by Paul Heatley
Tom snaps a look at Ben, furious. “I had it,” he says.
Carly remains upright for a moment, stunned. She looks down at her chest, where the blood is pumping through her white blouse. She falls back, hits the ground.
Tom goes to her, checks her pulse. She’s dead. “We needed her incapacitated, not killed.”
“How was I supposed to know you had a gun?” Ben says.
Tom looks at him like he’s an idiot for not making such an assumption.
Ben goes to her body, looks down. Carly’s eyes are still open. They look back up at him. He has to close them. Tom is checking her pockets. “What’re you doing?”
Tom pulls out her phone, holds it up. “Do you think she was working alone?”
“No,” Ben says.
“Then we need to find out who she’s been in contact with. Do you have someone who can unlock this?”
Ben bites his cheek. Thinks about Gerry. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Tom nods. He understands. “Search the house,” he says. “Find her laptop. Any clues that might give us an idea who’s with her.”
“She never admitted to anything,” Ben says.
Tom looks at him again. A hard, cold stare. “She pulled a gun.”
“You’d broken into her house.”
Tom shakes his head. “It’s a good thing I came along. I wasn’t here, you’d be lying where she is right now.”
Ben looks at her body again. There’s a pang in his chest.
“Go upstairs,” Tom says. “I’ll search down here.”
“I know where her laptop is,” Ben says, going for the stairs. He goes up to her room, goes straight to it, looking only ahead, not to the side of him, not looking at anything in her house that could bring back any memories. He takes the laptop back down. Tom is searching in some drawers in the kitchen. “I’ve got it.”
Tom hands him the phone. “Leave,” he says. “Get those unlocked; get back to me with what you find.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to clear up in here,” Tom says. “And then I’m going back to Harrow.”
50
Anthony has Alejandra’s ashes. He sent his father into the morgue to get them. Told him to say he was her uncle. Anthony holds the urn close to his chest with his one good arm. They’re going back to New Mexico.
He and his father have not spoken since the argument. It has been a long and uncomfortable journey. Jeffrey turned off Springsteen hours ago, and he hasn’t replaced him with anything else. The only sounds have been that of the car. The hum of the engine, the rattle of something indistinct.
As they cross into New Mexico, Jeffrey pulls over suddenly. Anthony looks around. They’re at the side of the road. There’s nothing here. No gas station, no amenities, nothing.
“What’re we doing?” Anthony says.
“We’re talking,” Jeffrey says, turning off the engine and turning to his son. “You gonna talk to me? No? That’s fine, ’cause I’d rather you just listened.”
“I’d rather you just drove. It’s hot, I’m tired, and I’m sore.”
Jeffrey ignores this. “I called Tom, and I don’t regret it.”
Anthony feels a flash of anger. He especially doesn’t want to talk about this, not again. He bites his tongue.
“You’re my boy,” Jeffrey says. “You’re my baby boy, and those Nazi fucks were gonna kill you in the middle of the road like a dog. And they did it to her, and they did it to the baby inside her.” He points at the urn. He looks like he’s trying not to cry. “They killed my grandchild. They were going to kill you. I want them dead as much as you do, but I’m an old man now, Anthony. I’m old, and you’re injured. And Tom is neither of those things. Tom is a soldier. He can do what we can’t. He can make them pay.”
The tears in Jeffrey’s eyes are gone now, replaced instead by an indignant glare. “I’m not going to apologize again,” he says. “I stand by what I did.”
Without another word, he turns the key in the ignition, checks his mirrors, and pulls back onto the road. Anthony watches him. Jeffrey’s jaw is set. His hands are tight on the steering wheel. His eyes stare straight ahead.
Anthony turns his attention back to the urn. He holds it tighter to his chest. This is as close as he will ever get to Alejandra again. As close to his child as he will ever be.
“All right,” he says.
Jeffrey turns his head, an eyebrow raised.
“All right,” Anthony says again. “I don’t agree with what you did, but I understand why you did it. I understand.” His lip begins to tremble. He presses his forehead to the urn. He’s crying.
Jeffrey pulls over again. He reaches over to his son, takes him in his arms, hugs him. He holds him close. Anthony doesn’t feel like he’ll ever stop crying, but he does. Eventually. And then they continue the journey home.
51
Harry picks Steve up from his home, drives him to Michael’s.
“What’s this about?” Steve says.
“It’s good news, don’t you worry,” Harry says, not looking at him, studying the road ahead. “Good for all of us.”
“Is this about the council?” Steve says.
Harry tilts his head a little. “Could be,” he says.
Steve doesn’t say anything else, but Harry can feel excitement emanating from him.
They reach Michael’s. Linda answers the door. There is no sign of Michael. “You know where to find him,” she says. She smiles at Steve.
Steve follows Harry. This is his first time in Michael’s home. He tries not to stare, to look around too much, taking everything in. Harry leads him downstairs, into the basement.
The council.
There’s not much of a council anymore. Just Michael and Harry, co-founders.
