“Do you remember Ever-Dry, where your father worked?”
No movement, no reply. But of course he did, this man before him. He remembered the company picnics, the shirts with logos, the way his father talked of the plant at night. Whatever he had done to his father, Caleb Breest would have remembered where his father worked for all those years, whether with hatred or respect. However he felt about it, he would feel something.
“Did you know that the business had been destroyed, Caleb? Did you know that Ever-Dry balked at paying an increased level of protection, and that as a result the factory was burned to the ground?”
No response.
“Didn’t Joey tell you?”
No response.
“Caleb, did you give the order to burn down your father’s old factory, the place where he became a foreman before he disappeared? Did you give that order?”
Still no response, and Scrbacek could detect no movement in the still body. But he knew the answer. It had been relayed to him clear as pain in the way Breest’s head had tilted, questioningly, when Scrbacek spoke of the fire. No, Caleb Breest had not known what had happened to the plant, had not burned it down in revenge.
Silent as Breest now, Scrbacek sat dumbfounded, feeling a peculiar heat rise from his gut to his ears. How had he missed all this? How could he have taken step one as a defense attorney without knowing even the least thing about his client? If he had learned all that was happening in Breest’s name, would he have done anything differently? Had he acted in his client’s interests in gaining the acquittal, or in the interests of Joey Torresdale, James E. Diamond, Frances Galloway, that bastard DeLoatch? In the interests of J.D. Scrbacek? Yes, certainly in the interests of J.D. Scrbacek—another pressworthy acquittal for his record—but what about the interests of Caleb Breest? Would it have been better to cooperate with Surwin, turn state’s evidence? Would it have been better to plead insanity? Would it have been better to spare his client’s life, some way, any way, without bringing him back to this? It had to be, in the end, Breest’s decision, but had Breest indeed made the decision, and if so, was it fully informed? Was this man in front of him, silent, still, seemingly oblivious to all that had happened around him, was this man even capable of deciding?
“Caleb, I have some questions that you need to answer. Everything you say to me is confidential, but I need to know. Who makes the decisions for your organization?”
No answer, but still, somehow Scrbacek knew the answer. He felt strangely linked to this hulk of a man before him now, as if the hidden emotions coursing through the silent man’s blood were somehow pouring directly into Scrbacek’s heart, and the words behind his dark silences were being hissed like the most secret of messages into Scrbacek’s ear.
“It’s Joey, isn’t it? He runs the drug operations. He runs the extortion, the prostitution. He oversees the flow of the money through the entire organization, isn’t that right?”
No answer.
“It’s Joey who picks your lawyers, isn’t it? It was Joey who brought me in, wasn’t it, Caleb?”
No answer, but there was no answer necessary.
“And it’s Joey who tells you what needs to be done, what you yourself need to do. Including who to kill. It was Joey who told you to kill Malloy, wasn’t it? You can tell me, I’m your lawyer, this is all privileged. Who told you to kill Malloy?”
No answer, still no answer, but Scrbacek knew.
“Caleb, I want you to think back now. Caleb, whose idea was it to blow up the restaurant Migello’s and destroy the Puchesi family? Was that your plan, or was it Joey’s?”
No answer, not a breath of movement, but still Scrbacek knew.
“And it was Joey who killed the Puchesi granddaughter’s husband and stuffed him in a garbage can.”
Silence, stillness from across the table, but now Scrbacek sensed something else, sensed somehow that he had gotten it wrong.
“No, it was you who did it, isn’t that right, Caleb? You killed him because Joey told you to do it. Because the kid had accused you of stealing from the family. But you hadn’t been stealing, had you, Caleb? Joey had. Joey. It was Joey who brought you into the family and used you to destroy it. You were his tool from the start.”
No response.
“You met Joey in reform school, didn’t you?”
No response.
“Before that, you were just a big scared kid, a bully because no one understood you. A bully because it’s easy for a big kid to be a bully, easier than being the lonely one at the end of the schoolyard that everyone makes fun of. The big kid in the special-ed class. And you ended up in reform school because that football player did something to you that made you mad, that made you lose control, and you hit him and hit him and hit him. What was it, Caleb? What had the kid done to you?”
