“So what did you do with it?” I asked.
“I donated it to a homeless shelter,” she said, giving a dismissive wave.
I didn’t know if I was free to go and was too tired to ask. I stood and started walking off, but the commissioner called my name and I turned to look back at her standing by the squad car, her arms still folded defensively.
“Stay in touch,” she said with great reluctance. “There are times I could use a good man who’s not on the payroll.”
I nodded, and Susan linked her arm with mine as we walked away. After a few steps she poked me in the arm.
“Good man, huh?” she asked.
“She must be thinking of someone else.” I smiled.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE
“THIS IS RIDICULOUS,” Angelica said, looking at her watch. “If they say they’re going to be here at ten, they ought to be here at ten!”
“Sit down.” Vinny patted the plastic lawn chair beside him at the foldout table. “You’re makin’ me nervous. The guy’s gonna be here when he gets here and that’s all there is to it.”
I sat at the end of the table with Susan, waiting, as my friends waited, for the FedEx driver whose delivery Angelica had been anticipating for six months. Before us on the picnic table on the lawn was spread a feast not dissimilar to the one Marni had arranged what seemed a lifetime ago to mourn my lost wife. Croissants, bagels, doughnuts, yellow napkins, and yellow paper plates left over from the memorial caught the light filtering through the trees.
We were back where we had started, and yet so far from there. The people laughing, talking, drinking coffee around me in the morning light were battle-scarred. Some of them didn’t sleep well anymore. Some of them had the evidence of their fight on their skin. What Cline had brought into our town had left its mark, but right now, there were more important things to think about.
Next to Vinny, Effie sat with a black coffee in front of her, tearing strips off a croissant. Now and then as she ate, twitching whiskers would emerge from her shirt pocket and she would take a flake of croissant and present it to the snuffling nose. Crazy the rat had become a kind of household mascot in the time since Effie had rescued him from the drain, and feeding him bread, peanuts, sunflower seeds, and the occasional blueberry was an activity everyone—except Angelica—enjoyed. Effie’s shirt pocket sagged with the weight of the obese rodent, drawing her collar sideways, away from her scarred neck.
As I watched my people enjoying themselves, a movement in the window above us caught my eye. Neddy Ives was watching, his arms folded, his eyes moving over Angelica as she complained to Vinny about the FedEx guy. He wouldn’t join us, I knew, but even a glimpse of him in the window was better than nothing. He was changed, like the rest of us.
“I know this is Angelica’s day,” Susan said. “But I keep thinking about Marni.”
I looked at her and was surprised to see her smiling.
“She’d have been so buzzed about this,” she said. “Waiting for the books to arrive. Opening the box for the first time. She always got in on other people’s excitement.”
Clay was near us, leaning on the table as he listened to Susan’s words.
“I still think about her all the time,” he said. “I know it’s stupid but … I thought just this morning that after what happened, her mother would have found out that the little heart tattoo on her cheek was real.”
“It was real?” I gasped.
Susan laughed. “Of course it was.”
“She told me—”
“That she drew it in every day with lip liner.” Clay laughed. “Yeah. She said she was going to tell you that.”
“So you all knew the tattoo was real? Everybody knew except me?”
“We helped her hide it from you when it was fresh and swollen.” Susan snickered. “When you arrived home, we’d warn her. She kept her right side to you for about a week. You had no idea.”
The two of them giggled together. I sat back in my chair and cradled my coffee.
“My house is full of liars,” I said.
My own words stayed with me as I looked around the table. Though Susan had told me a little more about her ex-husband and her need to hide from him, I still knew nothing more about what Effie Johnson, sitting feeding her pet rat, had seen or heard that meant she had come and hid in my house. I didn’t know who’d tried to kill her, and every day the secret wandered the house as she did. I didn’t know why the man standing in the window above us never left his room, whether it was fear or habit that kept him away from human contact. Nick had not told me any more about what he had done in the Middle East that left him so scarred and broken, but I had a feeling that his memories and hallucinations were tied to something impossibly dark, something beyond the horrors of war.
When Siobhan had assembled the crew before me, she might have known she was taking liars, runaways, and secret keepers into our home. But even that, I would never know for sure.
I drank my coffee and watched them all and felt strangely comforted by their many untruths. This inn by the sea had become a safe place for those who were lost. It was like a harbor from the storm, accepting all, no matter the loads they carried.
“Maybe it’s time,” Susan said. She elbowed me in the ribs, and I stood, getting the attention of everyone at the table. Clay and Nick looked over from where they had been huddled over a newspaper, reading an article about this year’s Sox lineup.
I drew a breath. “I’d just like to—”
“You can’t do this now!” Angelica cried. “He’s not here yet!”
“Let him make his speech.” Nick waved at Angelica. “Then when the guy gets here, you can make yours.”
“I’d just like to congratulate you, Angelica,” I said, “on the publication of your very first novel. I was glad to hear everybody made it into the last draft. Even you, Vinny, although I don’t know how you ended up as a dangerously attractive neurosurgeon.”
