“No reception. Damn hills. Happens all the time. Here comes the Denny’s. We’ll use the pay phones.”
The Denny’s was on the outskirts of a little town called Beach Haven, a mill town right on the banks of the Susquehanna River. There was a strip mall with a Laundromat, a package liquor store, a NAPA auto parts shop, all closed down and steel-grated in the early predawn light. The Denny’s was lit up and looked empty. There were two cars parked in the lot, a Geo and an old Dakota pickup with a sagging left rear shock. There was no big blue Benz.
Callahan parked the truck right by the entrance, climbed out, and walked around to the rear doors. When the doors opened, the inrush of fresh air made Jack’s heart jump, made him feel some pale hint of what it was going to be like to be a prisoner, to never have a chance to breathe fresh air or see sunlight that isn’t crosshatched with razor wire and steel grates. The blue-white bolt of anger that sizzled through his skull right after that left him shaken and silent. The injustice—the sheer insanity of the thing—burned in his gut like bad vodka. As he stepped down onto the dew-coated pavement he looked directly into Buster’s cold eyes, narrowed at him down the sights of the shotgun, his finger inside the trigger guard.
Jack saw fear and hatred there and a wild hope that Jack would do something—anything—that would make it okay to kill him. They walked on either side of him as he went up the stone stairs and walked through the open door of the restaurant.
A young black girl in a Denny’s uniform was reading a copy of USA Today, sitting in a booth at the front. Her brown eyes showed white as she saw Jack in his chains, the bleak and angry look in his eyes. Callahan lifted a hand.
“Relax there, Annie. It’s just us. This isn’t Jack the Ripper either. Get us some breakfast, and coffee. Black?”
The girl named Annie jumped up, nodding, and trotted over to the counter, began to pour out three cups of coffee. Callahan gave Buster a warning look and sat Jack down in the booth opposite her. Buster sat beside Jack, close enough for Jack to smell his skin, a dry-grass-and-cigarettes scent. Heat was coming off Buster in spite of the air-conditioning, and his cheeks looked damp. In the rising light Callahan looked tired and old, her puffy skin seamed and dry.
“Stop studying on me, cowboy. Nobody looks good this hour of the morning. What’ll it be?”
Jack ordered a Grand Slam, and so did Callahan. Buster made a face at the bacon pictured in the menu, and ordered dry toast, a glass of iced tea, and a bowl of barley soup, his Nigerian accent heavy and his voice much higher than Jack expected. They ate in total silence, and then Callahan pushed her plate back with a sigh, reached for the Kools, saw Jack’s face.
“Damn, cowboy. You were supposed to pee. Buster, take the lad in and see he gets his business done. I’ll go phone in that Benz.”
“I do not touch men,” said Buster, his face hard.
“Neither do I,” said Callahan. “Here’s the keys. Unlock him, stand outside the toilet. Jack’s a good lad, right, Jack?”
Jack had nothing to say. Buster got out of the booth and stepped back as Jack came out after him. He nodded at the rear of the restaurant and moved away to let Jack walk in front of him. The waitress stared at them as they passed and Jack winked at her. Annie looked away as if struck, picked up her USA Today.
Buster stopped Jack at the door to the men’s washroom, said one word, “Stay”—as if Jack were a dog—and went inside the washroom. Jack stood alone in the hall and watched through an open delivery door as the sunshine crawled up the side of a hill and trucks geared down on the low grade leading into the town. It occurred to him that the open door was a trap, that Buster would like nothing better than the chance to pump a load of double-aught buck into the spine of a man running. Or maybe it was just an open door. A fresh wind fluttered along his cheek and stirred his hair. He felt his blood rising, and a heat spread along his chest and belly. There were cars parked across a grassy field, two small sedans and a big white Lincoln. If he could reach that … then what? Die? Go to Bolivia? Find out who was doing this to him? Maybe stay free long enough to beat him to death?
Jack, wavering between flight and fear, watched as the sunlight reached the top of the grassy hill and lit up a stand of golden aspen at the crest. The door to the women’s washroom opened and Earl Pike stepped out, holding a semiauto Smith and Wesson.
