As he pulled into the side street that led to the tiny parking lot of The Popped Cherry, Priest hit Henri’s number and waited for it to connect. It didn’t take more than one ring.
“Joel, I was just about to call you—”
“What the fuck are you doing here in town?” Priest barked out, not giving two shits about what Henri was or wasn’t going to do.
“Hello the fuck to you too,” Henri snapped back. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I was traveling through and saw a certain chef’s restaurant opening, and decided to stay and take a look around cold-ass Chicago. I just got word, however, that your father—”
“Escaped prison?” Priest pulled his car into an empty spot. “Is that what you were going to call me for? Because if it is, don’t fucking bother. Where do you get your information? On CNN?”
“No,” Henri said. “Everyone was tight-lipped trying to get him back before mass hysteria hit. No one knew shit, and I didn’t want to tell you until I had more facts.”
“Well, they know now. Jimmy is all over the fucking news. So are the three people he killed to escape, and Julien—is gone.”
Silence met Priest’s ear, and told him in an instant that no, Henri had not been aware of this news, and no, he had not been involved—and really, why would he be? He had been just as afraid of Jimmy all those years ago as Priest had been.
“What do you mean gone?” Henri finally asked, his voice cold.
Priest clenched his jaw, remembering what he’d found—or not found—in the parking garage. “As in never showed up for work this morning, won’t answer his cell, and his car keys were on the ground by our SUV back in the parking garage. Gone.”
“Fuck,” Henri said. “You didn’t call the police, did you?”
No. No, he had not. And while Priest knew that was what he was supposed to do, he also knew—
“If you call the police, Julien’s as good as dead. You know that, Joel.”
Hearing the words out loud from someone other than himself made Priest feel a little less crazy for not having gone straight to the authorities. But at the same time, it also made him more fucking scared than he’d ever been in his life.
“Look,” Henri said, “you and I know Jimmy better than any cop or PI in this town.”
“What’s your point, Henri?”
“My point is”—Henri took a deep breath—“let me help you. Let me help Julien. Let me look for him, track him down. It’s what I do, and you know I can look in places that others can’t or…won’t.”
Priest slammed the heel of his palm against the steering wheel and let out a stream of obscenities. He hated this world Jimmy existed in, but at the same time knew if he wanted to get Julien back, he had to play the game Jimmy’s way, because that’s what this was to Jimmy—a game.
“Do it,” Priest said in a voice he barely recognized. “Whatever you have to do, just do it. He took my fucking husband, Henri. I want to know where the hell he went.”
“Got it.” The line went silent for a moment and then Henri said, “Joel?”
“What?”
“I don’t know that young man I spoke with on Thursday night. But if he’s as important to you as he appeared to be, get him somewhere safe.”
Priest looked at the back door of The Popped Cherry and hated that all of the reasons why he had avoided relationships in the past were now coming to fruition.
“You just worry about finding Jimmy, and when you do, I want to know about it. I’ve got to go,” Priest said.
“Okay, I’ll—”
But before Henri could say more, Priest had hung up, realizing he needed to make a couple of calls before he went inside to get Robbie. It was time to take him somewhere safe, because while Henri had been close in his assumption, important barely scratched the surface on what Robbie meant to Priest.
* * *
ROBBIE’S LEG WAS doing a nervous jig as he sat in a booth. It had been around ten minutes since he’d gotten the call from Priest but it felt more like an hour—or three.
He was a wreck. His hands were shaking, his breathing was all over the place, and when Tate had shoved him into a booth and told him to sit down before he fell down, Robbie had gone without question.
As much as he’d tried, he couldn’t stop hearing the severity of Priest’s tone or the distress in his words over and over in his head, and as his mind rewound to the story of Jimmy, the shack, and Mr. Stevens, Robbie couldn’t stop thinking the worst.
He brought a trembling hand up to his mouth and gnawed on his thumbnail, as he looked across the table to where Tate had taken up residence, and Robbie didn’t miss his look of concern.