“It’s the knives.” The old gangster shrugged.
“I believe from the excerpt I read that the character called Susan is a smart-talking fighter pilot.” I gestured to Susan, who grinned. “Brave and clever. Sounds about right. And then there’s me. The crazed arsonist. Who knows how you got there, Ange.”
“You’ve burned a few steaks in your life, Bill,” Clay mused. “You always burn the potatoes. A few pieces of toast. Some chicken kebabs—”
“Thanks, Clay, thanks for that.” I raised my glass. “Anyway, what I’m saying is that we’re very proud of you. Our very own author in the house. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we can’t wait to—”
“He’s here!” Angelica yelled.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN
THE FEDEX MAN had followed our sign at the front of the house and was turning the corner of the porch hefting a large box. Angelica ran to him like a wife welcoming a sailor home from a decade at sea. Everyone crowded around as she placed the carton on the table and set to it with a box cutter.
As my friends huddled around one of their own in her proudest moment, I looked at the faces near me. Nick had been officially diagnosed with schizophrenia and was being treated. He caught my eye from across the group, and despite the terrible secrets he carried with him, he smiled. Clay was on the other side of Angelica, chewing his nails in anticipation. When I glanced up I saw that Neddy Ives was looking down, his head almost touching the windowpane in order to get a better view.
Angelica shoved open the flaps of the box, reached into the packing peanuts, and brought out a book with a yellow-and-black cover. A moan of appreciation went up from the gathering.
“What’s it called again?” Vinny leaned in to see. He’d been asking what it was called for weeks, over and over, poking fun at his girlfriend. Angelica put the book in his hands and I saw the jacket illustration of a beautiful woman, a farmer’s wife, looking out across an empty field.
“‘The Lucky Ones,’” Vinny read.
“It’s an allegory,” Angelica sai
d proudly. “It’s based on a story Marni told me once. Oh, I can’t wait for you to read it, Vin.”
The old gangster tucked the book under his arm and started wheeling himself away. “Any excuse to get some goddamn time to myself. I’m outta here. See you guys on the last page.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN
BEFORE THE PARTY could break up, I tapped Effie on the shoulder. The fat lump in her shirt pocket was wiggling, the little pink nose snuffling for more treats.
“I’ve got a present for you,” I said.
She pointed at her chest.
“Yeah, you,” I said. I gave her a package I’d wrapped in pretty silver paper. Hearing the packet rustling, Crazy poked his head all the way out of Effie’s pocket. I watched as Effie unfolded the paper to reveal a thick paintbrush.
She looked at me, questioning.
“We can start tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll help.”
Effie grinned and punched the air. Susan clapped her hands beside me, looking up at the worn and weather-beaten house.
“It’s going to look beautiful, Bill.” She put an arm around my waist. “It’s about time.”
“I have a present for you too,” I told her. “Come on.”
I led Susan through the house, up the stairs, and to the loft door. I turned a handle that hadn’t been turned in three years, and it came off in my hand.
“Son of a …”
I put the doorknob in my pocket, shouldered the door open. Walking the dusty steps to the big, peaked-roof room was like climbing up a mountain, exhausting but also exhilarating. I stood with her in the dim light filtering through the cracks between three wooden boards nailed over the circular window, gold dust motes swirling all around us. From my coat I took another package wrapped in paper and handed it to her.
“It’s like Christmas.” She laughed. She unwrapped the claw hammer and smiled at me.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Susan put the claws of the hammer into the first plank and yanked the handle upward; the old, dry wood squeaked as she ripped it from the frame. In a short time, she’d removed all the planks from the window. We looked out at the pine trees and the pale gray sea beyond.
“It’s going to take some work,” I said. “But if you want to, I think we could make it a great room.”
We held each other and watched a crab boat on the horizon heading for the harbor.
“I can hear the waves,” she said.
THERE’S NO TIME TO WASTE. AND IF THEY FAIL – THEY DIE.
Read on for a sneak preview of Killer Instinct, available from September 2019
THERE’S NOTHING quite like walking into a room packed with more than a hundred students and not a single one is happy to see you…
If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost take it personally.
“Good morning, class,” I began, “and welcome to your final exam in Abnormal Behavioral Analysis, otherwise known as Professor Dylan Reinhart messing with your impressionable minds for a little while in an effort to see if you actually learned anything this glorious spring semester. As legend correctly has it, I never give the same test twice, which means that all of you will be spared any repeat of a previous exam, including my personal all-time favorite, having everyone in the class write and perform an original rap song about Sigmund Freud’s seduction theory.”
I paused for a moment to allow for the inevitable objection from the brave, albeit delusional, student who thought he or she might finally be the one to appeal to my better judgment, whatever that was.
Sure enough, a hand shot up. It belonged to a young man, probably a sophomore, wearing a rugby shirt and a look of complete consternation.
“Yes, is there a question?” I asked.
