And who whirled suddenly, eyes searching above him. Scanning along the top of the jet.
He knew where I was. His gun came up. He was taking aim—
With a gutteral cry, I sprang up and charged down the length of the fuselage, hurtling myself through the air at Garman, arms outstretched. He looked up, mouth agape, trying to register what was happening.
Too late. I was on him.
We hit the floor with bone-rattling impact. His gun went flying. He tried to scramble away, but I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and collar, hauled him to his feet. Put everything I had into a hard right to the jaw.
His eyes rolled up in his head, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. As though suddenly possessed, in the grip of something deep, primal, out of mind. I hit him again.
My years of training in the ring, of technique and discipline, dissolved into nothing. My father’s harsh lessons about holding back, staying in control—gone.
All I saw was a kind of pulsing scarlet before my eyes. All I felt was a nameless rage.
As I pounded his face and body. Felt the crack of bone, the pulp of bruised flesh beneath my knuckles.
Until, gasping, stunned at my own actions, I flung him to the floor. Moaning, Garman scuttled, crab-like, away from me. Spitting blood.
I looked down at my throbbing, reddened hands. What the hell had just happened? I swayed on my feet. My temples pounded, my ears rang. As though punch-drunk.
Maybe I was. Because I didn’t see until too late that Garman had rolled over on his side. There was something in his hand. Metallic. He’d found his gun.
I took a half-step toward him, but my luck had run out. He fired, and I felt a searing pain slice across my side. My legs gave out from under me.
I hit the floor hard, hand going to my ribs. Blood oozed from between my fingers.
Garman, coughing blood and spit, face splotched with bruises, got shakily to his feet. It was taking his every ounce of strength to stay upright.
Breathing hard from the effort, he steadied his grip on the gun. Slitted eyes burning with malice.
“You shoulda killed me when you had the chance.” Each word forced out between split, swollen lips. “You sure wanted to. But you don’t got what it takes. Never will.”
He raised the gun and aimed it at my head.
“Good-bye, Danny boy.”
Suddenly, a harsh voice boomed.
“Freeze, Garman! Police!”
Sgt. Harry Polk was two-handing his regulation firearm and pointing it at Garman.
“I mean it, ass-wipe. Drop the fucking gun.”
Garman’s eyes flickered before he turned on one foot, gun sweeping the air, in Polk’s direction.
Polk crouched and fired. Garman screamed as the bullet buried itself in his thigh and he collapsed to the floor, his gun skittering away.
Wincing, I managed to stand up as Polk came over, still holding his automatic on Garman’s writhing body.
“He’s a bleeder,” Polk noted passively.
Eyes never leaving his suspect, he bent and scooped up Garman’s gun. “The rest of him don’t look too good, either. Somebody got a little carried away, eh, Doc?”
I didn’t give an answer. Didn’t have one. At least not one I wanted to look at right then.
Instead, I wearily threw my jacket on the floor next to Garman. “Here. Wrap your leg in that before you bleed to death.”
Garman gasped. “Fuck you.”
Polk turned to me. “Ya know, for a shrink, you got lousy taste in friends.”
“Not necessarily. I got you, right? Speaking of which, what are you doing here?”
“Hell, I’ve been followin’ you for two days in an unmarked sedan. Only I missed the exit on the parkway, and got caught in traffic goin’ the other way.”
“How’d you know where I was?”
“I didn’t. I was makin’ myself nuts driving all around the airport, lookin’. Then Casey Walters calls me in my car, tells me to get my ass over here to Skylark.”
He grinned. “Look, none of my business, but are you two hooked up or what? ’Cause she was the one who asked me to follow you in the first place. In case the killer tried somethin’. I figured, sure, why not? Then she’d owe me.”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Jesus, Harry. Looks like you saved my life.”
Polk grimaced. “I lost my head.”
He gestured at my blood-stained shirt. “Speakin’ of your sorry-ass life, how bad is that?”
“It’s nothing. He just grazed me.”
“Let’s see what a medic has to say. You can ride in the ambulance with your buddy Garman here.” Again, that wolfish grin. “Won’t that be fun?”
