The muscles in Sully’s face tensed as his extended hands began to tremble. “Get out of there.” His voice was a low, ominous grumble. “Move out of the way.”
She shook her head, emotion balling up in her throat.
It was horrifying to defy her father, even more terrifying to wonder if this man who had once resembled her father was going to pull the trigger.
“Go!” Sweat glistened on his brow. “Get the hell out of here.”
She stared into his troubled eyes, looking for a hint of a break in the storm, some connection to be made ... but he was so far away. Miles away. “I’ll leave with you when you put the gun down,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
His fingers moved toward the trigger. Such a slight movement, with huge impact.
“Please don’t shoot us!” she begged, bracing against the headboard in dread of the explosion of gunfire.
“I’ll kill myself first,” he said bitterly.
She opened her eyes to see him turning the gun on himself, aiming at his chest.
“Daddy, no!” The last word escaped as a whimper from her throat as she lunged forward to stop him, but was caught by the headboard.
He stared at the barrel of the gun ...
Then dropped it to his side.
“Dad ...” She burst into tears, awash with relief as he holstered the gun and then stood there swaying, lifeless and drained.
She rushed around the bed and hugged him hard. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered, her face mashed against his shirt.
She felt him sag under her fingertips, heard the air leak from his lungs, but he didn’t say a word. And as she guided him toward the door, she noticed that his arms hung limp at his sides. He wasn’t hugging her back.
When she lifted her chin, his face was expressionless. The menace had drained from his eyes, along with all signs of life. The act of putting one foot in front of the other seemed to require all the strength he could muster.
He was a zombie, but still alive.
She was wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand when a moan came from the bed.
“Angel ...”
Chapter 41
“Angel...” He was calling, but wasn’t sure if he was Amaking a sound in the real world.
He had heard the man’s voice. Growling bear of a man. The bear had a gun on him, pointed right in his face. Peyton knew the unmistakable feel of a cold barrel on his forehead.
Peyton would have been frightened if sleep wasn’t tugging him down into a sea of calm.
Then there was a woman, young, he could tell from her voice. An angry girl, yelling at him to stop.
The bear growled back, but she kept up her cries.
When Peyton finally was able to push his eyes open to stare through the haze of narrow slits, he saw her pushing and pulling on the bear, tugging like crazy. But the big man stood there like an old tree, solid in the ground.
And damned if that wasn’t a gun in Peyton’s face.
He let his eyes close and dropped back under the surface of sleep, waiting under the ice for the explosion to shatter everything. Waiting for the world to go black. Fizzle black, then burn out to nothing.
But the explosion didn’t come.
He saw the girl swing around him again, her thick hair like a veil. Or a big, thick halo.
He thought maybe she was his angel of death, fighting with big ol’ St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. The angels were fighting, rocking his bed, voices booming.
Thundering angels ... that was what Mama said when thunder rumbled from the sky. The angels were fighting. She wanted him to go through the Pearly Gates to heaven, and St. Peter kept saying no. She lifted her wings wide. Trying to cover his sins? His angel.
His angel.
What happened to Angel?
Remembering was like squeezing water from a stone, but at last he found her in his mind, a round dumpling of a woman with chocolate eyes and cheeks that were always pink. His angel. She said her name was Angela, but he called her Angel. She believed in him. She was the only one who understood and tried to help him.
She gave him the walking stick. A walking stick with a faux ivory rat carved on the handle.
What happened to his walking stick?
He needed it to help him stand up and get out of this cold swamp. “Angel ...” His throat was dry and rough as bare pavement. “Angel, help me. Help me get my walking stick. I need my cane.”
“He’s asking for help.” The angel’s voice was clear as a bell. Peyton summoned his strength to drag his lids up just a notch. And there she was, standing beside his bed, this time without the tall bear of a man. Her hair framed her face like a veil. Jesus’s mother.
“Help me.” Pull me up for air. Pull me out of this black hole. Get me my walking stick.
There was so much to say, but his weak body couldn’t push the words out, and he couldn’t see whether or not she was really his angel or just some white girl staring at him.
“I’ll try to help you,” she said in a thick voice. “I’m an attorney and ... maybe I can help. I’ll do my best.”
PART III
Chapter 42
Lunch with Bernie was supposed to be a sort of farewell for Keesh. It was his last day with the Manhattan DA’s Office, and Wing Wong was his favorite place in the neighborhood. And though he’d anticipated needing to prop Bernie up a bit, he’d never expected to hear a tale of attempted murder.
Keesh stared at Bernie over a plate of roast duck. “Sully went to the hospital to kill him?”
She nodded, then took a drink of water. “I don’t know how I figured it out, but I did, and I got there just in time. But even so, it was tense. I ... for a few seconds there, I thought Dad might shoot me if I didn’t get out of his way. He was so convinced that getting rid of Peyton Curtis was the right thing to do.”
“Holy shit.” Keesh reached across the table and squeezed her wrist. “This is scary stuff, Bernie. As if you haven’t been through the wringer in the past two weeks.”
