That stopped him. His mouth closed and his eyes went hard and dull, and for a moment he seemed to have forgotten about Darius in the corner of the room. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten about everything but me.
“I thought you’d like to know that much,” I said. “As far as Ken Merriman is concerned, well, I don’t need to give you any answers to that one. You already know them. Same story with Salvatore Bertoli. Cantrell . . . I thought you might be curious about that one. Twelve years is a long time to wonder.”
“I don’t know . . .” It was supposed to be another denial, but he let it die, wiped a hand over his mouth and stared at me and tried to decide what to say. It took maybe ten seconds. “All right. I’m not saying I know what you talking about, but go on and tell it, if that’s why you came down here. Go on and tell it.”
“You know the name Dominic Sanabria?” I said.
“I might’ve heard it.”
“Yeah, I thought so. He’d like you to do him a favor. Man like that can be a good person to do a favor for, you know?”
“I don’t owe him any favors.”
“No? He might argue that.”
It was quiet again for a while.
“Well,” he said, frustration showing again, “what is it, man? You got to say it.”
“Dominic’s sister has been gone for twelve years. Lot of people looked for her. Police, family, private detectives, reporters. By this time, it seems like if she had anything to say to anybody like that, she’d have said it. Don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ll tell you what she told me,” I said. “She has a new life now. Doesn’t want to leave it. Doesn’t want to come back here, to the questions and the attention.”
“Why you telling me that?”
“The favor that Dominic would like you to do,” I said, “is pretty simple. I’ll put you in touch with her. Get you a meeting. You explain to her that Dominic had nothing to do with her husband’s death. That’s all.”
I expected he might give me disbelief or confusion or anger—anything but acknowledgment—but instead of speaking, he just looked at me for a long time. When he broke that silence, it wasn’t with an argument. It was a question, spoken soft and cold.
“Who are you?”
“You saw the name.”
“Name don’t mean shit to me.”
“Here’s all you need to know about me—I came here with an offer from Dominic. You’ve heard it. You going to take it?”
All I wanted now was out. The recorder was running, I had this whole conversation, and I could set up the meeting with Alexandra. There’d be plenty more than Alexandra there, more wires and more cops and a pair of handcuffs ready to fit around Cash Neloms’s wrists. I was close now; I just needed to get it done and get the hell out. I just needed to make it through the door.
“Sure,” Cash said after a pause. “I’ll take it, man.”
He was so casual when he said it, his face so utterly relaxed, that if I hadn’t been reminding myself to be ready to move if he looked at Darius again I would’ve died immediately. As it was, I’d been ready for the look, and when he turned to Darius I was already rising, made it out of my chair before Darius lifted the gun.
I reached under my jacket for the Beretta, and I ran straight for Cash and the swinging door to the garage beyond. I was hoping to get behind him or at least close enough to him that Darius wouldn’t fire, but that was a hopeless idea; it simply doesn’t take that long to lift a gun and pull the trigger.
Darius fired before I cleared my gun, and the bullet hit me on the right side, hit me like the thrust of a metal stake that had been forged to a glowing red heat. The force of it knocked me forward, and his second shot missed high as I fell into Cash Neloms’s legs.
I didn’t hit him hard, or even intentionally—I was just trying to make it to the door. My weight caught him around the knees, though, and while he didn’t go to the floor he did fall backward into the wall, and for a brief moment we were entangled. He came off the wall with his hands reaching for my throat, and by leaning over me like that he blocked any chance of his uncle finishing me off with another shot. By then I had my gun out, and I twisted as his hands clawed at my neck. I saw nothing but the metal desk and Darius Neloms’s feet and legs beneath it, but that gave me something to shoot at. I fired once, saw a spray of red burst out of the back of his calf and heard him scream, and then I shoved through Cash Neloms’s legs and toward the swinging door that led to the garage. He slammed a punch into the back of my neck and tore at my hand as I went by, and the Beretta came loose and hit the floor. It spun away from me, back toward the desk, but I ignored it and kept scrambling forward. Then I was out of the office and onto the cold concrete floor of the garage. I kicked the swinging door backward as I went, heard it hit something, and then another shot was fired and I felt a second searing pain burn across my thigh.
It was dark in the garage, the doors down and the light off, and I rolled away and hit something that fell all around me, didn’t realize until I touched one of them that I’d knocked over a stack of hubcaps. I pulled myself back with my hands, got my torso into an upright position, legs stretched out in front of me, and then I reached behind my back and removed the Glock from its holster. I was slow getting it out, but when Cash Neloms stepped through the door and into the garage, with a gun in his hand, he turned to the left first, reaching for the light switch, thinking that I was now unarmed.
I lifted the Glock and fired twice.
When he dropped, he went backward into the door and it swung open and his head and shoulders fell into the office, nothing of him left visible in the garage but his legs. They moved for a few seconds, heels scraping on the concrete, trying to get upright, and then they went still and it was quiet.