He was sitting in the third row, and best I could tell, it had been three days since he last showered. Finals week at Yale is hell on personal hygiene.
“This isn’t fair, Professor Reinhart,” he announced.
I waited for him to continue and plead his case diligently, but that was all he had to offer. There was no rehearsed speech on how all the other professors give their students a study guide or at least explain what they should expect on the final.
“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all you’ve got for me? This isn’t fair?”
“I just think we should’ve had a chance to prepare for this test,” he said. “The only thing you told us was that we all had to bring our cell phones.”
“Yes, I see. Clearly a miscarriage of justice,” I said. It was a little early in the morning for the full-on Reinhart sarcasm, but sometimes these kids left me no choice. I turned to the rest of the class. “With a show of hands, how many of you agree with your esteemed colleague here? How many think that what I’m doing is unfair?”
Literally every hand went up.
I so love it when they make it easy for me …
“Wow, that’s pretty impressive,” I said, looking around the room. “You’re all in agreement. All for one and one for all. Kumbaya!”
Mr. Rugby Shirt in the third row all but pumped his fist in victory. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind, Professor Reinhart? You’re postponing the test?”
Silly rabbit.
“No, it means the test has already begun,” I said. “Now everyone please take out your cell phones and place them directly in front of you. It’s time to see how united you all really are.”
I WATCHED and waited a few seconds while everyone took out their phones. Note to self: buy more Apple stock for Annabelle’s college fund.
Then I went to the blackboard behind me, picked up a piece of chalk, and began writing. It was my cell number. Nothing more.
“Okay,” I said, turning back around to the class. “I want you all to pick up your phones and text me the grade you’d like to receive on the final exam. You can choose between an A or a B. Whichever you text me is the grade you’ll get.”
I wiped my hands free of any chalk, gave a tug on the notched lapel of my navy chambray suit jacket, and started walking blithely toward the exit.
“Wait!” came a chorus of voices. “WAIT! WAIT! WAAAAIT!”
I stopped. “Yes? What’s the problem?”
“That’s it?” they all asked. That and numerous variations on the same theme. “That’s all we have to do?”
I smacked my forehead. “Gosh darn it, you’re right. There is one other thing I forgot to mention. Actually, two other things,” I said. “The first is that I’m afraid I can’t give you all As. Ten of you will have to choose Bs.”
Cue the chorus again. “That’s not fair!”
“We’re back to that again, huh? Fairness?”
“Why would anyone choose a B?”
“That’s the other thing I forgot to mention,” I said. “Perhaps this will make it easier for you all. If at least ten of you don’t choose a B, then you all get Cs, each and every one of you, the entire class. I repeat, a C. All of you. No exceptions.”
It was as if I’d just told a roomful of five-year-olds that there isn’t a Santa Claus. No, worse. That I had killed Santa Claus—and his little furry friend, too, the Easter Bunny. Shock. Anger. Disbelief. We can’t believe you’re doing this to us, Professor Reinhart!
It was beautiful.
Sorry, Sigmund, I now had a new favorite final exam. The setup had gone perfectly. All I had to do was wait for the emotional dust to settle. They would all start to think. First as individuals, then together as a group. It would begin with one simple—
“Question?” I asked, pointing at Mr. Rugby Shirt in the third row. He’d raised his hand again.
“Yeah, I was wondering,” he said. “Are we all allowed to talk to one another before we each text you our grade?”
I pretended to think it over for a few seconds, even scratching my chin for added effect. “I suppose I’ll allow that,” I said. “In return, though, I’ll need to put a time limit on any deliberations. Ten minutes should be enough.” After a few groans from those who wanted more time, I
glanced at my watch. “Make that nine minutes and fifty seconds.”
The groans stopped and everyone scrambled like mad to huddle up.
Later, they would learn how they were subjects of an experiment for my next book, and that the tiny cameras and microphones I had installed around the room were recording everything they said and did.
Would they be pissed? Sure. Right up until I announced that they were all getting an A on the final for being good sports. In fact, I could already hear the cheering.
But that was then. For now, they were a group of more than a hundred ultra-competitive students at Yale deciding collectively who would sacrifice for the greater good. How would they decide? Could they decide?
Would the best of human behavior prevail?
I headed for the exit again so they could all talk freely. I didn’t want anything to affect the outcome, especially me. There could be no distractions, nothing to derail the experiment.
And nothing would—I was sure of it.
Silly rabbit.
No sooner had I reached the door than I heard the first ping. Then immediately another, followed by a few more. Everyone’s phones were lighting up with the breaking news. Including mine.
Something terrible had happened. Just dreadful. The absolute worst of human behavior.
New York City, my home, had been attacked again.
I WAS redlining even before I hit the highway. One hand was maxing out on the throttle of my old ’61 Triumph TR6 Trophy; the other was trying for the umpteenth time to reach Tracy. The wind was whipping past me, my cell plastered tight against my ear. To hell with my helmet.
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