Four

by Dustin Stevens

  His eyes slid closed. “Cynthia. Oh sweet Jesus, not Cynthia.”

  If I didn’t hate him so much, I would almost feel touched.

  Almost.

  “Don’t worry, her soul will still meet you in hell, even if her body is nothing more than a pile of ash right now.”

  His eyes opened, his gaze rising from the desk to me. Color returned to his face, anger welling within him.

  “Don’t be stupid Teddy.”

  Mavetti ignored the comment and sprung forth from his chair, an angry moaning cry accompanying him.

  Without so much as blinking, I unloaded a dozen shots into his chest. The massive slugs of the .45 ripped chunks of flesh from him, blood spatter covering the desk as he fell back into his chair.

  I took just long enough to wipe the guns clean and arrange the bodies so it looked like Mavetti and his man had a showdown to the death before heading downstairs and out to the BMW.

  There was no need to look inside the boxes as I went. I already knew they were piled high with cocaine.

  There was even less need to take any with me.

  That kind of shit was not my thing.

  I waved at the front guard as I exited, then hopped back on 93 and headed for the Tria.

  Part of me considered going back out to Marshfield for the rental car, but there was no point in it. It was wiped clean and the rental was under a phony name.

  It wouldn’t be a big deal to pick up another identity.

  I made it back to the hotel in twenty-five minutes, holding the suit coat closed to get me up the back stairwell unnoticed. I showered and changed quickly, running down to the continental breakfast for some oatmeal and fruit before finally stretching out on the bed for some much-deserved sleep.

  The night had been much longer than anticipated, but no less successful.

  The last thing I did before nodding off was pick up my cell and call the Boston Police Department. After two quick transfers, I found who I was looking for.

  “Meeks,” an annoyed, angry voice answered. I could hear commotion in the background.

  “Mr. Meeks, I think it would benefit you a great deal to get a team of men to 127 Atlantic Ave.”

  “127 Atlantic,” he repeated, no doubt writing it down. “And why do you think this would benefit me?”

  “Because it’s been a rough week for you guys. It wouldn’t hurt for the department to win one.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “What the hell’s at 127 Atlantic?”

  “For starters, a few hundred million dollars worth of cocaine and the answer to your partner’s death.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Friday morning.

  One week before I was sitting at a non-descript library on the West Coast doing research. Now I was sitting at a non-descript gate in Logan Airport waiting for my flight back.

  In front of me was the morning’s Globe, the front page in one way or another dominated by my actions. The top half was a detailed report of the bust that went down the day before.

  Boston Police Take Down Known Drug Lord

  Acting on an anonymous tip yesterday, the Boston Police infiltrated the operation of local kingpin Theodore Mavetti. Under heavy fire and in the face of some overwhelming numbers, the Boston Police were able to stop the operation and seize almost a hundred million dollars in cocaine.

  Barely a paragraph in and I had read enough of that.

  Large pictures accompanied the article, including the boats loaded with boxes and the warehouse stacked high. Police posed in most of them, holding shotguns and boxes, making the world believe this was their bust.

  Right in the middle of every one was Detective Devin Meeks and Police Chief Royal. Together they hogged a great deal of spotlight, even taking turns with their quotes.

  A little further down was a second article, this one a little more forthright in its reporting.

  City Bids Farewell to Fallen Hero

  On Thursday the city of Boston bid farewell to beloved Detective Dern Beckett. Beckett lost his life in the line of duty, meeting his end while investigating the death of Democratic Congressman Keller Wilbanks. It is not known if the two deaths are related.

  Beckett hailed from Wyoming, but for the better part of the last decade had called Boston home. He brought with him his rugged demeanor and hardened nose for justice, both of which served him well here in the community. He was most noted for his role in breaking up the Sarconi narcotics ring in 1998, an act that won both himself and the Boston Police a national commendation.

  “Dern Beckett was a fine public servant that believed justice was the greatest gift a city could give its people. We will work very hard to ensure whoever did this to him will be brought to justice,” Police Chief Perry Royal said while on site for Beckett’s funeral.

  There are currently no leads in the investigation. Anybody knowing anything should contact the Boston Police.

  There wouldn’t be anybody contacting the Boston Police and there wouldn’t be any effort by the Boston Police to find the killer either.

  I knew how these things worked.

  All I had to do was make the call and tell Meeks the answer to Beckett’s death lay in that warehouse. Most of the time police were all too happy to stamp a completion date on an investigation. If someone called in and said here was their guy, they’d figure out a way to prove them right.

  Couldn’t blame them for it, it was just how these things went.

  Folding the paper under my arm, I boarded my plane and settled into the back for a six hour flight. The flight was almost full with people heading to warmer climates for a long weekend, but I still managed to have the back row all to myself.

  Once we were above the ground I kicked off my shoes and opened the paper again. The Sox advanced to the Series the night before and the interest rates were showing signs of improvement. Apparently mango diets were the new thing to try and scientists thought they had found a new planet beyond Pluto.

