“Bear hug.” Joe grinned and I laughed. I’m not sure that Jacobi has ever hugged me.
“Any news on Gordon?”
“By the time the air cover got up, his Honda was one of a million blue wagons just like it. They lost him.”
“And the boy?”
Joe shrugged. I felt sick all over again. All that highly trained manpower, and Gordon had made fools of us all. “He’s going to use Steven as a hostage until he doesn’t need him anymore.”
“I think he’s ditched the kid by now, honey. Once he got out of there, a screaming toddler could only get in his way.”
“He killed him, you mean?”
Joe shrugged. “Let’s say he just dropped him off somewhere.” Joe turned his eyes down.
A nurse came in and said the doctor would be back in a minute. “Can I get you anything, sweetheart? Juice?”
“No, thanks. I’m okay.”
When she’d gone, Joe said, “The whole deal was a diversion. The guy knows how to make a bomb.”
“Did I set off the charge?”
“The doorbell. When you pressed the button, signals went to two blasting caps, one in a cooler at the curb. The other blew up the back of the house—what used to be a house.”
“He asked for me, Joe. He demanded that I come to the door. He planned for me to detonate that bomb. Why me? Payback because he didn’t get the money?”
“I think so. He’s putting your face on his power struggle with the city—”
The doctor came in, and Joe stepped outside. Dr. Dweck asked me to follow his finger with my eyes. He hammered my knees and made me flex my wings. He told me that I had a gorgeous palm-sized contusion on my shoulder and that the cuts on my hands would heal just fine.
He listened to my breathing and my heart, both of which sped up as I thought about how Peter Gordon could be anywhere by now, with or without that little boy—and no one knew where in the hell he was.
Chapter 98
I LEANED BACK in the passenger seat as Joe drove us home. Jacobi had told me to take a few days off and to call in on Monday to see if he was letting me work next week.
Joe said, “You’re taking the sleeping cure, you hear me, Blondie? Once you’re home, you’re under house arrest.”
“Okay.”
“Stop arguing with me.”
I laughed and turned my head so I could look at his strong profile in silhouette against the cobalt-blue dusk. I let centrifugal force hold me against the car door when Joe made the turn onto Arguello and I watched the steeples of St. John’s go by. I must’ve closed my eyes, because I woke hearing Joe telling me that we were home.
He helped me onto the sidewalk outside our building and steadied me as I got my balance.
Joe was asking, “What do you feel like having for dinner?” when I saw what had to be an illusion. Across the street was a blue Honda wagon with a crumpled right fender.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the car.
I didn’t wait for Joe to answer. I knew that car. Even from twenty feet away, I could see writing on the windshield. Fear shot through me as if Pete Gordon had lit a fuse under the soles of my shoes.
How did he know where I lived?
Why had he driven his car to my door?
I ran out into the Lake Street traffic, dodging cars blowing past me. I reached the Honda, cupped my hands to the glass, and peered inside. I saw the little boy lying on his side across the backseat. Even in the low light, the round dark spot on Steven Gordon’s temple was a vivid red.