dude,” Logan said. “You know I don’t want to shoot this thing and hurt you or your car and attract a bunch of attention, right? But I will, you know me. I’m a crazy Bosnian rape orphan and I’m out of control!”
Logan bugged his eyes out and cocked both barrels.
“Jesus,” Paul said. He gingerly got out of his car. He looked again at Logan holding the gun, and at the street and toward the church buildings. “Am I supposed to hold my hands up?”
Paul could not believe what was happening. It seemed so stupid.
“Naw,” Logan said. “Just get in my fucking truck and start driving. Go like back to McHenry and turn left, and keep going.”
Paul sighed and shook his head. He knew it was possible that Logan would shoot him, fuck him up good, if he thought that would be somehow following Miranda’s instructions. He knew she’d called him. He had no doubt about that.
TWENTY-ONE
Back at the house, Mavis, Miranda, and Officer Plant stood in Paul’s room. Plant had just looked under the bed and all they found was a plastic Walgreens bag containing an empty bottle of Extra Strength Robitussin.
“Dude,” Miranda said to Fagan, “We told you that we just saw Paul with the gun. He took off out of town, going east on Sylvan.”
Fagan looked at Mavis. He smiled.
“I thought you said you didn’t know where your son was, Ms. Love,” he said. “That the last you saw him he was sitting out there, in the living room, watching TV. Right?”
“Well…” Mavis said. “I told you several times now to call me Mavis.”
“Why don’t you take me out there and show me where you last saw him … Mavis.”
“It was after you called,” Miranda said. “He must’ve figured out you were coming and grabbed the gun and took off. He knew where we were. He was scared. And desperate. As you can imagine.”
“I hope that’s true,” Fagan said. “I wouldn’t want your gorgeous grandmother here to have to serve time on an obstruction of justice charge.”
Fagan and his colleague looked in Paul’s closet. A suit hung still covered by the dry cleaning plastic. There were two dress shirts, one navy blue and one white. Five or six black polo shirts. Two pairs of khaki pants. One denim jacket. On the floor was a pair of worn out and dirty white Nike cross training shoes, and black slip-on dress shoes in need of a shine. There was nothing else, the shelf above the hangers was empty.
The policemen turned to the small, three-drawer dresser—the only other object in the room besides the bed and cardboard box bedside table.
“Officer Plant,” Fagan said as he looked in Paul’s drawers at the four pairs of boxer shorts, a half dozen t-shirts, some shorts, and two pairs of socks. “What kinds of things have you had to arrest Ms. Fish here for? And Mr. Swift? What is the basic kind of fuck-up those two are involved in?”
“A couple months ago we got her on a DUI,” Plant said.
“Jeez,” Fagan said after closing the third drawer. “Is this everything that guy owns?”
“This is it, really,” Mavis said. “When he moved in here, he didn’t have much. Just came over in his car with a couple of boxes. He used to have tons of books, guitars, CDs, a house full of furniture.”
“What else?” Fagan said to Plant.
“Well, Logan Swift was hauled in for theft and burglary and possession of meth and heroin as a juvenile. He was constantly in and out of the Hall.”
“Is that right?” Fagan said.
“Since he turned eighteen he hasn’t been arrested, but we’ve had to respond to half a dozen or so calls to break up disturbances and fights he instigated or was involved in, along with Ms. Fish. These two are a pain in the ass. She’s always pissing someone off for something and then Logan ends up stomping a guy or a woman. He doesn’t care.”
“Most of those calls are just bull—”
“How did Mr. Dunn wind up in so much debt, single, living with his mother and with this decrepit collection of
Logan bugged his eyes out and cocked both barrels.
“Jesus,” Paul said. He gingerly got out of his car. He looked again at Logan holding the gun, and at the street and toward the church buildings. “Am I supposed to hold my hands up?”
Paul could not believe what was happening. It seemed so stupid.
“Naw,” Logan said. “Just get in my fucking truck and start driving. Go like back to McHenry and turn left, and keep going.”
Paul sighed and shook his head. He knew it was possible that Logan would shoot him, fuck him up good, if he thought that would be somehow following Miranda’s instructions. He knew she’d called him. He had no doubt about that.
TWENTY-ONE
Back at the house, Mavis, Miranda, and Officer Plant stood in Paul’s room. Plant had just looked under the bed and all they found was a plastic Walgreens bag containing an empty bottle of Extra Strength Robitussin.
“Dude,” Miranda said to Fagan, “We told you that we just saw Paul with the gun. He took off out of town, going east on Sylvan.”
Fagan looked at Mavis. He smiled.
“I thought you said you didn’t know where your son was, Ms. Love,” he said. “That the last you saw him he was sitting out there, in the living room, watching TV. Right?”
“Well…” Mavis said. “I told you several times now to call me Mavis.”
“Why don’t you take me out there and show me where you last saw him … Mavis.”
“It was after you called,” Miranda said. “He must’ve figured out you were coming and grabbed the gun and took off. He knew where we were. He was scared. And desperate. As you can imagine.”
“I hope that’s true,” Fagan said. “I wouldn’t want your gorgeous grandmother here to have to serve time on an obstruction of justice charge.”
Fagan and his colleague looked in Paul’s closet. A suit hung still covered by the dry cleaning plastic. There were two dress shirts, one navy blue and one white. Five or six black polo shirts. Two pairs of khaki pants. One denim jacket. On the floor was a pair of worn out and dirty white Nike cross training shoes, and black slip-on dress shoes in need of a shine. There was nothing else, the shelf above the hangers was empty.
The policemen turned to the small, three-drawer dresser—the only other object in the room besides the bed and cardboard box bedside table.
“Officer Plant,” Fagan said as he looked in Paul’s drawers at the four pairs of boxer shorts, a half dozen t-shirts, some shorts, and two pairs of socks. “What kinds of things have you had to arrest Ms. Fish here for? And Mr. Swift? What is the basic kind of fuck-up those two are involved in?”
“A couple months ago we got her on a DUI,” Plant said.
“Jeez,” Fagan said after closing the third drawer. “Is this everything that guy owns?”
“This is it, really,” Mavis said. “When he moved in here, he didn’t have much. Just came over in his car with a couple of boxes. He used to have tons of books, guitars, CDs, a house full of furniture.”
“What else?” Fagan said to Plant.
“Well, Logan Swift was hauled in for theft and burglary and possession of meth and heroin as a juvenile. He was constantly in and out of the Hall.”
“Is that right?” Fagan said.
“Since he turned eighteen he hasn’t been arrested, but we’ve had to respond to half a dozen or so calls to break up disturbances and fights he instigated or was involved in, along with Ms. Fish. These two are a pain in the ass. She’s always pissing someone off for something and then Logan ends up stomping a guy or a woman. He doesn’t care.”
“Most of those calls are just bull—”
“How did Mr. Dunn wind up in so much debt, single, living with his mother and with this decrepit collection of
Similar Books
