Regardless, if Nick picks up on my motives and says something to Walker, any hopes I might have of playing him like a fiddle are over, and it’s back to square one. If I get lucky, though, and that’s a big motherfucking if, I might get some intel on what the fuck has been going on the past couple weeks and beyond. In turn, I’d be able to give Donnie and his brother a little bit of peace knowing the people who killed him didn’t get away with that shit.
Small favors.
“Shhhhhit.”
It’s not until this very moment, as I head down the hall for a shower, that I check my phone and see six missed calls from Stix.
It’s the first time I’ve thought about him in a I need to find out what he’s up to kinda way since I woke up, and I remember, with clarity, that I told him I’d call first thing.
Dammit.
The first message starts out pretty basic.
“Jackson. It’s me. Uh, you know who.” The kid sounds like he doesn’t know if he should saying anything, much less his name. That in itself makes him a smart little fucker.
“I just wanted to check in, I guess. See what the plan for the day is. So, I’ll talk to you later.”
The second one gives me the impression he’s slightly paranoid. Unlike myself, of course.
“Hey, Jackson, there’s some weird-looking people hanging around outside your office. They’re across the street, but I swear they’re watching this place.”
By the third, there’s a slight urgency to his voice.
“Stiles. There’s something going on here. I’m not sure, I… There’s this car, and it keeps driving by, like it’s waiting for something. I don’t know, man. Call me.”
By the sixth, I realize what a complete and utter fucking asshole I am for not calling him the minute I woke up today.
“He’s sitting right outside your door, Stiles.” His voice is a whisper, and even now, I can hear the fear in it. “What the fuck do I do, man? Shit, I’m outta here.”
I hang up and call him as I bag the shower and grab my keys.
“Come on, kid. Pick up.”
He doesn’t. Of fucking course. So I call again. And again and again and again. I drive down four-fifty a good twenty miles over the speed limit, and still that’s too slow.
When I pull up to the office, I have a bad goddamn feeling about something.
Maybe he’s playing it low-key.
The parking lot is empty.
More empty than usual, anyway.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck are pricking at my skin. I have a terrible feeling, like the sinking feeling you get when you ask a question you already know the answer to, and you don’t like the answer.
I stare down the building before getting out of the car.
Okay.
Don’t panic.
I’m not gonna fucking panic.
I unlock the front door and open it. It’s different from the last time I found him here. When I knew someone was lurking in the shadows. Just didn’t know who.
Seems like a long damn time ago.
This time, I’ve got nothin’. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
“Stix.” So why do I even bother calling out to the kid?
Sparks of concern run under my skin.
I push that shit down because giving in to fear will make me lose focus. I lose focus, I lose Stix, and if I lose Stix, I lose any chance of making up for the fact that I’m, at the very least, partially responsible for the murder of his brother.
I take in a few controlled breaths of air and let them out slow. He’s probably back over in Homeless Town, USA.
Right?
I close the door behind me and call him while I check the street for any cars that look like they don’t belong here. Of course, I get the fucking voicemail.
“Kid.” My voice sounds jacked up. Stuck in the back of my throat kinda shit. “Call me.”
Maybe someone’s listening, maybe not. Better safe than sorry, though. And fuck them.
I wait for a good hour, during which I call Tricky Ricky, who has nothing for me. I check drawers and files to see if maybe Stix left me a clue. Nothin’. I pretend-read emails and listen to messages, hoping maybe he just got lost, or held up, or fucking had to pee. I don’t know.
By the time sixty minutes has painstakingly passed, I call him again.
Voicemail kicks in again, and I’m already out the door.
“I’m gonna assume you can’t answer for whatever reason. Or maybe you’re pissed off that I wasn’t answering earlier. I’m sorry about that. But, kid, answer the goddamn phone.”
He’ll call me back when he’s in cell tower range. Meanwhile, I should probably check Homeless Town anyway. Just to be sure.
X X X
I slow the car to a snail’s pace the closer I get to the neighborhood where I last connected with the kid.
Call it instinct, if you want. I call it self-preservation.
I park about three blocks away and hike it the rest. I find the same abandoned building he was in before and climb the stairs to the top. It’s empty. I sit at a window that looks like it was shot out by something and check out the area below.