had happened here—the stench, the saw, the blood-splattered shoes. They were so tiny. Tears pooled in his eyes. He thought he heard the bloodcurdling scream of a child.

John felt Wade's hand on his head as he pushed him into the backseat. His touch was repugnant. He forced himself to look into his eyes. What he saw was the essence of evil. Another entity seemed to be peering out at him. How could anyone butcher a child? He struggled against his restraints. Wade slugged him, then used his foot to force him onto the floorboard. He tossed something over his face so he could no longer see. John heard the car door shut.