To Thine Own Self Be True (19 page)

On my way to the front door I watched as the woman slid her feet to the floor and returned to the tattooing area. I glanced at the photo album I’d been paging through, and walked over to check out the picture of the teen-ager again. My breath caught. I remembered where I’d seen the kid before. On the wall in Gentleman John’s studio, right next to the twins. It was John’s nephew.

I held up the album. “Thunderbolt. You remember doing this kid’s swastika?”

He saw the photo and his nostrils flared. “What about him?”

“You know who he is?”

He shrugged. “Nobody special. Just some kid who was having a hard time finding somebody to tattoo him.”

“Yeah. Some people have standards.”

His jaw bunched. “Money gets tight sometimes.”

“Whatever. What was his story?”

“I don’t know. It was a few weeks ago.”

“Come on, Thunderbolt. Think.”

He sat back, letting out a huff of air. “Well, he said he and his friends had been looking for a place, but then most of them got busted for something. He still wanted to get it done. Solidarity, you know.”

My skin prickled. Eve Freed had told me about a group of skinheads who were trying to get hate tattoos. They’d been arrested after attacking Billy.

It seemed Gentleman John’s nephew was one of them.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The run back to my truck was a slippery one, and while I did my best to dodge the icy patches, I slipped several times, once hard enough I swore when my knees hit the ground. When I finally reached the truck I fumbled my keys out of my pocket, dropping them into the slush by the curb. Continuing to curse under my breath I picked them up, jammed them into the lock, and swung myself into the seat.

There had to be a connection. Gentleman John’s nephew helped to attack Wolf and Mandy’s son, and now Mandy was dead and Wolf was missing. Was there more to the skinhead group—or Gentleman John—than Shisler realized?

I glanced at the photo of John’s nephew I’d ripped from Thunderbolt’s album. Did this kid somehow mastermind the whole thing? Or was it his uncle? And
why
?

I hit my steering wheel. What wasn’t I seeing?

Think
.

I spun out of my parking place and drove too fast through town, hitting Route Six-sixty-three to head back home.

Gentleman John’s nephew, a lovely skinhead, was part of a group who attacked Billy because Wolf wouldn’t do their tattoos. But by the time Mandy was murdered and Wolf was missing, most of the kids were in jail. No way could one kid pull this off. Unless there were more kids. Or a kid and his uncle.

But…

My heartbeat slammed in my throat.
Why was Gentleman John’s nephew going to somebody else for his tattoo?
Why not just have John do it? He didn’t have any scruples. He would’ve tattooed the whole gang of them.

But they didn’t ask him.

When it came right down to it, to trusting someone to give him a tattoo, the boy didn’t go to his own uncle. He went to one of his uncle’s worst enemies. Wolf and Mandy helped clamp down on Gentleman John’s business, causing his wife and daughters to leave him, and now even his nephew. It might’ve been one loss too many.

I skidded around the corner onto Allentown Road, driving recklessly toward Lansdale, where I could only hope Shisler would be waiting. I wished desperately I had Nick’s cell phone.

I’d seen Gentleman John’s place. His house and his studio. Wolf wasn’t there.

Too many minutes later I pulled into the parking lot at the Lansdale Police Department, stopping in what was probably an illegal spot. I slammed the truck into park and ran inside. The receptionist’s head shot up with a spark of fear in her eyes.

“I need Detective Shisler,” I said. “It’s urgent.”

The woman wasted no time in picking up her receiver and punching a button on the phone. Before I knew it, Shisler was banging through the door.

“What?” she said.

I held out the picture. “You know this kid?”

She looked at it. “Sure. That’s Darren Wilcox—one of the skinheads who attacked Billy Moore. He’s on probation. Why do you have that?”

“It’s Gentleman John’s nephew,” I said. “He got a tattoo at Lance Thunderbolt’s.”

She chewed on her lip. “Tell me why that’s important.”

I took a deep breath to calm myself. “Wolf and Mandy helped destroy John’s entire family. His wife left him, his daughters, and now even his nephew.”

“And you think—”

“John’s gotta have Wolf and Rusty. He’s got them both. I’m sure of it.”

Visions of John’s closed door in his parlor swam before my eyes. I’d believed him when he told me it led to a bathroom. What if it didn’t? What if Wolf had been behind the door? Gentleman John’s opera music would’ve drowned out any noises coming from that back room. Assuming Wolf was still alive to make any.