  I scanned each of these things with mild amusement, a half smile across my face, a smile that disappeared when I turned to Letters to the Editor.

  With all the activity of the last few days, I had almost forgotten dropping it in the mail.

  I guess I dominated that page as well.

  Dear Michael,

  Finally, after all this time, we are together again. I have tried, Lord knows how I have tried, to bring this day so many times before, but now it is here at last. I am so sorry for all the time that we have lost together and make it my solemn vow that never again will we spend a second apart.

  The Bible says that when two people find love in this life, their souls become one in the next. We have both been missing something for so long, but as of now we’re complete again.

  In death, I have found true life.

  Yours in Eternity,

  Sarah Beth

  Epilogue

  “Hello sir, welcome to Los Angeles.”

  “Thank you, it’s good to be home.”

  Yes, that is correct. Home.

  Most of what I took to Boston with me was left there, leaving me with nothing more than a light carry-on. Dressed in the same Oxford shirt and tan slacks, I bypassed Baggage Claim and headed straight to my Denali parked in the long term garage.

  This was the part that most people don’t get. They see what I do and assume I am a drifter. That I have no real home, am a truly sick and twisted individual.

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  As I wound my way through the freeways of LA towards Malibu, I couldn’t help but think of what pushed me into this field in the first place.

  I never set out with designs of hurting people, quite the opposite in fact.

  By trade, I earn a living as a doctor. Admittedly not the pharmacist I told Beckett I was, that was more for effect.

  Rather, a plastic surgeon. To the stars.

  After Harvard, I attended Johns Hopkins for med school before coming out to California for a six year resid
ency. While here, through pure blind luck I fell in with some very well known Hollywood plastic surgeons. When they retired a while back, the practice became mine.

  It was never my intention to do any of the things I did this past week, it was rather a lack of options. Society forced me to become what I am.

  See, there is no such thing as just being a Hollywood plastic surgeon. You have to also play the part.

  The beach house in Malibu, the fancy parties, the designer clothes.

  Everything.

  That was fine ten years ago before malpractice insurance went through the roof, HMO’s squeezed every doctor in the country, and taxes to pay for wars and immigrants became a burden on everyone.

  One day a man that shall remain nameless came in for some facial work. Said he needed a new identity and he needed it immediately. I went in on a Sunday afternoon and did the procedure, followed by a handful of others.

  We became friends. Only after the fact did I find out he was pretty high up in the West Coast syndicate. He told me how hard it was to find reliable people and I told him how difficult it was being a private practice doctor.

  Next thing I knew, we were business partners on a very lucrative level.

  I was living the life I was supposed to, he was receiving top quality work from someone he could trust.

  That was how I first met Mavetti. Fat bastard came in to get some liposuction done and the jowls removed from his face. Said he’d heard through a contact that I was a multi-talented man.

  He flashed some big money and soon I had two clients.

  As I neared home, my neighbor was out fetching the paper. I slowed the Denali and rolled down the window, idling in the middle of the street. “Hey John, how are ya?”

  John Higby waved and said, “Dr. Birk, how are you? How was the conference?”

  “It was excellent, thanks. Got a lot of good work done.”

  “How’d that Boston weather treat ya?”

  “It wasn’t so bad, though it’s always good to be home.”

  John slapped the side of the car. “Yeah, I better let you get home to the Mrs. We still on for golf Sunday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said with smile, already rolling on towards home.

  I wasn’t lying when I told Mavetti I wanted out. I have no real interest in the things I did in Boston, no desire to continue them.

  I pulled into my driveway and parked the car as my wife rushed from the front door, jumping into my arms. “I missed you so much.”

  “Oh honey, I missed you too. I told you, this was the last one for a long time.”

  My wife leaned back from me, hope in her face. “How long?”

  “There aren’t any more conferences for another nine months, and nothing says I have to go then.”

  The front door popped open a second time, a miniature replica of my wife running down the path to join us. “Daddy! Daddy!”

  She ran towards me and jumped, landing in my hands as I swing her high overhead.

  “I’ve missed you Daddy,” she said between giggles as I spun her around.

  “I’ve missed you too, honey.”

  I put my daughter down and grab her hand in mine, my wife’s in the other. Together we walked around to the back of the house and looked out over the ocean.

  “At least nine months huh?” my wife asked.

  “Probably even longer than that,” I responded, watching the waves dance.

  And that’s the truth too. It will probably be even longer. As the encounter with Mavetti just affirmed, there is nothing more important than rule four.

  Always know when to walk away.

  Standing here holding the hands of the two most important people in the world, I am walking away.

  At least for now anyway.

  After all, I am Four.

  Least, that’s what they call me.

  About the Author

  This is the debut novel of Dustin Stevens. He is also the author of several short stories, appearing in various magazines and anthologies, and is an award-an award-winning screenwriter.

  He currently resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.