From the back of the house came the faint sound of glass breaking. It wasn’t much. They’d probably taped it fi rst. Then more silence. Then maybe the hint of a latch being turned, a door being opened. Then silence again. Then, suddenly, a dim movement in the front hall. One man, carrying a handgun, dressed in black, his face blackened. He went to the front door and unlatched the safety bar and opened the door. Two more men came in. One had an Uzi. They too were all in black. The two men started silently up the front stairs. The first man, the man who had let them in, checked to see that the door was unlocked and then closed it and turned and started to follow the other two past me where I stood in the spare room. I stepped out behind him as he passed and brought the sawed-off baseball bat down on his gun hand. He yelped softly and the gun clattered on the front hall floor. The noise was shockingly loud. The men on the stairs turned. I grabbed my guy by the hair and yanked him into the spare room. The man with the Uzi sprayed the hallway with bullets. As soon as he stopped shooting, Hawk stepped out of Susan’s office and killed both men with the shotgun.
In the offi ce I had my man on the fl oor with my knee on his chest and the muzzle of the Browning pressed hard against the bridge of his nose. Hawk dropped the shotgun, took out his handgun, and went up the front stairs past the two dead men without making a sound.
On the floor in the spare room, my guy was perfectly still, disoriented, probably, from the suddenness of his situation. For several moments there was no sound. Then there was a rattle of gunfire from upstairs. Then there was nothing. Then there was the sound of footsteps on the front stairs, and Hawk’s voice.
“We got one too,” Hawk said.
67.
We found the van keys on one of the dead men.
Vinnie pulled the van up beside Susan’s house and we put the dead men in it, being careful about fingerprints. With Hawk behind him, Vinnie drove the van up to Porter Square and left it in the parking lot at the shopping center. Then he came back with Hawk.
It was approaching four in the morning. The lights were on in the house. The brightness seemed almost overpowering in contrast to the stark blackness before. My captive sat on the couch in the spare room. I sat in front of him with my handgun resting on my right thigh. Chollo was with the other captive in Susan’s offi ce.
Both the captives were younger than I had expected. Mine was barely more than a kid. Maybe twenty-two. He had a slim, athletic build, like he might be a good tennis player. His dark hair was shoulder length and his big dark eyes were terrifi ed. It had probably been a great adventure for him. And now it wasn’t.
Hawk and Vinnie came back from Porter Square. Hawk came into the spare room with me. Vinnie went to prowl the house, in case there was another attack. Which there wasn’t. Hawk sat down off to the side and looked at the kid with interest. I put my gun away. Neither of us spoke. The kid tried for the calm fatalism of a true terrorist. But he didn’t have it. He stared back at us for a while.
Then he said, “What are you going to do?”
Neither Hawk nor I spoke. Even in motionless repose, there was something electric about Hawk, a sense of barely contained kinesis. The kid’s attempt at stoicism kept breaking down into uneasy glances at him. The silence extended.
“I am a prisoner of war,” the kid said.
Hawk and I did not respond. The silence became increasingly palpable. The pressure became more dense. The kid’s face was very pale. He seemed to have some trouble swallowing.
“If you do not kill me,” he said, “I can tell you things.”
“Do,” I said.
“Excuse me, sir?”
His voice was thin and shaky. It sounded as if his mouth was very dry.
“Do tell us things,” I said.
“I . . . I will tell you whatever you wish,” he said.
“Who sent you here,” I said.
“Perry.”
“Perry who?” I said.
“I don’t know his last name, sir. We only use first names. He is a brother in arms. He is the leader of Last Hope.”
“You?” I said.
“I am Darren,” he said. “I am a member of Freedom’s Front Line.”
“Why did Perry send you?”
“We were to kill you and the woman,” he said.
“Why?”
“You were a threat to the movement.”
Darren’s voice was stronger, as if talking about something gave him a sense of involvement in his fate.
“What movement?” I said.
“The people’s war on despotism.”
“Who else is in it?”
“I will tell you who I know, sir, but I don’t know many, just the people in my cell.”
“And Perry,” I said.
“Yes, sir. Perry found me in a wallow of depravity, sir. He helped me see the truth about American life. He saved me from addiction and dependence. He helped me fi nd purpose.”
“He fi nd you in a shelter?” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“That his job?” I said. “Recruiting for the movement?”
“No, sir. That’s just how he is. He tries to save people.”
I nodded.
“So what does he do for the movement?”
“He’s an intelligence source, sir. He’s very adroit at getting valuable information.”
“From women,” I said.
“That is often the case, sir.”
“Did you help kill Dennis Doherty?” I said.
The kid’s head sank forward some.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“At Perry’s request?”
“Yes, sir. I am a good soldier, sir.”
“You’re a jackass,” I said and stood up.
The kid flinched at the movement, and glanced at Hawk. I went out of the room and across the hall. Chollo was sitting behind Susan’s desk, with his feet up, and his gun on the desktop beside him. Our second captive sat stiffly in the chair that Susan’s patients normally used. He didn’t move when I came in.
“Geoffrey,” Chollo said. “Says he’s a soldier in the war against despotism.”
The second captive was no older than mine. He was shorter, and a bit pudgier. He sat rigidly, as if movement would hurt.
“Who sent you?” I said.
Geoffrey looked at Chollo. Chollo smiled at him and nodded encouragingly.
“Perry,” Geoffrey answered.
“Tell me about him,” I said.
Again he looked at Chollo.
“Tell him, Geoffrey,” Chollo said.
Geoffrey nodded stiffly and told me the same story Darren had told.
