Detective Knauer put his notebook away. “We can start with the description of the woman. I’ll have some men ask around your office, see if they can add anything to it. It’s doubtful we can pursue anything about Mr. Corcoran. He was cremated, yes?”
Amy looked at her feet and said, “Yes.”
Knauer nodded. “That rules out an autopsy.”
“So basically there’s nothing we can do,” Patrick said.
“I didn’t say that,” Knauer said. “Like I mentioned earlier, we’ll check in on you periodically, have a cruiser patrol the area. And we’ll try for more testimony at your place of work—try and get a better description of the woman.”
Patrick wanted to laugh in the detective’s face. From the moment his family encountered the bastards back in Crescent Lake they were already two sizeable steps behind, playing their twisted little game without an invite. Why would it be any different now?
No more doubt.
No more chalking it all up to bad luck.
Call him the most paranoid man on earth, but from now on Patrick’s gut was better than any possible evidence the police could unearth. His gut was everything.
“Fine,” Patrick said. He shook the detective’s hand and thanked him but meant none of it. Let them ask questions at the office. Let them patrol the area and pop in from time to time. He knew it would amount to nothing—Arty was pulling the strings, and his puppets seemed exceptionally capable. Initially, Patrick almost insisted they go right to the source and sweat Arty until he bled the truth. But he knew that would be futile—Arty would assuredly deny everything, feign ignorance. And most importantly, the son of a bitch would love it. He would love being so intimately involved, to know the Lamberts were suffering still. Patrick would not give the prick the satisfaction.
“You’re going to court on Monday, yes?” the detective asked as Patrick and Amy led him to the front door.
“Yes,” Patrick said. “We’re leaving tomorrow. Going to stay the night.”
“I suggest you focus on that,” Knauer said. “Once he’s convicted, and he will be convicted, then I can assure you he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars. Graterford Prison is rough. Maybe you can take some delight in knowing that he’ll be receiving some serious karma from his fellow inmates.” Knauer smiled and winked.
Patrick’s face remained grave while he opened the front door for the detective. “They can send him anywhere they want. It won’t matter.”
Detective Knauer sighed as he stepped outside. “We’ll find whoever’s responsible, Mr. Lambert.”
“Good luck.” Patrick closed the door.
53
Patrick and Amy arrived in Pittsburgh just after seven on Sunday night. Previously, they had arranged for the kids to stay with Patrick’s parents. Now it was out of the question. Patrick and Amy wanted their children with them at all times.
They were greeted at the hotel soon after their arrival by two officers from the Allegheny County Police Department. The officers were scheduled to work in shifts standing guard outside the Lambert’s hotel door. A part of Patrick wished this crazy bitch and big guy would show that night and the officers would shoot them dead.
If there really is a crazy bitch and big guy out there doing Arty’s bidding, a sliver of his paranoia said.
“No,” he whispered to himself. “There is. There is.”
• • •
Sleep seemed almost laughable. Still, they managed some. Patrick was awake by six, Amy stirred moments later. The kids remained out cold.
The couple dressed quietly, speaking in whispers. Carrie eventually woke at seven. Caleb stayed zonked.
“We should wake him,” Amy said to Patrick. “I want to get them a little something to eat before we leave.” The plan was to leave the kids in police custody while Patrick and Amy were in court, and Amy wasn’t sure the police would have the presence of mind to feed her kids while they were gone. Chips and soda from a vending machine maybe, but Amy wanted at least one proper meal in their bellies before she and Patrick returned—whenever that would be.
Carrie overheard her mother’s suggestion about waking her brother and instantly yelled at Caleb to get up. Amy tweaked her daughter’s ear and told her to be nice.
“Go brush your teeth,” she told them both once Caleb was on his feet.
Patrick nudged Amy to the far corner of the hotel room, out of earshot. “How do you feel?”
“Nervous,” she said. “I don’t want to see him again.”
“Remember, baby: the final fuck you. We look that bastard dead in the eye and let him know we won.”
“Did we?”
“Yes. To hell with what’s going on now. To hell with it. We don’t let him see any of our grief; we don’t give him the satisfaction. We can do this, baby. We beat him once and we will do it again.” He then flashed a devilish smirk. “Hell, I’m even starting to look forward to it.”
Amy hugged him. Patrick lowered his lips to her ear. “The final fuck you, baby. Just like we planned. He’s just a man. A sick, pathetic man … and he messed with the wrong goddamned family.”
Amy hugged harder. Patrick kissed the top of her head. “We can do this, baby.”
• • •
The Lamberts exited the hotel room and were immediately greeted by two officers. Good mornings without smiles were exchanged. The officers then led the family down the hall towards the elevators, a man in front, one bringing up the rear. Once everyone was safely piled inside, one of the officers hit the lobby button, the doors closed, and the elevator hitched before descending.
“Makes my belly feel funny,” Carrie said.
One of the officers looked down at her and smiled.
The number eight on the panel above glowed.
Seven glowed.
Six.
Five.
Four.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. A young man and girl. The officers told them to please wait for the next lift. The officer hit the lobby button again.
