The Searcher(33)

“I’ll look into your brother,” Cal says. “I’m not promising you anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Trey is staring at him with pure, feral suspicion. “Why?” he demands.

“Like I said. I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“None of your beeswax,” Cal says. “Not because of you pulling this dumb crap, tell you that much. You still want me to do this, or not?”

Trey nods.

“OK,” Cal says. “Then first off, you clean up all this shit. When you’re done, come inside and we’ll talk.” He dumps the towel and the bucket on the doorstep, goes back inside and slams the door behind him.

He’s finishing up the last of his burger when he hears the door open and the wind comes charging in, looking for things to grab. Trey stands in the doorway.

“You done?” Cal asks.

Trey nods.

Cal doesn’t need to check whether he did it right. “OK,” he says. “Sit down.”

Trey doesn’t move. It takes Cal a minute to realize: he’s scared he’s being lured inside for a beating.

“Jesus, kid,” he says. “I’m not gonna hit you. If you cleaned up, we’re square.”

Trey’s eyes go to the desk, in a corner.

“Yeah,” Cal says. “You messed it up pretty good. I got most of the paint off, but there’s some in the cracks. You can work on it with a toothbrush sometime.”

The kid still looks wary. “I would say you can leave the door open in case you want to run,” Cal says, “but it’s too windy for that. Your call.”

After a minute Trey makes up his mind. He moves into the room, shuts the door behind him and thrusts the egg box at Cal. There’s one left.

“Thanks,” Cal says. “I guess. Stick it in the fridge.”

Trey does. Then he sits down across the table from Cal, chair pushed well back and feet braced, just in case. He’s wearing a dirty army-green parka, which is a relief; Cal has been wondering if the kid even had a winter coat.

“You want something to eat? Drink?”

Trey shakes his head.

“OK,” Cal says. He pushes back his chair—Trey flinches—takes his plate to the sink, then goes into his room and comes back with a notebook and a pen.

“First off,” he says, pulling his chair back up to the table, “most likely I won’t find out anything. Or if I do, it’ll be just what your mama already told you: your brother ran off. You OK with that?”

“He didn’t.”

“Maybe not. What I’m saying is, this might not go the way you got in mind, and you need to be ready for that. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

Cal knows this is a lie, even if the kid doesn’t. “You better be,” he says. “The other thing is, you don’t bullshit me. I ask you a question, you give me all the answer you’ve got. Even if you don’t like it. Any bullshit, I’m out. We clear?”

Trey says, “Same for you. Anything you find out, you tell me.”

“We got a deal,” Cal says. He flips open his notebook. “So. What’s your brother’s full name?”

The kid is straight-backed, with his hands clamped on his thighs, like this is an oral exam and he needs to ace it. “Brendan John Reddy.”

Cal writes that down. “Date of birth?”

“Twelfth of February.”

“Where’d he live, up until he went missing?”

“At home. With us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“My mam. My sisters. My other brother.”

“Names and ages?”

“My mam’s Sheila Reddy, she’s forty-four. Maeve’s nine. Liam’s four. Alanna’s three.”

“You said before you had three sisters,” Cal says, writing. “Where’s the other one?”

“Emer. She went up to Dublin, two years ago. She’s twenty-one.”

“Any chance Brendan’s staying with her?”

Trey shakes his head hard.

“Why not?”

“They don’t get on.”

“How come?”

Shrug. “Brendan says she’s thick.”

“What’s she do?”

“Works at Dunnes Stores. Stacking shelves.”

“How ’bout Brendan? Was he working? In school? College?”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

Shrug.

“When’d he leave school?”

“Last year. He got his Leaving Cert, he didn’t drop out.”

“He have anything he wanted to do? He apply to any colleges, any jobs?”

“He wanted to do electrical engineering. Or chemistry. He didn’t get the points.”

“Why not? He dumb?”

“No!”

“Then why?”

“Hated school. The teachers.”

The kid is shooting out answers like he’s on the timed round of a quiz show. Cal can tell, watching him, that it feels good. This—the two of them facing each other across this table, the notebook and pen—is what Trey has been working towards, all this time.

“Gimme a little more about him,” Cal says. “What’s he like?”