Then his peripheral vision caught a huge silhouette in the bedroom doorway.
“Matar!” Navarro yelled. Then lunged toward him.
One chance.
He pushed out with his left forearm, forcing the Doberman’s head back vertically, while simultaneously crashing his right forearm down like an axe against the back of the dog’s neck. He heard the snap, felt the jaws release. He kneed the dying creature hard, propelling it into the path of the charging giant. Navarro stumbled over its body, staggering toward him, off-balance.
He took a step forward to meet him, grabbed his huge, flailing left arm, then pivoted, pulling him and accelerating his forward momentum. The big man slammed head-first into the wall, sinking to his knees.
He snapped out a front kick; his boot caught the back of Navarro’s head, banging it again into the wall. Stunned, the guy slid farther down the wall—then stopped, propping himself with his huge arms, planted like quivering tree trunks on the floor.
He pivoted again and snapped out a side kick, this time against the guy’s left elbow. Heard the crunch. Navarro toppled, rolled over onto his back, then seized his elbow with his other hand and started screaming.
He stopped that by dropping on the guy’s throat with his knee. Navarro’s limbs shook and twitched.
He stood, swaying, and groped for the light switch on the wall near the door. Found and snapped it on.
With a crushed larynx, Navarro couldn’t breathe. The big man’s eyes bugged out; his bear-like right hand now pawed helplessly at this throat, his face turning blue. The twitching of his legs was slowing. He’d be unconscious in seconds. Then die.
Not that way.
He looked around, found the Beretta near the door. Went to Navarro and bent over him. The guy’s bulging eyes still tracked him.
“This is for Tommy Banacek, you bastard.” He stood back, aimed at his head, and pulled the trigger. Then shoved the gun back into the coat pocket, pulled out the newspaper clipping, and dropped it onto his chest.
Only then did he notice the rising din of shouts in the building. Of doors opening down the hallway. He leaped to the door and flipped the deadbolt back in place. Looked around the scene for anything he may have dropped. His hat. He picked it up and put it back on. What else?
That’s when he saw the spatters of blood.
He looked at his left arm for the first time. The leather was stained dark; a trickle flowed from the end of the sleeve, dripping onto the floor and into his glove.
His blood. His DNA.
Not good.
Elevating the arm, which hurt like hell, he pawed his coat open with his other hand. A zippered pouch was sewn inside. He yanked open the zipper, drew out a small spray bottle from among its other contents. Then crouched and began to spray the blood drops everywhere he saw them.
Excited voices at the door, now, babbling in Spanish.
He wheeled around, bloody arm pressed against his body, looking everywhere for stains he’d missed. Found a few more and sprayed.
Knocking. “Orlando? ¿Estás bien amigo?”
He had to get out. Now.
He shoved the bottle back into the coat pouch. Killed the lights again. In the glow from the bedroom, he jumped over the dog’s body, then headed over there and flipped off those lights, too. The whole place was dark, now.
Somebody rattling the doorknob, then pounding the door. “Orlando! Abre la puerta!”
He ran to the sliding glass door at the front of the apartment. Unlatched and yanked it open, went outside onto the second-floor patio balcony. Felt the clamminess in his left glove. If he touched anything, he’d leave blood traces. If he removed it, he’d leave fingerprints. He scanned the yard below him. He’d have to get down from here one-handed.
He waited until a car passed on the street, then clambered awkwardly over the iron railing. Holding on with his right hand, he knelt at the edge. Then gripping the bottom of the railing one-handed, he let one leg at a time slide over the edge. He dangled a second, then let go.
He landed in a half-roll, holding his left arm crushed against his body, hoping like hell that he wouldn’t leave blood on the grass. Rising to his feet, he ran in a crouch, staying in the shadows close to the wall, then darting around the corner. He slowed to a walk as he approached the parking area. Heard muted shouts from somewhere inside the building.
Crossing the small lot at a steady pace, he kept his head down under the lights until he reached the SUV. He climbed inside, pulled the door shut.
Then grunted under the searing pain. He’d forgotten and used his left hand.
He put the idling vehicle in gear and pulled away, driving and shifting clumsily, one-handed, relieved only that it was his left arm that was damaged, not his right.
So it was Navarro’s Doberman, after all. Probably paid the kid to walk the dog, so that he could stay inside. Where he thought he’d be safe.
He had to put a few miles behind him before digging into the first-aid kit. But he knew the dog had inflicted some real damage. His forearm felt ripped to hell, maybe some torn tendons in there. It would require professional attention. He had to get to a doctor, pronto. The right kind of doctor, the kind that would take a big wad of cash and ask no questions. He knew a few of those.
