by H. P. Bayne
“You’re never on your own,” Emily said. Her fingers squeezed his gently as she gave him a warm smile. “You’ve got me.”
28
Clouds covered the moon, casting the night in darkness as Sully skirted the manmade pond.
A handful of large properties overlooked the body of water, but he knew he could pass unseen.
He’d done it before, after all.
Staying low, he padded across the grass until he spotted the target house, then sheltered on the far side of its small boathouse.
He recalled former judge Prescott Montague had once kept his handgun inside. The weapon had since been seized by police, involved as it was in a homicide. Currently free on bail conditions while he awaited trial, Montague had been prohibited from possessing weapons.
Sully wasn’t so naïve as to rely on Montague obeying that condition.
The boathouse was locked, and Sully next moved toward the house, keeping for the moment to the bushes framing the large yard. This would be the tricky part, getting inside. In Sully’s experience, good criminals were often keenly aware of their own surroundings and safety, largely because they’d been able to breach someone else’s. It was unlikely any windows or doors would be left open or unlocked on the ground floor.
Sully had just spotted what he thought was a climbable portion of the house, thanks to a sturdy-looking bench and a balcony just above it, when Montague simplified matters.
He emerged from the back door, scanning the darkened yard as he took several steps onto the lawn. His head turned in Sully’s direction, but his sight would never uncover the intruder, crouched as Sully was in the shadows of the shrubs.
Sully waited until the man’s head had turned, then made his move.
He knew how to move silently, and he made it easily to the side of the house. This would be the tricky part, would require more stealth than he was sure he possessed.
With luck, Montague wasn’t running security cameras that would reveal him later.
Pulling the hood as far over his head as he could without obscuring his own sight, Sully edged up to the corner and peered around. Montague was there, hands cupped to his mouth as he lit a cigarette.
Now it was just a matter of waiting for the opportune moment.
Montague gave it to him.
A bench overlooking the lake had been placed midway down the gently sloping lawn, and the former judge made his way there, pulling his coat closed with one hand as he walked.
Sully drew in a nerve-steeling breath, then left his place of concealment, keeping his eyes on the back of Montague’s head as he made his way toward the open back door.
If Montague looked back to question his own lackadaisical security, it was too late.
Sully, crouched low in the darkened kitchen, was already inside.
He delayed an hour, telling himself he was using the time to wait for his moment.
As he stood inside the second-floor spare room closet, his rolling gut suggested a different story.
The longer he stayed, the more anxious he became. The moment, if he was going to take it, was now. Montague was in the shower inside the master suite’s bathroom. Sully had done a quick reconnaissance of the second floor while Montague was outside, discovering both his current hiding spot and the place where he could confront the older man.
He’d have to do it now, set himself up to come up behind Montague when he emerged from the bathroom.
He could bail, make his way downstairs and out of the house. Go back the way he came and try to forget he’d ever attempted something this insane.
But backing out wouldn’t get him the answers he needed.
One more breath and he was on the move. The hallway to the left would take him to the stairs and the way out; the right would take him to the master bedroom.
Sully went right.
The master bedroom was bathed in light, curtains open. By day, the gold-coloured drapes would frame a view of the backyard and the shared pond. By night, all Sully could see was black.
He reached through the doorway, fumbling along the wall with a gloved hand until he found the light switch. Concealing the room in darkness, and satisfying himself he wouldn’t be seen by anyone outside, Sully fully entered the room and waited the few seconds until his eyes adjusted.
An antique wardrobe stood just the other side of the closed bathroom door, and Sully moved toward it, concealing himself on its far side.
Another waiting game began as he listened to the sounds of the shower, of Montague shaving, of him brushing his teeth and using the bathroom one more time before bed.
Then the door opened.
Now or never.
Montague stalled on the threshold between bathroom and bedroom, as if questioning how the room had gone dark. There were no bedroom light switches outside the bathroom door, and he headed for the door to the hall and the switch he’d find there.
Sully beat him to it.
He’d cut up Dez’s plastic broom handle before he’d left this evening, and he poked the end of it into Montague’s back, hoping the man would mistake it for the business end of a gun.
“Don’t move.”
Montague froze, started to turn.
“I said, don’t move!”
The former judge stopped, hands lifting to show they were empty.
“Face the wall and stay there.” Sully worked to keep his voice abnormally hard. He’d practiced the tone before leaving Dez’s apartment, just to ensure he was capable of it. He was pleased to see the desired effect, the obvious fear in Montague’s movements.
“I’m unarmed,” the man said. “My wallet’s on the bureau. If you’ll let me get it—”
“I don’t want your money. I want information.” His cellphone was in his pocket, an app running on audio record. He used his free hand to pull the device a little farther out, then shifted a leg to hold it there, ensuring it was in a position to capture anything said.
“Information about what?”
“You told the police you had information on Lowell Braddock. I want to know what you were going to tell them.”
