The same was true for me. As my own hate rose up inside me. Coursing like hot lava through my veins.
Suddenly, propelled by feelings beyond my control, I lunged forward. Tackled him at the knees.
He went down hard, the back of his head thudding against the concrete. I got on top and pummeled him with my fists, my rage now so unmanageable that I was afraid I’d never stop.
For Barbara, for everyone he’d hurt or killed…
His face bloodied, his eyes streaming tears of pain, he tried to wriggle out from under me. Huge hands gripping my shoulders, pushing up. A gasp of intolerable pain issuing from his split lips.
I brought my fist down again, connecting with his jaw.
His eyes rolled up in their sockets. But I kept hitting him.
I couldn’t stop. I wanted to kill him.
I was going to kill him.
“Doc! No!”
Lyle Barnes’ voice cut through the haze of my own madness, my own lust for blood. For revenge.
“Stop, Danny! DANNY!”
It was Gloria this time. Coming from somewhere behind me.
And then, just as suddenly, it was over. I felt the rage ebb out of me, even as I was aware of the pain in my fists. My battered hands, bloody and throbbing.
I reared back, gasping for breath, and rolled off Maddox’s prone body. He seemed barely conscious, but breathing. Alive.
Climbing awkwardly to my feet, I turned and saw Barnes and Gloria standing at the edge of the pool. Gaping at me in alarm.
“Are you okay?” Gloria called to me.
I managed a brief nod. “But Noah…”
It was Barnes who answered. “We found him. I stayed with him till the ambulance got here. The EMTs are with him now.”
Still trying to catch my breath, I headed toward where the two of them stood at pool’s edge, my shoes slipping a bit on the inch-high river of gasoline.
I’d almost made it across the pool floor when Gloria cried out, pointing past me.
“Danny! Watch out!”
I turned and looked behind me, in time to see Sebastian Maddox on his feet. Dazed, stumbling. His own shoes sloshing in gasoline as he veered toward where he’d dropped the automatic.
“The gun!” Barnes shouted.
Maddox scooped it up, then turned toward me. But didn’t shoot. Instead, with a look of poisonous rage, he gave me a cool, even smile. Monstrous in its hatred and self-loathing.
I knew then what he was about to do. To both of us.
Smile intact, he lowered the gun and aimed it at the swirling eddies of liquid. And fired.
The gunshot’s boom echoed in the cavernous chamber, as the bullet sparked off the concrete. Igniting the gasoline.
In second, flames leapt up, spreading in all directions. Toward Maddox. And me.
“Danny!” Gloria screamed. “Run!”
I turned again and started running to the pool’s edge, the heat of the encroaching flames searing my back. Barnes and Gloria were leaning over, hands outstretched, ready to pull me up to the lip of the pool.
Stumbling as I ran, enveloped by the smell of burning gasoline, I somehow made it to the pool’s edge before the flames could reach me. Eager hands grabbed at mine, and, together, Barnes and Gloria heaved me up onto safety. I rolled on the concrete lip of the pool, gasping.
Gloria bent over me, both worried and relieved. Behind her, though, Barnes had straightened, and was pointing toward the other end of the pool.
“My God,” he said quietly. “Look.”
I scrambled to my haunches and followed his gaze.
By now, the pool was entirely engulfed in flames—having literally become a lake of fire.
There, at its end, stood the bone-and-wire cage with tongues of flame licking at its sides.
Inside the cage was Sebastian Maddox, the canvas bag at his feet. Cradled in his arms was a skull. That of my late wife.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t parse out the jumbled cascade of emotions burbling within me. And doubted I ever would.
Instead, I just stared in disbelief at Maddox, his face unreadable, standing stolidly in the middle of the cage.
And then, in an angry rush, the flames roared up, advancing on the cage. Encircling it. As though they were the manifestation of his own private, unshakable demons. Seeking their due.
The three of us stood, unmoving, spellbound. Unable to speak. Even as the heat from the lake of fire pulsed against us, stinging our eyes, baking our skin.
Within moments, the cage—and the mad creature within it—were swallowed whole by the fiery inferno. If Sebastian Maddox cried out from the heart of this flaming pyre, or made any sound at all, I didn’t hear it.
Instead, what I did hear, far in the distance, was the wail of approaching sirens.
Chapter Forty-one
We had, as Sergeant Harry Polk pointed out, a lot of explaining to do.
It was less than an hour later, and he had Barnes, Gloria, and me sequestered in a well-appointed visitor’s alcove in the clinic’s reception area. Weirdly, it was bright as day. The uniformed cops, called to the scene by Barnes right after he’d summoned the ambulance, had turned on all the lights.
Soon afterwards, Polk and his partner Jerry Banks arrived, followed by two fire trucks that had also been called to the scene. The firefighters extinguished what few flames had yet to burn themselves out in the subterranean pool, and had remained on-scene to assess the situation. They were then joined by CSU techs and a young medico from the coroner’s office, tasked with dealing with what was left of Sebastian Maddox.
Now, arrayed on the absurdly luxurious couches, beneath framed plaques displaying awards that Ten Oaks had received from various civic organizations, we watched an incredulous Polk scratch his bristly chin. Midnight was not a good time for him.
