"Jochem Vandersteen - Hard Upbringing (A Noah Milano Story)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vandersteen Jochem)

I decided to go and take a look at where Kevin lived. Try to figure out if things where as bad as Wanda wanted me to believe. If so, I could always decide what to do then.

The evening was slowly setting in when I parked my Mazda a block away from Stewart Merrick's house. I got out and strolled over to the house. Just a guy taking a walk.

The house was a copy of thousands of other houses in California. Brown Buick on the driveway, small lawn, very American dreamlike. The street was empty except for a kid on a bike. I strolled over to the house, making sure nobody could see me from Stewart's house, using the Buick for cover. The street was silent, except for the ticking of the Buick's engine cooling off, and the sound of the kid's pedals. I could see easily through the curtainless windows. I reached one of the house's windows. Through it, I could get a good look into the kitchen.

What I saw there made my stomach tighten. I felt the blood rush to my head and my heart started to beat uncontrollably. A child was laying on the kitchen floor, bruised up, bleeding. Standing over him was a big man with a cheap suit that had 'cop' written all over it. I was furious.

I kicked in the door, drawing my Glock at the same time. I instinctively found my way into the kitchen. The guy in the suit turned to face me, his face full of surprise. Before he could say anything I had my left hand around his throat and the gun in my right hand jammed against his head. I threw him against the big white fridge in the back of the kitchen. A child's drawings were stuck on it with little Smurfs magnets. My cheeks were burning, and I was breathing heavily from anger. The guy turned white.

"What the fuck did you do to that kid!" I spat. "Are you fucking crazy? I should fucking kill you right now!"

The guy pushed me back. "Relax, motherfucker! Who the hell do you think you are? How do you dare to come busting into my house like that? If you're so damned concerned over my kid, why don't you help me instead? He's so badly hurt! Shit, I don't want to lose my little boy."

It dawned on my that I'd been acting like a raving lunatic. I'd be better off trying to help the child. Check his injuries, call an ambulance. I let the guy, obviously Stewart Merrick, go and kneeled down next to the child. I checked his pulse and yelled to Stewart that he should get an ambulance right away. I started to give the kid CPR. I pumped his chest like crazy, ordering him to start breathing. I vaguely heard Stewart talking to someone on the phone. He seemed pretty distressed as well. Maybe he hadn't intended to hit his kid this hard. Stewart kneeled next to me shouting, "Save him, goddammit! Save him!"

His presence next to me made me come to my senses. If the kid wasn't breathing by now, there wasn't any chance I could make him. I shook my head and got up. I felt tears burn in my eyes.

I shook my head. "It's too late. He's gone."

I could hear the sirens in the distance. I staggered over to the kitchensink and put my head under the faucet, cooling off my head. Stewart just sat there with the kid, ordering him to breathe. It reminded me of myself, years ago, when my mother got shot by a rival family. I knew there was nothing that any of us could do to save that child. The only thing I could do was avenge his death. I swore Stewart was going to pay for his deeds.

***

Two plain clothes cops arrived along with the paramedics. Both wore their badges on their belts. One of them was a tall, young Hispanic guy in a suit that seemed a bit too flashy for a cop. The other one was a short bald guy with a Mickey Mouse tie. I always have a hard time taking people with cartoon figures on their tie seriously.

The Hispanic guy walked over to Stewart, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Stu, are you all right? What happened, man? We heard on the radio an ambulance was heading over to your place. We came right away."

"You want to know what happened? Your Stu just beat his child to death," I bristled.

The bald guy pressed me against the kitchen table. "Who're you supposed to be? What the hell you think you doing here making accusations like that?"

I shoved him back. "You shouldn't be bothering me! I just saw this man..."

"Shut up," the bald cop interrupted me. "Sit down and wait until I ask you a question."

I managed to control my anger and sat down on one of the wooden chairs in the kitchen. I could see the paramedics check the kid. They were shaking their heads to each other. I could see the pain in their eyes. I wondered if they ever got used to death. I knew I never would.

"The kid's dead?" the bald cop asked one of the paramedics.

"I'm afraid so," the paramedic answered. He's got some bad bruises but from the looks of things his skull's been smashed in. I think you guys'd better call a Technical Team and a M.E. and stuff. Shit, it's always the worst when it's kids, ain't it, Broussard?"

Broussard nodded, scratching his bald head, eyes on the floor. "Sure is. Sure is. All right, I'll go call the techies. Don't touch anything."

"Yeah, I know the routine," the paramedic said.

While Broussard used his cell phone to call the Medical Examiner the Hispanic guy interviewed Stewart.

"Stu, what happened here exactly?"