“Who are you? Some competitor of his?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. Answer the question.”
“Why should I? What’s in it for me?”
“You stay alive.”
“You’ll kill me if I don’t tell you? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Sully stayed silent. He’d already essentially uttered a threat. No need to dig himself in deeper. As it was, he’d committed several criminal offences tonight. Anyway, he wasn’t sure he could convincingly answer Montague in the affirmative, making the stretching silence a far more effective response.
Montague finally filled the gap, proving he’d need a little more convincing. “I offered the police information on Lowell if they saw to it the prosecutors cut me a deal. I haven’t been offered anything of the sort. I won’t say anything now.”
“I think it’s pretty clear I’m not with the police or the prosecutors’ office. I don’t care about any deal. I’ve got my own reasons for being here. Tell me about Lowell.”
Another pause, as if Montague was thinking it through. There was truth in what Sully had said, no way someone from the police or prosecutors’ office would turn up or send someone to menace an accused offender in his own home.
This time, the pause ended the way Sully had hoped, with answers.
“I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but I can tell you Lowell Braddock is not the man people think he is. He does all the good things, donating to charity and schmoozing the right people. But it’s a cover. He’s evil to the core.”
“How evil?”
“I believe he’s killed people, and more than once. And others have helped him cover it up.”
“What others?”
“You asked about Lowell, not anyone else.”
“You brought it up. What others?”
Another pause.
“They call themselves t
he Circle. It started off as an alternative to the Freemasons, an organization for those refused entry. It began in the seventies and has been around since. Lowell joined a number of years ago.”
“And you’re saying this Circle helped him cover up these murders?”
“Not all of them. Some of them.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’m a member, joined shortly after it first formed. I’m now on the Grand Council, and I help decide who comes in. I know each of the current members, and I know who’s connected to whom.”
“Who’s Lowell connected to?”
“His most significant connection is the head psychiatrist over at Lockwood Psychiatric Hospital, Dr. Roman Gerhardt—also a member. They’ve been working together, I understand, on a drug trial that could have some serious money attached.”
“Did they tell you about this drug trial?”
“Not in any great detail. Roman told me if they’re successful, he will see to it the entire Circle benefits from the wealth and prestige. He saw it as a way we could legitimize the Circle, to bring us out of the shadows and show ourselves to be an organization of successful, intelligent men and women.”
“You said Lowell killed people. If the Circle helped him cover it up, did it have something to do with this drug trial?”
“I don’t know. I suspect it reaches back further than that. No one’s ever said this out loud, but I suspect he’s responsible for the death of a child. His own nephew, I believe.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Another member of our organization, a man known for his psychic ability, foresaw something years ago. It happened as Lowell was attempting to join the Circle. Harry was a teacher with an unusual talent for seeing things others couldn’t, and we used his gift back then to help us decide on our new members. It didn’t last long. Harry was already going mad. But he did predict something when he met Lowell, something about a ‘second son being our end.’ Harry described, to a tee, Lowell’s brother, described his having two sons, and that the youngest would cause the downfall of the Circle and everyone within it.”
“And people took that seriously?”
“You have to understand, Harry was gifted. Exceptionally so. We didn’t take him seriously when he first tried to join, and it proved to be to our detriment. He told us our then-president would be killed in a vehicle crash and that he would take others with him. He described the vehicles involved, the occupants of both cars and the nature of the fatal injuries each would sustain. Less than two weeks later, it happened. Clinton was drinking and driving, and he crashed his car into a van carrying a young family that matched, to a tee, the people Harry had described. We never doubted him again. His prediction about this second son was enough to make us all very, very nervous. He’d not only predicted Lowell’s downfall, but all of ours. He saw us behind bars or dead, each of us, including me.
“I didn’t make the decision about the child. I wasn’t yet part of the Grand Council. But my understanding is they ordered Lowell to kill the boy.”
“He killed his own nephew just to get into this stupid organization?”
“Of course not. It’s not just about an organization. It’s about partnerships. He was struggling at the time to set up his own pharmaceutical company. He had some grand ideas, and he had the drive and smarts, but no capital. The Circle consists of many wealthy individuals. If he did as asked, he was guaranteed enough money to start up his own company, and to ensure he had majority interest in it. In return, he was told to eliminate the threat. He didn’t believe in psychics or prophecies, but he knew the Grand Council did, and that was tangible enough for him. And nothing’s more tangible to people like him than money and power.”
“People like him, or people like you?”
“I’ve always had money, and money brings power. What I didn’t have was the job I really wanted. Members within the Circle knew people, and they helped me secure a position as judge. I’ve never wanted, nor asked, for anything else from them, and they’ve never asked more of me than I was willing to give. At the end of the day, Lowell acted on his own. He didn’t have to do as asked. He could have just walked away.”
“If the Circle was so concerned about Lowell and the people in his life, why let him in?”