“Okay,” he began in a weary tone. “Let’s get everybody sorted out.”
Lyle Barnes explained who he was and the nature of his involvement in the past week’s events, and then Gloria Reese did the same. When added to my own report, Polk had enough to get a general sense of what had happened.
“Y’ins all know how fucked-up this is, right?” He flipped his notebook closed. “I mean, each o’ ya will have to give more complete statements downtown, but just from what ya told me…”
He shook his head, then turned to me.
“So you’re the one who pulled Angie Villanova outta the river? And ya didn’t say nothin’ in the hospital room?”
“I told you, Harry. Maddox threatened to kill a lot of innocent people if we alerted the cops. Or the Feds. To prove it, he even did so…that drive-by shooting in Blawnox…”
He scowled. “Yeah. Well, as an old captain of mine used to say, tell it to the judge. Now, about tonight…”
I explained my plan to use entries from a fake journal that my late wife had supposedly kept to rattle Maddox. My thought was to disabuse him of the rightness of his mission of revenge, forcing him to decompensate. Lose control. Giving me enough leverage to stop, and, with any luck, subdue him.
“I wanted to use his own delusion against him,” I said. “Which is what triggered Maddox’s guilt. Made him hate himself for killing her. That’s why he cracked. When a person’s delusions are confirmed, and then a terrible outcome derives from its being true, it can be literally devastating.”
“That’s where I came in.” Gloria stirred. “While Lyle looked after Noah Frye, I found my way to the Clinic Director’s office and used the P.A. system’s mike to read those words Danny had written. Supposedly revealing to Maddox that Barbara had actually loved him, too, and regretted marrying Danny.”
I spoke again. “This way, Maddox would be in extreme internal conflict over the fact that he’d mistakenly killed her. And this would destabilize him. Which, hopefully, we could use to our advantage.”
Polk merely glared. “Uh-huh.”
Barnes laughed. “Yeah, I know, Sergeant. At first, I felt the same way.”
He turned to me. “By the way, Doc, you did a great job making it sound like Barbara thought you were an asshole.”
“It wasn’t that hard. She often did.”
A lame remark, I admit. But I have an excuse.
I was slowly going into shock.
l l l l l
For the next two nights, I woke up gasping, crying out. Disoriented, feverish, drenched in sweat. My fragmented dreams a kaleidoscope of vivid, excoriating images, replaying the horrors of the past week. The loss of life of friends and patients. The recurring, sickening experience of being trapped in a cage made from Barbara’s bones.
A cage, in my dreams, from which I never escape.
Of course, I recognized the symptoms. The hallmarks of severe trauma. I also knew that I needed help. So the first morning after the fire, before being picked up at my house and driven downtown to give my formal statement to the cops, I contacted my old therapist, Dr. Ricci. Luckily, he made room in his schedule to see me later that day.
Other than that required trip, I stayed alone in my house. Rarely eating, swallowing pain pills, and doing my best to tend to my physical wounds. These, I knew, would heal pretty quickly.
It was the wounds to my head that concerned me.
Yet, by the second day, after setting up some regular sessions with Dr. Ricci for the foreseeable future, I began to feel more or less all right. Just knowing I was starting toward some kind of equilibrium about what Maddox had wrought provided great solace.
Meanwhile, watching the story unfold on the local and national media, I was grateful for my self-imposed isolation. Every hour, more details about Sebastian Maddox’s bizarre reign of terror were revealed. How such seemingly unrelated deaths as those of Stephen Langley and Harvey Blalock were connected. How the kidnapping of young Robbie Palermo figured into Maddox’s plans. And what had actually happened to Pittsburgh PD’s own Angela Villanova.
Naturally, I was the focus of all these revelations. Which meant my phone rang constantly. Worried calls from colleagues and friends on my home answering machine, and from anxious patients on my office line. Requests for interviews from both local and national reporters.
At least, I recall thinking, there was a silver lining to having my cell phone in pieces and my laptop destroyed at the safe house: no flood of e-mails choking my inbox.
True, I had to contend with the army of media types camped out on my front lawn. On-scene reporters standing next to my Mustang, complaining to viewers about my unwillingness to be interviewed, or to take one step outside my house.
Soon enough, however, they tired of this waiting game and moved on to other stories. And, thankfully, other locations.
The only other piece of good news came at the end of the second day, when Harry Polk left a message about Lieutenant Biegler’s desire to get me booted from the Department. In the swirl of publicity about the Maddox affair, and with Chief Logan mentioning during a press conference his gratitude for my help in rescuing Angie, Biegler apparently felt it wise to refrain from going forward with his complaint.
Though relieved to hear it, I also knew that Biegler wouldn’t stop trying to damage me in the eyes of the Department brass. Fuck him. After what I’d just been through, I had more to worry about than the machinations of some ambitious creep.
I did, however, make two calls while sequestered at home, both to hospitals. First, I checked in about Noah’s condition at Pittsburgh Memorial. Despite his considerable blood loss, he was slowly recovering from his injuries. His hands would require surgery, after which he’d have to begin a regimen of physical therapy. Whether he’d ever regain full use of them was as yet too soon to determine. Especially with his being a pianist. The odds, the surgeon admitted, were markedly against him….
