“But let’s find out what he wants. Maybe we’ll learn something that’ll help us.”
Xander glared past Dad at Taksidian’s profile. The man was staring through his windshield, drumming his fingernails against the steering wheel. Xander shook his head. “He wants to have pie with us? Come on!”
Dad whispered, “He wants to make sure we’re not going to the cops. There’s a lot of evidence back at his house. I’ll bet those body parts can be traced back to, I don’t know, missing people . . . murders.”
“Then let’s do it,” Xander said. “Let’s turn him in.”
“Not until we find Mom,” Dad said. “Talking to him might lead to something, a nugget of information we can use.
Xander, I’ll try anything.” He looked directly into Xander’s eyes. “Anything .
”
Xander lowered his eyes to stare at a button on Dad’s shirt.
He said, “I should just go home. You deal with him.”
Dad leaned closer. He whispered, “I need you, son. Help me figure this guy out. Maybe you’ll catch something I miss.”
Xander ground his teeth together. He said, “You can’t trust him. It’s a trick or a trap.”
“So we go into it with our eyes open,” Dad said. “Right?”
“Yeah,” Xander said. “But if he tries anything . . .”
“Then we’ll put him in his place. Together.”
Xander still didn’t like it. Would Abraham Van Helsing have gone out for pie with Dracula? No way. Just a quick stake through the heart, get it done. Then again, if Dracula had Van Helsing’s mom . . .
“Yeah,” Xander agreed. “Let’s see what he wants.”
CHAPTER
fifteen
THURSDAY, 7:37 P.M.
Their booth was in the back, where the neighboring tables were empty. The waitress who seated them kept looking back at Taksidian, as though she sensed something not right about him. The kind of guy you hated to turn your back on.
They took their seats—Dad and Xander on one side, their adversary on the other—and Taksidian waved away the menu the waitress offered. “Slice of pecan, please,” he said.
“What?” Xander said. “No children baked in a pie here?”
Dad poked his leg under the table. Without taking his eyes off Taksidian, Xander said, “Nothing for me.”
Noticing Dad’s forehead, the waitress’s face flashed a grimace of horror. He ordered coffee. When she was gone, he said, “What’s this about?”
Taksidian began tapping his fingernails on the table. Tick-tick-tick . . . tick-tick-tick. Flesh-colored Band-Aids covered the bases of two fingers. Blood had seeped through. A thread-thin rivulet ran from under one of them and over three knuckles. His eyes, the olive color of army fatigues, turned from Xander to Dad. He said, “Let’s deal.”
Xander leaned forward, pressing his stomach against the table. He said, “How about this? You stop trying to hurt us and give my mother back. Now.”
Tick-tick-tick . “Okay,” Taksidian said.
Xander shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He glanced at Dad, who seemed to be doing nothing more than studying the other man’s features—the way Roy Scheider had eyed the shark before blowing its head off in Jaws . He cleared his throat. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Taksidian repeated.
Dad said, “What do you want in return?”
“The house. Free and clear. And you gone.”
Dad shook his head. “It’s not that simple—”
Taksidian raised his hand, stopping him. “It is that simple, Ed. I know the property is held by an irrevocable trust, which means it cannot be sold, and the only people who may legally live in it are those in the King bloodline. However, I am a man of many resources. My attorneys assure me they can break the trust—with your consent, of course.” The long fingers of the hand not ticking against the table pushed the hair up off his forehead and smoothed the tangle of curls that covered his scalp.
Tick-tick-tick . . . tick-tick-tick.
Taksidian smiled. “Yes or no?”
“How do we know you have my
Xander glared past Dad at Taksidian’s profile. The man was staring through his windshield, drumming his fingernails against the steering wheel. Xander shook his head. “He wants to have pie with us? Come on!”
Dad whispered, “He wants to make sure we’re not going to the cops. There’s a lot of evidence back at his house. I’ll bet those body parts can be traced back to, I don’t know, missing people . . . murders.”
“Then let’s do it,” Xander said. “Let’s turn him in.”
“Not until we find Mom,” Dad said. “Talking to him might lead to something, a nugget of information we can use.
Xander, I’ll try anything.” He looked directly into Xander’s eyes. “Anything .
”
Xander lowered his eyes to stare at a button on Dad’s shirt.
He said, “I should just go home. You deal with him.”
Dad leaned closer. He whispered, “I need you, son. Help me figure this guy out. Maybe you’ll catch something I miss.”
Xander ground his teeth together. He said, “You can’t trust him. It’s a trick or a trap.”
“So we go into it with our eyes open,” Dad said. “Right?”
“Yeah,” Xander said. “But if he tries anything . . .”
“Then we’ll put him in his place. Together.”
Xander still didn’t like it. Would Abraham Van Helsing have gone out for pie with Dracula? No way. Just a quick stake through the heart, get it done. Then again, if Dracula had Van Helsing’s mom . . .
“Yeah,” Xander agreed. “Let’s see what he wants.”
CHAPTER
fifteen
THURSDAY, 7:37 P.M.
Their booth was in the back, where the neighboring tables were empty. The waitress who seated them kept looking back at Taksidian, as though she sensed something not right about him. The kind of guy you hated to turn your back on.
They took their seats—Dad and Xander on one side, their adversary on the other—and Taksidian waved away the menu the waitress offered. “Slice of pecan, please,” he said.
“What?” Xander said. “No children baked in a pie here?”
Dad poked his leg under the table. Without taking his eyes off Taksidian, Xander said, “Nothing for me.”
Noticing Dad’s forehead, the waitress’s face flashed a grimace of horror. He ordered coffee. When she was gone, he said, “What’s this about?”
Taksidian began tapping his fingernails on the table. Tick-tick-tick . . . tick-tick-tick. Flesh-colored Band-Aids covered the bases of two fingers. Blood had seeped through. A thread-thin rivulet ran from under one of them and over three knuckles. His eyes, the olive color of army fatigues, turned from Xander to Dad. He said, “Let’s deal.”
Xander leaned forward, pressing his stomach against the table. He said, “How about this? You stop trying to hurt us and give my mother back. Now.”
Tick-tick-tick . “Okay,” Taksidian said.
Xander shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He glanced at Dad, who seemed to be doing nothing more than studying the other man’s features—the way Roy Scheider had eyed the shark before blowing its head off in Jaws . He cleared his throat. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Taksidian repeated.
Dad said, “What do you want in return?”
“The house. Free and clear. And you gone.”
Dad shook his head. “It’s not that simple—”
Taksidian raised his hand, stopping him. “It is that simple, Ed. I know the property is held by an irrevocable trust, which means it cannot be sold, and the only people who may legally live in it are those in the King bloodline. However, I am a man of many resources. My attorneys assure me they can break the trust—with your consent, of course.” The long fingers of the hand not ticking against the table pushed the hair up off his forehead and smoothed the tangle of curls that covered his scalp.
Tick-tick-tick . . . tick-tick-tick.
Taksidian smiled. “Yes or no?”
“How do we know you have my
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