“Okay,” Shisler said. “Say he’s got Wolf. He has Rusty, too?”

“Rusty hates John. I’m guessing Rusty went to confront him after talking to Thunderbolt, and now he’s a captive, too.”

I remembered the voice mail Rusty had left and tried to push down my anger—at Rusty for going without me, at Lucy for being on the phone, at myself for missing all the connections.

“But what did Thunderbolt say to Rusty?”

“I think he mentioned rooming with John at conventions because they’re both single now. John blames the tattoo community for his family leaving him, and Rusty probably wanted to talk to John about it. I don’t think he knew the nephew connection.”

“But this is all guessing?” Shisler asked.

“Goddammit! What more do you want?”

She remained calm. “Something physical, linking Greene with Wolf or Rusty. Or Mandy.”

“I don’t—”

“But I trust your instincts. You know these people. I’ll call over to Perkasie right away to dispatch some cops. They know the story up to what you told me. If Wolf or Rusty are at Gentleman John’s Tattoos, they’ll get them out.”

“And you?”

“I’ll get busy with warrants.”

“Warrants? Wolf and Rusty could be hurt in there!” Or dead.

“I realize that, Ms. Crown, and the Perkasie police will take care of them. I’ll be there as soon as I can, too. But I’ve got to cover the paperwork on this end. Now, is there anything else I need to know?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Okay. Now why don’t you have a seat here, while I get the ball rolling.”

She left me in the waiting area, the receptionist staring at me with wide eyes.

I thought of Shisler’s command.
Wait there?
I didn’t think so.

I raced out the door and jumped into my truck.

***

I careened through Lansdale, pounding the steering wheel when I got caught up in traffic. Not an unusual occurrence in the area—just one I didn’t normally encounter during a life and death situation. I unconsciously blew through one stop sign, much to the annoyance of other drivers, who leaned on their horns. I’m sure they did other things, too, but I wasn’t even aware of the intersection until I’d already passed it. I was lucky I hadn’t gotten myself killed, along with the others at the crossroads.

About twenty minutes later I drove up the road toward Gentleman John’s Tattoos. A couple hundred yards before the house I was stopped by a police officer who’d parked his cruiser across the road. I jumped out of my truck, startling the cop into reaching toward his gun.

“Whoa,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’m the one who called this in.”

He pursed his lips. “Still can’t let you go back there, ma’am.”

I stepped to the side, trying to see around him. “What’s going on now?”

“Ma’am, I can’t—”

“Are they in the house?”

“We just got here. I don’t think—”

“I need to go back there, Officer—” I looked at his badge. “Grady.”

“You can’t—”

I pushed past him, surprising him, and ran as fast as I could up the slippery road.

“Hey!” Grady yelled after me, obviously annoyed, but I assumed—hoped—he wouldn’t shoot me.

I kept running, stumbling and slipping on the ice, until I came up to several other cop cars and an ambulance, with clusters of officers perched behind them. At my approach several of them turned, and with a glance behind me at Officer Grady, grabbed me and pulled me down to the ground, behind a car. Grady dropped down beside me, his eyes sparking. He reached behind him for his cuffs and clipped one over my wrist.

“I’m just—” I started, but was stopped by the sound of wood splintering.

We halted mid-wrestle and a couple of the cops peered over their car hood.

“They’re in,” one said.

“In the house?” I asked.

“Shut up,” Grady said, and clipped the second handcuff over my other wrist.

“What is going on over there?” A harsh whisper came from another car.

“Suspect apprehended trying to get onto the scene, Detective,” Grady said.

From my position on the ground I could see the feet and legs of a man duck-walking toward us. I tried to glance up, but couldn’t turn my head far enough. The man stopped a couple of feet from my head, then said, “Stella?”

I twisted a bit more and was rewarded with the glimpse of a familiar face as the man leaned into my view. I tried to speak, got a mouthful of dirty snow, and spat it out.

“Let her go, guys,” Detective Willard said.

Grady let out a blast of outrage. “But—”

“I said, let her go.”

With obvious reluctance, Grady lifted his knee off my back. Willard helped me to a sitting position, keeping us both behind the car. “I thought when I helped you straighten out your problems this summer I’d seen the last of you.” He unlocked the cuffs and I brought my wrists around to the front of me, where I rubbed them.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Did Shisler call you, too?”

