Vanished (16 page)

Pappas cleared his throat.

"Is something wrong?" Kaya said.

"No, no. We'll find him."

Kaya squeezed. "You're a good man, Jason Logan."

"Just doing my duty, ma'am." Logan forced a smile. Trying
not to think about the duty that would require him to go after
Kaya's son-and perhaps arrest him.

Logan and Pappas headed for the Tower, where Ben Murdoch
had been spotted.

Most of the people on the front stoops or sidewalks knew
Logan by sight. He'd give anything for a little anonymity right
about now. People crowded them, peppering him with questions.

"Who did this? Was it bin Laden?"

"Why doesn't my cell phone work?"

"When's power coming up?"

One question was a steady refrain: "My husband-daughter-sonfriend-mom works in Boston-Providence-Leominister-Sturbridge.
Why can't I get in touch with them?"

Another was a steady concern: "Where are the ambulancesfire trucks-soldiers?"

Logan held up his hands. "There's an informational meeting
at two o'clock at Grace Community Church. We'll address all
these issues then."

"Will the mayor be there?"

"If he can get away," Logan said.

The so-called meeting was just about two hours away now-a
delaying tactic that might come back to bite them. Both he and
Pappas had assumed that the lack of official response was due
to a hesitation to enter the mist. The technicians were probably
on the other side, trouncing about in biohazard suits, taking air
and soil samples, trying to decide if it was safe.

But what if there was another explanation?

One woman clutched his shirt, another pushed against him.

Pappas gave a long blast of the air horn. "Back off! Good,
that's good. Folks, we know you have questions. But you are
hampering recovery efforts. Find something useful to do or
just get out of the way."

"Thanks," Logan said.

"Just wanted you all to myself."

"Yeah, I'm such pleasant company."

"So when you going to tell Ms. de los Santos that her kid is
mixed up in this?"

"When we know for sure."

"What's their story?"

"Kaya was born and raised in the Flats. Same as me."

Pappas looked at him sideways. "Hmm"

Logan's laughter was welcome release. "OK, so I was born
in Seoul. I'm an adopted kid with an Irish father and Polish
mother. Got a brother from Colombia and twin sisters from
Vietnam. We're quite the mix."

"Which makes you downright American."

Patronizing him? Or did Pappas really get what the Flats
was all about? What did he see as they walked past the tripledeckers? Laundry hanging from the back porches. Pitted front lawns and old cars. Houses in need of paint, and roofs with
tattered shingles.

Did Pappas see inner city and think trouble? Or did he
understand that people here worked hard, loved their kids, and
tried to make a better life for the next generation?

"What about Kaya de los Santos?" Pappas said.

"What about her?"

Pappas held up his good hand in appeasement. "I'm just
trying to dig out anything in the Murdoch boy's background
that might link him to a known group."

"Kaya was a couple years ahead of me in high school, though
we didn't know each other back then. No deep family secrets
that I'm aware of."

"The kid's old man?"

"In prison. Anything beyond that... "

"Is what?"

"Private."

"You her lawyer or something?"

"Something."

"Come on, Logan."

"Look, I'm in this support group with her. For divorced
adults. She went through it years ago but was asked to stay on,
help counsel people in my situation." A Bible study, actually,
but Pappas didn't need to know that. Logan had no desire to
discuss this whole faith thing. He hadn't yet figured it out for
himself.

"Yeah. OK. So?"

"Things shared there are confidential."

Pappas glared at an elderly woman who approached them.
As she reversed course, he turned his withering look to Logan.
"This is not the time to play goody-goody."

"If I knew something that was relevant, I'd tell you."

"Maybe the father hooked up with a radical group on the
inside?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you this much: the kid hasn't
kept in touch."

"Because that's what Mama thinks? Ms. de los Santos may
think her son isn't interested in Daddy, but kids-adolescent
sons especially-see incarcerated fathers in a different light.
When manhood breathes down their scrawny necks, they want
that relationship. And this is a tough neighborhood. Being in
jail has street cred."

"No. Trust me on this. The kid would not have reconnected."

Seven years ago, Gus Murdoch had broken half of Kaya's
ribs, then turned on his son. No way Pappas needed to know
this, unless it became absolutely necessary.

When the lawsuit against the clinic and Kaya was made
public, Logan tried to find some way to reach out. Three
years earlier, he had had his own incident to endure but with
different ramifications. When he beat the stuffing out of
Marco Gibbons, a child molester he had caught in the act, the
local paper called him a hero. His superiors did, too, until the
Boston Globe called him a vigilante; then the chief of police
shuffled him out of Central to the U-Ave substation.

At least people in the Flats still thought he was a hero. In
Kaya's case, the public-stirred up by a vicious, bloodsucking
lawyer-had called for her dismissal.

"What's your gut say about the kid, Logan?"

"I don't know Ben. Which means he's a quiet kid. Stays off
the street."

"Smart kids-especially if they're marginalized-are often
drawn into causes."

"I can't see it, based on who the mother is. She'd know. Trust
me, Kaya would know."

"The baker-what was his name?"

"Johnny Beck."

Pappas grimaced. "His account of what the kids had told
him was very detailed. Based on that and the phone call you
got, this kid was involved somehow."

"And he'll explain."

