Mean Streak

“His fingerprint was lifted off a kitchen sink faucet in North Carolina.”

Just before six fifteen yesterday evening, Jack had left Rebecca Watson’s house wanting to throttle her.

Except for locating her, the trip to the West Coast had been a total bust. Reasoning that there was no sense in hanging around and placing his manhood in jeopardy, he’d gone straight from her house, all the way back across the water on the damn ferry, through Seattle proper, finally reaching Sea-Tac in time to claim one of the few remaining seats on the red-eye to New York. He killed time in the airport by reading a bad novel about a good cop, until the flight’s departure, which was delayed by an hour and a half. It had been bumpy to the degree that food and beverage service had been limited and passengers were required to stay buckled in their seats.

Then, because of weather, the flight was kept in a holding pattern for hours until finally getting clearance to land. He’d waited in the half-mile-long taxi line at JFK, stamping his feet and trying to keep his back to a polar wind. He had just now trudged into his apartment, trailing his roll-aboard, and feeling grimy, gritty, and generally like hammered shit.

He’d almost ignored Greer’s call. Now he let go of the handle of his rolling suitcase. It toppled. “Say again?”

Greer repeated the stupefying statement.

Jack stood perfectly still, waiting for the punch line, for the second shoe to drop, for the “Gotcha!”—although he couldn’t imagine his trusted associate pulling a dirty trick like that on him.

After fifteen seconds of stunned silence, Greer said, “Jack?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” His heart began to beat again. He found some oxygen. “Wh

en?”

“When did they lift it? Some time this morning. It was copied in an e-mail to you. Came in about three minutes ago. I thought you’d’ve seen it.”

“I was dealing with the taxi and getting into the building. Keep your phone in your hand.”

Jack clicked off and accessed his e-mail. The most recent in his inbox was from a Sergeant Detective Sam Knight. He tried to read it so quickly the message would just as well have been written in Zulu. He started with the salutation and began again, forcing himself to go slower.

Words leaped out at him. Breaking and entering. Assault and battery. Kidnapping. Statutory rape. “Jesus.” He called Wes Greer back.

Greer said, “Left me speechless. What about you?”

“When he resurfaced, he sure as shit didn’t soft-pedal. How soon can you get me down there?”

“You just got off a red-eye. Take today to—”

“No, now. I’m gonna shower. Let’s talk again in five minutes.”

He was clean and shaved and hurriedly switching the dirty clothes in his suitcase for clean ones when Greer called back. “I e-mailed your itinerary.”

“Any flight delays expected?”

“Not here. Your connecting flight may get held up in Charlotte if the fog in Asheville doesn’t lift.”

“Fog? Doesn’t Asheville have mountains?”

Flying into mountains in fog held even less appeal than fog-shrouded ferry rides. He really needed to catch this motherfucker.

On the cab ride to LaGuardia, he punched in the contact number at the bottom of the e-mail he’d received. The call was answered by a gravelly voice with a noticeable drawl. “Sam Knight.”

They exchanged perfunctory introductions, then Knight said, “We just got back from up at his place. I put in the e-mail everything we know at this juncture.”

“No sign of him?”

“Not since he dropped off Lisa Floyd at her aunt’s house this morning, and nobody can or will describe his pickup.”

“What do you mean by ‘will’?”

“All the Floyds are as stupid on the subject of him as Dr. Charbonneau. Beats all I’ve ever seen. Like he sprinkles people with amnesia powder instead of fairy dust. Is he a Charles Manson type? A Jim Jones?”

“I wouldn’t describe him as such. But he does hold sway,” Jack said, thinking of Rebecca’s blind devotion to her brother.