If he could get to one before he passed out.
He fought off waves of shakes and dizziness. Adrenalin crash.... Okay, maybe even shock.
So, focus, you son of a bitch. Don’t blow it all now.
After you get yourself patched up, you’ll need to go to ground for a while. You need the R&R. You’re losing your edge.
But right now, you need to stay clear-headed. Focus.
You can do this.... You’ve handled lots worse than this…Come on, stay in your own lane.... Just a few more miles....
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Thursday, November 27, 11:55 p.m.
“His TV finally went off,” Erskine said, lowering his binoculars.
Cronin looked up, saw the darkened bedroom window. He checked his watch. “Eleven fifty-five. Maybe he stayed up to watch a ‘Frasier’ rerun.”
“Why don’t we call it a night, Ed?”
“I’m with you. I don’t see him going anywhere now. Chief’s on my case about all the overtime, anyway.”
He had just turned over the ignition when he felt the vibration. “Who the hell is calling at this hour?” He pulled out the cell, saw the display. “Oh great. Abrams.”
Erskine launched into a string of profanity, and Cronin had to wave him to silence.
“Yeah, Marty.... Where?.... Can’t Bancroft handle it?” He shut his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Give us forty-five.” He clicked off the phone, then, exhausted, lay his forehead against the steering wheel.
“Don’t tell me!”
“Okay, Paul. I’ll just take you there and let it be a surprise.”
COLUMBIA HEIGHTS,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Friday, November 28, 12:52 a.m.
After a quick stop for coffee and doughnuts, it was closer to one in the morning that they got to the scene. Abrams met them in the hallway and gave them the preliminaries, then led them inside. They took in the dog, then the body.
Cronin whistled. “Holy hell, Navarro is huge.”
“Was,” Abrams corrected. “Well, nothing much for him to do in the joint but lift weights all day.”
“So, you’re telling me somebody actually beat the crap out of this dude before he shot him?”
“And then some. M.E. took a quick look and guesses at least a fractured skull, elbow, and crushed throat. Maybe more will show in the autopsy. And look closer at the dog. See the way the head’s twisted? Broken neck.”
Erskine stood with his mouth half-open, disbelieving.
Cronin’s gaze shifted from one body to the other. “So our perp has a gun, but he doesn’t use it on the dog. He doesn’t even use it on Navarro, not at first. Instead, he takes on and kills the Doberman, bare-handed. And then, for all practical purposes, h
e kills this gorilla, also bare-handed, before finishing him off with one tap in the forehead.” He turned to his colleagues. “Remember the hit up in Bowie, that deal with the flagpole? I’m guessing this perp is the same shooter. Whoever the hell he is, he’s inhumanly strong to do all this stuff.”
“What’s with the smell?” Erskine asked, wrinkling his nose. “Somebody started cleaning the joint already?”
“That’s ammonia, all right,” Abrams said. “But it’s not from us. And that’s even more interesting. Look down there. See those smears on the tile? And the little beads of spray over there? Our shooter sprayed ammonia around here.” He pointed to a young CSI tech who was bending over the Doberman. “Jeff thinks the perp was using it to break down blood stains. Destroy any DNA.”
“His blood, then,” Cronin said. “Our boy was injured.”
“That’s how I see it. Only thing that makes sense. You don’t take on two monsters like these and walk away without a scratch.”
“So where’s the ammonia?” Erskine asked, looking around in the kitchen.
“There isn’t any. None that we found yet, anyway.”
“You mean he took it with him?” Erskine asked.
“Maybe he brought it here with him,” Cronin said. “For exactly these kinds of situations.”
Abrams said, “These guys think of everything.”
“Which means we won’t find the shooter’s DNA here,” Cronin said wearily.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said a nearby voice.
They turned. It was Jeff, the tech. He was grinning. He wore white latex gloves, and he had lifted dog’s head, displaying its muzzle and teeth and hanging tongue.
All covered with blood.
“Gentlemen,” Abrams said slowly, a smile crossing his lips, “Maybe we just got our first big break.”
PART III
“And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.”
—William Shakespeare, King John, Act IV, Scene 2
THIRTY
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Monday, December 12, 10:12 a.m.
The hot, pulsing spray from the shower beat down onto the back of his neck and shoulders. After five minutes, he felt the tight knots slowly loosening.
This morning’s workout in the gym downstairs had been exceptionally long and hard, the first good one he’d had in a while. But he knew that wasn’t the only reason for the tension in his body.
He was tense about the call he was about to make.