Charlene was in Noah’s hospital room, so after speaking with the doctor I asked to talk to her. She was holding up well, it seemed, though I could hear the tremor in her voice. She did report that Noah was once again on medication, and that his mental status was more or less within the acceptable range. Before hanging up, I made plans to come visit him tomorrow.
I got similar conflicted news from Dr. Hilvers regarding Angie’s condition. He was happy to report that her speech was improving. But as to the long-term effect of the paralysis on her left side, he once again demurred from making a prognosis. As I had with Charlene, I told him I’d check in on Angie personally the next day.
After finishing that second call, I sat back at my rolltop desk and let my grim thoughts arrange themselves.
Noah and Angie had each paid a heavy cost for Sebastian Maddox’s insane war against me. Though not as heavy as that borne by Stephen Langley and Harvey Blalock. And it was only dumb luck that rescued Robbie Palermo from a similar fate.
My last thought, though, was for Joy Steadman, whose vicious murder was the starting point for everything that followed. Her death was an unconscionable loss, and one whose echoes will stay with me for a long time.
The following morning, as I sat out on my rear deck, drinking black coffee and watching the sun break through the last lingering rain clouds, I heard a message being left on my answering machine inside.
It was Eleanor Lowrey, her voice laced with concern, asking how I was doing in the wake of all that had happened. And then saying that we should probably talk soon. About us.
While I was debating whether or not to pick up the phone, her message ended. Just as well. Given my state of mind, it wasn’t a conversation I was up to having at the moment.
l l l l l
By mid-morning, showered and dressed, I drove over to where Lyle Barnes and I had agreed to meet. It was a coffee place near his house in Franklin Park. He still owned that weary, sleep-deprived look, though his arm was no longer in a sling.
“Your reporter friend, Sam Weiss, keeps calling.” He frowned. “But I keep putting him off. Who needs that crap?”
I nodded. “He’ll probably want an exclusive with me, too, but knows me well enough to wait till the dust settles.”
“Has it settled?” His eyes found mine. “For you, I mean?”
“Not yet. But it will.”
We spoke about the past week’s events for a while, and then I asked for the check. I also suggested that Lyle consider resuming therapy with me for his night terrors.
“I’ll give it some thought, Doc. Though I’ve been sleeping pretty well the last couple nights. For me, at least. I knew I would, once we took down Maddox.”
When we were about to leave, he reached under his seat and brought up Barbara’s bound manuscript. Handed it to me.
“I was damned curious, but I didn’t read it,” he said. “I figured that the first look belonged to you.”
l l l l l
Gloria Reese closed the door of her office in the FBI building downtown and returned to her seat behind her desk.
After a long, welcoming hug when I first entered the room, she’d indicated the single chair facing her desk. I took it.
Like Barnes, Gloria seemed exhausted, her face drawn. Looking especially pale when contrasted with her business jacket and black slacks—the standard FBI outfit for female agents.
“Are things okay here?” I leaned forward. “I mean, with the Bureau. After what you did?”
“You mean, working a serious case off the books? Not informing my superiors about a mad killer at large? Endangering the lives of the public? Yeah, the Director loved all that.”
“So what’ll happen to you?”
“Could go either way. Given all the press coverage, they might be forced to give me a commendation. On the other hand, I might get sent back to Quantico for re-training.”
“I’m sorry you got caught up in all this, Gloria. Grateful for your help, bu
t still sorry.”
Her hand reached across the desk to take mine.
“I’m not. Though I’m not sure what happens next. With you and me, I mean.”
“Neither am I. But I’m willing to find out.”
And I was.
Chapter Forty-two
They held a memorial service for Harvey Blalock the next day at his neighborhood church. I was among the mourners, standing well back from the altar, where one after another of his friends, family members, and colleagues eulogized him. For whatever reason—perhaps out of consideration for Harvey’s wife and children—Lily Chen wasn’t in attendance.
When I walked outside, I was pleased to see that the skies above the city had cleared. Although it was still fairly cool, there was some comfort in feeling the sun on my face.
I was joined on the sidewalk by Chief Logan, Harry Polk, and District Attorney Leland Sinclair, as well as a number of local luminaries. Sober handshakes all around, and then, predictably, we scattered. As I left, I noticed the Mayor being bundled into a limo by his handlers. But, never one to miss a photo-op, only after he’d smiled for some upraised cameras.
In a matter of minutes, the rest of us left as well.
And life, as it always does, went on.
l l l l l
That night, I found myself where I’d been at the very beginning. Sitting on the sofa in my front room, whiskey in hand, flipping through the pages of the dossier. Scanning the reports, photos, and case notes that had started it all.
I noted, ruefully, that there was a symmetry to this that Sebastian Maddox would appreciate.
I drained my glass. Then got up, went into the bedroom, and opened the closet door. Placing the dossier on the top shelf, I pushed it as far to the back as it would go.
I doubted I’d ever want to open up that dossier again, but somehow I felt the need to keep it.
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