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His thinking had eventually altered. He’d gone from a distressed father seeking his son, to a wanton man hell-bent on revenge. His mind had become a bubbling cauldron of animosity and hatred. His quarry, Warthead. The freak with the misshapen head had been imprinted in his mind like a Polaroid snapshot.
Gardener studied the Irishman’s well-defined features. In the three years that they had been partners, Gardener realized how reliable he had been. After Sarah had died, Sean Reilly had been the man behind his return to work. He had proved to Gardener that he had the courage and the conviction to continue. He’d taught him to believe in himself. Life went on. Gardener had to persevere, if only for his son’s sake. “How did my dad find out?”
“He had a call from the school about the incident. He called me soon afterwards. I told Briggs. We set the wheels in motion. And believe me, we’re on the case with Chris. Briggs pulled out all the stops. Every officer we have is out searching for that wee boy. And I’m telling you, not one of them went home last night. I’m surprised you haven’t seen the posters all over the city.”
Reilly returned to the subject of his father. “You should have called your dad. He’s disappointed. He hasn’t said as much, but I can tell. You need each other, especially now.”
Gardener sighed, resting his head in his hands. “I did call, but there was no answer. I know I should have continued calling. With everything that happened yesterday, I didn’t know where the hell I was.”
Gardener stared at his feet. He was tired. He’d had no sleep. His body ached all over because it was cold. His mouth felt like he’d been chewing a carpet. He glanced across the park. The sparrows had flown but the white cat remained, reminding him of Spook.
Gardener finally spoke again. He stood up, staring down at Reilly. “I’m confused. I’m tired. I’m angry. Most of all, I’m hurting. My son is out there. I don’t know where he is. For all I know, he could be dead. If he’s still alive, he’ll be hurting as well. He’ll be frightened. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m just going over it and over it in my mind. It’s tearing me apart, Sean. I’m a policeman and I can’t even find my own fucking son! How do you think it makes me feel?”
Reilly stood up. “I know exactly how you feel.”
Gardener continued. “Do you realize what I’m saying? I don’t want to think about serial killers and who’s doing what to whom. I want my son back! To hell with the investigation. My son is the only thing that matters.”
Gardener leaned back against a nearby tree. He was dizzy. When the feeling passed, he spoke again. “I don’t know where my son is, but I’ve a bloody good idea who has him. Warthead’s been following me. He must have been. He wasn’t content to kill my wife. Now he wants my son.”
“You don’t know that for certain.”
Gardener glanced upwards. A plane passed overhead. His mind was suddenly propelled into the past as he thought of himself, Sarah, Chris, and his father all jetting off for a tour of America. They had spent the first week in Disney World, and the second on the California coast. He had never seen Chris so happy. They had all been happy. Times were good.
Gardener continued. “No. You’re right, I don’t know for certain. But one thing I do know is that standing around here won’t find him.”
Gardener made to move. His right knee gave way, and he stumbled back onto the bench.
Reilly caught him, sitting down with him. “When did you last eat? How long do you think you can keep going like this?”
“Till I find him.”
“And how long will that be?”
“I don’t know,” replied Gardener, unsure where Reilly was heading.
“Precisely. It could be days. You can’t go without food all that time. You’re no good to your son if you’re dead.”
“Maybe not. But while I’m wasting time eating, I could be searching.” Gardener stood up again. So did Reilly, grasping his partner’s shoulders.
“Listen to me. You’re not on your own. You’ve got the resources of the whole team. Together, we’ll sort it out. Give me a few minutes, boss. I have something important to tell you. Spare me the time. Let’s get some food inside you, and you can listen to what I have to say.”
Gardener reluctantly agreed.
Chapter Sixty-four
The walk to the park gates and the mobile caravan felt like a marathon. Neither man spoke. The weather was improving, growing milder. When they reached the van, Gardener chose to sit at one of the tables. Reilly ordered.
Eventually, the Irishman returned and passed over a sandwich and a hot drink. To Gardener it smelled good, and though he expected it to taste like cardboard, it didn’t. Even the tea wasn’t too hot. But neither did anything to appease him.
“What did you want to tell me, Sean?”
Reilly finished his sandwich, took a long mouthful of tea. “I grew up in Ireland, as you well know. I had to learn the hard way, and I matured into an adult bloody fast, I can tell you. You had to be hard to survive. Me and my brothers were always caught up in street battles that started small and escalated into fucking wars before you knew it. It was always political.
“We moved to Portballintrae when I was seven, just off the coast, near the Giant’s Causeway. I met up with an old-timer there, Laura’s grandfather Seamus. He fascinated me. He was very wise, and he knew how to survive. Not just from the land, but almost every way you could think of. He used to take me fishing and we’d sit on the rocks for hours, listening to the water, staring out to sea. It was relaxing.
“Another thing he shared with me were the legends surrounding the Celtic people, and how they often helped him overcome his problems. Now, I’m not going to spend all morning boring you with those. So, I’m going to tell you about something that happened to Laura and myself. Something I’ve never told anyone else.”
Reilly finished his tea. “It happened a few summers back. Our daughter, Linda, had taken a train to Belfast to see a concert. An hour before it started, there was an explosion at a church on the opposite side of the street. Fair rocked the place, so it did.”
