French did not respond. He cut across four lanes and smoked the tires when he stopped. One cop stood at the edge of an empty lot, the Carriage Room beyond him, down the street. The other cop was on the curb, talking to Gibby. When French got out of the car, he said, “Here’s your father.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody beat him badly, and dumped him in the ditch. He was crawling out when we saw him. I couldn’t tell if he was white or black, male or female. Nothing but blood and mud and ditchwater.”

“Son, are you okay?” He knelt, but Gibby looked away. “How bad is he?” French looked back at the uniformed officer.

“Cuts and bruises, maybe some damaged ribs. Most of the blood is from gashes in the scalp. I’d say somebody got him on the ground and kicked him pretty good. I don’t think the blood is all his, though. Looks like he gave a little back.”

“Has he said anything?”

“He didn’t want me to call you.”

“But he’s lucid?”

“If not, I’d have transported him myself.”

“Okay, thanks. Both of you.”

The cop squatted beside Gibby, one hand on his shoulder. “Your father knows what’s right for you. Hospital. Doctors. You listen to him. Talk to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

No slurring or confusion. That was something. Hell, it was everything. When the patrol car left, French sat beside his son, their shoulders almost touching. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I need something better than that.”

Gibby shrugged, and French caught his partner’s eye.

Rebellious.

Dangerous.

“Were you at the Carriage Room? Are the people who did this to you there? Would you know them if you saw them?” Still nothing. Not even movement. “Is this about Jason?”

“Can we go home now?”

“No, son. Hospital. Come on.”

French got his son in the back of the car, then turned across traffic, watching the Carriage Room as he did. It was the only place open for three full blocks. He wanted answers, and thought he’d find them there. He wanted to kick in doors, tear the place down.

“Just be cool, Bill.” Burklow kept it soft. “We can come back later.”

At the emergency room, Gibby walked on his own, but it wasn’t pretty. French spoke to the doctor, and dashed off a final signature. “If he tells you what happened, I want to know.”

“You’re aware of patient confidentiality, Detective.”

“He’s my son.”

“Your son is eighteen.”

“Just do what you can, Doc. Patch him up. Cover the worst of it. His mother will have a fit as it is. Bandages can’t make it any worse.”

An orderly got Gibby into a wheelchair, and pushed him toward the double doors. “I’ll be right here, son.”