A string of drool stretched from the comer of Stukins's mouth to a stain on his pajama shirt. "Are you the fella from the garage?" he asked. "I'm stuck here until you fix my Chevy."
Frustration billowed through Addison. Rising, she went to the sink and dampened a paper towel and knelt before Stukins. "Who is Tate?" she asked, blotting the saliva from his chin.
He swatted her hand away. "If you're not from the garage, I don't want to talk to you. I want my master cylinder fixed." The old man's eyes turned toward the blank TV. "I don't like it here."
Grimacing, Randall rose and laid his hand lightly on Stukins's gaunt shoulder. "Thanks, old man." He looked at Addison. "I think that's it."
"But he remembered a name," she protested.
"At this point, we don't know if Tate is the first name or the last name," he pointed out.
Addison started to resist, but he stopped her. "What we did find out is that Tate may have graduated from Yale in 1974. That's something Jack can help us with." He cast a final look at the stooped old man sitting on the bed watching the blank TV. "Let's go."
*
Randall had just pulled the rental car onto Route 40 when the pager clipped to his belt chirped twice. Shifting, he reached for it, expecting to see the office number. Instead, he found himself squinting at a Denver number he wasn't familiar with.
"Is it Jack?" Addison asked.
"No." An inexplicable jab of anxiety rushed through him. Recalling a telephone booth nearby, he made a U-turn and sped toward it.
Addison remained silent, but he felt her eyes on him as he stomped the car to a screeching halt at the curb next to the phone booth. Without speaking, he swung open the door and sprinted to the phone. Pulling his gloves off with his teeth, he snatched up the receiver and punched the phone and credit card numbers from memory.
"Van-Dyne."
Randall's heart pumped hard. "This is Talbot," he said, knowing instinctively something was wrong.
"Mr. Talbot, I had one of your business cards and thought I should let you know what happened."
"What the hell are you talking about?" He didn't want to think about who was vulnerable back in Denver.
“There was a fire at your office," the detective said.
''Where's Jack?"
"Paramedics took him to St. Joe's with burns."
Randall braced, his heart freezing in his chest. "How is he?"
"Critical."
The word echoed in his head, its meaning punching him like a giant billy club. The roar of blood through his veins deafened him.
"Mr. Talbot, your brother also suffered a gunshot wound."
Another punch, harder, more vicious, twisted his guts into knots. Randall closed his eyes, trying not to imagine how helpless Jack must have felt. "Did you catch the son of a bitch?" he hissed through clenched teeth as rage and fear took turns pounding him.
"We're investigating. So far we don't have a lot to go on." There was no urgency in the detective's voice. No drive behind the words. He was a cop doing his job. Nothing at stake except his reputation. His quota. His paycheck.
"Jesus Christ." A sickening realization plowed through him. "It's about the case."
"The case you're working on?"
"Addison Fox is involved." He wanted to explain but knew there wasn't time. He had to get to Denver. "It's complicated."
He looked down at his watch, felt the panic slither more deeply into him. "I'll stop by your office when I get there."
He slammed the receiver down hard, jerked open the door of the booth, and stepped into the wind. He felt as if his entire world had just careened out of control. For a full minute he stood in the cold, trembling inside and out, trying to pull himself together.
By the time he reached the car, the shaking had eased enough for him to yank open the door and wedge himself behind the wheel. Battling the impotent emotions, the helplessness and rage, he started the engine and put the car in gear.
"What is it? What happened?" Addison's voice reached in through the iciness surrounding him, offering him refuge from the cold.
"It's Jack," he choked. "Jesus Christ. They fucking got to Jack."
"Oh, my god." Her hand went to her mouth. "Please, tell me he's not—oh, God."
He couldn't look at her. Not when his control was slipping away. "I should have been there. I should have protected him."
"No—”
Randall slammed his fist into the dash. Plastic shattered. Pain zinged up his arm. "Why Jack, goddammit!"
“Stop it. Please."
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't swallow. Panic gripped his throat, like a hangman's noose. Terror sent tremors through his body. He felt trapped. Panicked.
He felt dead.
God, he needed a drink.
"Randall? Are you okay?"
He heard her voice as if through a fog. Addison. He sucked in a breath, felt the panic release its grip on his chest. "I'm okay."
He looked at her, found her staring at him as if he were a ghost. Maybe he was. "I'm okay, goddammit. Don't look at me like that."
She flinched but didn't look away. "How bad is he hurt?"
"He's critical."
“Oh, God, I'm sorry. Is he going to be all right?"
"I don't know." He punched the accelerator and sent the car screeching into the deserted street. "I should have seen this coming."