Jack looked right into Pike’s eyes as Pike lifted the pistol. Pike’s eyes were sleepy and held a kind of shining calm. He looked as if he were about to administer a sacrament. Jack’s voice was gone, and his breathing too, and all he could hear was the sound of blood rushing in his neck. Pike smiled at Jack, moved the pistol, and shot Buster twice in the side of the head as he came back out the door of the men’s room. The sound in the narrow hallway was massive, booming. Buster’s brains hit the floral-pattern wallpaper and fanned across it, a spray of bloody-pink jelly with bits of skull floating like fragments of eggshell. Buster reeled, slammed off the wall, and went down like a tree falling.
Pike grinned again, turned, put a hand up against Jack’s chest, and pushed him aside as Sharon Callahan came pounding down the main aisle of the restaurant and through the doorway, where she skidded to a stop, her Glock out and ready, her eyes huge, moving the muzzle back and forth between Pike and Jack.
“Drop your weapons! Now!” she bellowed, her voice racketing around the narrow space. Her eyes flickered downward, saw the mess on the floor, and came back up again, by which time Pike had shot her three times, once in the throat and twice in her left cheek.
“Jesus,” breathed Jack, looking at Callahan’s eyes.
She blinked, reeled, tried to raise the Glock again. Pike stepped in close, took it out of her hands gently, tossed it to Jack, who caught it by the barrel with one cuffed hand, awkwardly, trying to bring it around and grip it properly. His motions were panicked and jerky. He knew he was getting the next bullet. Pike reached over, put a hand on the weapon, held Jack by the wrist, and spoke to Callahan, who was now sliding to her knees, her back against the floral wallpaper, black throat blood bubbling over her flak jacket and two small clean holes drilled into the papery dry skin of her softly rounded cheeks.
“Never look away,” he said. “That’s what killed you.”
The look in her eyes was bleak and sad. Her stunned animal gaze shifted to Jack. There was a kind of supplication there, and a rebuke. She tried to say something to Jack, but only blood came out of her mouth, and Jack felt he owed it to her not to look away. They both heard the front door slamming and the sound of footsteps clattering down the front stairs. Pike turned to Jack, his hand still on Jack’s wrist, covering Callahan’s Glock.
“Got to run, Jack.”
He stepped backward quickly and reached the open door.
“Suggest you do the same,” he said, and then he was gone. Jack watched him running, saw him cross the field of grass and get into the white Lincoln, heard the sound of a car engine, saw the Lincoln moving off, and then there was a slow fade to absolute quiet.
He looked down at Callahan. Her eyes were fixed on the middle distance, a place only the dead can see. Buster lay facedown on the fake-Persian wall-to-wall carpet, his skull broken open like a gourd. He had fouled himself in his death, and the raw sewage smell filled the hallway, a choking obscene stench. Jack bent down, took Callahan’s keys off her belt, unlocked his shackles, snatched the van keys, threw up violently, and ran like hell.
SATURDAY, JUNE 24
TEMPLE COURT
PROSPECT PARK
0800 HOURS
Nicky was standing in front of the plate-glass window of Casey’s apartment in Temple Court, looking out at the yard and watching a group of kids play football in the yellow grass. The trees were leafed out now, the thin branches bright green against the blue sky. He was listening to the sound of Casey’s voice through the closed door of her mother’s room. Behind him there was a stereo system on a blond wooden bench. He stepped over to it and hit play and the CD he’d been listening to began
again, a group called Squirrel Nut Zippers, doing “The Ghost of Stephen Foster,” a bizarre swing number that began with what sounded like Luciano Pavarotti being fed through a wire-pulling machine. Slowly. It was loud enough to drown out the sound of a confrontation that Nicky didn’t want to hear.
Nicky sat himself down on the big green leather sofa, which hissed air and wrapped itself around him and breathed a rich leather scent all over him. And also Casey’s perfume. And the smell of grass. He waited, listening to the CD, and watched a patch of morning sun crawl across the polished hardwood floor. Ten minutes passed, and then silence, perhaps a faint sound of someone crying.
