Another nod.
"Care to explain about Harold Trubb?"
Paul gave his father a sad smile. "Harold Trubb is a figment of an overactive imagination, created by the man behind all this." He gestured to the cabin, then to his father. "I'm getting close to the answer, and he doesn't like it."
"So you know who it is?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"It's bigger than this, but the man who tried to kill you is a doctor. Lefkowitz. Ring any bells?"
His father blushed and looked at the floor. "No. Why would a doctor want to kill me?"
"Are you sure, Dad?" Paul asked. "He ran a methadone clinic back in the seventies."
"Why would I know a doctor who ran a methadone clinic, son?"
"Because," Paul said, "you were a junky. Just like Mom."
His face a thundercloud, Kevin Parsons stood and towered over his son. "You take that back." He grabbed Paul's hair and wrenched his head back. Eyes blazing, he repeated himself. "You. Take. That. Back." He let go and stared at his own hand in shock.
Paul leaned his head into his father's stomach and patted him on the leg. "I wish I could, Dad. I wish I could." Paul sat back and looked into his father's eyes. "Mom didn't die in a car accident."
His dad collapsed onto the couch. He put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook, and a keening noise more animal than human erupted from his throat.
Steve looked up, his mouth agape. His father fired out the window, the bark of the pistol louder than anything he'd ever heard. His mother stood over the coffee table, shoving bags full of white powder into a duffel bag. The bullet hit her in the neck. She fell onto the floor, and he leapt on her, pressing his tiny hands against the wound. The blood covered him, spraying through his fingers. She gasped and gurgled and tried to breathe through the blood. Steve pressed as hard as he could, but the bleeding just wouldn't stop. His hands were too small.
After a while he asked a question. "Dad, what really happened?"
His father's voice was tiny, barely audible. "Don't make me go back there. I don't live there anymore." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't go back."
Paul grabbed him, pulled him close, and held him. He leaned close to his father's ear. His lips barely moved, and no sound came out. Dad, I never left.
* * *
February 3rd, 7:46 AM PST; Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry; San Francisco, California.
Gene lay in the back seat as the sedan pulled up in front of Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry. He wore a leather jacket with an upturned collar, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. Like a perp on the lam, he thought. Doug parallel parked in front of the store.
"There's nobody home," Carl said. Turning to the back seat, he smiled at Gene. "Coast is clear."
Gene sat up, made a quick scan of the street, then looked inside the store. The lights were off and nothing moved. "Wouldn't you expect someone inside?" he asked. "Guarding the store from looters?"
"Yeah, I would," Doug said. "Renner beat us here."
"Let's hope not," Gene said. "We don't know if Renner found out about this place or not." He scanned the street. Nothing. "Let's go. And be careful. These guys have no reason to trust or cooperate with us."
They got out of the car and approached the door, huddled together against the damp, cold wind. Gene rapped on the glass with his knuckles. Doug and Carl covered him, hands in their pockets. There was no response. "It was worth a try," he muttered.
Shielding his eyes with his hands, he peered inside. Everything looked normal for a high-end jewelry store. A series of glass cases filled with sparkling gems, gold jewelry, watches, tie clips, and so forth dominated the main room, all arranged in a jigsaw maze designed to make shoppers slow down and take it in. A marble-topped mahogany cabinet with an old rotary-dial phone and an antique cash register stood in the back. Behind it stood a single door marked Employees Only.
Gene stepped back and took a better look at the storefront. The phone number for the store was printed in large letters on the door. He took out the TrakFone Carl had picked up from Wal-Mart an hour earlier and dialed the number. The phone rang ten times, with no answer. He hung up.
Gene sighed. "Doug, hit the store with the Maglite."
The beam of light flared across the inside of the store, scattering and refracting through thousands of gems and reflecting off countless pieces of gold, platinum, and silver. "What am I looking for?" Doug asked.
"Anything out of—there! Right side of the counter!" Gene pointed, and Doug turned the light toward the rug.
"I see it," Carl said. "It" was a red stain on the carpet near the checkout. The back wall was misted with brownish spots. "It looks bad, Gene."