Live Wire
Page 63
After that, who knows? I never imagined this life for myself. My father used to quote a Yiddish proverb. Man plans, God laughs. Kitty and I hope to return one day. I know that no one really ever leaves the Abeona Shelter. I know I am asking a big thing here. But I hope you’ll understand. In the meantime, we will do all we can to make this transition a smooth one.
Yours in Brotherhood, Brad
Abeona Shelter. Kitty had posted “Not His” using the profile name “Abeona S.” Myron quickly Googled “Abeona Shelter.” Nothing. Hmm. He again Googled Abeona and found that it was the name of a somewhat obscure Roman goddess who protected children the first time they left their parents’ care. Myron was not sure what that all meant, if anything. Supposedly, Brad had always worked for nonprofits. Was the Abeona Shelter one of them?
He called Esperanza next. He gave her Juan’s address and the name of the Abeona Shelter. “Reach out to him. See if he knows anything.”
“Okay. Myron?”
“Yes.”
“I really love your dad.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
Silence.
Esperanza said, “You know the expression that there’s never a good time to give bad news.”
Uh-oh. “What is it?”
“I’m of two minds on something,” she said. “I could wait until things are good before I tell you this. Or I can just throw it on the pile and with everything else going on, you’ll barely notice.”
“Throw it on the pile.”
“Thomas and I are getting a divorce.”
“Oh, damn.” He thought about the pictures in her office, the happy family shots of Esperanza, Thomas, and little Hector. His heart sank anew. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m hoping it will be peaceful,” Esperanza said. “But I don’t think it’s going to be. Thomas is claiming I’m an unfit mother because of my sordid past and the hours I work. He’s going for sole custody of Hector.”
“He’ll never get it,” Myron said.
“Like you have control over that.” She made a noise, might have been a half laugh. “But I love when you make definitive pronouncements like that.”
Myron flashed back to a recent one with Suzze:
“I just got a bad feeling. I think I’m going to mess up.”
“You won’t.”
“It’s what I do, Myron.”
“Not this time. Your agent won’t let you.”
Won’t let her mess up. And now she was dead.
Myron Bolitar: Big man with the big, definitive pronouncements.
Before he could take it back, Esperanza said, “I’ll get on this,” and hung up.
He just stared at the phone for a moment. The lack of sleep was starting to get to him. His head pounded to the point where he wondered if Kitty had any Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. He was about to get up and check when something snagged his attention.
It was in the pile of papers and photographs on the end of the couch. On the bottom on the right. Just a corner stuck out. A royal blue corner. Myron’s eyes narrowed. He reached for it and pulled it into view.
It was a passport.
Yesterday he found Kitty’s and Mickey’s passports in Kitty’s purse. Brad had last been seen traveling to Peru, so that’s where his passport would be, according to Kitty. That begged the obvious question: Whose passport was this?
Myron flipped it open to the identification page. There, staring him in the face, was a photograph of his brother. He felt lost again, his pounding head spinning now.
Myron was just wondering about his next move when he heard the whispers.
There were times it paid to have frayed nerves. This was one of them. Instead of waiting or trying to figure out where the whispers were coming from or who was doing the whispering, Myron merely reacted. He leapt up, knocking the papers and photographs from the couch. Behind him he could hear the trailer door being smashed open. Myron dropped and rolled behind the couch.
Two men burst into the room holding guns.
They were both young, both pale, both skinny, both on something—what they used to call “heroin chic.” The one on the right had a huge, complicated tattoo coming up out of the collar of his T-shirt, rising up his neck like a flame. The other had the practiced tough-guy goatee.
The one with the goatee said, “What the . . . we saw him come in.”
“He’s gotta be in the other room. I’ll cover you.”
Still on the floor behind the couch, Myron silently thanked Win for making sure that he was armed. There wasn’t much time. The trailer was tiny. It would only take a few seconds to find Myron. He debated jumping out and yelling, “Freeze!” But both were armed and there was no way to know how they’d react. Neither looked particularly reliable, and thus there was an excellent chance they’d panic and start firing.
No, better to keep them confused. Better to make them scatter.
Myron made a decision. He hoped that it was the correct one, the rational one, and not just the emotional one, the one that yearned to lash out and inflict harm because his father was maybe dying and his brother was . . . He flashed back to Brad’s passport and realized that he had no idea where his brother was, what he was doing, how much danger he was in.
Clear the mind. Act rationally.
Goatee took two steps toward the bedroom door. Staying low, Myron shifted to the end of the couch. He waited another second, took aim low at Goatee’s knee, and without calling out a warning, Myron pulled the trigger.
The knee exploded.
Goatee let out a shout and collapsed to the ground. His gun skittered across the room. But Myron wasn’t paying attention to that. He ducked low, kept out of sight, and watched for Neck Tattoo’s reaction. If he started firing, Myron had a bead on him. But Neck Tattoo didn’t. He too screamed and, as Myron hoped, he scattered.
Neck Tattoo turned tail and dived back outside. Myron moved fast now. He jumped up and came out from behind the couch. On the floor in front of him, Goatee rolled in agony. Myron bent down, grabbed the man’s face, made him look at him. Then Myron jammed the gun into Goatee’s face.
“Stop screaming or I’ll kill you.”
Goatee quieted the scream to animal-like whimpers.
