by Marcus Sakey
But there was the look in Ian’s eye. He hadn’t given his life for her to attempt an action-hero ending. He had played by the rules of the game, accepting the ultimate penalty to give her a shot to secure the most important outcome. And she had to play by them too, or she truly would betray him.
Besides. Ian was gone, but it might not be too late to save Mitch and Alex.
So she ran. Arms pumping, lungs burning, heart screaming, she ran. She might have run all the way to the police station if she hadn’t almost tripped in front of a cab cruising for partygoers.
Detective Bradley told her it had been the right move. That she had saved lives, the innocent men and women, cops and EMTs, who might have gone into Rossi’s without a warning.
She supposed he was right. But like most truths, it was comforting only to a point.
Bradley had been dubious, then interested, and finally incredulous as she told him everything. She spilled it all with a manic intensity, knowing that the faster she could get him to move, the more chance her friends had. Praying that even though she had been delayed, she might still be able to hold up her end of the plan and bring the police screaming down on Victor.
Because the alternative was too terrible to consider.
As Mitch had predicted, she had really had to sell Detective Bradley. It was the details that won him over. She told him everything, every step of the robbery, the murder in the alley, the discovery of chemical weapons, their response tonight. Inch by inch, she watched the screens behind his eyes lift as he began to believe.
The details worked. But they took a long time. And just as she was wrapping up, another cop came in the room. “Detective—”
“I’m busy here—”
“I know, but it’s about that restaurant. Rossi’s.”
Jenn had been leaning forward, forearms on the table, eyes locked with Bradley’s like a conspirator or a lover, but at the mention of the restaurant she jerked upright. She stared at him, knowing what he was going to say, dreading it. Until the moment she heard it, until a stranger spoke it, it wasn’t true. Alex and Mitch were strong and clever and good. They might have found a way without her.
“Dispatch got reports of gunfire. Multiple shots. That’s your restaurant, right? From the body the other night?” The cop continued, his lips moving, facts spilling out, but Jenn didn’t hear it, not another word.
They were gone. Her friends were gone.
Something had almost swallowed her then, as she realized with utter certainty that she was the last surviving member of the Thursday Night Club. It was panic, but of a different sort than she’d been suffering. A black and consuming loneliness, and a suffocating sense of failure. Everything in her wanted to collapse at that moment, to put her head down on the table in the dingy interview room and sob.
Later, she would remember that moment as maybe the one that saved her, that gave her a chance. Because instead of giving up, she told Detective Peter Bradley he had to hurry. That there might still be men there, dangerous, armed men. Men with chemical weapons. In calm, clear tones she told him not to let anyone go inside, to clear the streets and guard the door. That if there were men inside, they were armed.
He may not have believed her, not really. But he’d at least seen there was no point in taking the risk.
The rest of the night blurred into a succession of interview rooms and men in suits. Snatches of news gleaned from the things they said, the gravity of their manner. The whole police station came to wild and whirling life around her: shouts she could hear through the walls, phones constantly ringing, men yelling, men pointing fingers. When she was alone, she stared at the wall and fought the urge to cry. When cops came with questions, she answered completely and without thought of self-preservation. At one point, someone she didn’t know came into the room and cuffed her hands. When Bradley returned, he undid them, set down a cup of coffee. Touched her shoulder. “Ms. Lacie, I’m afraid—”
“I know,” she said. Two words that took all she had. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded, wanting to cry from the emptiness, the loss. First Ian, and now Alex and Mitch. Gone. She closed her eyes.
“We found four bodies at the restaurant. We’re working the—”
Four?
It took a moment, and then she got it. She almost smiled. Good for you. I hope you made it hurt. “What about the DF, did you find it?”
“It was hard to miss. One of the containers had been broken and mixed with alcohol from the bar. Apparently there are pools of sarin spattered all over. Which is actually good news, means that it’s relatively easy to contain. If it had been strapped to an explosive device . . .” He blew a breath. “We’ve locked down the restaurant, kept everyone out. Hazmat teams are working it now. Homeland Security is involved, and the FBI, and—” He shook his head.
“And the man in my apartment, the one who shot Ian?”
“No sign of him. Not that we could really expect one. We’ll dust for prints, look for DNA evidence. With chemical weapons involved, it’ll get the full-court press.”
“Will you find him?”
The cop hesitated. “I don’t know.” They sat in silence. Then he said, “Can I ask you something? Why did you do it?”
“We had to. We couldn’t let that stuff get into the hands of—”
“No, I mean, why did you do it? How do four normal people decide to do something like this? Risk everything? I mean, from what you’ve said, your lives were OK, more or less. So why? Just money?”
Her head hurt, a dull throbbing ache. “Have you always wanted to be a cop, Detective?”