“And I’ll bet you met him at a shelter,” I said.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“Okay,” I said to Chollo. “Bring him across the hall. I’m going to call Epstein.”
68.
By the time Epstein arrived with his hordes, it was just me and the freedom fighters, Hawk and company having silently departed. By the time the hordes finished up and went away with the two prisoners, it was quarter to seven in the morning and the sky was growing light. Epstein and I were having coffee at the counter in Susan’s kitchen.
“Susan’s okay,” Epstein said.
“She wasn’t here.”
“Happy coincidence,” Epstein said.
I nodded.
“The two zombos tell me that there were other men here,”
Epstein said. “And that four of their zombo companions were killed.”
“Really?” I said.
Epstein nodded.
“Good coffee,” he said.
“Better than Shauna’s,” I said.
“Hard to be worse,” he said.
I went to the refrigerator and opened the door and looked in. It was very clean.
“You want a bagel?” I said. “Susan doesn’t have too much else.”
“Too early,” Epstein said. “I eat this early I feel lousy all day.”
I closed the refrigerator door.
Epstein sipped some coffee.
“Here’s what I think,” Epstein said. “I don’t say I’m going to try to prove it. I’m just sharing my thoughts.”
I nodded, and sat at the counter.
“I think you set this up. You got Susan to spend the night somewhere safe, and then I think you did something to force Perry Alderson’s hand, and he responded and you were waiting for him. Hawk was probably here, and Vinnie Morris, and I don’t know who else.”
I nodded.
“In a while,” Epstein went on, “four bodies will turn up somewhere with nothing to tie them to you but the word of two whack job terrorists, who will probably find it in their best interests not to talk about it anyway.”
I nodded. Epstein poured himself some more coffee and added some milk and a lot of sugar.
“In doing so,” Epstein said, “you have behaved like a reckless vigilante.”
I nodded.
“Which has resulted in a great saving in time and effort on behalf of the bureau, and may have been of service to your country.”
“Gee,” I said.
“So I think I will just say fuck it on the question of who else was here and who was killed, and concentrate on arresting and prosecuting Alderson, and the FFL.”
“Seems a sound decision,” I said.
Epstein nodded.
“I’m going to go arrest Alderson,” he said. “You want to come along?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’ve had my moment with him.”
Epstein nodded.
“Good,” he said.
69.
Galvin contracting services had come in and replaced the broken glass in Susan’s back door, and patched the bullet damage, and would be back tomorrow to paint. It was early afternoon, and Susan and I were drinking pink champagne in her offi ce. She was at her desk, I sat on the couch.
“Doctor,” I said, “my problem is that I’m in love with a shrink.”
“That’s my problem, too,” she said.
“That you’re in love with a shrink?”
She smiled.
“No,” she said, “that I’m the shrink.”
“I’m rarely in here,” I said.
“I know.”
“Why are we in here now?” I said.
“Some impulse toward reestablishment, I guess.”
I nodded.
“Romance is difference,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“John Updike said that, or something like it, in a short story. We’re drinking pink champagne in your office in the middle of the afternoon. It’s different.”
“Yes,” she said. “I see that.”
“Have you ever made love on this couch?” I said.
“Not yet,” she said.
We sipped our champagne.
“He sat here and flirted with me,” Susan said, “and talked about his father.”
I nodded.
“And of course it almost certainly wasn’t his father. It was himself when he was Bradley Turner.”
“What Epstein’s found out so far,” I said, “would suggest that. Bradley Turner was active in the antiwar counterculture.”
“The child is father of the man,” Susan said.
“Or something,” I said.
“He was so filled with ego and need and self-regard that he had to talk about himself even at the risk of exposure.”
“So he pretended the self was someone else,” I said.
“Someone he admired,” Susan said.
“And the fl irtation?” I said.
“He had been so successful,” Susan said, “with so many women, for so long. I think he couldn’t believe it would fail. Even when it was quite clear that I was not succumbing.”
“That’s why he kept coming?” I said.
“He kept coming, in part, I think, because he so enjoyed talking about himself.”
“To you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You’re a splendid person to talk with,” I said.
She smiled.
“It is my profession,” she said.
“It is also your nature,” I said.
She inclined her head to thank me, without committing to whether I was right or not.
“And as noted,” Susan said, “in his relationship with me, he had the illusion that it put him one up on you.”
“So that his seduction was, in a sense, successful from his perspective.”
“Mind fucking,” Susan said.
“You Harvard grads,” I said.
She smiled.
“He must have been horrified to find you here when he came for his session.”
“Yes.”
“And you hit him,” Susan said.
“Really, really hard,” I said.
She emptied her glass. I poured more for each of us.
“Has Hawk shared his theory with you?” she said.
“About my identification with Doherty and how Alderson fi lls in for Russell Costigan?”
“Yes.”
“He has,” I said.
“What do you think?” she said.
“That was then,” I said. “This is now.”
“So he’s wrong?”
“I don’t know that he’s wrong,” I said.
“And how do you feel now that you’ve avenged Doherty’s murder, and destroyed Alderson?”
“Pretty good,” I said.
We each sipped our champagne. The pinkness didn’t have much to do with flavor, but it certainly was pretty. And different.
“Is it a good time to talk about marriage?” Susan said.
“The medieval courtly love tradition holds that love is impossible in marriage because it is coerced,” I said.
“And what do you think of the courtly love tradition?” Susan said.
“I think it’s bullshit,” I said.
“Me too,” Susan said.
“So maybe we should recline here together on the couch and consider alternative theories,” I said.
“What a very good idea,” Susan said.
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