I sat in the pile of hubcaps with the Glock still pointed at the door and waited for Darius. It was hard to hold the gun up now, and the door seemed to be dancing in front of me, waving and undulating and blending with the shadows. I heard motion and fired again before realizing it had been the front door. Darius had just left the office and gone outside. He’d be coming around from a different direction, entering through a different door. I had no idea which way to look. It was his garage. He knew the layout and I did not and it was becoming hard to sit upright and hard to see.
The Glock dropped to my lap, not a mental decision but a physical one, my body giving out, and I twisted onto my side and reached into my pocket for my cell phone. It took two tries to get it out of my pocket. My fingers were slick with warm wet blood.
I got the phone out and open and then I dialed and spoke into it. I could not remember the address where I was, or even the road. All I could tell them was that I’d been shot and Darius was coming back for me. Several times, I said that I did not know what door he would use. That I would not be ready for him when he came.
The phone slid out of my fingers then and bounced off the concrete floor. I could not make myself reach for it even though it was close. There was blood in my mouth now and a terrible high hum in my ears and I could not reach for the phone or lift the gun.
I never heard the sirens.
44
__________
The paramedics found the recorder and gave it to the police. When they listened to that and heard what Joe had to say, it wasn’t hard to piece together what had happened. That was good, because I wasn’t in any condition to talk.
By the time I got out of surgery, the first media report had leaked, and Alvin “Cash” Neloms was being identified as the alleged killer of Joshua Cantrell. Mike London and John Dunbar were called into the investigation. Quinn Graham drove in from Pennsylvania. The tape was solid, but there was no confession. They needed more. It was Graham who suggested they focus on Ken Merriman, the freshest case and the one that had the best potential for evidence. They found a variety of weapons while searching the properties affiliated with Cash and Darius Neloms, including a handgun and ammunition that were pro
bable matches for Ken’s shooting. They would later be proved conclusive matches.
All my concern over Darius Neloms and his unknown path of reentry into the garage turned out to be unnecessary—he’d tried to leave when he saw his nephew fall dead through the door into the office. Dragged his wounded leg along with him and went out and got into his Cadillac and drove away. About two minutes and ten blocks away, he passed out from pain and blood loss and drove up onto the sidewalk and into a telephone pole. They arrested him when he got out of surgery.
By the time the paramedics found me, I was unconscious and in shock. They didn’t get me stabilized until I was at MetroHealth’s trauma center, the same hospital that had saved Joe. In fact, I had the same surgeon, a Dr. Crandall, who was one of the specialists on gunshot wounds. My surgery was about six hours shorter than Joe’s, though. Something he could hold over my head.
Oddly, the chest wound was the lesser of my troubles. Eight inches from being my end—if it goes in on the left side in the same position, you’re dead almost immediately, Dr. Crandall told me—but the bullet took a ludicrously forgiving trajectory and passed through me, leaving behind a broken rib and some minor soft tissue damage. If it had gone in on the left side, it would have blown right through my heart.
The leg wound, which came when Darius fired at me as I fell through the door and into the garage, was much more serious. The bullet did some arterial damage, and the only reason I didn’t bleed out before the EMTs arrived was that I was sitting upright and the wound was on the back of my leg, which offered some level of compression and slowed the bleeding. The crime scene photographs I saw later showed a spray of blood almost six feet from my body that had been released when I leaned onto my side to reach for my phone. If I hadn’t rolled back over, pressing the wound against the concrete floor, I would’ve lost consciousness before I ever got a word out to the 911 operator.
Fall on your ass, save your life. It was a hell of thing to think about.
It turned out there was actually some talk of arresting me, too. I was a civilian, not a cop, and I’d taken a life. We tend to call that murder. The only thing that allowed me to avoid at least preliminary charges was the recording, which supported my story.
I was coherent enough to watch TV on the second day, when I stared through a fog of medication and saw an old booking photo of Cash Neloms fill the screen. He was dead, the anchor explained, but still the focus of several ongoing homicide investigations.
He was dead.
It was over, then. Wasn’t it? I thought it was probably over.
No one heard from Alexandra Cantrell in the aftermath of the shootings.
They held me in the hospital for ten days. During that time I refused to see anyone except Amy, Joe, my sister, and the police. My sister, Jennifer, stayed for five days, the longest visit she’d had since she moved from South Bend to Seattle, and the first time she’d met Amy. The two of them seemed to get along well.
Gena came into town, too, and I was happy to hear that. I didn’t find out she’d been there until the day she left—Joe told me he’d explained to her that I didn’t want a large audience. That rule hadn’t applied to her, but it was just like Joe to quietly respect it, no matter what. It was good to know she’d come when he needed her.
I spent a lot of those days asleep. The right kind of drugs will do that to you. I woke once and heard Amy crying in the chair by my bed, but something told me that I should not open my eyes, should not disrupt her. I listened to her cry, and after a while she stopped and reached out and put her hand on my arm, and then I fell asleep again.
Calls came in constantly, most of them from the media. A few other friends tried to call or stop by, and Amy told me that Parker Harrison had come by on three occasions and been turned away. He was holding a card each time, she said, but he would not leave it with the receptionists or with her.
