Page 106 of Jack
He pointed to a line of smoke, now dying.
“Did you start a fire?”
“In one of the grills.”
“With what?”
“You didn’t see the pile of old Christmas trees? That’s the house.” He pointed to a house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Beautiful white-brick house, with columns flanking the front door, a basketball hoop in the drive. It overlooked the lake in the back and what looked like a swimming pool to the side. Two stories, with a long room over the garage, it had the space of the third-floor ballroom of the King’s Inn.
Jack parked in the drive and got out.
“Here goes nothing.” He knocked at the door. Glanced at Stein.
Knocked again.
Footsteps, and then the door opened.
Job Ramsey stood in the opening. Or at least a man Jack thought might be Job. Tall, wiry, with the build of a former athlete, maybe, but a guy fighting to sprout into a man, with a scant array of whiskers, long blond hair, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a black hoodie that saidHang on, let me overthink this.
“What’s goin’ on?” he said.
Jack put a foot in the door. “Is your buddy Elton here too?”
Job took a step back, and Jack walked all the way into the house. Put up his hands. “I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to talk.”
“Get out of my house!”
Stein had entered also and now put a finger to his mouth. “Calm down. We just want to talk.”
Job had backed up and leaned against the counter.
“Nice house,” Jack said. He put his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t wanted to do this outside. Now that he was in, he kept his distance, his voice easy. “Mom and Dad home?”
Job’s mouth tightened.
A two-story ledge-rock fireplace soared to the roof in the great room, surrounded by black leather furniture, white carpet. Job leaned against a massive onyx island surrounded by white cabinetry. A giant chandelier the size of a buffalo dripped from the ceiling.
Money.
“I just need to know why you threw a firebomb into my school bus.”
Job’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Yeah, we got you on camera,” Stein said. “Torching the bus.”
“That was an accident. We were supposed to get the Taurus, but Elton missed?—”
A word sounded from behind Jack, an opinion about Job’s accusation, and Jack spun just in time to turn his shoulder into a blow that might have broken his spine.
So Elton still knew how to handle a hockey stick.
Jack staggered to one side but rounded and caught the next blow mid strike.
He’d had a few turns at goalie over the years.
He jerked the stick forward, wrenched it from Elton’s hand, and Elton shouted, falling.
Jack didn’t hit him. He was a kid—a gnarly, angry kid, but still—so Jack pushed him down to the wood floor, landed next to him, grabbed his hand, and twisted it into a submission hold.