You can couch it in all the psychological vernacular of modern civilization—all that garbage about strength coming from within and that violence never solved anything—but it was all a bunch of self-rationalization. You can live with fooling yourself like that, for a while anyway. And then a crisis hits, a crisis like this, and you realize what you really are, that nice suits and fancy cars and pressed pants make you nothing.
You’re not a man.
But still, even with wimps like Erik, there was one line you don’t cross. You cross it, you never come back. It had to do with your children. A man protects his family at all costs. No matter what the sacrifice. You will take any hit. You will go to the ends of the earth and risk everything to keep them from harm. You don’t back away. Never. Not until your dying breath.
Someone had taken away his little girl.
You don’t sit that fight out.
Erik Biel took out the gun.
It had been his father’s. A Ruger .22. It was an old gun. Probably hadn’t been fired in three decades. Erik had brought it to a gun shop this morning. He purchased ammunition and other sundries he might need. The man behind the counter had cleaned the Ruger for him, tested it out, smirking in disgust at the little man in front of him, so pitiful that he didn’t even know how to load and use his own damn gun.
But the gun was loaded now.
Erik Biel was listening to his wife talk to Myron. They were trying to figure out what to do next. Drew Van Dyne, he heard them say, wasn’t home. They wondered about Harry Davis. Erik smiled. He was ahead of them on that count. He had used Call Block and dialed the teacher’s number. He pretended to be a mortgage broker. Davis had answered and said he wasn’t interested.
That was half an hour ago.
Erik started toward his car. The gun was tucked into his pants.
“Erik? Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. Myron Bolitar had confronted Harry Davis at the school. The teacher hadn’t talked to Myron. But one way or the other, he sure as hell was going to talk to Erik Biel.
Myron heard Claire say, “Erik? Where are you going?”
His phone clicked.
“Claire, I have someone on the other line. I’ll call you back.” Myron clicked over to the other line.
“Is this Myron Bolitar?”
The voice was familiar. “Yes.”
“This is Detective Lance Banner from the Livingston Police Department. We met yesterday.”
Was it only yesterday? “Sure, Detective, what can I do for you?”
“How far are you from St. Barnabas Hospital?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes, why?”
“Joan Rochester has just been rushed into surgery.”
CHAPTER 47
Myron sped and made it to the hospital in ten minutes. Lance Banner was waiting for him. “Joan Rochester is still in surgery.” “What happened?”
“You want his story or hers?”
“Both.”
“Dominick Rochester said she fell down the stairs. They’ve been here before. She falls down the stairs a lot, if you get my drift.”
“I do. But you said there were his and her stories?”
“Right. She’s always backed up his before.”
“And this time?”
“She said he beat her up,” Banner said. “And that she wants to press charges.”
“That must have surprised him. How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad,” Banner said. “Several broken ribs. A broken arm. He must have pounded the hell out of her kidneys, because the doctor is speculating about removing one.”
“Jesus.”
“And, of course, not a mark on her face. The guy’s good.”
“Comes with practice,” Myron said. “Is he here?”
“The husband? Yeah. But we’ve got him in custody.”
“For how long?”
Lance Banner shrugged. “You know the answer to that.”
In short: not very.
“Why did you call me?” Myron asked.
“Joan Rochester was awake when she came in. She wanted to warn you. She said to be careful.”
“What else?”
“That was it. It’s a miracle she got that out.”
Rage and guilt consumed him in equal measure. Joan Rochester could handle her husband, Myron had thought. She lived with him. She made her choices. Gee, what would be his next justification for not helping her—she’d been asking for it?
“Do you want to tell me how you’re involved in the lives of the Rochesters?” Banner asked.
“Aimee Biel isn’t a runaway. She’s in trouble.”
He filled him in as quickly as possible. When he finished, Lance Banner said, “We’ll get an APB out on Drew Van Dyne.”
“What about Jake Wolf?”
“I’m not sure how he fits in.”
“Do you know his son?”
“You mean Randy?” Lance Banner shrugged a little too casually. “He’s the high school quarterback.”
“Has Randy ever gotten into any trouble?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because I heard his father bribed you guys to get him off a drug charge,” Myron said. “Care to comment?”
Banner’s eyes turned black. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Save the indignation, Lance. Two of your fellow finest braced me on Jake Wolf’s orders. They stopped me from talking to Randy. One punched me in the gut when I was cuffed.”
“That’s a load of crap.”
Myron just looked at him.
“Which officers?” Banner demanded. “I want names, dammit.”
“One was about my height, skinny. The other had a thick mustache and looked like John Oates from Hall and Oates.”
The shadow hit Lance’s face. He tried to cover it.
“You know who I’m talking about.”
Banner tried to hold it back. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“We don’t have the time. Just tell me what the deal with the Wolf kid is.”
“No one got bribed.”
Myron waited. A woman in a wheelchair headed toward them. Banner stepped aside and let her pass. He rubbed his face with his hand.
“Six months ago a teacher claimed that he caught Randy Wolf selling pot. He searched the kid and found two nickel bags on him. I mean, penny-ante stuff.”
“This teacher,” Myron said. “Who was he?”
“He asked us to keep his name out of it.”