The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

There was no sign of his father. His car remained parked on the driveway, and John could not imagine the older man being able to run out of sight already, even given the time John had spent fighting with the garage door override. Studying the corner to his right, he decided that it was possible that his father might have made it that far and run down the cross street and out of sight.

Sure, John considered sourly. Like a middle-aged man running down the street in broad daylight wouldn’t be noticed.

It was possible, he decided, that it might not be, although not entirely likely. A few months ago, it might have been ignored, or forgotten within a few hours, by any neighbors who had happened to witness it. His father had a good reputation in the neighborhood. Although known for being a little different from most of the other fathers on the block—not caring much for football, for example—he had the neighborhood’s respect. They might not think much of it unless specifically asked.

The recent introduction of what essentially amounted to a virtual neighborhood watch program had made finding out about some things much simpler—but only if they were reported. There was a constant stream of reports of suspicious behavior, but it had become just so much noise—and John wondered whether it was still effective at all. In any case, his father’s presence or activities might go unreported even in that venue if he was recognized, unless he was unknown to someone—or acting in an obviously unusual or threatening manner.

Without turning around, John headed back toward the garage. If his father had fled, he was gone from sight. He had trouble imagining his father crouched, hiding in some bushes somewhere. It just did not seem like his father, but then never did what John believed that he had just discovered about his father.

As John stepped back into the garage, he wondered about his next move.

I should call the police.

That was the right and best thing to do, he knew, but something in his gut rebelled against the idea. It took him only a moment to recognize what it was.

He’s my dad, god damn it!

It felt noble, and stupid, but he needed to do this himself. He would bring his father in—to justice—rather than have him treated like some common criminal and the imaginable happened in the process. The case was just high-profile enough that the officers might be extra cautious when they apprehended him.

But you never know . . .

John walked back into the garage and reset the chain, slapping the door control on his way back into the house.

Once he was back inside it, he paused, taking a deep breath as he considered what to do next. His father might still be inside, hiding somewhere. Certainly, any clues that he might have left behind remained there. John wondered whether he should head back upstairs to his father’s office and search it more fully.

Something nagged at him, tickling his mind. It was a not a warning so much as a mental whisper that he might have forgotten something, that there was some detail he had failed to notice, some action that he was neglecting to take.

Fuck.

He hated it when that happened. Over time, though, he had come to learn to listen that impression. Moving through the house, he made his way slowly, carefully observing everything about its interior, looking for anything that seemed to be out of place or he could not remind being present before. Anything might provide a clue, he knew, to his father’s motives and whereabouts.

At the foot of the stairs, he paused again. Looking around, he checked once more for any signs of his father’s passage, or any clues that he might have missed earlier. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, so he headed back up the stairs.

Before he reached the top, his hand tightened around the grip of his taser. It took John a moment to realize why. When he did, he heart felt like stone.

The door to his father’s office was closed.

He had not closed before heading down to the garage; he was sure of it. Even if it had somehow swung shut of its own accord, he did not believe that it would have closed completely. He froze, listening for any sounds coming from its interior—or from anywhere on that level of the house.

He heard nothing. If his father was hiding or moving around in the office, the door was muffling the sounds of his movements.