She nodded, looking down at his hand on hers. “Dad’s still furious. He’s barely speaking to me.”
“After you saved him from life in prison?”
“He doesn’t see it that way.”
“Of course he doesn’t. He believes in the rules of the street. But his brand of street justice is just the sort of thing that undermines the criminal justice system. We work hundreds of hours every year to make sure ...”
She touched a finger to her chin, a signal he recognized. Disinterest.
“I’m preaching to the choir.”
She nodded.
“Sorry, but this is scary shit. Your own father had a gun drawn.”
“He’s a cop. I’ve seen that gun a thousand times.” She nabbed a dim sum with her chopsticks. “I’ve just never been staring down the barrel.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“The cop who was standing guard might have figured out that something was off, but he’s a rookie. And what’s the worst that could be charged? Sully impersonated an officer so that we could visit a suspect in a hospital?”
“Somehow, that doesn’t reflect the horrifying reality of the situation.” He forked two slices of roast duck onto his plate and spooned on some plum sauce. “Do you think he told your mother?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Sully’s not doing a whole lot of talking these days.” She dipped a dumpling in mustard. “And there’s one other person who knows. Peyton Curtis woke up while we were there. He was dazed, but talking. He asked for help.”
Keesh rolled his eyes. “Was this while there was a gun pressed to his head?”
She swallowed. “No, after that.”
“Well, he’s probably already forgotten the encounter. You said he was medicated, right?”
“But he was coming out of it when we left, and he was very clear. He called me an angel and asked for my help.”
“That’s creepy.” Keesh could tell Bernie had some kind of agenda he
re.
“There was something so pathetic about it. It made me want to help him.”
“Bernie.” Keesh cocked his head. “We think he killed your brother.”
Her whiskey-colored eyes flared. “He probably did. But if he’s found guilty on the three counts of murder, the prosecutor will go for the death penalty. We know that.”
He nodded. “And ... ?”
“And I know for a fact that Brendan wouldn’t have wanted that. We talked about capital punishment one night at dinner. He said it was wrong. He even crossed Dad on it.” She screwed up her mouth, as if something had gone sour. “Wouldn’t it be awful if Brendan’s killer was executed?”
He nodded. “If it comes to that, you could probably speak against the death penalty for Peyton Curtis.”
“While the rest of my family is lined up on the other side of the courtroom to demand justice?” She closed her eyes. “My family is going to disown me.”
“For voicing your opinion?”
“For helping Peyton Curtis. I’ve already been in touch with his attorney. Do you know Laurence Saunders?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, he didn’t sound happy to hear from me. Even though I’m volunteering my services.”
“Okay. Now you’ve lost me.”
“I’m going to volunteer my time to work with Curtis’s defense team. Not on the actual trial. I know I need to stay out of that. But I’m thinking that I can compile information and testimony to be used in the sentencing phase.”
The idea was unorthodox and edgy; this was not Bernie’s style. “That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”
“I know, but I can’t help myself. After everything that’s happened these past two weeks, the shootings and my job, this is the first thing that feels right. It’s like I’ve finally found my place in this big terrible situation. I think I know where I fit into the puzzle now.”
“As Curtis’s attorney?”
“As the person who saves his life. There’s a difference.”
He put his chopsticks down as the ramifications of Bernie’s decision set in. “I don’t like it, but you know I’m thinking of it from a selfish point of view. I don’t want you working for the other side. What will that do to us?”
“Our relationship is stronger than a court case,” she said flatly.
“Do you really want to put it to that kind of test?” He hated talking about “relationships,” probing and poking as if the tenuous bond were an organism with a life of its own. In his experience, you had to run with what was working for you, and since the day they’d met in law school, Bernie worked for Keesh.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked. A ridiculous question, as there was no stopping Bernie when she was on a roll. “What happened to that nice Armenian girl you started dating?”
He wasn’t quite sure how to admit failure. “She’s still a nice Armenian girl.”
“Keesh, don’t toy with me. I’m in a vulnerable state.”
“We’re taking a break.”
“A break? After what? Two dates? Three?”
“How am I supposed to pursue a relationship with all this going on? I can’t just leave you in the dust to go ice-skating or grab a movie.”
“You’re taking a break because you miss me.” She grinned, tapping his chest. “That’s it. Every time you’re with her, you think of me.”
It was true, and he was secretly thrilled that she was onto him. “When you and I split up, it wasn’t because we didn’t want to see each other,” he pointed out. “It was all the other forces at play.”
She was shaking her head, the restaurant lights striking a reddish sheen on her hair. “We should get back together.”
Yes, immediately, he wanted to say. He could imagine sweeping back her hair to run his lips down her neck. That pinstriped blouse would be unbuttoned to reveal a wispy bra and the tiny gold St. Bernadette medal that tended to fall in the generous crease of her cleavage.
That was his genuine response. The more intellectual Keesh could not let go of the obstacles between them.
“Now is not the best time.” It killed him to keep her at arm’s length, but they both knew the reasons. “Your life is like an episode of Law and Order.”