There was no response, no movement, until, slowly, the huge man leaned forward, and his head tilted up, and the great shadows on his face retreated until Scrbacek could see the huge man’s eyes, one looking straight at him, one looking over his shoulder. And the eyes were crazed, and Scrbacek knew suddenly everything.
“Because he laughed at you? That was why?”
Breest’s face tensed, the thick, ropy muscles beneath his jaw dancing with anger.
“And that’s what Joey told you about the Puchesi kid. That he had laughed at you.”
Breest’s eyes narrowed. He breathed in deeply. It was as if he was getting ready to rise and smite someone with all his horrible strength.
“And that’s what Joey told you about Malloy.”
No movement, not a stir. Just that one eye staring at him as the other stared over his shoulder, both creased in some strange pain.
“What happened to your father, Caleb?”
No answer.
“Some people say you killed him, that he is buried in your basement. But it’s not true, is it?”
No answer, but even so, Scrbacek knew. “He left, didn’t he? He left your mother and you. Simply gave it up, all the work, the responsibilities, the hardships—gave it up and went away. And you spread the word that you killed him, didn’t you? Because then he wouldn’t have left, he never could have left.”
Scrbacek stared at the huge boy-man before him with the mutant oversize heart. He’s on Lasix, like a racehorse, Surwin had said. A huge racehorse, with blinders, seeing nothing to either side, nothing but the object placed in front of him by Joey Torresdale. He had been lost as a boy and left to rot by the system and used like a rented mule by Joey Torresdale, and no one had stepped in to help, least of all his lawyer.
“Caleb, my God, I’m sorry. Caleb, let me help. I can help.”
Slowly the huge man leaned away from Scrbacek. The shadows from his brow lengthened, his eyes hid again in the blackness. As if a cord had been yanked free, the whispering silenced and whatever connection Scrbacek had felt disappeared. The man in front of him was again a bronze cipher, and Scrbacek was left to wonder if the certain knowledge that had flowed from Breest to him had all been mirage, a figment of his own fear and exhaustion.
“Caleb, I had a meeting with Thomas Surwin, the man who indicted you for Malloy’s murder. He is planning to indict you again for racketeering and drug dealing. The penalty is life imprisonment without parole. But, Caleb, if we leave here right now and go talk to him, if we tell him what you know about Joey, if you are prepared to testify, if you let me talk with him, I’m sure he’ll help you. Caleb, I can make a deal.”
And then, from this huge hulking man of brass came the first word in minutes. “No.”
“You have to. Caleb. I can save your life.”
“No.”
“Joey is going to kill you.”
“No.”
“Caleb, he used you from day one. You were his front man. His tool. Caleb.”
“No.”
“And he is going to kill you, Caleb.”
“No.”
“Like he is going to kill me, and my son, and my son’s mother. He is going t
o kill us all and then he is going to kill you.”
“No.”
“And if he fails, others will succeed. There is going to be a war tonight, Caleb. Everything is converging—here, tonight. The Furies are coming. Your only chance of surviving is to come with me. Come with me. We’ll go to Surwin together.”
“No.”
“Caleb.”
“No.”
“Let me help you. I can help you. Caleb.”
“No,” said Caleb Breest, the arc of his shaking head growing longer and faster as he repeated the word “no,” his voice growing louder each time he said it. “No. No. No.” Slowly his great interlocked hands rose high over his head and, with a sudden snap, were brought down like a sledge onto the surface of the great oak desk.
The desktop splintered in two like a cracker.
The goons stationed outside banged through the door, the fireplug and the monster, short-barreled semiautomatics waving forward as they rushed in. When they saw Breest sitting before the shattered desk, they halted and coolly pointed their guns at Scrbacek.
“Trust me, Caleb,” said Scrbacek. “I’m your lawyer.”
