Five locks.
Three deadbolts, two chains.
His new pet can’t get out, the man assures himself as he gets in his car and drives away. Even if he were tall enough to try and climb out the window, it’s barred from the outside.
A perfect cage.
The man is not soothed by this knowledge. He feels jittery. On edge. He was careful. Careful and quick. But what if someone saw him carry the boy inside? What if those nosy neighbors of his come poking around, asking questions they have no right to ask?
Then they’ll get what’s coming to them, that’s what.
The man is no fool. He’s been planning this a long time. No one is going to mess up his plans. Not the busybody down the block, and not the goddamned police.
He learned a few things in the war, watching his friends blown to bits by landmines. How to rig a booby trap, for one. How to get the pressure plates just right, so when a man steps down on one…
Lights out.
If his traps don’t take them out on their way in, he has enough fire power to blast apart a whole SWAT team long before they reach the basement.
Armor-piercing bullets are great.
Hand grenades are even better.
He isn’t going down without a fight. And if anyone tries to take away his new pet… He’ll take them all down in a hail of gunfire the likes of which this city has never seen.
I’d slammed back into my head, nauseous and reeling. It was a miracle I managed to swallow down my vomit before it spewed all over the man’s shoes. He’d made a low grunt of displeasure, ripped his arm out of my grip, and raced for the door.
Eager to get home.
To Joey.
His pet.
The thought had nearly sent me to my knees. I’d wanted to run screaming in the opposite direction, horrified by the images in my head, even more horrified by what they meant for that little boy. Instead, I moved to the door.
The man had hustled out so quickly, I was worried he’d already vanished. But when I reached the exit, I saw his truck, an older model red pickup, pulling out of a spot in front of the diner. Whipping out my order pad, I’d jotted down his license plate number just before he peeled out into traffic.
I waited until he was out of sight, then stepped out the door. My manager had called something after me — probably wondering where the hell I was going in the middle of my shift — but I didn’t stop. Not to explain. Not even to take off my apron. I walked into the dark night, hand gripping my order pad, pulse roaring between my ears. And I didn’t stop walking until I’d reached the police precinct five blocks away. The one I passed every day on my bus ride to work.
I’d informed the receptionist I had information — urgent, vital, important information — about the Joey Crawford case, and begged to speak to the detective in charge as soon as possible.
Take a seat, she’d told me. I’d have to wait.
So, I’d waited.
And waited.
Andwaited.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty-five.
Each second that ticked by was agony. Didn’t they realize they were wasting time? Didn’t they know they were pissing away Joey’s chances at a future?