Seize the Night

over.
    I started toward the hall door.
    Manuel stopped me by drawing his billy club and slamming it hard against the table. The rap was as loud as a gunshot. He said, “You heard me tell Frank not to trash the place too much. Just relax.”
    “There aren't any more guns,” I said angrily.
    “Poetry lover like you might have a whole arsenal. For public safety, we have to be sure.”
    Bobby was leaning against the counter near the cook top, arms crossed on his chest. He appeared to be entirely resigned to our powerlessness, willing to ride out this episode, so totally chilled that he might as well have had lumps of coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose. This pose no doubt deceived Manuel, but I knew Bobby so well that I could see he was like a dry-ice bomb about to achieve blast pressure. The drawer immediately to his right contained a set of knives, and I was sure that he had chosen his position with the cutlery in mind.
    We couldn't win a fight here, now, and the important thing was to remain free to find Orson and the missing kids.
    When the sound of shattering glass came from upstairs, I ignored it, reined in my anger, and said tightly to Manuel, “Lilly lost her husband. Now, maybe, her only child. Doesn't that reach you? You of all people?”
    “I'm sorry for her.”
    “That's all?”
    “If I could bring her boy back, I would.”
    His choice of words chilled me. “That sounds like he's already dead—or somewhere you can't go to get him.”
    With none of the compassion that once had been the essence of Manuel, he said, “I told you—stay out of it.”
    Sixteen years ago, Manuel's wife, Carmelita, died giving birth to their second child. She had been only twenty-four. Manuel, who never remarried, raised a daughter and son with much love and wisdom. His boy, Toby, has Down's syndrome. As much as anyone and more than some people, Manuel knows suffering, he understands what it means to live with hard responsibilities and limitations. Nevertheless, though I searched his eyes, I couldn't see the compassion that had made him a first-rate father and policeman.
    “What about the Stuart twins?” I asked.
    His round face, designed more for laughter than for anger, usually a summer face, was now full of winter and as hard as ice.
    I said, “What about Wendy Dulcinea?”
    The extent of my knowledge angered him.
    His voice remained soft, but he tapped the end of the billy club against his right palm, “You listen to me, Chris. Those of us who know what's happened—we either swallow it or we choke on it. So just relax and swallow it. Because if you choke on it, then no one is going to be there to apply the Heimlich maneuver. You understand?”
    “Sure. Hey, I'm a bright guy. I understand. That was a death threat.”
    “Nicely delivered,” Bobby noted. “Creative, oblique, no jarring histrionics although the bit of business with the club is a cliche. Psychotic Gestapo-torturer shtick from a hundred old movies. You'll be a more credible fascist without it.”
    “Screw you.”
    Bobby smiled. “I know you dream about it.” Manuel appeared to be one more exchange away from wading into Bobby with the club.
    Stepping in front of Bobby so that the two of them wouldn't be face to-face, and hoping miraculously to raise guilt from Manuel's graveyard conscience, I said, “If I try to go public, try to mess where I'm not supposed to mess, who puts the bullet in the back of my head, Manuel? You?”
    A look of genuine hurt passed across his features, but it only briefly softened his expression. “I couldn't.”
    “Very broly of you.” Broly is surfer lingo for brotherly . “I'll be so much less dead if it's one of your deputies who pulls the trigger instead of you.”
    “This isn't easy for either of us.”
    “Seems easier for you than me.”
    “You've been protected because of who your mother was, what she achieved. And because you were … once a friend of mine. But don't push your luck, Chris.”
    “Four kids snatched in twelve hours, Manuel. Is that the going exchange rate? Four other kids for one Toby?”
    Admittedly, I was cruel to accuse him of sacrificing the lives of other children for his son, but there was truth in this cruelty.
    His face darkened like settled coals, and in his eyes was the livid fire of hatred. “Yeah. I have a son that I'm responsible for. And a daughter. My mother. A family I'm responsible for. It's not as easy for me as it is for a smartass loner like you.” I was sickened