“I’m not going back to prison, Joel,” I say. “I have a daughter who needs me now.”
He pulls the hammer back on the semi-automatic.
“Right now, I need you for something else,” he says. “I think you know what that something else is.”
I nod and I drown in a cesspool of defeat.
“Walk,” he says.
He doesn’t have to tell me where to go. I just do it. I step past the televisions to an area of wall that looks like all the rest. Using the tip of my left boot, I press it against a piece of base molding. A four-by-eight piece of wall panel slides open, revealing a glass elevator door. I punch in a code I memorized a long time ago, and the elevator door opens. Like Penny said, Rabuffo never bothered to change it.
I step inside, Joel following.
The door closes.
“I have to admit,” he says, as the elevator begins its rapid descent. “You’re being a good boy. A smart boy.”
“I want to live,” I say.
“Good to know, Sid. Looks like your communications skills have already improved one hundred percent.”
CHAPTER 48
THE ELEVATOR COMES to a stop.
The door opens onto a brightly lit corridor. Numerous unidentified rooms occupy both sides of the long space, each of them protected by a solid metal door. But I know from personal experience these rooms are meant to house smuggled Chinese looking to be placed in any one of numerous Chinese restaurants between Albany and New York City—and now Lake Placid; all of them owned and operated by Rabuffo; all of them sweatshops.
Other spaces are for the production of crystal meth. And yet others for storage of the product. There are offices, conference rooms, a kitchen, a safe room made of metal and a special glass that’s impervious even to the most sophisticated of listening devices. It’s where we would hold our most sensitive meetings.
One more room, too.
The vault.
I stop when I come to the room.
It’s covered not with the usual solid metal door, but instead, a safety glass–paneled door not unlike the one located outside the elevator up top. Once more I punch in a long-ago-memorized code, and the door unlocks with a burst of released air and solid gunmetal tubing. The door automatically slides into the wall, exposing a massive solid stainless-steel walk-in vault.
I step into the vault’s narrow vestibule, feeling the weight of the gun behind me, even if the barrel is no longer touching me. Embedded into the solid steel vault wall beside the door is a retinal eye scanner, and below that, an eight-digit keypad.
“I think you know how to handle things from here, Doc,” Joel comments. “You’re doing great so far. As your lawyer, I advise you to keep it going.”
I’m guessing that’s supposed to be funny. Like I’m finding anything funny at this point. Like I don’t have a gun pointed at my back by a man whose hell bent on seeing me head back to prison as soon as he gets what he feels he has coming. If it weren’t for Chloe, I’d rather he shoot me dead.
Something dawns on me then. Yet another cold realization.
“You knew everyone would die, didn’t you, Joel?”
“What are you talking about, Doc?”
“You knew that by orchestrating the abduction of my daughter, I’d stop at nothing to get her back. Even if I had to dispose of a few people along the way. Who were your partners in all this? The major partners, I mean. Detective Giselle Fontaine, Chief Joe Walton, and my wife, Penny. All of them, dead. There were more minor players like Singh, Burt and Claudia Stevens, even Tom Bertram and Gary and who knows how many Lake Placid police. They all played a part, but they were more like tools. You didn’t really care whether they lived or died because you had every intention of stiffing them anyway.”
He smiles, like he’s proud of his handiwork.
“So how am I doing, Counselor?” I ask.
“Let me tell you something, Sid,” he says. “One of the reasons I like you, and that Rabuffo liked you, is you’re smart and ruthless. But then, smart and ruthless is a dangerous combination. Hitler was smart and ruthless. So was Dr. Joseph Mengele, but you gotta add crazy to that mix. Better that you were on our side than our sworn enemy.”
“And how would you describe our relationship now, Joel?”
“It’s complicated,” he says. “Now why don’t you be a good pal and open that vault.”
Exhaling a bitter breath, I turn to the eye scanner, and position my no longer swelled left eye over the device. A bright but painless beam connects with my retina. It rapidly shuffles side to side several times until an electronic “APRROVED” message appears on the readout directly below the scanner. I then punch in the eight-digit code that will open the vault door, which happens to be my birthday in reverse of all things.