He’d thought a couple of weeks away from her would allow him to detach completely. He hadn’t expected how difficult that would be. It used to be easy for him to acquire and hold an Olympian perspective on things. He was always able to climb to a kind of cold, watchful height, a place above it all, where he could look down upon the world below with an icy calm. That habit or skill or discipline, whatever it was, let him maintain objective control whenever it was necessary to confront circumstances or do things that others found to be stressful, distasteful, even overwhelming.
But something had changed after he met her. From the beginning, she was an exception, the one element in his universe about which he could not maintain emotional distance. He seemed to have no will in the matter, and he didn’t understand it. And what he couldn’t understand or control unsettled him. He’d been honest enough to admit that fear to her, at the beginning.
Now he felt exposed. At a time when he needed to do everything possible to protect himself.
All the facts, looked at objectively, told him that she was working with Cronin and the other cops to bring him down. Only one fact stood against the growing pile of evidence: her eyes. Or, rather, what he saw in them, when she looked at him. What he saw in her eyes, and what he felt from her body when she was in his arms. That response couldn’t be an act, couldn’t be faked.
Try as he might, he simply couldn’t make himself believe that she was betraying him. Or ultimately would.
He flipped the shower faucet to cold, hoping to shake himself out of this mood—to escape this emotional straitjacket that threatened to immobilize him, stop him from doing what he had to do.
What he had to do was use her. Use her, in order to find out what the cops knew and what they were planning. And to accomplish that, he had to resume his relationship with her. Pretend to be in love with her.
Then hope, for his own sake, that it was mere pretense.
*
After he’d toweled off and dressed, he went into the den. Put a fresh battery into a fresh phone. Steeled himself. Keyed in her cell number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, you,” he said.
He felt five heartbeats before she spoke.
“Hi, you.” Cautious pleasure in the voice.
“I said I’d call.”
“And you kept your word. I knew you would, Dylan.”
It disarmed him. After a few seconds: “I’ve been busy and still have things going on all this week, evenings included. But I hoped we might get together next weekend.”
“I’d like that.”
“My place, Saturday? Luna misses you.”
She laughed; it sounded wonderful. “I miss Luna. And you.”
“I miss you, too, Annie Woods,” he said, knowing it was true.
He heard voices over the phone in the distant background. “Am I interrupting a meeting?”
“Just some co-workers outside my office on coffee break.”
“When we get together, you’ll finally have to tell me about the company.”
She burst out laughing. “The company.... Yes, of course, Dylan. It’s time I told you all about the company.”
“Private joke?”
“Very private.” She giggled again. “I’ll let you in on it next Saturday. I have some chores during the day. I can get to your place in the early evening. Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” he said. “Can’t wait.”
“Me, too.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monday, December 12, 3:05 p.m.
“Ken, take a look at this.”
Startled, MacLean looked up from his desk. Carl Frankfurt had barged into his office without knocking and marched right over to his desk, holding a white business envelope between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were wide with excitement.
MacLean pushed aside his irritation at the interruption and took the envelope from Frankfurt’s hand. It was unsealed. He reached inside and extracted a light blue-colored check and a business card. He flipped over the check and looked at it.
Then stared.
It was made out to the order of the MacLean Family Foundation in the amount of $150,000.
He looked up at Frankfurt, astonished. “What’s this all about?”
Frankfurt was grinning. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I left him in the conference room.”
He glanced down at the pile of papers on his desk. They would keep.
He looked at the check. He’d been stiffed before. “Carl, could you call his bank and make sure this is legitimate? Then please join us.”
When he reached the conference room, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man rose from a seat at the table.
“How do you do, sir,” the man said. “Wayne Grayson.”
“Hello, I’m Ken MacLean,” he replied, shaking the gentleman’s hand. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Grayson.”
“Thank you.” The man had blonde hair, an impressive mustache, a deep suntan, and a suit that must have cost at least one-tenth of the amount of his check. “It’s generous of you to make time for me, Mr. MacLean.” There was a faint accent, perhaps Boston.
“Let’s not speak of my generosity, but yours. Am I correct in understanding that you wish to make a donation to our foundation?”
“You are.”
“Frankly, I’m at a loss for words, Mr. Grayson. ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate, given the size of your gift.”
He waved it off nonchalantly. “I have witnessed first-hand the p
owerful impact of your foundation’s work on many lives, sir. You may consider this as only the beginning of a personal campaign to repay you for all that you have done.”
“You’re most kind. Tell me: How are you familiar with us?”
The man smiled. “Individuals close to me have undergone life-changing experiences, directly as a result of your programs—especially those run by Dr. Frankfurt. I just can’t tell you what his efforts have meant for them.”
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