“I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m not talking about Jason.”
* * *
French drove fast, Burklow on shotgun. Beneath the hood, the engine screamed. On the roof, the cherry flashed. “You can’t help him if you kill us getting there.” They crested a hill, and the car rose on its shocks. “He’s safe. He’s with our people.”
But the hammer stayed down. Words. None of them mattered.
“Bill, slow down. I mean it.” They blistered an intersection, the stoplight steady red. “Jesus Christ.”
French understood the concern, but something wild had filled his heart. “He’s different, Ken. He’s changing.”
“Your son is changing. Fine. Slow down and we can talk about it.”
French drifted a hard right, and left rubber on the road. “I think it’s Jason,” he said. “He’s opened up something rebellious and dark. Watch Gibby’s eyes, the way he looks at his mother and me, his whole life. He’s trying to prove something.”
“How about you get us there alive, and then we see what’s what?”
It was hard to do, but French slowed enough to get them across town in one piece. It was a dismal part of the city, a place people lived because they had no choice, or because they wanted the drugs, the bought sex, the loss of self. Cops patrolled, but rarely.
Gibby shouldn’t be here …
And yet he was. French saw the lights from four blocks out. They split the darkness; painted the ground. His youngest son sat on the curb, and looked painted, too: wet and red, and in places, black.
“Head wounds. You know how they bleed.”
French did not respond. He cut across four lanes and smoked the tires when he stopped. One cop stood at the edge of an empty lot, the Carriage Room beyond him, down the street. The other cop was on the curb, talking to Gibby. When French got out of the car, he said, “Here’s your father.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody beat him badly, and dumped him in the ditch. He was crawling out when we saw him. I couldn’t tell if he was white or black, male or female. Nothing but blood and mud and ditchwater.”
“Son, are you okay?” He knelt, but Gibby looked away. “How bad is he?” French looked back at the uniformed officer.
“Cuts and bruises, maybe some damaged ribs. Most of the blood is from gashes in the scalp. I’d say somebody got him on the ground and kicked him pretty good. I don’t think the blood is all his, though. Looks like he gave a little back.”
“Has he said anything?”
“He didn’t want me to call you.”
“But he’s lucid?”
“If not, I’d have transported him myself.”
“Okay, thanks. Both of you.”
The cop squatted beside Gibby, one hand on his shoulder. “Your father knows what’s right for you. Hospital. Doctors. You listen to him. Talk to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
No slurring or confusion. That was something. Hell, it was everything. When the patrol car left, French sat beside his son, their shoulders almost touching. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I need something better than that.”
Gibby shrugged, and French caught his partner’s eye.
Rebellious.
Dangerous.
“Were you at the Carriage Room? Are the people who did this to you there? Would you know them if you saw them?” Still nothing. Not even movement. “Is this about Jason?”
“Can we go home now?”
“No, son. Hospital. Come on.”
French got his son in the back of the car, then turned across traffic, watching the Carriage Room as he did. It was the only place open for three full blocks. He wanted answers, and thought he’d find them there. He wanted to kick in doors, tear the place down.
“Just be cool, Bill.” Burklow kept it soft. “We can come back later.”
At the emergency room, Gibby walked on his own, but it wasn’t pretty. French spoke to the doctor, and dashed off a final signature. “If he tells you what happened, I want to know.”
“You’re aware of patient confidentiality, Detective.”
“He’s my son.”
“Your son is eighteen.”
“Just do what you can, Doc. Patch him up. Cover the worst of it. His mother will have a fit as it is. Bandages can’t make it any worse.”
An orderly got Gibby into a wheelchair, and pushed him toward the double doors. “I’ll be right here, son.”
Gibby did not respond or look back. When he was gone, Burklow said, “He’s in shock. Give him time.”
“I think I’m out of time.”
“That’s the worry talking.”
“Why would he go to the Carriage Room? Or be on that side of town at all? It has to be about Jason.” French moved, unable to stand still. “We should canvass while it’s fresh. We need witnesses, the location of Gibby’s car. I want the bastards who did this.”
“Let’s go, then. Let’s do it.”
“I told Gibby I’d wait. I can’t leave him.”
“I’ll stay. I’ll get him home.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re coming out of your skin as it is. You do what you need to do, but call in backup for the Carriage Room. I don’t want you in there alone.”
The idea moved through French like a drug. He wanted to move and do, to cop the shit out of that bar.
“One last thing.” Burklow put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Young men push back. They test the world, the father. It’s part of growing up.”
“I know that, Ken. I have raised two others.”
“What I’m saying is that any kid but this one would have pushed back years ago. Right or wrong, you and Gabrielle have kept him in a bubble, and the bubble has kept him quiet.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is my fault.”
“Listen, brother. Rebellion is natural in any red-blooded kid. Whether Jason stirred something up or not isn’t the point. Same with the way you’ve raised him. The cause could be as simple as a girl or graduation, or it might simply be Gibby’s time to crack the shell. All I’m saying is this: That silence you hate … the pushback. Don’t make it personal.”
* * *
French understood the logic, but the understanding didn’t help. He needed the why and the who.
Why had his son been on that side of town?
Who stomped him bloody and left him in the ditch?
In the car, French radioed dispatch, requesting backup at the Carriage Room and an all-points on Gibby’s Mustang. He’d parked it somewhere, or someone had ditched it. The location would tell him a lot. After the call, it was another fast drive back to the dangerous side of town. By the time he arrived, it was after midnight, and felt like it. Even the Carriage Room seemed quiet, with only a few cars in the lot and not a soul outside. French studied the scene from fifty yards out, then rolled in soft and slow, flashing his lights once when he saw a patrol car, dark in the shadows. He parked beside it, and found the same officers who’d discovered Gibby in the ditch. The driver said, “How’s the kid?”