Three.
Two.
The elevator stopped again. One of the officers grumbled under his breath. The doors opened. No one was there. An officer poked his head out, looked left and right.
Nothing.
The officer came back inside the lift and shrugged, went to hit the lobby button once again but stopped. The radio on his shoulder had started to crackle then screech. Caleb jumped and Carrie held her ears.
The officer adjusted a dial, tilted his chin towards the radio and clicked it. “Go ahead.”
The voice came back stern and sharp. “What’s your position?”
“Coming down in the elevator now. Stopped on the second floor.”
“Take them back up to the room. Do it now.”
The officer frowned. “Say again, sir?”
“Take them back up to the room now. You’ve got backup coming up the stairwell. Feds are on their way.”
“Feds? Sir, what’s the FBI—?”
“Do it now.”
“Roger that.” The officer let go of his radio and pushed the button for the ninth floor. The doors closed.
Patrick said, “What’s going on? Why is the FBI on their way?”
The officer flipped the snap on his holster and gripped the handle of his gun. He looked at Patrick and said: “I have no idea.”
54
Earlier
6 A.M. Monday morning. Arthur Fannelli was still on his cot, wrapped tight in a blanket. A heavy metallic thud echoed down the jail’s corridor. He rolled towards the wall. The sound of uniformed footsteps clacked closer until they stopped in front of his cell. Now two dings of a night stick on the cell bars.
“Rise and shine, Fannelli. Big day today.”
Arty stayed wrapped in his blanket and glanced over his shoulder. “You finally getting your GED?”
The officer cranked the key, slid the cell door open with a boom. “Fannelli, I really don’t want to have to explain how you slipped and fell—again�
��before your big day in court.”
Arty stayed put.
The officer entered the cell, began clinking his night stick against the metallic sink. “Last warning, Fannelli. You getting up?”
Arty rolled over, kicked off the blanket, sat up and yawned. He was already dressed—the orange jumpsuit given to him the night before.
“Good boy, Fannelli. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were almost eager to go and get your ass kicked up and down that court r—”
Arty hopped to his feet. The officer jumped back and raised his baton. Arty smirked, turned around and placed his hands behind his back to be cuffed.
The officer shoved Arty’s face into the wall as he cuffed him. “Yeah—you keep smiling, fuckface.”
• • •
The gray armored bus transporting Arthur Fannelli to court hit a bump in the road and the vehicle bounced.
“Whoa! Careful, fellas—I’m in no hurry,” Arty called from the cage in back. Both his hands and his feet were shackled. Outside the wire mesh cage sat three officers—one close to the cage, one seated towards the front of the bus, one the driver. All but the driver held a shotgun in his lap.
The officer close to the cage glanced at Arty. “How can you sit there and smile?”
Arty shrugged, his cuffs clinking between his knees. “Just feels like a good day.”
The officer smirked. “All you freaks act tough … until they start carrying you away. Then you start cryin’ like the pussies you are.”
“Assuming I’m found guilty,” Arty said.
The officer snorted. “And you all think you’re gonna go free too. Delusional dipshits.”
Arty kept smiling.
The driver checked his side view mirror and muttered, “What the hell is this?”
The officer closest to the driver looked out the side window. “What does she think she’s doing?”
Arty strained forward until the cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles. Peering out the windows ahead and to his left, he caught a glimpse of a red sports car speeding next to the bus on the rural two lane road. He strained an inch further, glanced down and saw no dotted lines on the road for passing, just two parallel strips of solid yellow. The red sports car eventually passed the bus, then immediately sliced in front, disappearing from Arty’s view in a blink.
The bus driver hit the brakes and then his horn. “Stupid rich bitches,” he said. “Always in a hurry to get nowhere.”
“Should call it in,” the officer in front said. “Give her dumb ass a tick—”
The driver stomped the brakes and screamed: “BITCH!”
The bus screeched and swerved, nearly tipping to one side as it tried to stop its mass on a dime. The officer by the cage flew into the seat ahead of him. Arty rocked to one side, the cuffs biting deeper into his flesh.
The bus was stopped now, engine idling, all four men—Arty included—breathing heavily.
The officer in back spoke first. “The fuck is going on?!”
The officer in front stood, turned and faced the officer in back, shotgun held tight to his chest. “Some stupid bitch just pulled out in front of us, then hit her fucking—”
The officer’s forehead exploded.
Arty watched three more instantaneous pops, each one a tiny explosion of glass and blood. The driver took one in the head. The officer by the cage, the head and neck. All three men were dead. No question.
Arty’s breathing was erratic. This was it. This had to be it.
A small detonation at the front of the bus made Arty flinch. The door was now open. A slender woman appeared through a faint cloud of gray smoke. She pointed a pistol at the dead driver and shot him twice more, and then the officer in front twice more. She moved with a hurried calm towards Arty’s cage. The woman was wearing sunglasses. She took them off for a moment and winked at Arty. He grinned back.
His sister Monica bent and snatched the keys from the dead officer at her feet. She unlocked the cage and then her brother’s cuffs. She pumped two more bullets into the officer and then handed the gun to Arty. He pumped a third bullet into the dead officer, and then a fourth that made him laugh.