Garman wasn’t going anywhere, but Polk cuffed him anyway before calling for an ambulance. Meanwhile, I’d already headed out of the hangar and back into the lobby.
In the distance, through the glass doors, I spotted Stevens talking to some security guys. Behind them was an airport vehicle, lights flashing. And a body on the ground with a sheet over it.
I took the elevator up to the top floor. The lounge was cold as a meat locker. Icy wind blew freely through its shattered windows. I found Trask, covered in his own blood, lying on the carpet.
And no one else.
I knelt and felt for his pulse. He was unconscious but still alive.
Slowly, I stood up again. Felt the bite of the wind. Heard the snap of strewn glass as I walked in a kind of circle around the room.
For no reason, really. As though it were something I ought to do. As another, final truth sunk in.
Casey—Karen—was gone.
And I knew, the way you sometimes know these things, that I’d never see her again.
Chapter Sixty-eight
Noah Frye was in the hospital rec room, playing some be-bop riffs on an ancient upright. His neck bandages were scarcely visible under his shirt collar.
“Hey, I hear you’re getting out of here tomorrow.” I pulled a folding chair up to the piano bench.
Around us, other patients played cards, watched TV, or complained about their ills to bored family members.
Noah’s voice was a quiet rasp. “And I hear you just might escape a whole shit-load of litigation. Dr. Nancy came by with the news. Wingfield’s lawyers have shrunk back into the netherworlds from which they spawned. Praise be.”
“Not exactly. Though Harvey Blalock tells me they’ll have enough on their plates for years to come without having to maintain a dozen lawsuits against me.”
“Especially since the killer was after Kevin all along. Had nothin’ to do with him lookin’ like you.”
“Where are you getting all this?”
“The self-same Nancy Mendors. She’s got a huge jones for you, in case you didn’t know.” He winked. “But don’t tell her I told ya. She’s got me on enough meds already.”
I stood up. “You going to be all right, Noah?”
“Other than an annoying throat-clearing tic, I think I’ve come through just fine.” As if to demonstrate, he cleared his throat. “How about you? How’s your war wound?”
I gingerly touched the bandage under my shirt. “I’ll live. I’m going back to work tomorrow. See if my patients remember who I am.”
“You woulda been better off takin’ my advice and spendin’ the past two weeks on a desert island.”
“Next time, I’ll listen.”
I’d started off when a sharp seventh chord made me turn back again, to find Noah’s sweet, familiar smile.
“Danny. The thing about life is, you don’t always have to know everything. You just gotta know enough.”
I left the rec room to the rhythmic strains of Take the A Train.
***
The hills stood cold and wet against thick, shoulderpad clouds forming a backdrop. The storm had left some minor rain damage in its wake, as well as slick cobblestone streets and rivulets of runoff. From my porch, I could see city maintenance trucks crawling dutifully through the old, low-roofed neighborhoods,
belching exhaust.
There was a message on my office VoiceMail from Sylvia Lange. She was giddy as a teenager.
“Did you hear the news, Doc? ’Cause we’re celebrating in Bucks County tonight!” Amid peals of laughter.
Before I could call her back, my home number rang. It was Sam Weiss.
“Listen,” he said, “don’t forget our deal. The rise and fall of Miles Wingfield is my next book, and I’m gonna need you big-time. Maybe even cut you in for a piece, since you’re so famous now and everything. Though I hear you turned down Larry King and Katie Couric. Shit, Danny, I may have to do an intervention.”
“I appreciate your concern. But all I want to do is get back to work. And find a good chiropractor.”
“Forget that. Let me give you the number of the Happy Hands Massage Spa. Ask for Beverly.”
“Look, Sam…”
“Hey, I almost forgot why I called. I need a quote from you for my story tomorrow about the Handyman movie.”
“What about it? Now they’re making it a musical?”
“They’re not making it at all. The studio got spooked by all the bad press. Making a cult figure out of a serial killer, that kinda stuff. They’re claiming the production fell apart due to ‘creative differences,’ but that’s just Hollywood spin. I think they were afraid their 100-million-dollar picture would tank.”
So that explained Sylvia’s exuberant phone message.
“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry.”
“Me, neither. Score one for the good guys,” he said cheerily, and hung up.