Myron quickly retrieved the man’s gun and then ran toward the window. He looked out. Neck Tattoo was hopping into a car. Myron checked the plates. New York. He quickly put the letter-number combination into his BlackBerry and sent it to Esperanza. Not much time now. He went back to Goatee.
Yours in Brotherhood, Brad
Abeona Shelter. Kitty had posted “Not His” using the profile name “Abeona S.” Myron quickly Googled “Abeona Shelter.” Nothing. Hmm. He again Googled Abeona and found that it was the name of a somewhat obscure Roman goddess who protected children the first time they left their parents’ care. Myron was not sure what that all meant, if anything. Supposedly, Brad had always worked for nonprofits. Was the Abeona Shelter one of them?
He called Esperanza next. He gave her Juan’s address and the name of the Abeona Shelter. “Reach out to him. See if he knows anything.”
“Okay. Myron?”
“Yes.”
“I really love your dad.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
Silence.
Esperanza said, “You know the expression that there’s never a good time to give bad news.”
Uh-oh. “What is it?”
“I’m of two minds on something,” she said. “I could wait until things are good before I tell you this. Or I can just throw it on the pile and with everything else going on, you’ll barely notice.”
“Throw it on the pile.”
“Thomas and I are getting a divorce.”
“Oh, damn.” He thought about the pictures in her office, the happy family shots of Esperanza, Thomas, and little Hector. His heart sank anew. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m hoping it will be peaceful,” Esperanza said. “But I don’t think it’s going to be. Thomas is claiming I’m an unfit mother because of my sordid past and the hours I work. He’s going for sole custody of Hector.”
“He’ll never get it,” Myron said.
“Like you have control over that.” She made a noise, might have been a half laugh. “But I love when you make definitive pronouncements like that.”
Myron flashed back to a recent one with Suzze:
“I just got a bad feeling. I think I’m going to mess up.”
“You won’t.”
“It’s what I do, Myron.”
“Not this time. Your agent won’t let you.”
Won’t let her mess up. And now she was dead.
Myron Bolitar: Big man with the big, definitive pronouncements.
Before he could take it back, Esperanza said, “I’ll get on this,” and hung up.
He just stared at the phone for a moment. The lack of sleep was starting to get to him. His head pounded to the point where he wondered if Kitty had any Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. He was about to get up and check when something snagged his attention.
It was in the pile of papers and photographs on the end of the couch. On the bottom on the right. Just a corner stuck out. A royal blue corner. Myron’s eyes narrowed. He reached for it and pulled it into view.
It was a passport.
Yesterday he found Kitty’s and Mickey’s passports in Kitty’s purse. Brad had last been seen traveling to Peru, so that’s where his passport would be, according to Kitty. That begged the obvious question: Whose passport was this?
Myron flipped it open to the identification page. There, staring him in the face, was a photograph of his brother. He felt lost again, his pounding head spinning now.
Myron was just wondering about his next move when he heard the whispers.
There were times it paid to have frayed nerves. This was one of them. Instead of waiting or trying to figure out where the whispers were coming from or who was doing the whispering, Myron merely reacted. He leapt up, knocking the papers and photographs from the couch. Behind him he could hear the trailer door being smashed open. Myron dropped and rolled behind the couch.
Two men burst into the room holding guns.
They were both young, both pale, both skinny, both on something—what they used to call “heroin chic.” The one on the right had a huge, complicated tattoo coming up out of the collar of his T-shirt, rising up his neck like a flame. The other had the practiced tough-guy goatee.
The one with the goatee said, “What the . . . we saw him come in.”
“He’s gotta be in the other room. I’ll cover you.”
Still on the floor behind the couch, Myron silently thanked Win for making sure that he was armed. There wasn’t much time. The trailer was tiny. It would only take a few seconds to find Myron. He debated jumping out and yelling, “Freeze!” But both were armed and there was no way to know how they’d react. Neither looked particularly reliable, and thus there was an excellent chance they’d panic and start firing.
No, better to keep them confused. Better to make them scatter.
Myron made a decision. He hoped that it was the correct one, the rational one, and not just the emotional one, the one that yearned to lash out and inflict harm because his father was maybe dying and his brother was . . . He flashed back to Brad’s passport and realized that he had no idea where his brother was, what he was doing, how much danger he was in.
Clear the mind. Act rationally.
Goatee took two steps toward the bedroom door. Staying low, Myron shifted to the end of the couch. He waited another second, took aim low at Goatee’s knee, and without calling out a warning, Myron pulled the trigger.
The knee exploded.
Goatee let out a shout and collapsed to the ground. His gun skittered across the room. But Myron wasn’t paying attention to that. He ducked low, kept out of sight, and watched for Neck Tattoo’s reaction. If he started firing, Myron had a bead on him. But Neck Tattoo didn’t. He too screamed and, as Myron hoped, he scattered.
Neck Tattoo turned tail and dived back outside. Myron moved fast now. He jumped up and came out from behind the couch. On the floor in front of him, Goatee rolled in agony. Myron bent down, grabbed the man’s face, made him look at him. Then Myron jammed the gun into Goatee’s face.
“Stop screaming or I’ll kill you.”
Goatee quieted the scream to animal-like whimpers.
Myron quickly retrieved the man’s gun and then ran toward the window. He looked out. Neck Tattoo was hopping into a car. Myron checked the plates. New York. He quickly put the letter-number combination into his BlackBerry and sent it to Esperanza. Not much time now. He went back to Goatee.
