Gibby did not respond or look back. When he was gone, Burklow said, “He’s in shock. Give him time.”

“I think I’m out of time.”

“That’s the worry talking.”

“Why would he go to the Carriage Room? Or be on that side of town at all? It has to be about Jason.” French moved, unable to stand still. “We should canvass while it’s fresh. We need witnesses, the location of Gibby’s car. I want the bastards who did this.”

“Let’s go, then. Let’s do it.”

“I told Gibby I’d wait. I can’t leave him.”

“I’ll stay. I’ll get him home.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re coming out of your skin as it is. You do what you need to do, but call in backup for the Carriage Room. I don’t want you in there alone.”

The idea moved through French like a drug. He wanted to move and do, to cop the shit out of that bar.

“One last thing.” Burklow put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Young men push back. They test the world, the father. It’s part of growing up.”

“I know that, Ken. I have raised two others.”

“What I’m saying is that any kid but this one would have pushed back years ago. Right or wrong, you and Gabrielle have kept him in a bubble, and the bubble has kept him quiet.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is my fault.”

“Listen, brother. Rebellion is natural in any red-blooded kid. Whether Jason stirred something up or not isn’t the point. Same with the way you’ve raised him. The cause could be as simple as a girl or graduation, or it might simply be Gibby’s time to crack the shell. All I’m saying is this: That silence you hate … the pushback. Don’t make it personal.”

French understood the logic, but the understanding didn’t help. He needed the why and the who.

Why had his son been on that side of town?

Who stomped him bloody and left him in the ditch?

In the car, French radioed dispatch, requesting backup at the Carriage Room and an all-points on Gibby’s Mustang. He’d parked it somewhere, or someone had ditched it. The location would tell him a lot. After the call, it was another fast drive back to the dangerous side of town. By the time he arrived, it was after midnight, and felt like it. Even the Carriage Room seemed quiet, with only a few cars in the lot and not a soul outside. French studied the scene from fifty yards out, then rolled in soft and slow, flashing his lights once when he saw a patrol car, dark in the shadows. He parked beside it, and found the same officers who’d discovered Gibby in the ditch. The driver said, “How’s the kid?”

“Still with the doctor.”

“Is he talking about what happened?”