In another minute Casey came out of the room and closed the door. She was wearing black jeans and high boots and a tight black T-shirt and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail; Nicky thought she looked like a Beretta pistol, right down to the bright red nails, which were just like the red safety tabs on a Beretta.
It wasn’t that Nicky was kinky about pistols, but she had that polished hard-cut look that reminded him of one. Her face was guarded and defensive when she crossed the room and stood in front of him. He looked up at her, at the dead-flat expression in her Chinese eyes. She had been crying, that was obvious. He lifted a pack of Davidoff cigars and raised an eyebrow.
She plucked one, still standing, and lit it with a match from a tray on the coffee table. She pulled on it, inhaled, and stared down at him through the smoke, her arms held across her chest.
“How is she? Sleeping again? You gave her something?”
She looked away and then nodded once.
“This is probably none of my business.…”
“Got it in one, Nicky.”
“Casey … it’s not like she’s got the plague.”
“What would you know about it?”
Nicky leaned back into the couch, crossed his legs and put a hand on one ankle, blew out some smoke at her.
“Casey, I didn’t want to know anything about it. Now we have to deal with the fact that I do. I’m either in your life or I’m not. Your mother’s an alcoholic. And an addict.”
Casey was quiet for a long time. Nicky watched the play of emotions crossing her face, had the idea that maybe he was being too rough on her. Casey finally spoke in a low throaty whisper.
“She’s been a drunk for years. Ever since I was a kid, ever since my father got killed, maybe. And the pills. I hold the pills for her. I never leave those in the house, because she’d overdose. When I come home she’s drunk, or well on the way, or sleeping it off on the couch. I hunt down all the bottles, every time, but she buys more. She hides it in vinegar bottles, plastic jugs, anything she can find. When she’s drunk, she gets real social and makes passes at anyone she finds attractive. That’s just before she turns mean. When she’s hung over—which is hardly ever, because you have to stop drinking to get a hangover—she’s like a wandering corpse. Last night, my fault. I wasn’t home and she was hurting.…”
“Hurting? For what?”
“I give her Valium, sometimes Elavil.”
“How do you get Elavil?”
“You ever hear of double-doctoring?”
“Holy Christ, Casey—that’s a crime! Don’t tell me—”
“Do I keep the drugs with me? Yes, I keep the drugs with me … at least I used to. They were in my briefcase. Why do you think I was so worked up about losing the fucking thing? It was full of prescription medicine, all of it double-doctored. Xanax. Ritalin. Antabuse. Valium. Percodan. All the shit she needs to keep her under control. Also every letter I’ve ever written. Doctor’s names. A letter from Bellevue. Detox intake forms. I was keeping a file.”
“And you kept that in your briefcase?”
“Where the hell else? At home? At the office? In my hat?”
“Well, you better hope whatever junkie asshole who stole it opens it up and parties himself to death. Jesus, Casey. What if that little dork cop in Peekskill—what’s her name—Moira Stokovich—what if Officer Moira finds the briefcase and opens it? She’s a smug little bitch. She’ll fry your whole life!”
“Golly, I’m glad I confided in you. I feel so much better now. Avoid the caring professions, Nicky. You don’t have the knack.”
“No, I’m a cop, and I’ll bet your mother’s a damn expensive problem. How much has she stolen from you or from your friends?”
“Not that much. I … I give her all she wants. She has no need to go on the street for pills. Nicky, if there were real treatment programs … but there aren’t—alcoholism is not a crime.”
“And you really double-doctor?”
“Like you said. I’m a cop. I know how.”
“Oh, peachy. Fucking peachy. And one day you’ll be doing that—and some doctor will tumble—and you’ll get popped in a bust and there you go. Listen to the huge flushing sound. And when you’re in the slammer, what happens to her?”
“It’s all I can do.”
“How did this start?”
“It’s a very long story.”
“Okay, let’s save it, then. What are you going to do now?”
“Go on. What else can I do?”
“Casey, she’s killing your life. And maybe you’re killing hers. The pills … at least you have to stop that part.”
