“And don’t act like you actually paid the driver,” Nox countered.
“So what happened?” Necro asked.
“Silas Ravenwood—or someone drivin’ one of his trucks. That’s what happened.” Link shrugged. “The Beater took her last beatin’, and Rid—” His voice faltered. He couldn’t tell the story again.
Not without puking.
Floyd squeezed his shoulder. “Sampson gave us the highlights on the phone. He said Ridley’s missing.” Even though she had feelings for Link, she almost sounded sorry.
“We looked everywhere, and there was no sign of her,” Nox said. “Our guess is Silas has her, but we don’t know where he took her.”
Sampson chugged what had to be his fifth glass of milk. The guy ate more than Link used to when he was still a Mortal. It was hard to know how things worked with Darkborns, since there had never been any until the Order of Things was broken last year. Everyone was still figuring it out, including Sampson. “Silas is the head of the Syndicate. He can’t run an operation like that without a place to meet his scumbag associates. It’s not like he can rent out office space.”
“The Syndicate?” Link had never heard of it before. “As in a crime syndicate?”
“The Underground has even more organized crime than the Mortal world,” Floyd said. “Gambling, drugs, power trafficking—you name it. And the Syndicate runs most of it.”
“So you’re sayin’ Silas is the head a the Mob?” The thought made Link nervous. “You mean like Don Corleone, that fat guy from The Godfather?”
Sampson shoved the empty glass across the table. “The Syndicate makes the Mob look like a charity organization.”
Link almost made a joke about his mom and her cutthroat Daughters of the American Revolution meetings; the DAR could give the Mob a run for its money, any day of the week. But then he remembered Rid wasn’t there, which meant there was no one around to laugh at his Gatlin jokes.
Nothing’s the same without her.
Then another thought crossed his mind.
The DAR. My mom.
Link bolted upright in his seat. “Holy crap. I’ve gotta call my mom.”
“You didn’t call her yet?” Sam shook his head. “The cops probably traced the license plates on the Beater by now. I bet they already called her.”
Link dialed his home number as fast as he could. His mom was going to kill him for not calling. The preacher and all her DAR friends were probably already at the house in one of their prayer circles.
His mom picked up on the first ring, and Link could tell from all the sniffling that she’d been crying.
“Ma? It’s Link. I mean, Wesley—”
“Wesley!” He heard a muffled sound like she was covering the mouthpiece. “It’s Wesley. The Good Lord Almighty answered our prayers.”
Link could imagine the chorus of hallelujahs, in between big bites of I Told You That Boy Was Trouble Casserole and Hope Your Son Doesn’t Smoke Pot Pie.
A moment later, his mom was back on the line. “What happened? The police called and told me they found your car totaled on the highway, but you were missing. Up North.” She said the words the way someone else would say “on the Titanic.” Then she went on. “Are you all right? Do you have amnesia? Lord, please don’t let him have amnesia.”
“Calm down, Mom. If I had amnesia, I wouldn’t have remembered our phone number. I’m okay. I wasn’t even in the car.” Link had only come up with that detail a moment ago, and he was pretty proud of himself. “It was a mix-up. Somebody stole the Beater, but I hadn’t reported it yet, so when they got to the crash site, they thought I was the one drivin’.”
“And you’re just calling now?” The anger was already brewing in his mom’s voice. “Do you have any conception of how worried I’ve been? I already called old Buck Petty and asked him to load up his hounds!”
Link sighed, rubbing his spiky hair.
“What were you gonna do? Drive down to Georgia Redeemer with a truck fulla bloodhounds?” Link was proud of himself for remembering the name of the college he was supposed to be attending.
“That is what good mothers do when their sons are missing, Wesley Jefferson Lincoln! I have been absolutely beside myself. Did you forget how to call collect? We practiced before you left.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I just found out what happened a little while ago, and I can’t talk ’cause the police need me to fill out a report.” And his mom thought all those hours he’d spent watching Matlock were a waste of time.
“Why would someone steal a car from Georgia Redeemer and drive it all the way to the New Jersey Turnpike?”
“I don’t know, but you’d better activate the phone tree and call everybody before the ladies in the DAR drive to Georgia and start nailin’ my picture to telephone poles.”
“You’d better call me back later, Wesley,” Link’s mother said under her breath. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“Okay, Mom. Gotta go. I’m losin’ ya.” Link crumpled a napkin into the speaker for good measure as he hung up.
Some things never changed, no matter how bad you wanted them to.
When he turned back to the table, everyone was trying not to smile—except the rich boy. “All right. All right. Show’s over,” Link said. “So where do we find Silas?”