Sins of the Fathers Page 41

MASON SURGED UP from his chair as the image of his son’s room went dark on the monitor. He bulled his way around the desk, barking his hip on the sharp corner, but not registering the pain. He stood in front of the surveillance center and touched the area on the screen that should have shown Jeremy’s room as if his very presence would somehow clear up the image. “Did that sonofabitch do what I think he just did?”

  Horton stood by the door, arms crossed. He stared at the floor.

  Mason’s voice iced across the room. “I’m talking to you, Horton.”

  “Yes, sir,” Horton said. “Spray paint, looked like.”

  The blood drained from Mason’s face save for two burning spots on his cheekbones. He took a shaking step toward the door. A muscle in Horton’s back twitched, but he didn’t think Mason had caught it. It was like facing off with an angry dog; don’t move, don’t run. Mason stopped and put his hand on the back of one of the leather chairs facing his desk. His fingers squeaked into the cured hide.

  He had agreed to the priest’s request that he stay away from the exorcism, but he hadn’t said anything about not watching. Now, that bastard had taken away his eyes. His audacity was unacceptable. Mason would have eliminated any other man for all Calvin had said and done thus far. There would be a reckoning when this was over and he had his son back.

  “Go back in there and clean off the camera, Horton.”

  The mellow office light office hummed off Horton’s head as he shook it from side to side. “Can’t do it, sir.”

  Mason cupped his ear. “Excuse me?” Electricity edged his voice. “Didn’t quite get you.”

  “It’s what’s best for Jeremy, sir.”

  “I promised not to get in the way. I didn’t say anything about not watching. Now, get in that fucking room, and clean off that fucking camera, right fucking now, Mr. Horton.”

  “No, sir.”

  Mason’s voice blackened. “You’re about fifteen seconds away from a column inch in the obits.”

  Horton had never seen Mr. Mason this animated. He had always been the iceman, the killer robot king. This loose grip on himself was new ground. Horton could only hope he was bluffing. “Sir, I would never get in your face normally. You know that. But Father Calvin said that if you get involved in any way the, ah, thing could use it against us. It could hurt Jeremy.”

  Mason stabbed a finger at the monitor. “How is watching getting involved? Huh, how? Explain that to me quick, Horton.”

  The bodyguard glanced over at the blank square. It floated in the midst of the other images from the remaining house cameras like an eye patch. He might not be able to see into the kid’s room, but he could feel the boy and priest in there. Like anyone who makes his living through violence, he could feel the fight raging even behind the blind. An image of the troll-boy smilin’ pretty for the camera surfaced in his memory. “It’ll know if you’re watching, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason stared off. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “You’re right.” He looked up and took a deep breath. “Of course, you’re right, Horton. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  “No problem, sir, of course. You’re just being a concerned parent.” He let his arms drop, casual as could be, and squared his footing.

  Mason began to turn back toward the desk, “It’s just that I—.” He exploded at Horton, shoulder thrown forward like a battering ram.

  Horton had seen it coming a mile off. Concerned parent his ass. He allowed Mason to enter his physical sphere, a boundary of personal space about six feet in diameter, then redirected Mason’s charge with a simple twist of the hips, guiding his employer around and depositing him in a chair with little more than a grunt. Horton leaned down and put his hands on the arms of the chair, locking his boss into the seat.

  Mason burned up at Horton, a vein in his temple pulsed.

  “I’m going to turn the cameras off now, sir,” Horton measured each word slow and easy. “Then I’m going to fix us both very strong drinks. We’re going to sit and drink and talk about what we have in common until the Padre comes and gets us.”

  Mason’s eyes flashed. “We have nothing in common,” he said, his voice gray as deadwood.

  “We both love your son, Frank.” Or at least, Horton thought, I do and God help us both if you try to go through me again.

  Mason shoved Horton out of his face and stood up, but moved toward the bar not the door. He stared for another moment at the monitors, then clicked the power off. “I’ll fix my own goddamn drink.” He’d seen a decision behind Horton’s face. One that required Mason to make a decision of his own. The bodyguard wasn’t his anymore. Horton belonged to the boy. There would indeed be one serious fucking reckoning.

  Mason clinked ice into a tumbler and asked over his shoulder, “Horton?”

  “Sir?”

  “You ever call me Frank again and I’ll have your tongue charbroiled in front of you, okay?”

  Horton wiped the smile off his face so it wouldn’t tint his voice. “Understood, Mr. Mason.”

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