Of course, Steve doesn’t know this. He doesn’t know about Ronald’s death – or at least, they don’t think he’s aware. They’ve wondered how big a role he has played in what is happening to them. Is he responsible for Ronald’s murder? For his brother’s? It shouldn’t seem comprehensible, but he’s never been one of them, not really. They don’t know what’s going through his mind.
“Michael,” Steve says, nodding.
Michael returns the nod. “Any plans for that funeral yet?”
“Not yet,” Steve says.
“They’re taking their time.”
“I think it’s to do with how he died,” Steve says. “They’re still looking into it.”
Michael grunts.
Steve looks around the room. This is his first time in Michael’s basement, too. “Peter would tell me about this place,” he says.
“Yeah?” Harry says. “What’d he tell you?”
“He made it sound like some kind of party house,” Steve says.
“Used’ta be,” Michael says, glancing at Harry. “Not so much of that these days. Ain’t really been in the partying mood lately. Not with what’s happened to your brother and his buddies. And now Ronald.”
This is it. This is the moment they find out. Michael and Harry both watch Steve closely, his reaction to this.
Steve stops looking around, turns his attention back to them both, his eyes narrowed. “Ronald? What’s wrong with Ronald?”
“He’s dead, Steve,” Michael says.
“Dead? What? When?”
“What do you know about it already?”
Steve blinks. “This is the first I’m hearing anything about it.”
Michael and Harry exchange looks. “You sure about that?” Harry says.
“What do you mean? Of course I’m sure. I think I’d know if I’d heard that Ronald had died. How’d it happen? When?”
“Same people who killed your brother, we figure,” Michael says.
“Ron was killed?” Steve says.
Harry watches him. “Yeah,” he says. Steve is playing it good. He looks suitably shocked. But then, he always has. How long was he fooling his brother for? Harry doesn’t believe he didn’t know anything
about Ronald or any of it. About Anthony. He can’t believe him, because there’s no other explanation. There can’t be anyone else responsible from within their own ranks. “Tortured to death.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve says.
“You wanna know how?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why not? You ain’t got the stomach for it? You don’t think you oughtta hear about how one of your brothers was murdered on his own kitchen table?”
Steve grits his teeth.
“Tell him how it happened, Harry,” Michael says. “You found him. Tell him what you saw. Tell him how long it must’ve gone on for. Tell him how Ronald must’ve suffered.”
“Waterboarded,” Harry says. “You know what that is?”
“I know what it is,” Steve says.
“That’s what was done to him,” Harry says. “They tied him down to the table, they stuck a wet rag in his mouth and over his face, and they poured water until he drowned. You imagine that? Drowning on dry land. Air all around you, but you can’t get a single lungful of it.”
Steve grimaces.
“Now, what do you think they were trying to find out from him that they had to torture him in such an extreme way?”
Steve looks confused. Holds out his hands. “I don’t know,” he says.
Harry grunts. “’Cause, goddamn, that’s a hell of a way to do someone in, ain’t it? Shit, makes you wonder how long it went on for, don’t it? Could’ve been hours. You imagine that? Like being dragged underwater for hours on end, you don’t know how long it’s gonna go on for, you can’t get a breath, and all the while your lungs are burning, you’re panicking, you’re all alone in the world, knowing ain’t no one gonna come help you. I don’t wanna know how that must’ve felt.”
Steve nods his head, agreeing.
“Like, whoever did it to him, it was personal to them,” Harry says. “Y’know? They wanted him to hurt. Wanted him to suffer. They had fun with it. They were enjoying themselves. So what’s their vendetta? You got any ideas?”
Steve has to clear his throat to speak. “I’d reckon, uh, I’d reckon it’s probably something to do with Anthony. Right? That’s all it could be.”
“Same as with your brother.”
“They’ve got to be connected,” Steve says.
“That’s right,” Harry says. “They gotta be. No other explanation. See, this is the thing. You know how I know they were doing it for fun?”
“No?”
“’Cause they sure as hell weren’t doing it for information.”
“How’d you reckon that?”
“Only thing they could ask is where we are. Where the rest of the Arm are, where we live, hang out, that kinda thing. They weren’t gonna be asking that. They didn’t need to. Right? ’Cause if they wanted to know that, all they had to do was talk to you. Ain’t that right, Steve?”
Steve looks like he’s been slapped. He looks between them both. At the top of the stairs, the door leading into the kitchen is closed suddenly. It locks.
Michael pops his knuckles.
“What’re you, what’re you trying to say?” Steve says.
“Ain’t trying to say nothin’,” Harry says. “We’re telling you what we know. Now you’re gonna tell us what you know. Who are they?”
Steve has gone pale. All the color has drained out of him. He sways a little on his feet, light-headed. “I, uh … I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Michael shakes his head. “Time’s up on that excuse, Steve,” he says. “We know. We fucking know. Now just come on out and tell us everything you got before this situation turns real nasty for you.”
“I swear to you,” Steve says. “I don’t know what you’re asking me about. I’m loyal. I’m loyal. This is my life, always has been.”
“It was your brother’s life,” Michael says. “He just dragged you along for the ride, and you never once looked happy to be on it.”
“I wouldn’t have my brother killed,” Steve says. “You gotta understand how ridiculous that sounds. I wouldn’t do that. I would never do that. I loved Peter. I loved him. I would never do that to him.”
