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“Stay behind me,” Bridger ordered as they approached the door.
Rather than follow, Tai peeled off to the right. “I’ll check the back and wait outside.”
“Copy that,” Bridger acknowledged before stepping in front of her to knock on the door.
The blows echoed through the cold, dry air, sounding louder than they should in the silence.
The door opened slowly, and a face peered out, eyes wide beneath a mat of greasy hair.
Billy Peckham hadn’t changed. Behind the weathered face and sallow skin, he was the same, awkward, fragile boy he’d always been.
She forced herself not to back away from the smell. Stale body odor mixed with the hot-plastic of microwaved food made the bile rise in her throat.
Bridger raised a fist to his mouth and coughed before crowding Billy back from the door. “Hey, there Billy. You remember Jane Reilly? We’re friends of her and Jason. We want to ask you a couple questions.”
He didn’t ask, she noticed. But his aggressive tactic worked.
Still not having said a word, Billy backed into the small living room, and hugged himself around the waist. His eyes darted wildly before fixing on the tips of his shoes.
“Watcha want?” he mumbled. The words came out oddly slow, almost slurred.
Was Billy drunk? She didn’t smell alcohol, and she didn’t see any empty cans or bottles, though the junk strewn around the living area made it difficult to spot any one thing.
She tried to focus on the hunched form in front of them and not the disaster of a room. It looked more like a sixteen-year-old’s bedroom than the space of a man in his thirties.
Bridger perched on the edge of the couch, his right hand on his hip. Ready to unholster his weapon, she figured. “You know anything about the trouble the pastor’s been having lately, Billy?”
“R-reverend Peckham. I-I’m Reverend Peckham.” He tapped his throat. “L-lost my collar, though. I dunno where it went.”
Bridger met her gaze. His own eyes looked troubled. “That’s okay. I’m sure it’s here.” He gestured at the mess. “Somewhere. You know anything about Pastor Myles’ problems, Reverend?”
Billy jerked his head back. “His house blew up.” He pointed toward the dark bedroom. “I listen to the police band radio. Gotta keep track of the black suits. They’ll come for you if you don’t.”
Bridger nodded calmly. “Sure. Absolutely. Have they come for you?” he asked, his voice gentle with compassion.
“Not yet.” Billy grinned strangely and wiped a hank of oily hair out of his eyes. “I know how to keep ‘em away. You gotta listen for their signals.”
“On the radio?” Bridger asked.
“‘Zactly. You know.” Billy’s eyes brightened for an instant before the fog descended again.
Bridger nodded forcefully. “I do. You bet.”
Jane shuddered. What had happened to the man? If not alcohol, drugs? He seemed practically asleep on his feet. His brain appeared to be working so slowly it was a wonder he could speak at all.
Bridger toed an old pizza crust under the coffee table. “How long you been back in town?”
Billy rocked back on his heels and spread a dirty hand in front of him, counting on his fingers. “It was Saturday. Five days. The Dodger game was on.” He pointed at the smudged flatscreen.
“You like the Dodgers?” Bridger asked.
Jane appreciated the soft voice, pitched at just the right volume to sound forceful without veering over into intimidation. Bridger might act like a grumpy mechanic, but the man had hidden people skills.
Billy’s face twisted in disgust. “No! They work for the black suits. That’s why they win. The black suits want it that way. But you have to watch the games. That’s how they send out the codes. If they come for you, you have to have the codes.”
Bridger nodded soothingly. “Sure. Absolutely. Have you seen Zack lately, Rev?”
Billy’s lips tightened. “I don’t like him.”