Pappas shook his head. "If Ben Murdoch was going to
explain,' he would have already. Don't you think?"

ERO FIDDLES WHILE ROME BURNS, BEN THOUGHT.
The bomber was still on the loose, but all Cannon
could think to do was play hoops with a Nerf ball and
plastic basket.

Ben plopped down on the sofa and watched Cannon
pretending to be Kobe Bryant. The FaztBox sat on top of the
television, a silent reminder that power was out. Not as trendy as
the Xbox 360 or Nintendo Wii, all of their friends still preferred
that game system to the others. The go-back button meant
FaztBox games were forgiving. Players could learn from their
mistakes, go back a couple levels and play better the second or
third time.

If life had a go-back button, Ben would push that sucker
hard.

He'd go back to that moment when jasmine texted him about
a "good-bye picnic." Hard to believe that was only three hours
ago. Jasmine was dead, the Flats was a mess, and his life was in
the toilet. If Luther didn't get him, the cops would.

Maybe he'd go back further, to when this Luther began
hanging around Cannon. He'd put himself in the scene and
say, "Hey, man. Something's not right here. Better roll off on
this dude."

Why not go all the way back? Stop his mother from getting
involved with that scum of the earth, Gus Murdoch. Pair his
mom off with decent man, get himself a real father. Then maybe he wouldn't have come to this very moment when he couldn't
change one stupid instant of what had gone before.

"Cannon, we've got to do something. We can't just sit here."

"Hey, man. I got no notion where this Luther hangs."

Madeline peeked into the room. "Ben?"

"Huh? What?"

"Didn't I tell you to stay in your room, Mad Dog?" Cannon
said.

She squeezed next to Ben, looking at her brother from behind
him. "I thought Ben should know that that man came here this
morning while you were asleep."

Ben jerked his head around. "What man?"

"The guy you were talking about. Mr. Luther."

Cannon jumped to his feet, loomed over his little sister
with his hand raised. "Luther came here? Why didn't you
wake me up?"

"Chill, man," Ben said.

"I tried to. You swore and rolled over. That man said it was
OK, that he didn't need to speak to you. He offered me a job."

"You're too young to be messing in this stuff. A million times
I told you, but will you listen?"

"Cannon, stop. Let her talk. We need to know what happened.
What did the man want, Mad Dog?"

"He said his little girl left her knapsack at his house, but his
ex-wife would kill him if he brought it over there. So he asked
me to bring it back for him." She folded her arms over her chest.
"And my name is Madeline."

"Why didn't you tell me when I got up?" Cannon said.

"He said not to. Said you might want a commission. Said I
should keep all the money myself."

"Did you look inside the knapsack?" Ben said.

"No. Because it was his little girl's stuff and she likes her
privacy. He said he knew I'd understand. And I do."

"Where is it now?"

"Tapley School."

"Tapley!"

Madeline burst into sobs. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I still
don't know why you're both so freaked. I'm sorry."

"Shush. Stop it," Ben said. "Where did you put it?"

Madeline sniffled. "Mr. Luther said she'd pick it up when she
got back from the beach trip. Told me to put it at the roundabout in front of the school."

"Where the buses go." Cannon looked at Ben. "When're they
coming back from the beach?"

He rubbed his temples, trying to think. "Two o'clock. That's
what all the flyers said. The buses would leave Nahant at one
and be back here around two."

Ben flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. Nothing. He
grabbed the phone from the kitchen. No dial tone. He went out
to the balcony and peered down the avenue to see if any cruisers
or emergency vehicles were around. Nothing but people sitting
in lawn chairs or on porches, as if they expected a parade.
Where were the cops when you needed them?

"Cannon, we've got to get to the school and move that knapsack to where it can't do much harm if it blows."

"Blows? What do you mean, blows?" Madeline's eyes widened.
"It's a bomb? I carried around a bomb?"

"Yeah, it was a bomb," Cannon snapped. "You moron."

Ben turned to Maddie. "How heavy was the knapsack?"

Madeline bit her lower lip. "Pretty heavy. I thought there
must be books in it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Stop it. We'll take care of this. Just tell me where you put it.
Exactly."

She drew a ragged breath. "At the flagpole, under the flowers.
So no one would steal it."

Cannon swore.

"Shut up," Ben snapped. "Let her talk. OK, Mad Dog-I
mean, Madeline-this is important. What does the knapsack
look like?"

"Dark blue with a big pink flower on the flap. And pink
straps."

"OK, that'll be easy to spot," Ben said. "Let's go, man."

"Do you want me to come, too?" Madeline asked. "I can
show you exactly where."

Ben shook his head. "Your job is to pick up the phone every
minute or so. When you finally get a dial tone, dial 911 and tell
the cops to send the bomb people over to Tapley."

"No way," Cannon said. "She ain't takin' the hit on this. And
no way is this bouncing back on me."

"OK, OK, let me think. Here's what you do. Tell the cops
that you heard someone down in the stairway talking about it.
You got scared, thought you'd better call someone. Make sure
they believe you, OK? And you can tell them what Luther looks
like, but say that you overheard that. This is important-Luther
never came to this apartment."

"I don't know, man," Cannon said. "This is too close to
snitchin' to sit well on me."