***
I watched the sun dip behind the Point, sending silver lights darting along the Allegheny’s darkening surface, then showered and dressed.
I had a dinner meeting scheduled tonight with Angie Villanova and the assistant chief. My guess was, they wanted to take advantage of the current publicity value of having me as a consultant while making sure my future actions stayed more within departmental guidelines.
Given recent events, I couldn’t say I blamed them.
I glanced at my watch. Time to go. I bent at my living room window, making sure the plywood repair would hold for another night until the glass could be replaced. On the phone earlier today, Angie had insisted I have an alarm installed at the house. I told her I’d think about it.
I’d turned to the door when something made me look back into the room. At the small, rolltop desk on which sat my answering machine.
The message light was blinking. A call must have come in while I was in the shower.
I thought about checking it later. Instead, I went over and pushed the button.
It was Karen’s voice. Plaintive, but steady. Sure.
“Danny, I couldn’t just leave it like this, without saying good-bye. Without saying again how sorry I am for …well, for the way things turned out. I have to disappear again. My real name will inevitably come out in the course of the investigation. As well as my arrangement with Paula Stark. I’m an officer of the court, and I’ve committed a felony. Tampering with evidence, for starters. Hampering prosecution. At least a half-dozen more. So the career I’ve worked so hard for is over anyway.”
I heard the smile in her voice. “But I’m pretty good at re-inventing myself, as you know. And I’m already far, far away.”
I sank into a chair, staring at the machine’s blinking light. Imagining her on the other end of the line.
“You would’ve figured me out eventually, Danny. I know it. Hell, my own therapist back at college nailed it. Classic symptoms of an abused child. Borderline traits. Rapid mood swings. Like Kevin, eh? I remember reading that in your treatment notes. Except that in my case, I was light on the suicide attempts, heavy on the adventurous sex. My therapist said I ‘sexualized my relationships.’ Something like that. You know how you guys talk. He said the only connections I felt safe to make were erotic ones. Where I’d be in control…”
Something in her tone changed. Softened.
“Not that it ever feels that way to me. Most times, it just feels like I’m falling. Falling and falling. Never hitting bottom, but never getting to stop, either. You ever feel like that, Danny? Probably not. Not Mr. Stand-Up Guy.”
A pause. “Well, maybe just the part about never getting to stop. I bet you feel like that all the time.”
Her voice sank to a whisper. “I did love you, Danny. Do love you. And I hope…well, no. Better not go there.” A longer pause. “Good-bye, Danny. Remember me.”
***
I drove toward the lights of the city without even feeling the wheel in my hands, or hearing the drone of the all-news station on the radio. I just kept my eyes focused on the cars in front of me, the road ahead.
Until the meaning of the announcer’s words suddenly penetrated the fog. It was unbelievable. Ironic, too, given what I’d learned from Sam Weiss only a few hours earlier.
Troy David Dowd, the Handyman, had been successful in his latest appeal. Once again, his planned execution had been stayed by a higher court. The announcer cut to a reporter on the scene, who had to shout questions at Dowd’s attorney over the raucous protests of a surrounding mob.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel like hearing the answers. Didn’t much care. I shut off the radio.
So. Dowd’s evil still lived in the world, at least for the moment. Miles Wingfield’s didn’t. Maybe some kind of balance had been struck. Maybe that’s the best we can get.
As I wove through night-time traffic, I thought about Karen, and wondered what her life would bring. And Noah Frye, whose sanity depended on the right combination of pills and the goodwill of his friends. I wondered too about Harry Polk, getting drunk in some bar somewhere, nursing memories of his failed marriage. Even Harvey Blalock. Though I wasn’t going to be needing his legal services, I had the feeling he and I might become good friends.
Finally, I thought about Kevin. Little boy lost, in Lowrey’s words. Or else finally at peace, in the words of his sister. Depended on how you looked at it.
The night loomed thick and black and heavy over the horizon, and I drove into it with my eyes open.
In the end, I thought, it just came down to justice and compassion. Whether you’re a cop or a shrink. The helper or the helped.
Justice and compassion. Everything else is just… talk.
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter
38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
More from this Author
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