by David Hosp
Kozlowski took a few running steps after the van, drawing his own gun. “Koz!” Finn shouted. The ex-cop turned around. “Forget him, he’s not our problem! We’ve got to get to Sally and Devon!”
Finn ran to the edge of the river, looking down into the black water. He could see nothing. The wind off the shore churned the river, and he couldn’t even tell for sure where Sally and Devon had gone in. He looked behind him and saw Kozlowski hesitating. “Koz, I need your help!”
“I can’t swim!” Kozlowski yelled back.
“You don’t have to; you need to help us out when I find them!”
Kozlowski took one last look at the back of the van as it sped away. Finn could see that the cop in him wanted to give chase. He’d been a police officer for too long for the instinct to die. After a moment, though, he pulled himself away and ran to the river wall where Finn was standing.
“You better be here when I come up!” Finn told him. Then he jumped into the frigid river without waiting for a response.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It all went so fast, Sally didn’t know what was happening. One moment she was looking at her father; the next she was airborne—twisting the way people fall in dreams, waiting for an impact that seemed never to come. Her hands were wrapped in tape, and paddled the air as she turned over and over in the fall. If it truly had been a dream, she would have woken with a start, heart racing, hands shaking as she breathed deeply to calm herself to a point where she might be able to get back to sleep.
She wasn’t dreaming, though.
When she hit the water, she experienced a pain greater than she’d known in her life. She went in headfirst, and as her forehead made contact, she thought she’d hit cement. Her neck snapped back, and it felt as if she’d been hit with a baseball bat. Next she felt the water. It spread out from her head down to her shoulders, and then engulfed her. She thought for a moment it was blood, spilling from a gash on her head, burning her with an icy-hot fire as it ran like a waterfall from what she could only assume was a mortal wound. It wasn’t until her lungs expanded that she realized what had happened, and then the panic truly set in. Her mouth was gagged, and as she breathed in reflexively the water flooded into her nostrils, through her sinus passages, and down her windpipe into her lungs. The sensation sent her body into spasms, her inability to breathe intensifying her body’s desperation. She involuntary gasped for more air. It was a vicious, self-reinforcing cycle.
In that moment she went under she knew she was going to die. She felt her life ripped away with complete certainty, and she experienced a torrent of memories and emotions. They assaulted her, violent and unbearable. She fought against them, thrashing back and forth as they closed in on her. Finally she gave in, and her body went still. She’d fought her entire life, but at that moment the fight was too much for her; at last she let herself drift with the current of the river.
Stone and Sanchez heard the shooting. “We gotta get in there,” Stone said. He started the car, but left the lights off.
Sanchez looked over toward the car where Hewitt and the other FBI agent sat. They were closer to the building, closer to the drive that wound around toward the back, in the direction from which the gunshots had come. Sanchez was hoping they would be moving in that direction, so she and Stone could maintain their surveillance—not only of Finn and his crew, but of the FBI as well. Hewitt and the other agent gave no sign of moving, though.
“What are they doing?” Sanchez asked no one in particular.
“They’re not doing a goddamned thing,” Stone said. “We’ve got to move.”
Sanchez still hesitated.
“C’mon, boss. We’ve got to get in there.”
Finally she nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”
Stone hit the gas. As he pulled out from the parking space he flipped the switch on the portable flashing light and reached out to put it on the roof of the car. Then he grabbed the wheel with both hands and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. They sped down along the side of the building, accelerating as they approached the corner near the river’s edge. As they neared the end of the drive, they passed the two FBI agents, still parked. Sanchez looked over at them, saw their faces illuminated in blue by the flashing light on top of the car, stretched in shock.
She turned her attention back to the assault. They were just about at the corner of the building when she pulled out her gun and readied herself for the confrontation.
When Liam’s foot hit the gas pedal, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was done: Malley and his people would be busy trying to save the girl, and Liam had the paintings. His mission was complete. He had succeeded.
He was still unsure how he would get the paintings out of the country; he didn’t even know where he would spend the night. He couldn’t return to the house in Quincy; the girl was probably dead, but he couldn’t take that chance—if she survived, the place was compromised. These were problems he could deal with, however. There were enough people in Boston still loyal to the cause. As for getting the paintings out of the country, it had been twenty years; the investigative pressure that had prevented Bulger from getting them out of the country two decades earlier was surely gone. Once his superiors learned that the mission had been successful, they would make sure that the paintings made it to Ireland.
He was thinking through his plans and gathering speed as he came around the corner of the building. He could do nothing when the car appeared in front of him.
He saw the flashing blue light first, and he instinctively hit the brakes with both feet. There was no way to avoid the collision, though; the police car was coming around the corner at full speed. He let out a scream of rage as he saw the front of the onrushing car disappear underneath his bumper. He could feel the van ride up onto the hood as it crumpled in toward the two silhouettes in the front seat. He saw them for only a split second before the air bags deployed in the van, and he was thrown back into the seat. It felt as though his nose was broken, but he ignored it. He was too angry to feel pain.
He flailed at the air bag with his arms, buying enough space to get out of the van. The door was bent, and he had to throw his shoulder against it before it gave way.