The room fills with the mechanical noise of numerous locks releasing inside the vault. When the door slowly opens, the brightly lit interior is revealed. That’s when I make out the gunshot, and I feel the solid baseball bat–like connection to my lower abdomen. My knees buckle and a curtain of darkness falls.
CHAPTER 49
MY EYES OPEN.
Half-mast.
I’m shot. But I’m somehow still alive. Still breathing. It’s like I’m looking through a thick fog. But I can see Joel Harwood systematically filling one plastic supermarket shopping bag after the other with cash. As soon as one bag is filled, he ties off the handles, sets it down onto the floor. He then pulls another one out of his jacket pocket, starts filling that one. I don’t recall the denominations Rabuffo had on hand, but I do recall they were large and that there were lots of them.
Millions of dollars’ worth of them.
I feel wet.
It’s my own blood pool. I’m not sure where I’ve been hit, but I can feel my toes and I can move my limbs, telling me the bullet has avoided my spine.
That’s the good news.
The bad news is this: if I don’t get to a hospital soon, Harwood will realize his wish, and each and every person in the way of his being the sole recipient of Rabuffo’s mother lode will be dead. What this means, of course, is that I’m not done killing.
The killer has one more enemy to euthanize.
He’s got his back to me while he works quickly but steadily, emptying out the cubbies of my former boss’s precious cash. I pull myself up onto my knees, and like a bleeding bull that’s been speared nearly to death, I inhale one last deep breath, and charge the son of a bitch.
I hit him solidly in the lower spine with my forehead and shoulders. The hit is so violently delivered, I feel the air exit his body like a suddenly punctured tire. I hear and feel his ribs snap. He drops on the spot, his bag of cash spilling all over the floor. He’s convulsing, trying to get his wind back. But he’s also panicked. He’s not used to going without his lungs.
I can’t make out where he hid the pistol, so I’m hitting him square on the jaw with one foot and searching his pockets with the other hand. Until I feel the bottom of his boot connect with my chest, and just like that I’m being heaved across the vault floor.
I land on my back, the electric pain shooting from my abdomen, up and down my spine. For a beat, I’m sure I won’t be able to make it back up onto my feet, and he’s going to shoot me dead once and for all, the coup-de-grace bullet only seconds away from entering into my brain pan. But then I see Chloe’s face in my mind. I see her pretty face as clear as day and I know I have no choice but to get up.
Breathing in, I jump back up to my feet, just as he finds his semi-automatic. He points the gun at me. Shoots. I thrust myself against the wall to my right. The bullet ricochets against the heavy vault door, sending sparks flying. The bullet bounces off the opposite wall. Harwood cries out. When I focus on him, I can see the bullet has traveled full circle and found a home in his left thigh.
“You stupid son of a bitch!” he spits. “Why won’t you die already?”
I go after him again, this time my head ramming his belly. He screams again, g
rabs hold of both my ears with his hands, twists them so hard I feel like they’re ripping off my skull. I send my knee up into his groin. He screams, releasing my ears. He triggers the pistol, three times. Three rounds bounce and ricochet against the vault’s interior like the metal ball inside a pinball game.
“Die, killer!” he screams. “Die now! Just die!”
That’s when I snatch the pistol out of his hand, press the barrel against his temple.
“You first,” I say.
He looks up at me, wide eyed and disbelieving, breathing hard. “Sidney, think about what you’re doing,” he says, smiling. “You’re a healer. Not a murderer.”
I pull the trigger.
Pushing myself away from him, I drop onto my backside, press my back up against the wall. I feel the dull, but throbbing pain in my lower abdomen, and I feel the blood slowly but steadily draining from it. But for some reason I’ll never understand, I begin to laugh.