“The pills are the only way I can keep her under control. If she doesn’t have Valium or Elavil and it’s just the booze … and she likes to go visiting … the neighbors have brought her back drunk and half-dressed. With the pills, I know I can go to work and nothing really bad will happen. Besides, I won’t get caught.”
“Casey, if that Peekskill cop finds that case, you just did.”
She locked up, then walked away and started to pace.
Nicky got up off the couch and walked over to her. He put an arm around her shoulders and she let her head rest against his chest. He could feel her body vibrating. They’d spent last night together, in her bed, and this morning everything was very different, and although he was happy about the change and maybe already in love with her a little, what he knew about her now was dangerous for a cop to know. Forget what she’s going to do, he thought. What am I going to do? The phone rang. Casey stepped away from Nicky and walked to the bookshelf, picked up the receiver.
“Casey? This is Dexter Zarnas. Vince said you’d be home.”
“Dexter … what’s happening?”
“Nicky Cicero there?”
“Yes. He just got here.”
“Good. I’m in Harrisburg. At the airport. I talked to the desk people at Slipstream. ATF has already been all over them, and they swear they don’t know dick about Earl Pike landing in Harrisburg. I believe them. I think the charter thing was just a diversion.”
“Now what?”
“Now you get yourself out here and help me.”
“Why? If Pike’s not there—”
“I think he is. You catch the news this morning?”
“No. Not yet.”
“That Vermillion guy, the one the ATF popped?”
“Yeah?”
“He escaped. Supposed to have killed two guards. The feds are ripping up the state looking for him. Thing is, I don’t buy it.”
“You think Pike helped him?”
“It’s a theory. Vermillion was a business guy. Taking out two U.S. marshals isn’t one of the things they teach you at Harvard Business School. At least I hope not. I could use the help, okay?”
“Okay. We’ll get a car out of—”
“Too slow. Vince has a flight voucher filed at LaGuardia. Get the next regional flight to Harrisburg. Any carrier. I’ll pick you up at the airport. You’ve got my cell number. Call me as soon as you get a flight time. Bring your gear. You follow me? And plan to stay.”
“Both of us? What about the shooting board? What about Jimmy Rock’s funeral?”
“On for Monday afternoon. The department’s handling all of it. And Vince is handling them. Things are happening. Now go pack.”
SATURDAY, JUNE 24
HA
ZLETON MILLS WAL-MART
HAZLETON, PENNSYLVANIA
0930 HOURS
When Jack pushed through the glass doors of the Wal-Mart, the first thing he saw was a bank of video surveillance cameras and a black-and-white monitor hanging from a steel brace over his head. In the grainy backlit image, bleached by the sun pouring in through the glass wall behind him, he saw a big man in a white tee and jeans, saw him standing still while a swirling stream of shoppers eddied and coiled around him, saw the man staring back down at him. The video surveillance suddenly made his situation very clear.
He forced himself forward, joined the walking dead milling around in the aisles, and worked his way through the store until he reached the hardware section, where he picked up a five-gallon can of dark-green marine enamel paint and a set of horsehair brushes. As far as he could tell, no one had looked at him sideways. He hefted the can and the brushes and headed back toward the cash registers. On the way he passed the electronics department and stopped to watch the CNN headline news. Stopped dead-short.
The sound was turned down on the huge Sony screen, but the image of Valeriana Greco in a press conference, standing in front of a podium with the seal of the Department of Justice and taking questions from a roomful of reporters, was hard to resist. No one else was paying attention, so he stepped up and found the volume button, notched it up a few bars. Greco looked like a woman on fire, her face a white-hot mask, her voice controlled and forceful. Somebody had propped the mike too close to her face, and Greco pushed it lower with her left hand, getting it out of the camera line. She was wearing a black jumpsuit with her name on the chest, Greco, above a gold star and the words Detectives/U.S. Attorneys. Her black hair was brushed and shining like a crow’s wing, held back with a thin gold bar. She looked like the kind of stiletto that Fabergé would have made if Fabergé had decided to make a stiletto. The camera jumped to show a man standing in the back row far left, looking at the notes in his hands.
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