An insider account of the shootings and the crimes that had led to them was released during my hospital stay. It included significant details but was largely unattributed, most of it laid at the feet of “an unnamed source close to the situation.” Amy was the source. I’d told her that I wanted to get as much of the detail out as possible, and have it done as early as possible. I also didn’t want to give any interviews. That wasn’t the sort of balance that pleases the media, but she leaked the story to the right people, people she trusted, and they did the rest.
Darius Neloms was charged with attempted murder. We heard that his attorney would attempt a counterclaim alleging that I had fired first. Amy was worried about that. I told her we’d deal with it when it came. Then Darius and his attorney listened to the tape, and evidently found it more conclusive than they had hoped. By my fourth day in the hospital they were negotiating with prosecutors, suggesting that Darius could produce evidence proving his nephew was indeed the murderer of Cantrell, Bertoli, Ken Merriman, and others. Blood ties meant a great deal to Darius until he was in jail and his nephew was dead, it seemed.
According to Darius, Salvatore Bertoli had sought Cash out to warn him of Joshua Cantrell’s attempts to get information about the murder of Johnny DiPietro. Bertoli still believed Cash Neloms to be a friend. In exchange for the warning, Cash killed him and then Cantrell. Housekeeping. His was a different world by the time Bertoli got out of prison; he had an empire to protect, and one did not rule an empire with a soft touch.
While all of this was the focus for me, the police and prosecutors were more interested in what Darius had to say about his nephew’s associates. Cash was dead—his network was not. Mike London told me that he was hearing Darius might get a hell of a deal if he rolled on enough people.
I didn’t know how to feel about that.
Joe was around often, but he wasn’t himself. Anytime he spoke, it tended to be to make a joke, things like suggesting he and I be the stars of a TV commercial for MetroHealth’s trauma unit. It was a forced sort of good humor, and while I knew he was worried about my condition, I also sensed something else in the quiet that filled in the spaces between jokes. He was angry.
It wasn’t until the day before my release that he was in the hospital room alone with me. Always before Amy had been around, or my sister, or a cop or a nurse. That afternoon, though, Amy had left for a few hours, my sister was on a plane for Seattle, and the cops and nurses had other concerns. Joe sat in the chair under the window. We talked for a few minutes before he lost that false comedic air.
“This is how you like it, right?” He waved at the bed, at the monitors around me.
I smiled. “Sure. My bed at home doesn’t have any of this stuff.”
He wasn’t smiling. “You’re okay lying in that bed with me in the chair next to it. That’s all right with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said—it’s fine with you if you’re in the bed and I’m on my feet. Just like you were okay going to see Alvin Neloms alone, nobody aware of what you were doing, because I wasn’t there, Amy wasn’t there, nobody you care about was there.”
“What are you talking about, Joe?”
“You think that if there’s nobody around you, then there’s nothing for you to fear. If nobody gets hurt but you, then who cares, right? You can deal with that. You can’t deal with the other.”
“I have dealt with the other.”
“Not too well,” he said. “Not too well.”
I twisted my head on the pillow, turned away from his gaze.
“You sent me home,” he said, “and then went back over there alone. Why?”
I didn’t answer.
“We could have talked to Darius,” he said. “It’s what we’d gone over there to do. Then you backed off, said it was a bad idea, that we should pass it to Graham. Told me that, went home and said the same thing to Amy, and then loaded your guns and went back alone, without a word to anyone. I’d like you to explain why you did that.”
I reached up and rubbed between my eyes, sucked in a gasp of pain at the movement. It st
ill caught me off guard. I’d spent six days lying here with nothing to think about but the damage the bullets had left behind, and still the pain caught me off guard.
“I guess you’re not going to explain why you did it,” Joe said. “So I’ll go ahead and explain for you. You went down there alone because you’re afraid for everybody around you, and not yourself. It’s so much easier to isolate yourself, right? Nobody to worry about then. Well, there are a handful of people—poor misguided souls like Amy, like me—who would tell you that’s a pretty damn selfish idea.”
“You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner. Should have been a doctor, maybe a chaplain.”
“I’m not worried about my bedside manner,” he said. “You’re fine. Took two bullets. I’ve taken two of them myself. So if you expect me to sit here and sponge off your forehead, forget it. You’ll get better. You’re getting better.”
I turned back to him. “What do you want me to say, Joe? Apologize for not bringing you along to get shot again?”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to understand something.”
“What’s that?”
“What you’re doing to yourself, LP.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Let me ask you this. Why’d you decide to quit the job back in the summer?”
“I told you—I was tired.”
“Tired of what?”
“Everything.”
“No. You gave me the phrase, said it right to my face—collateral damage. Ken Merriman got killed, and it was too much. After what had happened to Amy, what had happened to me, it was too much. I understood that. Amy understood that. So we supported you, didn’t question it, let you quit. I didn’t think it was the right thing for you to do, but I—”
“You had already quit, Joe. Don’t remember that?”
“I’m also sixty-two years old! I did thirty years as a cop; you did five. Don’t see any differences there?”
Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
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