The laughter originates from deep inside my gut, almost like I’m puking up my dinner. But I haven’t eaten anything in days and I don’t feel sick. The pain from my internal injuries hasn’t yet arrived. The adrenaline is pouring into my bloodstream and the shock of the bullet wounds is blocking the pain receptors in my brain. For now, anyway, I feel good, satisfied, relieved, and … how do the snowflakes put it?
At one with myself.
My hand pressed against my exit wound, the other still gripping the semi-automatic, I manage to get back up onto my feet. I’m still laughing so hard, tears are pouring out of my eyes, down my face. How absurd is all this? I’m standing all alone inside a vault that contains millions upon millions of dollars with my lawyer, whom I just shot dead, and I can’t think of anything else to do but laugh.
Gazing down at Joel, his wide blue eyes looking back at me, his smooth-shaven face sprinkled with fresh blood. I know he can’t see through the eyes anymore, but I sense them following my every move. I go to him, set myself down on one knee.
Pulling the hanky from his jacket pocket, I wipe the semi-automatic clean of prints, then I place it in his left hand, wrap his fingers around it. I maneuver his index finger so that it rests on the trigger. Returning the hanky to his jacket pocket, I stand, careful not to step in any of the blood that’s pooled on the floor, including my own.
Reaching into his lower jacket pocket, I pull out two more garbage bags, and place them over my boots, tying off the handles around my ankles. I tiptoe my way across the floor and out into the corridor to the bathroom, where I pull a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser. Peeling four or five of them from the thick stack in my hand, I place them on the exit wound and pull my t-shirt back over them.
In the closet behind the door, I find a bottle of Lysol disinfectant, and I carry everything back into the vault. Dropping to my knees over the small puddle of blood I’ve left behind, I proceed to clean it up. It will be impossible to get everything. But if the forensics team that will surly descend on this place is convinced that what they are viewing is a corrupt lawyer who could no longer live with himself, then they will feel no need to vacuum the floor and walls for signs of secondary blood spatter.
… Hey, Doc, you never know. It’s as good a plan as any …
When the vault is cleaned to my satisfaction, I peel two more bags from Joel’s jacket pocket. In the first, I place all the blood-soaked paper towels, tying off the handles. I set the bag on the floor by the door so I won’t forget it on my way out. Then, the second bag in hand, I make my way to the vault wall that has been untouched by Joel or anyone else since Rabuffo was tossed in jail. I fill the bag with cash until it can hold no more. Then I grab another bag and fill it, and another, and another.
Fill a bag with cash, rinse, repeat …
I have to laugh, because it’s the most fun I’ve had in ten years. Or maybe I’m just giddy because of blood loss. Because death is circling me, like vultures around a gut-shot dog.
In my head, I see a sun-soaked beach.
Cuba.
Chloe and I are headed to Cuba.
CHAPTER 50
BY THE TIME I get back behind the wheel of the pickup truck, the morning sun has risen bright red/orange over the Blue Mountains to the east. Already the day is warm.
“Gonna be a scorcher,” I comment to myself.
A vibration coming from inside my jeans pocket. I dig into the pocket, pull out my cell phone. A new text has arrived. This time from a number I most definitely recognize.
Drew Lochte.
But the message isn’t from him.
It reads: HI DADDY, WHEN ARE YOU COMING BACK? I’M HUNGRY.
My heart melts, but in a good way. A great way. In a way I have been dreaming about for ten solid years. I type,
ON MY WAY XOX
Setting the phone onto the seat beside me, I feel the throbbing of the exit wound, and I sense more of the warm blood slowly oozing out of me. I lift up my t-shirt, press some fresh paper towels against it, and try my hardest to avoid the dizziness that’s filling my head.
… Stay awake, Doc. Stay alert. Chloe needs you now …
I peer at all those plastic shopping bags full of money on the truck floor, and I smile. I picture the ones I’ve stored behind the seat, and even the ones that are stored in the back cargo bed.
“Cuba, here we come, Chloe,” I whisper aloud.
I’m in pain, but it feels good to say it.
