Part 64 (1/2)

been able to stick it into a vein and put him soundly to sleep. Had they

been going to carry him out the window? Would Brian McAvoy have gotten

a call a few hours later demanding money for the boy's safe return?

There would be no call now, no ransom.

Rubbing his gritty eyes, Lou started up the steps. Amateurs, he

thought. Bunglers. Murderers. Where the h.e.l.l were they? Who the h.e.l.l

were they?

What difference does it make?

It made a difference, he told himself as his hands clenched into fists.

Justice always made a difference.

The door to Michael's room was open. The soft sound of his son's

breathing drew him. He could see in the faint moonlight the wreckage

of toys and clothes strewn over the floor, heaped on the bed, mounded on

the dresser. Usually it would have made him sigh. Michael's cheertil

sloppiness was a mystery to Lou. Both he and his wife were tidy and

organized by nature. Michael was a tornado, a rus.h.i.+ng wind that hopped

from spot to spot and left destruction and chaos behind.

Yes, usually he would have sighed and planned his lecture for the

morning. But tonight, the wild disarray brought tears of grat.i.tude to

his eyes. His boy was safe.

Picking his way through the rubble, he crept toward the bed. He had to

push the traffic jam of Matchbox cars aside to find a place to sit.

Michael slept on his stomach, the right side of his face squashed into

the pillow, his arms flung out and the sheets in a messy tangle at his

feet.

For a moment, then five, then ten, Lou simply sat, studying the child he