7
Jack reached Forest Hills and went looking for a copy shop or office supply store. He found a Staples on Queens Boulevard and, as promised, made a copy of the DNA comparison with the Creighton letterhead folded out of sight.
Then he called Christy. Her voice mail picked up on her home number; he left a message and tried her cell. The cell's voice mail picked up on the second ring—a reliable indication that it was turned off. He left another message for her to call him ASAP.
A worm of unease wriggled in his gut and he didn't know why. Bolton had Christy right where he wanted her: on the far side of a chasm from her daughter. No reason to make a physical move against her.
Should he go over to her place and check it out? No. Didn't want to take the risk of being seen peeking in her windows.
Most likely she'd forgotten to charge her phone or turn it on. Or maybe she was rehearsing for that play she mentioned. Could be a rule that all cell phones are turned off during rehearsal. Made sense.
Kind of a relief in a way. The news he had to give her deserved—no, demanded to be delivered in person. He was dreading the prospect of sitting across from her and looking her in the eve while he told her that the father of her child, the man who abducted her and raped her when she was eighteen, was the same man who'd just made her daughter—their daughter—pregnant.
He'd almost rather wear a red shirt through a Crips neighborhood.
But he'd keep trying her phones. Meanwhile, he had time to kill. He didn't want to return to the city and then come back out again. So he drove around for a while, then decided maybe it was time to become Joe Henry again and pay a visit to Work. He had mixed feelings about the possibility of running into Bolton. On one hand he wanted another chance to get into the guy's head, see what made him tick and hope he'd let something slip about this baby of his; on the other, just thinking about the guy made his skin crawl.
He called both of Christy's numbers again. No answer.
Time to go to Work.