After a one-hour nap, Bradley came into the living room, biting his red blanket. He had given up his blankets almost a year earlier, calling them silly and childish. Patrick had cut up all but one of them, making little kid handkerchiefs out of them, but Wendy had insisted on keeping one intact, the red one, his favorite. Patrick hadn’t seen it in many months; he didn’t know how Bradley found it, but he did, and he held it tightly against his face and chest as he walked into the room. “Hi, big guy,” Patrick greeted his son.

“Where’s Mommy?” he asked, his voice muffled by the blanket.

“Mommy’s not here, Bradley,” Patrick said, choking down yet another lump in his throat. He wondered where his glass of Grand Marnier was right now. “We’re going to look for her soon, remember?”

“I want my mommy,” Bradley said tearfully.

“I know, big guy. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.” Patrick rose to go hug his son, but Bradley ran back to his room and closed the door. When Patrick went inside, he found him curled up in the middle of the floor. Oh, shit...

He picked him up and held him tightly. Bradley wasn’t crying; he bit his blanket and stared straight ahead, hardly blinking. Scared, Patrick went back to the living room and held him until, thankfully, he fell asleep again, and then carried him into his bedroom and put him under the covers, on Wendy’s side of the bed.

Patrick stayed with him and waited to see if Bradley would wake up soon for dinner, but his heavy breathing told him he was down for the night, so Patrick took his shoes and clothes off and tucked him under the covers once again. Patrick usually did not allow Bradley to sleep in his bed—“big boys sleep in their own beds,” he would often admonish his son—but tonight, having him sleep anywhere else was completely out of the question.

He didn’t usually drink when caring for Bradley, but this time he poured himself a stiff shot of the orange liqueur and went out to the patio. These past few days were simply hell, he thought. If Bradley started going to pieces, he would too—it was as simple as that.

“Muck, we’re on our way up,” he heard Hal Briggs call on the subcutaneous microtransceiver. “Feel like some company?”

“Sure.” A few minutes later, Hal Briggs, along with Chris Wohl and David Luger, let themselves into Patrick’s condo. They found seats in the living room; Patrick knew they wanted to talk business, which was why he did not go outside again.

“You drinking that sissy stuff again, Muck?” Hal asked. Patrick did not reply. Hal found something he liked in the liquor cabinet; David and Chris did not drink. “How are you doin’, man?” Still no answer.