He shook his head. “Perkasie did. Figured we were close enough we could help out. Being Christmas-time and all they were a little short-handed. But what are you doing here?”

I glared at Grady. “Like I
tried
to tell other people, I’m the one who called this in. I think Greene has my friends in there.”

Noises from the house stopped us again, and we watched as two officers exited, a red-faced but dignified John Greene between them. I sucked in my breath. Did that mean—?

A plain-clothed detective stepped onto the porch, his face pale. “Paramedics. Now.”

Several EMTs, waiting by the ambulance, rushed onto the porch, brushing past the detective. I shot up, and Willard latched a hand onto my elbow.

“Hang on. Stay here.” He stood and walked toward the detective on the porch.

Grady pouted beside me. “You’re lucky you know somebody.”

The other two cops looked me up and down, probably thinking the same thing.

I strained to see into the house, wondering how bad it was. Were Wolf and Rusty both there? Were they alive? Since the detective asked for the paramedics, it must mean they’re not dead, right?

“You!” The voice floated from several feet away. Gentleman John stared at me, his eyes glassy. Whether they were full of tears or just empty, I wasn’t sure.

“You brought them here?” he asked, indicating the cops.

I shook my head. “No, John. I didn’t bring them here. You did.”

“But I thought you didn’t hate me.”

My mouth dropped open, but the sadness of the situation kept me silent.

The cops pulled John toward the cruiser, and he turned his head away, following obediently.

I focused again on the porch, where Willard spoke with the Perkasie detective. After an eternity, Willard gestured me forward. He and the other detective met me on the ground in front of the house.

“This is Stella Crown,” Willard said. “She knows these guys. Called it in.” He turned to me. “Detective Burnham, from Perkasie.”

“Are they alive?” I asked. “Are they both in there?”

Burnham looked at the ground, then met my eyes. “There are two men in there. One with lots of hair, lots of tattoos—”

“That’s Wolf. And the other? He has a globe on his head? A ring in his nose?”

Willard blinked, but Burnham nodded. “He’s there.”

“They’re alive?”

He nodded again, and my knees threatened to collapse. Willard grabbed my arm, and I closed my eyes, trying to gain my balance.

“Where were they?” I asked. “I saw his studio the other day and there was no sign of Wolf.”

“There’s a door in his studio, leads to a bathroom?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Well, there’s a door on the other side of the bathroom, goes into a bedroom. We found them both in there.”

“Coming through!”

Willard led me to the side as the paramedics carried a stretcher gently down the stairs. I pulled my arm from Willard as the stretcher went past, and I caught a glimpse of Rusty. His neck was locked into a brace, and I couldn’t see much of his face, hidden by an oxygen mask, except to note that his eyes were closed. They had some sort of IV in his arm, and one of the medics held the bottle high in the air.

I started to ask questions, but the EMTs pushed past me, on a mission toward the ambulance. More footsteps sounded on the porch, and I swung my head to see another stretcher being brought out of the house. Wolf’s beard stuck up over the sheet, escaping his oxygen mask, and a sob caught in my chest. He, too, had a neck brace and IV, but as the paramedics carried him past, I saw his eyes were open, and blinking.

“Wolf!” I called. I rushed to his side, bumping an EMT. “Wolf!”

The visible part of Wolf’s face was blotchy red, and heat radiated from him. The sheet slipped to the side and I could see the top of an angry, swollen shoulder. His eyes, obviously unfocused, finally landed on me, and recognition lit in them.

“Wolf,” I said. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Billy…” he said, his voice muffled behind the mask. “Did you…did you find Billy?”

“Billy?” I stared at him. “Billy’s fine. He’s with Eve.”

Wolf’s eyes closed and he let out a sigh before his eyes snapped open. “He’s not with Mandy? Why isn’t he with Mandy?”

My eyes filled but no words came, my chest tight, my throat closed. Wolf studied my face, and when he read there the words I couldn’t say, he tilted his head back on the stretcher, closed his eyes, and wailed. The sound shocked the scene into silence—the paramedics, the cops, even the faraway sounds of traffic—Wolf’s keening cry hovering over us like the chill call of a coyote hunting for the mate he has lost.