by Ben Sanders
Marshall slammed Rojas’s door and jumped in the front seat and tore away.
* * *
Rojas was still dripping blood, and Marshall didn’t know if that was from earlier or a by-product of the crash. He pushed the Escalade up to a hundred, a gradual slalom through the other cars traveling at seventy-five.
Marshall said, “Tell me what happened to the girl.”
Rojas shook his head. It made things worse, blood in his eyes. He said, “Did you kill everyone?”
“I hope so. What happened to the girl?”
“Oh, god.”
“That was the deal, Troy. I get you out of that motel, you’d tell me what I needed to know. You said you’d talk till you bled, and right now we’re all blood and no talk.”
He lay down across the seat. “Okay, okay.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh man.”
“What happened, Troy? I saved your life twice. Pretty easy to take it, too.”
Rojas spat some blood. “We saw her at Calor. At Jackie’s club. This was like … Jeez. This was like two weeks ago or something.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and Cyrus and Vance. And Leon.”
“Why were you in there?”
“Business. Jackie sets stuff up for us. He’s got cartel contacts. We were meeting some guys, Jackie put it all together.”
“So who took her?”
“The girl?”
“Yes. Alyce Ray. Who took Alyce Ray?” Almost screaming at him.
“Shit.” He shook his head, trying to flick the blood from his eyes. “Man, slow down, come on.”
Marshall said, “Troy, if you don’t answer the questions, I’m going to shoot you in the head.”
“Okay, I … Shit. We saw her in there and … She just happened to be in there. Had some friends with her I think. Three or four maybe. Vance and Leon noticed. They just … They’ve got an eye for that sort of thing, you know?”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Rojas said, “Cyrus was in a separate car, but I was with Leon and Vance. They know all this black-ops stuff. Leon did renditions or whatever, got sent to kidnap people after nine-eleven. Like, the government trained him how to do it. So they just … They followed her. We followed her, I mean. Just tracked her back to her house, went in at the dead of night. No one would have heard anything. Like, it’s their job.”
Like when he’d got in the car. Appearing out of nowhere.
Marshall said, “Why’d they take her?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything? They just wanted to. They felt like it, and they knew how.”
“They felt like it.”
Rojas didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “Is she still alive?”
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s still alive.”
“Where?”
“Leon’s basement. They got a room. Oh, shit. They got a room where they keep them.”
“Them. Who’s them? How many are there?”
“I dunno, three, four, I don’t go down there. They have witnesses and shit, from like indictments.”
“What indictments?”
“Like, any. I mean, if one of Jackie’s guys doesn’t want someone testifying, you know? They keep them down there and like, do stuff to them. It’s not my thing, man, I promise. That’s why I got out, I don’t do any weird shit. I just wanted the money.”
Marshall drove faster. He said, “You show me where it is, or I’ll kill you like I killed the rest of them. Okay?”
“Okay.”
* * *
One hundred on the interstate made it a short ride: thirty minutes up to Santa Fe.
Rojas in the middle seat, hands cuffed behind him, leaning forward to give directions. They headed into a new subdivision out east of the city. Spanish pueblo–type architecture on big sections. Quiet, well-kept streets.
“Take a right up here. This is it.”
Marshall slowed. “Right here?”
“Yeah. Right here.”
Marshall swung in. Around the curve of the driveway, over a slight rise, and there was the dark curve of the house waiting for him, windows curtained.
Marshall said, “Anyone home?”
“Can’t be. They’re all dead.”
“So whose car is that?”
The sedan parked by the garage.
Rojas said, “Uh. I don’t know. Could be a buyer.”
The gravel popping and crunching softly. Marshall stopped and set the brake, left the ignition on. He said, “Not anymore.” He opened his door. “Don’t get out of the car.”
He waited a moment just watching the house, and then he ran crouched to the other car and leveled the gun across the trunk, aiming at the front door. Bone-white grip, and it was still shaking. He ran to the entry and turned the handle.
Unlocked.
He pushed the door back and went in, following the swing.
Through the entry, left through the first door he reached. The living room. Place was a mess: coke and foil on the coffee table, an IV stand lying next to it. On the right by the television, a young woman in a soiled white nightgown, face swollen and abraded, duct tape across her mouth.
Alyce Ray.
And standing behind her a man Marshall hadn’t seen in a long time.
He had a gun to the girl’s head. He said, “Drop it, Marshall. And let’s all sit down.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Marshall
There was a sofa facing the television, and an office chair on casters: probably a last-minute effort to accommodate him.
Marshall, gun still raised, said, “Did you know I’d show up?”
“I knew someone would. Maybe you, maybe Leon. Whoever it was, I could guess the rest of the story.” He nodded at the chair. “I thought I’d better have something on standby.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
“You going to put that down, or do I have to hurt the girl?”
Marshall placed the .45 on the ground and took a step back.
“That’s better.” He led the girl over to the sofa, and they sat down side by side. He said, “You remember me?”
