Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

him a brief rundown on what the Blood had told me about this being a gang matter of revenge on account of Jerome offing some Blood called Lil’ Grill and his homie.

After hanging up with him, I put out a BOLO (Be On the Look Out) to surrounding agencies.

Marsh vetoed contacting APD, (need to know and all that secret squirrel stuff) and said he’d send a squad over to take care of the mess and that I should concentrate on finding the girl and Jerome and nothing else. Couldn’t argue with that. Besides, I was too tired and sore to argue about much of anything.

The SUVs were pulling up out front as I started my car. I saw the Mountain step out of the lead car and look over at me, but I was in no mood for congeniality just now. I had work to do, so I just drove off.

Max had cleaned most of the thug’s blood from his coat and looked way less psychotic than he had a half hour ago. I called Jared Darling on my way to Castle Rock, and despite Marsh’s orders, had him put out the BOLO for the vehicle. I said to consider Jerome armed and dangerous and in possession of a kidnapped girl. I gave him their descriptions and vitals and told him I couldn’t say any more. He wasn’t real happy, but he went with it.

My guess was that Jerome would want to get out of the state fast as possible. But to do that he’d need money, and his job would be where he would have to go to get it. They had a pretty good head start on me so I had to hope for two things. First, that Jerome would be smart enough not to draw attention to himself by speeding, and second, that I’d miss all the State Troopers between here and there while I drove like my Escalade was a DeLorean trying to reach the 1.21 gigawatts threshold. Not that my car had a plutonium-powered nuclear reactor, but she was pretty fast and could do well over the standard 88 mph without even trying. Of course I know a lot of the troopers. Some of them even still like me.

By the time I passed C-470 on I-25, I was zipping in and out of the light traffic at a steady hundred and twenty. Who knows, maybe at this rate I wouldn’t have to go back in time after all.

12

Jerome made five turns then stopped the car and strapped Clair into her car seat.

“Daddy, you’re bleeding,” said Clair. Jerome had changed her name from the beginning, knowing that they would be looking for her. Clair seemed the logical choice to him. “That bad man hurt you.”

“Ain’t nothing, little one. He’s gone now.” He closed the door, went to the trunk and sorted through several stolen license plates, finally deciding on the newest. Unscrewing the old one with a flat tip he always kept in a gym bag for just this reason, he quickly replaced it with the new one.

His shirt stuck to him, wet and cold. It would look to anyone who saw him like he’d been through a massacre. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but the stab wound to his thigh still leaked. He’d have to attend to it before approaching his boss. If they saw him like this they would call the police and he couldn’t have that now. The gym bag held four shirts, a hoodie, two pair of pants and a pair of shorts, as well as two different licenses and a spare gun with two magazines. Jerome kept a separate bag for Clair with a lot more supplies, including a doll and a coloring book and crayons.

Jerome took the gym bag and got back in. He started driving, heading for the interstate, his mind plodding along at the same calm, calculating pace that it always operated. Jerome never felt excited. He didn’t get scared or worried. He almost never got mad. The only time he ever got mad was when it concerned Clair’s safety. Whatever damage had been done to him because of his mother’s addiction didn’t completely work where it concerned Clair. She was different. She made him feel different. He didn’t know why exactly and he didn’t care. It was enough that she did. But even though he didn’t feel things like most people, he could see that other people did. Sometimes it seemed to help people, but usually it made them do stupid things. Things that made them vulnerable and easy to take control of. The man at the house had been different. Even when Jerome had hit him his hardest, something that would usually break people, the man had kept calm and kept on coming. Also, the man had somehow made Jerome angry just by saying that he had come to get Clair. Again, the fact that it made him angry didn’t scare Jerome, but it made him think about how to handle this strange man if they met in the future. Jerome decided it would be best to shoot him as quickly as he could. Yes, he would shoot him. And not just once. He would shoot him a lot.

“I want to go home, daddy,” said Clair from the back.

“We have to go to a new home,” said Jerome. Jerome never lied to her.

“I don’t want to go to a new home,” said Clair and in the rearview mirror he could see her scrunch her face up like a tiny fist.

“I know,” said Jerome.

“I want my toys.”

“I’ll get you new toys.”

“I want my old toys.”

“I know.”

She pouted for a while.

“Daddy, can I have a new doll?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Will I have my own room again?”

“Yes.”

She thought for a second.

“I want to sleep with you. I’m scared of under the bed.”

“Okay.”

“But I want my own room for toys.”

“Okay.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t get to finish my sandwich.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to eat?”

She thought again and in the mirror he saw