Breest stared at Scrbacek, and Scrbacek imagined he saw the faintest hint of a smile, as if Breest had finally gotten the joke.
“What’s up, boss?” said the fireplug.
“Caleb, I can help,” said Scrbacek. “We’ll go together. Out that door. To safety. Let me help you. I can help you. Please.”
“You want us to drill him, boss?”
“Go,” said Caleb Breest to J.D. Scrbacek. “Now.”
One of the men pulled back a lever on his gun with a distinct grinding click. Breest, without rising, turned and reached into a cabinet behind him, bringing out a huge shotgun, which he pumped once and then twice.
Scrbacek’s client, now fully informed of his options and perils, had made his decision.
“They’re going to kill my son and his mother,” said Scrbacek. “Dirk and Dyer. Joey gave the order. If they get out of here, they’re going to go to Philadelphia. They have to be stopped.”
“Go,” said Breest.
“I have to be sure that nothing—”
“Go,” said Caleb Breest.
“Caleb . . .”
“Go.”
Scrbacek went.
55
LESS THAN A WHISPER
The fireplug escorted Scrbacek through the building, leading him down the long dark hallway with the two lights, turning left and right, and then into a huge storage area with a loading platform at the far end. One of the bay doors was open. When one of the goons who had taken him from Torresdale’s table tried to stop them at the open bay door, the fireplug, still with the gun in his hand, simply shook his head and the goon slipped away.
“Don’t come back,” said the fireplug as Scrbacek jumped down from the platform and into the soft rain.
“No chance of that,” said Scrbacek.
He was running through a maze of cars when he heard a twang of metal and then a shot. He didn’t stop to turn around and search through the rain for the gunman on the roof. Instead he kept moving, zigzagging now, still conveniently bent at the waist from his beating, heading for the safety of a squat brick building about fifty yards away. Another shot, no sound of a ricochet this time. Where was the ricochet? A shout, another shot, and then he reached the brick and spun around the corner so that he had fully disappeared from the roof shooter’s view.
He stopped for a moment, wiped the blood from his cheek, the rain out of his eyes, took a deep painful breath, grabbed hold of his side. He was north of Dirk’s. He needed to get east, but he couldn’t go there directly. He had to weave from building to building to keep the safety of mortar and block between himself and Dirk’s. He took another deep breath and started again.
No longer running now, in too much pain to run, moving in a steady skip-jog through the wet streets, left then right then right, traversing the byways and alleyways, keeping as close to the safety of the walls as possible, pausing a moment here or there before sprinting through the rain across open streets. They couldn’t get to him from Dirk’s anymore, but who knew how many were following him, trying to catch a glimpse.
He scurried like an insect through the wet streets, making snap judgments—left here, right here. He saw a faint glow in the distance, heard shots. Was that it, what he was looking for? Carefully he made his way toward the light and sound, keeping tight to a wall, moving more slowly now, stepping along a pitted, pebble-strewn alleyway with care, the sporadic shooting in front of him growing louder all the while. Back pressed against the wall, he shifted slowly toward the source of the light, craning his neck to get a view.
Dirty Dirk’s.
Crap. He had moved in a circle, a useless loop, right back to where they were looking to kill him. But he hadn’t come out by the loading platform. Instead he could see the long empty wall, the eastern edge of the building. And there was shooting going on, louder now, clearer, like a pitched battle was raging inside that very building. Men ran from the exits, some bloodied. Others ran toward the doors, itching to get into the fight.
So it was going down, the inevitable war between Caleb Breest and Joey Torresdale. He wondered who had fired the first shot, wondered who would end up still on his feet when the last shot was sounded. Torresdale was wily beyond belief, and apparently had more men, but Torresdale himself had turned Breest into an awesome killing machine. Whatever the result, Scrbacek was glad as hell to be out of it.
Now that Scrbacek knew he was east of Dirk’s, he understood where he needed to go. He backed away, slowly, carefully, so as not to be seen, backed away until Dirk’s disappeared once more from his view. Just as he was about to turn around and run, through the delicate patter of the rain, he heard it:
“Scrbacek.”
