Free Empty Ever After by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

want to hurt, frighten, or generally fuck with people, you go after their kids. That’s why I had arranged for Carmella to come to the airport before me and stake out the baggage claim area. She was less certain about the setup than me.
    “What about that lady in Ohio? They fucked with her brother’s grave, no?”
    “Collateral damage,” I said. “It enhanced the effect of what was going on here, a bit of sleight of hand to distract me. It worked, too. I was out in Dayton looking at a grave when I should have been home keeping my eye on the ball. I’m not gonna let them catch me off guard again.”
    She was right about one thing. We’d see soon enough.
    My least favorite part of the airport was baggage claim. Baggage claim was like the final insult after the long ordeal, just another opportunity to hurry up and wait. Folks looked defeated waiting for their bags. And no matter how they spruced up the area, the machinery always seemed positively medieval.
    My phone buzzed, then stopped. That was Carmella’s signal that people were spilling into the baggage claim area. Sarah appeared. I couldn’t help hoping that I was being foolish and over protective, that Carmella was right. She wasn’t. Everything seemed to happen at once. Even before I was fully conscious of Sarah’s presence, the pocket of space closed around her. Carmella came out of nowhere and tackled someone, Sarah screamed, a crowd surged in their directions. I put my head down and charged through the sea of bodies.
    “Get the fuck off me, bitch! You breakin’ my finger.”
    A chubby black kid of maybe seventeen was face down on the floor, Carmella twisting his thumb and wrist behind his back. Sarah’s expression was more surprised than anything else. Then I noticed a brown shipping envelope in her hands that I hadn’t seen her holding when she first came into view.
    “Give that to me, kiddo.” I held my hand out to Sarah and she placed the envelope in my palm. “Let him up, Carm, so we can talk privately.”
    Carmella pulled the kid to his feet as I assured everyone that it was all right.
    “Just a misunderstanding,” I lied, sounding authoritative as hell. I didn’t flash my badge. When the cops showed up—which they would—I didn’t need to try and explain away a potential felony charge. “Show’s over, folks. Go get your bags and have a safe trip back home.”

    By nature, New Yorkers are disobedient bastards. On the other hand they take an inordinate amount of pride in their unshockability. This time unshockability won out and they went back to reclaiming their luggage while we hustled the kid into a corner. As we walked, I tore open the envelope. It was another wilted rose and a “self-portrait” of Patrick done on an eight by eleven piece of Masonite. The familiar initials PMM were in the lower right hand corner. This wasn’t funny anymore.
    “Okay, asshole, what’s this about?” I said, pressing my face into the kid’s. His wide, frightened eyes told me he knew I wasn’t fucking around.
    “Guy gimme a twenty ta give dat package to da red-headed girl come out dat door.”
    “What guy?” I asked, pressing my face even closer to his.
    “Dat one,” he said, pointing.
    “Which one?” I stepped back to see where he was pointing.
    “Him.”
    He was pointing at the portrait.
    “Bullshit!” Carmella hissed in the kid’s ear, tightening the thumb lock.
    He winced. “I ain’t fuckin wich y’all.”
    Carmella yanked and twisted. The breath went out of the kid and I thought he might pass out from the pain.
    “Carmella, stop it!” Sarah said. “Dad, tell her to stop it.”
    “Look! Der he at.” The kid’s voice was barely a whisper, but he pointed toward the exit doors with his free hand.
    I turned and my heart jumped into my throat. There he was, tattoo and all. The world around me crawled. There was a muted roar in my ears. I could hear individual noises—the squeaky wheel of a baggage cart, the smack of a suitcase as