Marshall wheeled the chair so it was opposite him and sat down unbidden. He said, “I always thought of you as the Ray-Ban Man. Ashcroft never told me your real name.”
The guy smiled. The gun in his hand was a SIG P226, something else on his ankle, too.
Marshall said, “You still working organized crime for the Bureau, or is this the main gig now?”
The guy laughed. Beside him Alyce Ray sat hugging her knees, leaning away from him, eyes elsewhere and her mind even further. He said, “This is the main gig.”
Marshall said, “Now we’re on more personal terms, do I get to know your name?”
The guy looked at the girl, back to Marshall. He said, “Wayne Banister.”
Marshall said, “You still wear Ray-Bans?”
Banister smiled thinly. “Not so much.” He swapped the gun to his left hand so he could prop it on the armrest. He said, “I’ve got another name, too. You might’ve heard it.”
Marshall said, “Try me.”
Banister said, “I’m the Dallas Man.”
Feeling the chill now. He’d guessed the name, but it wasn’t quite real until he heard it.
New York coming for him. He’d known this would happen, one way or another. The realist or the pessimist in him. He’d given Shore that line about small worlds, ripples hitting other ripples, but he’d still hoped it would be a case of later rather than sooner.
The universe set a task to bring things full circle, and here it was, as they say, rising to the challenge.
He began to hope Rojas hadn’t followed instructions. Bloodied man running handcuffed in the street might bring some law along.
Marshall said, “You had a pretty sweet setup.”
“How’s that?”
“You had me undercover in New York, trying to find the Dallas Man. All you wanted to know was whether Tony Asaro knew
more than just your nickname.”
“Yeah. It was a good arrangement.”
Marshall said, “So what took you so long?”
“What do you mean?”
“Asaro wanted me dead. But it took you five years to find me.”
Banister said, “I retired, I’ve been out of the loop. Just had to hope one day good or bad luck would bring us together. And it has.”
“So how’d you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard. We knew you were here somewhere. You made that call from the motel. And then my employer noticed Leon was having some trouble. And obviously you’re the trouble.”
Marshall nodded at Alyce Ray. “I was looking for her.”
“I see.”
“Who’s your employer?”
Banister shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Tony Asaro?”
Banister smiled. “Sorry. Client-killer privilege.”
Marshall didn’t answer. The chair keeping him oddly upright. Banister’s expression somewhere between pleasant and bemused.
Marshall said, “Did you ever tell Asaro I was undercover?”
Banister shook his head. “All I needed to know was who to whack. It’s just money. It’s just business.” He shrugged. “You don’t owe anyone any favors.”
Marshall didn’t answer. At length he said, “So what now?”
Quiet in the room. Alyce Ray’s eyes were closed and he could see the tape moving, almost imperceptible, like a prayer. Banister looked at her awhile, and Marshall could almost read that same thought, and maybe there was sympathy, too.
Banister said, “We’re not all walking out of here. I don’t know if you’d gathered that or not.”
Marshall shook his head. “I just want the girl. We can go our separate ways. And then if it’s meant to be, maybe we’ll see each other a little farther up the road.”
Banister smiled. He said, “This is farther up the road. Here we are in the moment that was meant to be.”
Watching the gun. All these things he could have said to deter him, and all he could manage was, “There’s no point.”
“There’s no point to anything.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Banister said, “Seems like a pointless waste to you, but life is pointless. People always clutching for a higher meaning, but there isn’t any. You live and then you die, and no matter what you did you’re irrelevant. This planet is four and a half billion years old. To call you a blink is an overstatement by an order of magnitude.” He smiled. “So don’t worry about it.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
The Dallas Man kept the gun on him. He said, “There are no absolute morals. There’s no universal right and wrong. The only rule is the rule you make.”
Marshall said, “Okay.”
The Dallas Man said, “So if this room was the very end of the earth, and we were the last men living and I killed you, who’s to say I’m wrong?”
“We’re not the last men living.”
“Even so.”
“Who’s to say it’s right?”
The Dallas Man said, “I don’t say one way or the other. It’s just the way it is. One day everything will be gone, and your life and every choice you made will be meaningless. And that will be reality from then on. Millions and millions of years.”
Marshall said, “Okay.”
“Any last words?”
Marshall said, “I’ll settle for last thoughts.”
Banister didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “Are you going to count me in?”
“You can do it if you like. Have some control. It’s a privilege, really.”
Marshall looked down at the Colt. He said, “You going to shoot me on one or zero?”
“I’ll drill you on zero. But you won’t have time to say it.” He raised the SIG.
Marshall said, “Five.”
The Dallas Man’s eyes on him.
“Four.”
The world collapsing down to just the two of them. He thought about how he’d do it. Grab the Colt and dive and fire. Banister leaning forward in his seat.
Marshall said, “Three.”
Both of them poised.
“Two.”