It was less than a whisper, as soft as a thought, and terrifyingly familiar, like an old bad dream that keeps haunting. He froze.
“Scrbacek.”
56
RIMSHOT
“Scrbacek.”
From where had it come, this soft yet pernicious whisper, this familiar taunt? In front of him? Behind him? Was it only his imagination?
He spun around, his back to Dirk’s. Nothing. The gunfire continued behind him, an aural spur, reminding him he had to get away. He took a step forward, pebbles shifting beneath his feet. He looked around.
Nothing.
Another step.
Nothing.
Another step.
“Scrbacek.”
He didn’t wait now. He just started running, his boot soles slipping at first on the wet, and then gripping the pebbly surface as he picked up speed, fists pumping, running.
A dark shadow stepped out from a wrecked building just ahead of him, a large piece of scrap wood in its grasp, the wood catching a gleam of light.
“Here’s the windup,” said the shadow.
And then the wood swung, like a Louisville Slugger, landing flush on Scrbacek’s bad arm, slamming him into the wet ground with an explosion of pain and surprise that forced out an inhuman howl. As Scrbacek writhed on the pitted asphalt, the shadow stepped toward him.
Scrbacek rolled slowly, painfully, and then backed away, crab-like, hands scrabbling through puddles and pebbles. Backed away as fast as his wounded left arm would let him, which wasn’t very fast at all. From his low angle, he could only see his attacker’s silhouette against the dim glow of the rain-sodden sky: a man with broad shoulders and unruly hair, his long leather coat sweeping low to the ground as he stepped calmly toward the retreating Scrbacek. But even with only a silhouette to judge, and even with rain falling into his eyes and blurring his sight, Scrbacek knew.
Bozant.
“I’ve been looking high and low for you,” said Bozant as he took a quick hop forward, planted his left foot, and swung his right foot hard into Scrbacek’s crotch. The kick thudded solidly. The pain of it, more than the blow, spun Scrbacek onto his face. He let out a groan, his
body contracted into a ball.
“I guess I just wasn’t looking low enough,” said Bozant.
Almost unconscious from the impossible pain that rose in thick waves from his abdomen, Scrbacek stretched out and started crawling away, pebbles and stones pressing into his forearms. He was moving by instinct, driven by fear, moving as fast from this demented madman as he was able, which was only as fast as a slug.
“What, no clever comeback? You always had a ready wit. Let me know when it’s ready.”
Bozant started toward the crawling Scrbacek, leaped into the air, and landed one foot on Scrbacek’s back, flattening him on the pitted asphalt.
“I’ll never forget the first time I saw you,” said Bozant. “And don’t think I haven’t tried. There’s always been something about your face that puts me in the mood for violence.”
Scrbacek’s face was pressed into a pebble-strewn puddle, his cheek pouring blood into the water. He had to turn his head to breathe. When Bozant removed his shoe from his back, Scrbacek slowly rolled until he was lying faceup on the ground. Bozant squatted over his limp body, and Scrbacek, totally exposed, could do nothing except let the wet and the pain flow through him. Resignation overwhelmed his fear.
“Just . . . tell me,” said Scrbacek, gasping for air, “what the hell do you want?”
“I want to kill you.”
Scrbacek was too dazed to even react. Bozant grabbed Scrbacek’s head with both hands and slammed it into the street so hard Scrbacek felt his consciousness slip wholly into the pain and disappear.
When Scrbacek opened his eyes again, he was lying faceup in the gutter. Bozant sat beside him, atop an overturned trash can, picking at his palm. Scrbacek attempted to slide away as stealthily as possible. Bozant lifted his head and smiled. Scrbacek stopped.
“I used to dress up like a clown for kids in the hospital,” said Bozant. “I loved that, and I was good at it. Some clowns couldn’t make a hyena laugh, but I had a talent. They don’t let me do it anymore. Felons aren’t welcome in the children’s ward. What is a clown when he can’t clown anymore?”
The Four-Night Run Page 35