“You miss me.” She leaned across the small table, teasing him with those whiskey eyes. “Admit it.”
Her face was inches away, so close he could feel the air her lashes stirred when she blinked. “I like you, Bernie, but—”
“Don’t ruin it with an argument, Keesh. We both know what we’re up against, but I say we have more going for us than against us. Forget the families. They don’t have to deal with dating in the age of Facebook and HIV. There’s something special between us, something you don’t find on this planet too often. Life is short, so let’s hold on and let the planet spin us around. Why don’t you come to my place after work tonight? I’ll make you dinner.”
He winced, hating to be the heavy. In some ways, he’d never really broken ties with Bernie. But if she was serious about working with Peyton Curtis, now would not be a good time for the two of them to hook up.
“Okay, I’ll bring in takeout. Chinese or Italian?” She smacked her head. “We’re having Chinese now. Italian it is.”
Why did he feel warmed by the smile that lit her face? Bernie was under his skin; had been for a long time. “It’s not for lack of desire, believe me. But can I point out the professional implications of the two of us hooking up with me working for the Queens District Attorney’s Office and you now working to defend a suspected cop killer we’re prosecuting? Something is wrong with that picture.”
“You’re right. So we’ll keep it a secret.” She looked around at the other diners. “No one will know. You’re starting in Queens next week, and I can’t spill the truth at the office because I don’t have an office anymore.”
He snorted. “You are too much.” He leaned across the table so that he could whisper. “And I’ve missed you, too.”
Chapter 43
The law offices of Myers and Arndorffer were contained on the floor of an old downtown warehouse that had been converted to office space. Apparently the architect who had been let loose on this particular floor had favored cavernous space and canvas umbrellas, as the floor stretched back dizzily, punctuated only by a series of canvas drops that reminded Bernie of tents in the desert.
As Bernie sat waiting under one canvas creation that marked the reception area, she tried to remember the details of the conversation that had brought her here. Not the odd moment when she’d told Peyton Curtis she would try to help him. She wasn’t even sure if he would remember that. It was Brendan’s comments about capital punishment that drove her to step out of her comfort zone, piss off her family, and cross this defense attorney who didn’t want to deal with her.
It was something he’d said at dinner. What had they been talking about? She remembered that it was the day he’d shared the story about the two little girls who’d been removed from their home. Somehow, the death penalty had come up ... and what had Brendan said?
You can’t kill a killer. Or, when you kill a killer, you become an animal, too. Something like that. He had said it calmly, secure in his belief. And he’d said it right to their father’s face.
The canvas awning overhead twisted into a peak at its center; a white vortex sucking her into snowy nothingness when she tipped her face up. Creepy in a bland oatmeal sort of way. She stared up, wondering if anyone felt comfortable in this space.
“Miss Sullivan.” The African-American man with large, black-framed glasses startled her. He shoved a hand in her space. “Laurence Saunders.”
She rose and shook his hand. “Bernie Sullivan. Thanks for seeing me.”
Saunders rolled back on his heels and tossed his head back. “You didn’t give me much choice. I got five minutes—that’s it,” he said, leading her back to a small conference table under a canvas that reminded Bernie of a folded napkin.
; She sat on the edge of the wooden chair and got right to the point. “I’ve been thinking long and hard about how I can fit into Peyton Curtis’s defense. I want to compile evidence and testimony that we can use in the sentencing portion of the trial, if need be. Marvin Green has already announced the prosecution’s intention to ask for the death penalty for these crimes. I’m here to help you get Peyton Curtis off with a life sentence.”
“I’m confused, Miss Sullivan.”
“Call me Bernie.”
“Okay, Bernie.” Saunders lifted his chin, as if he needed a new perspective on the situation. “What are you here for, exactly?”
“To help you with the penalty phase—”
“I heard all that. I just can’t fathom how the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office could send a green attorney over to me and expect me to buy a story of defection.”
“The Manhattan DA has nothing to do with this.”
“Then you’re spying for the Queens DA?”
“Listen, Laurence, I—”
“Mr. Saunders, okay.” He flicked two fingers between the two of them. “We are not friends.”
“Mr. Saunders, neither district attorneys’ offices know I’m speaking with you. I’m on a leave of absence from the Manhattan DA. I’d like to work for you strictly as a volunteer. I’m a hard worker, and the price is right.”
He pursed his lips, staring at her. “Everyone knows I’m tapped out. I’m one of the few black attorneys doing pro bono work in this city. I need help, all right. But I don’t think it’s going to come from the sister of one of the men my client is accused of killing.”
“I know, that must seem weird.” Bernie raked the side of her hair back with one hand.
“Weird doesn’t begin to describe it. Try bizarre. Outrageous. Ludicrous.”
“Mr. Saunders, my brother Brendan was not an advocate of capital punishment, and neither am I.” The image of Peyton Curtis with a gun to his head flashed in her mind. She could tell Saunders that she had saved his client’s life once and had a vested interest, but she restrained herself. She had to protect her father, and Saunders probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway. “I can help you. I can help your client.”
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