“What about Ronald?” Harry says. “You love him? He was your brother, too. Same as all those guys killed with Peter. Same as me and Michael here. We’re your brothers. You love us, too?”
“Yes!”
“And you wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt us, right?”
“No, no, of course not.”
Harry takes a step forward. Steve takes a step back. He’s scared. His mask is slipping. Harry can see right through him, now. He knows Michael can, too. He knows they’re both feeling the same thing. He knows they’re both ready to break this little boy. This traitorous little piece of shit.
“You hurt us by lying, Steve,” he says. “You hurt us when you send Anthony’s buddies after us. But it don’t have to be that way. You can come clean. You can tell us all you know. You do that, we’ll go easy on you.”
“Just don’t keep lying to us,” Michael says.
“That’s right,” Harry says. “Don’t lie to us again, boy.”
Steve backs up, but he doesn’t have far to go. He hits the wall. He looks left and right. The only way out is up the stairs. The door there is locked, and Linda is on the other side. Even if he were somehow able to make it that far, she wouldn’t let him leave.
“Just talk to us, Steve,” Harry says. “Tell us everything you know.”
“Everything,” Michael says.
Steve swallows. “I-I –”
Michael looks at Harry. “This kid is gonna try to lie to us again, ain’t he? You can see it, right? It ain’t hard to tell.”
“That stammer sure sounds like he’s trying to make up some excuse,” Harry says.
“Oh, I don’t know anything, guys, I swear!” Michael says.
“Please –” Steve says.
“Please?” Harry says.
“You believe this fuckin’ guy?” Michael says.
Harry makes a grab for Steve. He twists out of it. Michael is at the other side of him. He makes a grab, too. Steve ducks this time; he dives for the council table, rolls over it, tries to scramble to the other side. Harry races to the other end to greet him, slams him with his shoulder, knocks him to the ground. Steve lands hard. He tries to keep moving with the momentum, to keep rolling, but Michael is coming up fast, kicks him in the gut. This knocks him onto his back, makes him cough. It slows him all the way down, but he doesn’t stop. He knows what’s going to happen if he stops.
“And now he’s trying to run,” Michael says, reaching down, grabbing for his head.
Steve rolls again, to the side. Harry stomps him on the chest, pins him. Steve squirms beneath his boot.
“He just don’t give up, does he?” Michael says.
“And he don’t have any fuckin’ sense, either,” Harry says.
“You should’ve talked, boy,” Michael says. “It would’ve been a lot easier.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve says. He’s almost in tears. “I’m sorry – please –”
“You’re sorry? Little late for that, ain’t it? You know how many men, good men, are dead now because of you?”
They get him up. Harry holds him so Michael can soften him up, some shots to his ribs. “Quit your snivelling,” he says, then hits him across the face to shut him up.
They swap, then. Michael holds him so Harry can take a go. Harry doesn’t hit him as hard as he can. They want him to hurt, but they still need him to talk after.
They put him into a chair. “That’s your brother’s chair,” Michael says. “It’s as close as you’re ever gonna get to this fuckin’ council.”
Steve is bloodied now. He winces with every breath, tries to cover his ribs with his arms in case they go to hit him again.
“Who are they?” Harry says. “Who’s coming after us?”
“It’s not a they,” Steve says. He coughs.
Michael rolls his eyes. “He still don’
t get it, does he? Hold him down, Harry.”
“No, wait, wait!”
They ignore his cries. Harry puts an arm around his neck. Michael pulls on two of his fingers. They snap. Steve screams. It’s right in Harry’s ear, almost deafens him.
“Why don’t we start easy, huh?” Michael says, letting go of his arm and straightening up. Harry remains behind the chair, holding him in place. “Nice and easy, right? You don’t wanna tell us who’s comin’ after us just yet, you wanna play it like you’re cool, like you’re tough, then let’s try a different question. What happened with Anthony? Did you know he was undercover?”
Steve shakes his head, tears dripping from his face. “No,” he says.
Michael looks pissed off now. He reaches for the hand with the broken fingers again.
“No, wait! I didn’t know, I swear – but I called the cops!” Steve says. He’s frantic. “I didn’t know he was undercover, I found out same time y’all did, but I messaged him, told him to run – that was me. And I called the cops, sent them out looking for you.”
Michael and Harry look at each other. “Fuckin’ knew it,” Harry says, clenching his jaw.
“All right,” Michael says, rubbing his hands together. “All right, that’s good. Don’t that feel good, Steve? To share?”
Steve doesn’t answer.
“I’m sure it does. Sure it feels like a weight has been lifted off you. I bet that secret’s just been eating you up inside all this time. Now, your other secret. Who are they? Who’s comin’ after us?”
“I tried to tell you,” Steve says, “it ain’t a they, it’s a him.”
Michael and Harry look at each other again, confused. “What do you mean?” Michael says.
“There’s no them,” Steve says. “It’s one guy. It’s Anthony’s brother.”
Michael snorts. “One guy? Bullshit. Bullshit. You think we’re gonna believe that? Harry, hold out his other hand.”