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After a long while, I began to be aware of my surroundings again, though my head ached and even my vision was blurry. I was in my office, of course. I stumbled down to the restroom to splash cold water on my face and was surprised at how weak I felt. I stood for a long moment at the sink, trying to gather my strength to navigate the dark parking deck. I knew it must be really late.
My old car was the only one left in the lot when I finally got there, and I lost no time in getting into it and heading back home. I kept the window rolled down to let the cool air in all the way, because I feared falling asleep behind the wheel. I wanted to be in my bed by midnight, but it was Halloween, not to mention a Friday night, so I didn’t hold out too much hope. Considering how bad the traffic was in Atlanta on an ordinary night, I knew I’d be late getting home. Luckily the next morning was Saturday, so I could sleep in. At least until Tyler got up anyway. A good thing, because I knew I wouldn’t get home much before the witching hour, if then.
I wondered what had been wrong with me tonight. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep at my desk. I must have been more exhausted than I thought. Maybe I should go back and see my doctor again.
The witching hour was long past when I finally arrived back home. The name gave me an odd little chill. It was the time when all manner of demons and wicked creatures were thought to be at their most powerful, but I didn’t really believe in all that. I had always thought of the term as meaning more like a time of bad luck, a time in which evil beings had a greater likelihood of coming near. I sincerely hoped not. I couldn’t handle much more bad luck coming my way.
Chapter Four
Atlanta homicide detectives wore fedora hats, or that’s what I thought I’d read somewhere anyway. There had been an article a while back about them in the Atlanta Journal Sunday supplement. Usually the hats were black, or sometimes brown—almost always they were made of fine, soft fur felt. They had been a tradition in Atlanta for decades and the hats were made by famous companies like Stetson, Biltmore, Dobbs and other names that had long been around as institutions of haberdashery and badassery. I had always admired hats and wondered why men stopped wearing them so much, because they looked really good.
I never thought I’d see them or their owners at my front door at such an early hour on a Saturday morning, though.
The two men who had hammered on my door just after eight o’clock identified themselves with a flash of a badge that I didn’t really get a good look at. I was pretty sure they were with the police, however, both because of the hats and suits, and because neither of them corrected me when I called them detectives.
“Mr. O’Neal, can we come in, please?” one of them asked in a deep voice, when I couldn’t seem to do much more than stand there and blink at him and the other guy. “We have some questions we’d like to ask you about a friend of yours—Dylan Malone.”
“Dylan? Why? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. If you wouldn’t mind letting us come in?”
I stepped back and the broad-shouldered men filled up the foyer until it was hard to breathe. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my robe, because I was inexplicably nervous. I had no idea why, except I’d had bad experiences with cops in the not-so-distant past, and detectives so early in the morning couldn’t be a good thing.
I tipped my head toward the living room, and they followed me in. I gestured for them to sit down. We were in luck because the living room was Tyler’s domain. It wasn’t yet time for any of his shows, though, so we should be okay. He’d be in bed at this hour on a Saturday, sound asleep.
I asked if they wanted coffee, but they shook their heads.
“No thanks,” the younger one said, looking me up and down pointedly.
“My name is Will Logan, and this is my partner, Theo Conway. We have a few questions and then we’ll be out of your way.
Logan was a little younger than the other detective, with eyes like chips of ice. They were the palest blue, and cold, like I imagined a serial killer’s eyes might be. His suit was black, off-the-rack and a little too tight across his shoulders. For some reason, the suit looked out of place on him, like it wasn’t what he usually wore, but I didn’t know why I thought so. His hat was black too, and it had a slightly broader brim than his partner’s, like the one Indiana Jones used to wear in those movies. I also noticed he was gorgeous, because how could I not?
The slightly older one, whose name he said was Conway, was maybe thirty-four or five, muscular and really good looking. In fact, both were so handsome, they looked like actors hired to play cops. Conway had one of those deep voices, rich and dark like molasses. He was wearing a sharp, navy-blue suit, a silk tie and a pocket square. His hat was a blue fedora and he looked damn good in it. He also had a gruff and cold manner, or he seemed to when he spoke to me, anyway.
The younger detective’s stern gaze traveled down to my feet and back up to my chest, partially exposed in the robe that wasn’t tied well enough and was gapping open a bit. I usually wore shirts with long sleeves to hide the bruises on my chest and my arms. Most—though not all—had been inflicted by Tyler when he got agitated, and this latest batch had been courtesy of me trying to foist Honey Nut Cheerios on him instead of his favorite Fruity Pebbles, because I had forgotten to go to the grocery store on the way home from work a couple of days earlier.
It was my own fault, and I didn’t blame Tyler. At fourteen, he was a big boy, and he didn’t know his own strength, that’s all. It didn’t help that I took after my mother’s side of the family and didn’t have what you might call a large frame at only five feet seven and a hundred and forty-five pounds. Mistakenly I had thought a hug might calm him down. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
At the state hospital, they called the cocktail of antipsychotics they gave him to calm his agitation a B52, after an eight-engine heavy bomber used by the military. The aircraft, like the cocktail, was called a BUFF, or a big, ugly fucker, like the combination of Haldol, Ativan, and Benadryl that knocked Tyler on his ass for hours after they gave it to him. Once I returned from New York and found out exactly what kind of ward Tyler was on and what was happening to him, I had vowed that he’d never take drugs like that again, no matter what kind of abuse I had to endure personally to calm him down, and mostly it was working.
Since I’d had him home, the tantrums were getting much fewer and farther between, and I was proud of that.
“Have you been in an accident, Mr. O’Neal? Some kind of fight?”
I glanced down at my chest and then folded my robe over it more securely. I was sure they noticed the black eye the old lady had given me too. It would be pretty hard to miss.
“Not exactly,” I said, and they looked at me expectantly, like they were waiting for me to elaborate. When I didn’t say anything more, they just kept staring at me. Hoping to make me uncomfortable, I guess. If that were the case, it was working.
“Excuse me, but what is this about? Is Dylan in some kind of trouble?”
“Why would you ask that, Mr. O’Neal? Have you heard from Mr. Malone?”
“I…no, it’s just that I wouldn’t be surprised. Dylan’s so…” I let the words trail off, because I didn’t know exactly what I meant to say. “What is it this time?” I said, instead.
They glanced at each other and then back at me. “He’s missing,” Detective Conway said.
I looked back and forth between them blankly. “Missing? What do you mean by missing?”