His mind was churning, assessing his situation. He had to deal with one issue at a time, and the first priority was making sure the police officers in the car were dead. If they survived, he would lose whatever head start he had, and law enforcement would be on him before he could move the paintings. Once they were dispatched, he could figure out his transportation problem—his van was totaled.
He staggered out of the van, looking back briefly to make sure the box with the paintings was still intact. That it was gave him a renewed sense of hope and urgency.
His head was throbbing as he walked around the front of the van and looked into the front seat of the unmarked police car. There were two of them, and they were shaken, but alive. The woman in the passenger’s seat looked a little older than Liam. She was shaking her head, trying to regain her bearings. She looked up at him, confusion on her face. A younger man was in the driver’s seat next to her, already struggling to free himself from the air bag. The steering wheel was bent forward and looked as though it had been pushed back toward him, though it didn’t appear that it had gone far enough to cause any bodily damage. Instead, it just hindered his efforts to get out of the car.
Liam raised his gun and pointed it at the woman. She looked at him through the cracked window, comprehension coming to her slowly through the fog of the crash. Then she shouted, “No!”
A gunshot rang out, and the woman jumped. She didn’t struggle against the pain, though, and now it was Liam who was confused. He looked down at his gun and saw that he hadn’t pulled the trigger. The gun was still held aloft, and it seemed to have tripled in weight. He looked at the woman in the car with consternation, and raised his gun slightly with great effort.
A second gunshot rang out, and this time the force of impact spun Liam on his axis. He was knocked back onto the
hood of the unmarked police car, facing the rear of the car. He could see a large black man twenty feet from him, pointing a gun at his head. “Don’t move!” the man said.
Liam looked down and saw two dark stains on his shirt: one on his left shoulder, one on his chest. Only then did he realize that he’d been shot. “You bastard,” he said. His breath was weak, and it came out as a whisper. He struggled to get more air in his lungs. He looked up at the man. He was advancing, his gun still leveled. Liam realized he still had his gun in his hand and he raised it, pointing it at the man with the gun. “You bastard!” He shouted it this time as he went to pull the trigger.
He never felt the third shot. It hit him just above the right eye socket, shattering his ocular ridge and traveling through his brain before blowing out the back of his skull. His body slumped back onto what was left of the hood of the police car, and then slid to the ground, leaving a deep red stain in its wake.
The FBI agent who had shot him moved forward and nudged him with a toe, just to make sure he was dead. There could be no doubt.
His mission was over.
Finn wasn’t expecting the cold. He jumped before he had time to think, and when he hit the water all the muscles in his body seemed to contract at once. His head popped out of the water and he took a second to orient himself. He took a deep breath and pushed himself under, swimming down with all his strength.
His eyes were open underneath the water, but they were useless. He could see nothing. So, instead of using his eyes, he used every other part of his body, flailing about with his arms and legs, hoping to knock into Devon or Sally. It seemed like a pointless strategy, but he had nothing else, so he kept it up. After a moment he surfaced again to take another breath, then went under again.
It didn’t take long for him to lose hope. He felt tiny and impotent in the water, and the odds of his finding either Sally or Devon seemed astronomical. Still, no matter how long the odds, he owed them every last chance.
As he rose to surface for the second time, his hand grazed something off to his left. He reached out in that direction, but as he did, he lost his wind, and accidentally sucked in a lungful of water. He swam up, breaking the surface, coughing and spitting. Somewhere in the distance he heard gunshots. He took another deep breath and dived in the direction of the object he’d felt.
It took only a few strokes under the water before he felt it again. He reached out and grabbed for it. A shoulder, he thought. He used both hands to inch along the limb until he could grab on to the arm. He pulled the body over, wrapped an arm around the neck, and then kicked with all his strength for the surface.
He knew it was Devon before he broke the surface—the body was too big to be Sally’s—and the realization was devastating. It had been several minutes since Sally had gone into the river. The chances of finding her now were gone. She was lost.
Finn paddled over toward the wall at the edge of the river. He could hear Devon spitting up water. “Koz!”
Kozlowski was nowhere to be seen.
“Koz!” he yelled again. “Where the hell are you?”
Kozlowski’s head appeared over the edge of the wall. “Here!” he yelled.
Finn worked his way over. “Pull him out,” Finn said. “I’m going back for Sally.” Finn grabbed on to the wall and pulled Devon over. Kozlowski reached over the wall and took hold of his arm. Devon’s eyes were closed, and he was still choking on water. His face looked ghostly white.
“No,” he spat out. “Sally!”
“I’m going back for her,” Finn said.
“Please!”
“I’ll do everything I can to find her,” Finn said. “I swear.”
Kozlowski started pulling on Devon’s arm, lifting him from the water.
“No!” Devon said one more time. His eyes opened, and he looked at Finn. “Get her out first.”
Finn looked at him, not comprehending. Then his eyes followed the path down Devon’s other arm—the one still dangling in the water—and saw that his hand was grasping a wrist just under the water. A small hand extended from his grasp, and the arm disappeared into the black water.