Monica smiled, took her brother’s hand and led him quickly down the bus’ aisle and out to the battered Dodge Dakota that was waiting for them. Monica got into the passenger’s seat, Arty in back where what looked like some kind of sniper-rifle lay at his feet.
“Dad,” Monica said to the driver. “I’d like you to meet your son, Arthur.”
55
The Lamberts’ hotel room on the ninth floor was crowded and noisy. FBI agents and Allegheny County officers walked in and out, their radios constantly crackling information, their chatter amongst themselves sometimes whispers, sometimes loud.
Arthur Fannelli had escaped his transport to court. He was loose. And he’d had help—professional help. A rookie cop on his first call would have spotted this truth after five minutes on the scene. Three officers of the Allegheny County Police had been murdered. The department wanted swift vengeance for their fallen comrades, however there were strong possibilities that Arthur and his accomplices had already crossed state lines. This meant the FBI. So in addition to the noise and chaos filtering in and out of the hotel room, a fog of resentment from the Allegheny County Police was in the air. It was why sometimes there were whispers and sometimes there weren’t—the officers whispered to one another (subtle sneers on their faces making one wonder why they bothered whispering at all); the agents spoke loud, establishing a sense of dominance and control over the situation, aware but indifferent to the officers’ disdain at their arrival. Patrick guessed they were more than used to it whenever they arrived to assist in an investigation.
Patrick also guessed something else, and it seemed to surprise Agent Chris Miller when Patrick voiced it.
“What makes you think he won’t cross state lines?” Miller asked.
“Because I know,” Patrick said.
Miller frowned. “You mind giving me a little more?”
“He wants us. He doesn’t want to hide.”
“Maybe. But he’ll want to hide for now.”
“For now,” Patrick said with a shrug. “But he’ll find us.” The initial panic was gone—for Patrick and Amy. A type of defense mechanism had kicked in. An acceptance of sorts. Not defeat, no. Just acceptance.
Agent Miller studied Patrick. Patrick stared right back, his expression calm and indifferent, almost bored. “If he does find you—” Miller began.
“He will,” Patrick said.
“—then we’ll be there to grab him.”
“Them.”
“Whomever. We will find them, and we will protect you and your family, Mr. Lambert. This is a whole new ball game now.”
“Amy!” Patrick called across the room. “Amy, come here a minute.”
Amy left Carrie and Caleb with one of the Allegheny County officers and joined her husband’s side.
“They’re going to protect us,” Patrick said. “Apparently it’s a whole new ball game now.”
Amy said, “That’s super!”
Miller let out a long breath, dropped his head and nodded slowly. “Look—I can’t even begin to imagine what you folks have been through—”
“No, you can’t,” Patrick interrupted, his demeanor still calm and certain. “But you go on ahead and do your job. You try and find the son of a bitch and his new buddies. And you try and protect us all you want; we won’t refuse. But if it’s all the same to you, I’m calling in an old friend.”
Miller said: “What?”
Amy said: “Who?”
Patrick said, “I’m calling Domino. If anyone can protect us from those psychopaths, it’s him.”
“Who’s Domino?” Miller asked.
“Any old buddy of mine. We played football together in high school. He went into the Marine Corps after that. He’s got his own security company now. He’s also the toughest motherfucker on Earth. I’m calling him.”
“We do
n’t need anyone impeding our investigation,” Miller said.
“He won’t be investigating. He’ll be protecting.”
“I told you, we’d do that,” Miller said.
Patrick gave the indifferent shrug again. “Sorry, Agent Miller, but your words offer little comfort.”
Miller let out another long breath. “Mr. Lambert, I appreciate your situation, and I understand your reluctance to trust—”
“No you don’t. You just admitted you didn’t a few minutes ago. Right now there are precious few people my family trusts.”
“But you’re willing to trust this Domino.”
“Yes,” Patrick said without pause.
“Mr. Lambert, we cannot have some rogue tough guy jeopardizing procedure. The people who pulled off this escape appear highly trained.”
“Domino’s hardly a rogue. He and his team are as professional as they come. Look him up: Domino Taylor.”
Miller shook his head. “It’s a bad idea.”
“I’m calling him,” Patrick insisted. “Right now I believe he’s the only man capable of protecting my family.”
Miller threw up his hands. “Alright … alright fine—it’s your dime though.”
“He won’t charge me a penny.”
“Just make sure he stays out of our way.”
“He will,” Patrick said. “In fact you’ll never know he’s there—not if he doesn’t want you to.”
• • •
Amy remembered Domino Taylor well. It was hard to forget such a man, even after the five years that had passed since he’d last been to the house. Amy had still been pregnant with Caleb then, and of all things impressive about the man, she would always remember his massive frame dropping to one knee so he could talk to Amy’s pregnant belly, the whites of his animated eyes heightened in his chocolate complexion, his voice a bass that shook items off tables in contrast to his gentle, nurturing words, telling Caleb he could not wait to meet him, could not wait for the day they could throw the football around together.
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