“As I said, I wasn’t in charge of the decision-making back then. But Harry saw wealth, and a lot of it, in Lowell’s future, and that was of great interest to the Grand Council. We’ve become quite a wealthy order since then, in no small part because of Lowell’s contribution.”
“But you’re willing to sell him out.”
“I’ve lost my job, but the law still means something to me. Lowell Braddock is the worst kind of man, the kind who will not only sacrifice those he loves for wealth and power, but the kind who thinks nothing of killing children.”
“You’re about to stand trial for murdering a teenager.”
“Who was sleeping with my wife.”
“And who was a threat to your goals of becoming a Supreme Court judge. That’s a national position. Some local order consisting of rich people wasn’t going to help you get there.”
Montague’s head started to turn. “Who are you?”
“Face the wall.”
But Montague’s curiosity seemed to have come to outweigh his fear. He turned, not to the wall, but to his assailant. Sully took a step back as Montague’s eyes darted to the supposed gun. The room was dark, but not quite dark enough.
“That’s not even a gun. Who are you?”
The time for talk had passed. The door was directly behind Montague. Sully made a run for it, pushing the former judge aside in the process.
But Montague wasn’t going down that easily. Sully had only just made it past Montague when he was grabbed from behind. Montague yanked him back, using what felt like a leg to further trip Sully up so he ended up on the floor.
In this position, the hood was useless, having slipped from his face. His concealment was secondary, escape his priority. He started to get up, but Montague leapt onto him, delivering two sharp, forceful punches to his head. Sully’s head reeled under the impact, so he was only just aware of the feel of Montague reaching for something and the subsequent beep of a cellphone key being dialled.
The sound of a loud crack stopped everything.
The side of Montague’s head exploded, blood and other matter splattering onto the side of the nearby duvet.
Onto Sully.
For a moment, Montague remained where he was, eyes wide but unfocused.
Then he slumped to the side.
Sully lay there, frozen as he stared at Montague. Dead. Shot.
Shot. Someone had a gun and had just committed murder. Sully was a witness. He could be next.
The thought drove him, had him shoving Montague off so he could get out from under the body.
Sully’s phone had fallen from his pocket after Montague had thrown him to the ground, and he scrabbled around for it on the floor until his shaking hand settled over it. Ensuring it was indeed his phone and not Montague’s—he couldn’t afford to lose the information it contained—Sully stood and ran.
Another shot rang out.
It was clear who the target was this time.
He made it to the door, into the hall. No idea where the shooter was, no idea if he was about to run headlong into him. He was pretty sure the gunman was outside the house; there had been no one else in the room, and the sound he’d heard was definitely that of a high-powered rifle.
He forced himself to stop, sheltering in the enclosed hall a moment. The exit wound had been on the right side of Montague’s head. That meant the shot had been taken from the left.
From the back of the house.
The way Sully had come.
Knowing now he’d have to scale the fence along the front of the house, Sully found the stairs as he shoved his phone safely into the depths of his jeans pocket.
The front door was directly across from him once he reached the base of
the stairs. He ensured his hood concealed his face as he approached it, keenly aware of the possibility of security cameras guarding the entrance. A quick glance through the window to the side of the door revealed nothing but a wide expanse of lawn and driveway. Plenty of room to be an easily visible target.
In the house, though, he was a sitting duck.
With no option, he unlocked and opened the door. Then he was out, racing across the lawn, running in a zigzag pattern to try to lessen the chances of being hit by a bullet.
Another crack sounded, this one louder than the first two, no walls or windows to buffer the noise. He poured on some extra speed, the fence now within reach. It was high, but he had his own height and adrenaline in his favour as he sprang at it, catching the top in one leap. A boot against the wall helped propel him up and over, and then he was free of the yard.
Sirens sounded in the distance, growing closer as he ran. There was a park nearby, one he’d not so long ago taken shelter within as he’d waited for Forbes to come and get him. That time, Sully had fled Montague’s under a similar hail of gunfire.
But this time, he couldn’t call Forbes, no way the Major Crimes investigator would be able to keep Sully’s presence to himself. The last time, Sully had been there with Forbes’s knowledge, and he’d been the sole victim. This time, he was fleeing the scene of a murder. He knew how investigations worked. Until they had a chance to check him out and clear him of wrongdoing, he’d be a suspect too.
He couldn’t afford to be either a witness or a suspect. Not now. Not when the stakes had grown so high.
Police would scour the neighbourhood, would be on the lookout for a gunman. So Sully did the only thing he could.
He ran.
29
Making it back to Emily’s car wasn’t easy.
The area was crawling with cops by the time he reached the vehicle, and he was now grateful to a neighbourhood that had made parking closer an impossibility.
His hood would now be a hindrance rather than a blessing, making him a figure of suspicion to investigators on the lookout for a murderer. He’d already taken his gore-spattered outer coat off and turned it inside out, and tucked his gloves inside its pockets. He wouldn’t discard it here. He knew where he had to go, and no one would come looking for evidence there.