Finn reached out and grabbed hold just below Devon’s hand and pulled. He could feel the body moving fluidly. “Take her!” Finn shouted to Kozlowski.
Kozlowski let go of Devon and reached over the wall, grabbing hold of Sally’s arm. He hoisted her up as if she were a toy. Devon slipped under the water briefly when Kozlowski let him go, but Finn grabbed him and held him afloat. A moment later Kozlowski appeared again and reached down to pull Devon over the wall.
Finn was left alone, and he clung to the stone wall that kept the river in its place. He was breathing hard, shivering against the cold. After what seemed like an eternity, Kozlowski grabbed hold of his arm, and he felt himself lifted up out of the water.
Chapter Forty
Finn was last out of the water, and as he flipped over the river wall he looked frantically for Sally. She was lying a few feet away on her back, her face bluish-white and bloated. Duct tape still held her mouth shut. She wasn’t breathing.
Devon was lying a few feet away, gasping for breath. “I’m okay,” Devon said. “Help her.”
Kozlowski was already at work, pulling the tape off her mouth and rolling her on her side. As the tape was released, water spouted from her mouth. Kozlowski put his huge hand on her abdomen and thrust it in and up, releasing another wave.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Finn asked.
“Sort of.”
He rolled her on her back and put his head to her chest to listen for a heartbeat. “Nothing.” He put his hands together and started a round of CPR, pressing heavily on her sternum several times, then tipping her head back and breathing into her mouth.
“What’s happening?” Devon asked, his view blocked. “Is she all right?”
“Not yet,” Finn said.
“Oh God, please do something!”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Finn said. “She was in the water for a long time.” He watched as Kozlowski continued the process for several minutes, working back and forth between pumping her chest and breathing into her mouth. At one point Kozlowski looked back at him and shook his head. Finn dug into his pocket for his phone, but the water had ruined it. He looked up and was surprised to see Detectives Sanchez and Stone watching from nearby. Behind them he could see the wreckage of the white van. Hewitt and Porter were looking it over, trying to get the back doors opened. Finn’s first instinct was to ask them what had happened—how they got there, and what had happened to Kilbranish—but instead he said simply, “Call an ambulance.”
“They’re on their way,” Sanchez responded. Looking down at Kozlowski she asked, “Will she be all right?”
“I don’t know,” Finn replied.
As he spoke, he heard Sally cough, and her body convulsed, rolling to the side, spitting up what seemed like gallons of water. Kozlowski sat up and looked at her. She went still again, then spasmed once more, retching as her body tried to expel more of the river. After another moment she took a breath, and the flow of air caused a horrid coughing fit. Finn put his hands on his knees and nearly collapsed.
“Is she okay?” Devon demanded.
Finn looked at Kozlowski, who nodded. Devon looked relieved, but his face remained ashen. He was leaning over on his side, supporting himself on one elbow. He looked strangely frail. “Are you okay?” Finn asked.
“I’m fine. Just a little out of breath is all.”
“Me too,” Finn said. Devon looked more than winded, though, and Finn moved over toward him. Devon’s arm was draped across his chest. As Finn drew near he could see a dark stain spreading over his shirt. “Shit, Devon,” he said. “You’re shot.”
Devon looked down at his shirt; there was no surprise on his face. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just need to catch my breath.” He smiled as he spoke, but his eyelids were fluttering unsteadily.
Finn turned to Stone. “Where the hell is th
e fucking ambulance!” he shouted.
Hewitt could hear the commotion over by the water. He was tempted to walk over to see what was happening, maybe even offer to help, but couldn’t; he needed to keep an eye on Porter. He seemed to have lost his grip on reality. He was tugging at the back doors to the van, yelling, “They’re in here! I know it, they’re in here!” The door wouldn’t open for him, though.
Hewitt put his hand on Porter’s shoulder. “It’s jammed,” he said. “Accident crew’ll be here in a minute; they’ll get it opened.”
Porter spun on him and slapped his hand away. His eyes were wide. “A minute? Don’t you understand? The paintings are here! We’ve found them. Help me get these goddamned doors opened!”
Hewitt hesitated.
“Come on, goddammit!” Porter shouted at him. “Help me!”
Hewitt stepped forward and gave a pull on the doors. They didn’t open, but they creaked and groaned angrily; he weighed at least twice as much as Porter. He gave another tug, this time throwing his back into the effort.
The doors swung open, nearly knocking Porter to the ground. He dodged them and scrambled up to look inside, and saw a large wooden box. “They must be inside,” Porter said. “Help me get this down.”
Hewitt reached forward and the two of them unloaded it. Porter circled the container as if he were trying to seduce it. “We’re about to make history,” he said. Porter found the brass clasp on the front end of the box and flipped the latch. He paused for a moment, the door still closed, breathing heavily. Then he threw the door open.
“No,” he said.
Hewitt couldn’t see into the box; Porter was blocking the way. “What?”
“No!” He yelled it this time; screamed it.
“What is it?” Hewitt said.
Porter turned around. Any hint of sanity was gone. He looked desperate and shattered. “It’s empty!” he screamed. “It’s fucking empty!”