Tick Tock - James Patterson [91]
He found himself liking the vibe of the place. As with all good beachside spots, there was something old about it, timeless. It seemed like a way station, an outpost at the end of things.
When he came to Bennett’s place, he crossed the street and crouched in the shadow between two houses opposite and sat staring.
All the lights were off. Was Bennett asleep, dreaming sweet dreams after a long day of failing to catch him? It was looking like it.
He waited for almost half an hour. When he crossed the dark street, he saw that from its neatly painted porch rail an American flag was flying. Apt shook his head. Mike, Mike, he thought. Don’t you know you’re supposed to bring Old Glory in at night?
The cluttered back deck was baffling, like a Toys “R” Us fire sale. Blow-up air mattresses, water guns, a rusty bicycle. Careful not to knock anything over, he crept up the steps and peeked in the back-door window. A Reagan-era fridge, a massive table with breakfast bowls, spoons, and folded napkins all set out for the morning. He counted at least a dozen settings. What was up?
He was bent, scrub-picking the door lock, when he heard something behind him. The air mattress by the stairs had moved. Had the wind knocked it over? But there was no wind.
Then something cold and hard slammed down on top of his head, and he felt his legs give out and the deck rushing toward his face.
Chapter 100
HIS SKULL ON FIRE and his vision blurring, Apt pulled himself up onto his knees.
He wiped his eyes. There was a kid in front of him on the top step of the deck. He had an aluminum baseball bat on his shoulder. He was Hispanic, maybe ten or eleven, wearing Yankees pajamas.
“Who are you?” the kid said, brandishing the bat. “I saw you come past my window. You’re a Flaherty, aren’t you? Why the hell can’t you people leave us alone?”
Apt put up his hands as the kid feinted with the bat. He couldn’t believe it. He’d come this far and some ten- or eleven-year-old punk had taken him out? With a bat? What kind of crazy father was Bennett, anyway?
“Wait. I’m not Flaherty,” Apt said.
“Bull. You look crazy. What’s that? A Mohawk or something?”
Apt stood up, holding his aching head, smiling. “I think there’s been a mix-up. Are you Mike’s kid? I work with your dad. I’m a cop, too.”
The kid paused. Confusion eclipsed the kid’s face.
Apt snapped his finger.
“Sorry. I keep forgetting how crazy I look. I’m actually undercover.”
Apt watched as the kid’s face softened, now filling with regret.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you were somebody else. Why didn’t you use the front door?”
“That was some swing,” Apt said, stepping toward him. “Don’t tell me you bat cleanup?”
“Uh-huh. Your head is bleeding. I’m really sorry. I’ll get my dad.”
“Actually, could you just hold up a second first?” Apt said and then suddenly clocked him. The boy flew back and ricocheted off the deck railing before he fell flat on his face, out cold.
Apt glanced at the kid, then at the house, thinking.
He lifted the kid over his shoulder and went down the deck steps toward the alley and the street.
Chapter 101
WHEN MY CELL PHONE woke me in the dark, I rolled off the bed and stumbled around before finally fishing it out of the pocket of my pants.
It was a 212 number, which meant Manhattan. I didn’t recognize it.
I was still so dead to the world that when I tried to answer it, I actually hung it up instead.
I wiped my eyes as I yawned. No wonder I was out of it. Mary Catherine and I had gotten back pretty late from the concert. If that wasn’t bad enough, MC, Seamus, and I had stayed up watching a hilarious eighties Brat Pack–era comedy called Heaven Help Us about a Catholic boys high school in 1960s Brooklyn. I shared many of the same sorts of friendships and screw-ups and absurdities at Regis, a Catholic boys school in Manhattan. I couldn’t remember the last time