“Pretty much.”
Jenn absently picked at a cuticle. “You’re lucky. I never knew what I wanted to be. Not really. When I was a kid, I used to have these fantasies. The typical stuff kids think. That they’ll be pirates and astronauts and movie stars. That they’ll save the world. That they’ll . . . matter.” Jenn looked up. The detective was listening intently.
“But time just keeps passing, you know? And you don’t end up astronauts. You don’t save the world. And one day you wake up in your thirties and realize that this wasn’t where you meant to be. Not that it’s awful. It’s just not what you meant.”
“I can understand that. Life, liberty, and the entitlement to happiness. But talking about it’s one thing. Doing it . . .”
“It started as a game. Everything with us was a game. Even our lives. We sat back and watched the time pass and met for drinks on Thursdays.” She shrugged. “I think we were just playing. Until the end, we were just playing.”
“When did you stop playing?”
“Tonight,” she said. “We all stopped tonight.”
He grimaced, and she could see that he misunderstood her. That he thought she was talking about the fact that the others had died and that she was in a police station. He was missing the larger point—that there had been a moment when they had a chance to walk away, when all they would have had to do was pick the lesser of two evils. That, and live with their decision. And instead, they had decided that it was worth fighting for something. Even if it cost them. And while she never would have guessed how much it would cost, she also knew that even armed with that knowledge, they would have done the same thing.
In the end, game theory was one thing, and life another.
She thought about correcting him, figured it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t understand anyway. “What’s going to happen now?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “No one can decide if you’re a criminal or a hero.”
“My friends were heroes,” she said quietly. “I’m not sure I’m either.”
“Maybe you’re both.” He stood up. “Come on. It’s late.”
“Are you taking me to a cell?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Until I hear otherwise, I’m focusing on the hero part.”
He put out a hand, and she took it, let him help her up. Bradley led her to a small room of
f the detectives’ offices lined with thin cots. “You can rest here. No one will bother you.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You should try.” He guided her to one of the beds, found a clean blanket. “This is just getting started.”
“No,” she said. “It’s over now.”
He passed her the blanket and walked to the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the light switch. “You and your friends. The things you did. Robbery, homicide. Coming to us will help, but—”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t want a free pass.”
He looked at her strangely. For a moment, she thought he might say something else. Then he flipped off the lights and gently closed the door.
Jenn Lacie lay down on the cot. The springs sagged beneath her, and she could feel the outline of the people who had slept there before her. Detectives working cases, trying to save lives or avenge them.
As she lay there, the next months and years played out in front of her. The media would go into a frenzy. There would be questions upon questions. Days of explaining, over and over. A trial, and probably punishment. And why not? They may have done right, but they’d done wrong, too.
Those things, they didn’t matter. Not really.
What mattered was trying to unravel everything that had happened. Trying to find meaning in it. To give herself over to the long hours. The pain, the tears, the guilt. The time thinking of the things they had done. To honoring her friends by trying to untangle everything so that she could see it all plain. The good, the bad. The wasted years and the beautiful moments.
The others had paid their price. This was hers. Her burden.
And when it was all over, as it eventually would be, then her tribute to them would be simple. It would be about finding a way to make it all matter. To make her life matter.
For herself. And for them. The Thursday Night Drinking Club.
Her friends.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere gratitude to my uberagent, Scott Miller, and my extraordinary editor, Ben Sevier. It’s an honor and a privilege, boys.
A big thanks to all the folks at Dutton, especially Brian Tart, Christine Ball, Kara Welsh, Amanda Walker, Rich Hasselberger, Melissa Miller, Carrie Swetonic, Aline Akelis, and Susan Schwartz. Also to the fabulous Sarah Self, my film agent.
Before there was a Thursday Night Crew, there was a Wednesday Night Crew. It involved as much drinking and talking, but significantly less sex, strife, and murder. Carnita, Molls, Bets, Reverend Waechter, and Dr. Peebles, I love you all.
Prior to writing this novel, I knew nothing about chemical weapons; Dr. Karl A. Scheidt of Northwestern University was incredibly generous with his time and energy, guiding my research and even inadvertently giving me the ending of the book. I had additional technical help from Regan Thomson, Steve Thornley, and Dr. Jeffrey Anderson. My old buddy Mike Biller rather gleefully filled me in on head wounds and hospitals.
All my love and all my gratitude to Matt, Mom, and Dad.
And as always, my deepest thanks to my wife, g.g. You know all the reasons why.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcus Sakey is the acclaimed author of The Blade Itself, At the City’s Edge, and Good People. His books have been translated into numerous languages, and the film rights have sold to major studios. Born in Flint, Michigan, he now lives in Chicago with his wife.