Turning the engine over, I pull around Joel Harwood’s Mercedes, and drive around the cobblestoned circle. I hook a right onto the private road that will lead me onto the main road. I pass the trees and the manicured lawn. I pass by the Olympic pool where I first met Penny and partied with my friends. I leave it all behind me, knowing I will never set eyes on this place again. And why in God’s name would I want to?
I’m a different man now. I’m no longer a killer. The violence is all behind me. I’ve become a healer. I cure. I make things better.
Penny’s gone, but somehow, I have everything I’ve ever wanted in the world. She’s waiting for me. My daughter is waiting for me. We’re going to have a beautiful life together. I’m going to watch her grow up. Grow up in peace. No more killing, no more struggles, no more lies, no more deception. No more blood tears tattooed to my arm. No more fury.
Just peace, love, and understanding.
Then comes the pain. The real pain. The receptors are no longer blocked. It throbs in my guts telling me my spleen and perhaps my liver are punctured. But I feel a smile growing on my face. It’s a broad smile. I can live through this if I receive medical attention right away. I see the light at the end of the long ten-year tunnel. It’s as bright as hell and it’s warm and fuzzy. If only Penny could have lived to see this moment. If only she could have lived.
I drive on, the road two-sided by the old trees, shading me from the bright summer sun. I see them parked at the front gate. Five or six Albany PD blue and whites. Behind them, a black armored van. It bears the letters “SWAT” on its side panels in big white block letters.
I stop the pickup maybe twenty feet away from them, throw the transmission into park, allow the engine to idle. There’s a big man dressed in black tactical gear standing in the center of the open gates. He’s got a megaphone positioned against his lips.
“Sidney O’Keefe!” the man barks. “Come out of the truck with your hands up! Do it now!”
I roll down the window, my heart beating a mile a minute, my gut bleeding out.
“There must be some mistake!” I shout, weakly, breathlessly. “I’m going … to see … my daughter!”
“Get out of the truck, O’Keefe, and get down on the ground! Face … Down! Do it now! Or we will fire on you!”
“You’re making a mistake … Please …”
Why don’t they listen? Why can’t they hear me? They have to hear me. That’s how close I am. I peer down at my lap. I’m sitting in a puddle of my own blood. Not much time left. I need to contact my parole officer. He can talk them down. Talk some sense into them.
Drew Lochte will take care of everything. He’ll work it out so I can drive on, like nothing happened.
“Sidney O’Keefe!” the bullhorn voice blares. “Exit the truck now or we will have no choice but to fire on you!”
My eyes take in all the guns aimed directly at me. Semi-automatic and fully automatic short and long guns.
What the hell have I done to these people to make them so angry with me?
I make a quick search for the cell phone. It’s slid down to the edge of the long seat during the drive out here. No choice but to reach for it, despite the pain in my gut.
“He’s going for a gun!” a man shouts. “He’s got a gun!”
I sit up straight, flip the phone open. I text,
CHLOE, DADDY LOVES YOU
Tears drop onto the phone while I text. Blood smears the screen.
“He’s got a weapon!”
The front man drops the bullhorn to the pavement, draws his sidearm. Fires. They all fire. The truck shakes and trembles from the massive onslaught of lead, my body growing rapidly cold, my head spinning, the light growing brighter.
Using my left hand, I open the truck door. I try to step out, but fall flat onto the surface of the drive on my chest and face. The bullets rake the pavement. I feel the little bee stings, from the chewed-up bits of pavement colliding with my face. Until I can’t feel them anymore. Until I can no longer see or speak or feel anything.
Have any rounds connected with my body?
I have no way of telling. It’s most certainly possible, if not probable.
But in my mind, I see Chloe. I see Penny. I see us together, playing in the sand on a bright, sunny beach.
I see us happy forever …
… But wait.
Stop everything.
I need to clarify something here. Tennyson comes to mind again. Do we not live in dreams? After spending ten years in prison, we also learn to live in our imagination. We learn to control it.
Girl Who Wasn’t There Page 22