Read Online Follow the Sharks by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online

all. They usually murder the kids. Like the one in Florida a few years ago. Maybe you read about it. Six-year-old boy. Disappeared in a Sears store. They found his head in a canal two weeks later.”
    “I can see why you didn’t go into all this inside,” I said, gesturing back toward the house.
    “There’s more,” Basile said softly. “Let me have another cigarette, will you?”
    We both lit up again. “The Atlanta case awhile back,” he said. “Twenty-nine black kids disappeared. All murdered. They convicted a guy on two of them.”
    I shivered. “So it could be anything, couldn’t it?”
    He nodded. “It could be, sure. But, understand, I still think it’s going to work out. It usually does.”
    We finished our cigarettes in silence, then went back into the house. Basile told Jan he had to get back to the station and that he’d keep in touch with them, and then he left. I watched him go, wishing I could go with him. I wanted to get back home before Sylvie left. And I guess I’m flawed as an attorney, because I’m just not that good with other people’s tragedies. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a tragedy, but it didn’t feel good to me.
    So I stayed for the afternoon, sipping the beer that Josie brought out and ignoring the platter of sandwiches she had made. Nobody seemed to have any interest in food. My own stomach felt as if it had been whacked with a Louisville Slugger. The beer helped a little.
    We waited for the telephone to ring. It did, a few times. Business for Sam, which he dispensed with quickly. Jan stared out the window while I held her hand. Josie kept moving. Sam sat on the sofa with his head thrown back against the cushion, his eyes closed. He looked like he might be sleeping, but I knew he wasn’t.
    It took me all afternoon to summon up the courage to leave. I didn’t get back to my apartment until nearly seven. Sylvie was gone. As I had requested, she hadn’t cleaned up at all. The coffee pot was still plugged in. It smelled like burning rubber.
    I poured myself half a tumbler of Jack Daniels, dropped in some ice cubes, and found the Chicago Symphony playing Beethoven’s Sixth on WCRB-FM. Somehow the music failed to conjure up pastoral images of sheep grazing on verdant pastures. I kept seeing Jan Donagan’s haunted eyes accusing me, it seemed, of all the evil in the world.
    The booze settled in my stomach like a handful of buckshot. I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day. I found a glob of hamburger in my refrigerator, which I beat into a couple of patties and fried. They tasted like Brillo pads—not that bad, with lots of catsup.
    I was fiddling with the dial on my television, looking for an old Charlie Chan movie to get me through another Saturday night, when Eddie Donagan called me.
    “You drunk?” I said.
    “Not yet, old lawmaster. The night is young. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on? I called Jan. All I got out of her is E.J.’s still gone and it’s gotta be my fault.”
    “You didn’t see him today, then?”
    “No.”
    “That’s all we know, Eddie. I’m sorry.”
    “Oh, man…”
    “The police are confident they’ll find him, or he’ll turn up. Try not to worry.”
    “Yeah. Right.”
    “There’s nothing you can do.”
    “I feel as useless as tits on a rooster, know that? I can’t stand sitting around waiting for something to happen. Not my style.”
    “Are you home?”
    “Such as it is.”
    “Stay there. Maybe E.J.’ll call you. At least, if anybody hears anything they’ll know where to reach you.”
    “Make sure I know, will you?”
    “I will.”
    “You’re the only one who will.”
    But I didn’t hear anything, not that night and not all day Sunday. I talked to Sam a couple of times, pretending not to get his hints that Jan would like me to be there to hold her hand. He told me that Inspector Basile had contacted the State Police and the FBI. He didn’t know what, if anything, they would do. Feeling the need for a little hand-holding