Missing You(41)

One biker wannabe wearing black leather and a red bandanna—always a no—made his approach. He had a quarter in his palm. “Hey, babe,” he said, looking directly between the two women. Kat figured that this was a take-two-shots-with-one-line type deal.

“If I flip a coin,” Bandanna continued, arching an eyebrow, “will I get head?”

Stacy looked at Kat. “We have to find a new place to hang out.”

Kat nodded. “It’s dinnertime anyway. Let’s eat someplace good.”

“How about Telepan?”

“Yum.”

“We’ll get the tasting menu.”

“With the wine pairing.”

“Let’s hurry.”

They were outside and walking fast when Kat’s cell phone sounded. The call was coming from Brandon’s regular cell phone now—no need for disposables anymore. She debated letting it go—right now, all she wanted was Telepan’s tasting menu with wine pairings—but she answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Brandon asked. “We need to talk.”

“No, Brandon, we don’t. Guess where I went today?”

“Uh, where?”

“The Greenwich police station. I had a little chat with our friend Detective Schwartz. He told me about a text you received.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you about the texts. But I can explain that.”

“No need. I’m out of this, Brandon. Nice meeting you and all. Good luck in the future.”

She was about to thumb the END button, when she heard Brandon say, “I found out something about Jeff.”

She put the phone to her ear. “That he got in a bar fight eighteen years ago?”

“What? No. This is more recent.”

“Look, I don’t really care.” Then: “Is he with your mother?”

“It’s not what we thought.”

“What isn’t what we thought?”

“None of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jeff, for one thing.”

“What about him?”

“He isn’t what you think. We need to talk, Kat. I need to show this to you.”

? ? ?

Reynaldo made sure that the blond woman—he didn’t need to know any of their names—was secure before he headed up to the same path toward the farmhouse. Night had fallen. He used his flashlight to find his way.

Reynaldo had discovered out here, at the age of nineteen, that he was afraid of the dark. The dark dark. Real dark. In the city, there was no real dark. If you were outside, there were always streetlights or lights from windows or storefronts kept alit. You never knew pure black darkness. Here, out in the woods, you could not see your hand in front of your face. Anything could be out there. Anything could be lurking.

When he reached the clearing, Reynaldo could see the porch lights on. He stood and looked at the serene surroundings. He had never really seen anything like this farm in real life before they came out here. In movies, sure, but he hadn’t believed that places like this existed, any more than he believed the Death Star in Star Wars existed. It was make-believe, these farmlands where kids could walk for miles and play in sandlots and come home to Ma and Pa and do their chores. Now he knew the land was real. The happy stories, however, were still the stuff of make-believe.

He had his orders, but first he headed to the barn to check on his chocolate Labrador retriever, Bo. As always, Bo ran out and greeted him as though he hadn’t seen him in a year. Reynaldo smiled, scratched behind his ears, and made sure Bo’s water bowl was full.

When he was finished taking care of his dog, Reynaldo made his way to the farmhouse. He opened the door. Titus was there with Dmitry. Dmitry was Titus’s computer whiz kid with the bright-colored shirts and knit cap. Titus had decided to decorate as the Amish did. Reynaldo did not know why. The furniture was all quality woodwork—sturdy, heavy, plain, unadorned. There was nothing fancy. It all gave off an aura of quiet strength.

There was a bench press and free weights in one of the upstairs bedrooms. They had originally set it up in the cellar, but after a while, no one wanted to go into anything underground. So they moved it up.

Reynaldo lifted weights every day, no matter what. He also had a steady concoction of performance-enhancing drugs in the fridge and cabinet. Most he self-administered with a needle in the upper thigh. Titus supplied them for him.

Six years ago, Titus had found Reynaldo in a garbage dump. For real. Reynaldo had been working a corner in Queens, undercutting the other hustlers by charging only fifteen dollars a pop. A john didn’t beat him on that day. His competition did. They’d had enough of his horning in on their territory. So when Reynaldo got out of the car—his sixth car that night—two of them jumped him and beat him senseless. Titus had found him there lying on the ground, bleeding. The only thing Reynaldo could feel was Bo licking his face. Titus had cleaned him up. He had taken him to a gym and taught him about lifting and ’roiding and not being anyone’s bitch anymore.

Titus had done more than save his life. He had given Reynaldo a real one.

Reynaldo started toward the stairs.

“Not yet,” Titus said to him.