Alyce Ray made a grab for the gun, eyes closed, screaming mutely as she lunged. Marshall launched off his seat, the girl blocking his shot, her hands at Banister’s wrists, the gun raised high like the liberty flame. Marshall crashed into them and the sofa toppled backward, limbs in all directions as they went to the floor. Marshall’s hands on the gun now, the three of them in a tangle as they rolled, the girl crawling free as they went over a second time. Banister kneed Marshall in the groin, punched him in the side of the head, breath wet and rasping, his panic writ large: locked jaw, carotid rupture-taut, tendons in the clawed hand. Marshall tried to worm a finger behind the trigger, lock the action, shouting for Ray to get the Colt. Then Banister kneed him again, shoved him clear, and the gun was coming round. He couldn’t stand, nauseous from the groin impact, but he spun on his back and kicked out, caught the SIG and sent it tumbling, spinning. Banister found his feet, tried to back away, and Marshall dived, caught his ankle and brought him down again. Banister thrashed, Marshall hugging his leg, a desperate clinch around the wild limb, trying to reach the backup gun. Banister in a fury, kicking, eyes bulging as he clawed, like trying to shed his own skin. He pulled them both across the floor, over to the couch, and when Marshall glanced up he’d reached the SIG and was swinging it—
Crack.
Marshall looked.
Lucas Cohen stood in the door, Glock raised. Alyce Ray screamed behind the tape, ran, tripped, crawled for him.
Banister had dropped the gun. He fell across the toppled sofa, a red stain blooming on his chest. Marshall lay on the floor a moment, hugging his knees, gasping, waiting for the pain to back off. He rose unsteadily and picked up the Colt and stood looking down at Banister. The man coughing blood, chin pulled to his neck as he tried to check his pockets. “My daughter. Just let me. My daughter.”
He pulled a red cell phone from his pocket, fumbled it, dropped it on the ground. Marshall bent and passed it to him, the thing dead, not even a battery. Banister draped an arm across his eyes, choking as he put the phone to his ear.
“Sweetheart, it’s Daddy. It’s Daddy. I’ll see you soon, don’t worry.”
* * *
Marshall limped outside to escape the misery. Shadows had come down with the gloaming, and finally it was cool. Alyce Ray lay shivering on the driveway, Cohen crouched with his jacket draped over her. He watched the house as he made a call, stroking her shoulder, the girl screaming there was someone else down there.
Coming round the side of the Escalade, he saw the rear door was open. No Rojas. He swore under his breath and ran out to the road, awkward and shuffling, temples throbbing on each step. He saw him only sixty feet away, this hunched and lurching figure trailing blood.
Marshall watched him a second. Rojas swaying like a drunkard, bound hands oddly cocked, his every fiber desperate. Marshall raised the Colt and breathed out, sighted and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
A dud load. Marshall thought about that. Then he walked back up the drive to the house, Rojas still running.
* * *
The sofa was Banister’s deathbed.
Marshall went through his pockets. The Dallas Man watching wide-eyed. He had a blue cell phone as well, battery intact. Marshall clicked through the call history:
A New York number, showing up the last three days. Twice today. He wondered how many people in New York used the Dallas Man as their cleaner. Maybe he was just Tony Asaro’s man. He looked at the call times. The most recent was only thirty minutes ago, outgoing.
He imagined Banister reporting in while he waited:
I’ve found him.
Five years, and they’d done it. He remembered the photograph from Lloyd. Vicki B. shot dead. Greetings from Dallas. A threat and a promise that would never expire.
He brought the phone outside. Cohen was just coming in, gun up. Alyce Ray sat against the wheel of the Escalade, huddled in his jacket, rocking back and forth. Marshall hit Redial. Who’s it going to be: probably Tony, possibly Lloyd.
Three rings, and then the pickup.
Chloe said, “I figure this is either Wayne or Marshall.”
The last voice he thought he’d hear. He did a double-take: looked at the phone, and then put it back to his ear.
She said, “I’m guessing Marshall.”
He stumbled through a false start, cleared his throat to get past it. He said, “Wayne won’t be coming home.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
Waiting for his reply.
He said, “I was expecting your father.”
“He had to delegate. It’s hard to run things from prison.”
“So you’ve found a career?”
She laughed. “No, I actually did this when I knew you, but I’ve upscaled slightly. They call me the Patriarch now. I thought about Matriarch, but I like the misdirection.”
He remembered talking with her that night at the Standard: I’m with Brooklyn South Narcotics. I go around looking for drugs.
And her smile and the whisper:
I do that sometimes, too. Though I’m not with Brooklyn South Narcotics.
He swallowed. “So you’re in charge of killing me?” His voice was going. Shock more than exhaustion.
She said, “Good guess.”
He didn’t answer.
She said, “I was worried you’d moved on, but then Wayne called and said he’d found you. So that was a nice end to the day.”
That last line almost playful, inviting something back.
He said, “I’ll send you a photo. Make a nice start to tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I’d been hoping Wayne might send one.”
Marshall said, “I didn’t think I’d speak to you again.”
“Likewise, I guess. But I can’t say it’s a shame.”
All these questions he had, and all he could manage was: “I’m sorry I shot you.”
She didn’t answer. Blue and red lights out at the road.