by Mason Cross
Edwards had managed to compose himself. When he spoke, his tone was as dark and pregnant as the clouds outside the windows. “Martin Bryce was worth ten of you, you goddamned mercenary. Look at you, sitting in judgment of men like us. Who are you? Martin Bryce was a patriot. A man who sacrificed everything for the greater good.”
“Why is it that people who talk about the greater good have usually just killed a bunch of people?”
“We did what needed to be done. This country—”
“This country has enough maniacs. You unleashed one of the worst just to scare people, to build hysteria to fit your agenda. A dozen innocent—”
“Lives will be saved—”
“A dozen innocent people,” I repeated, “men, women, and children, are dead because you thought it would be a good way to cap your fucking PR campaign.”
We were practically butting heads over the desk. Edwards opened his mouth to respond and then just shook his head and lowered himself back down into his chair. Slowly, he brought the grin back. Something twisted in my stomach that felt worse than Wardell’s blade had done.
“So what?” he said. “You’ve got nothing. There’s nothing at all to tie Martin Bryce to any of this. He died three years back. It was a tragic accident. You already know the dental records in his file aren’t going to match up with the body they pulled out of Hatcher’s house. All you have is a crazy conspiracy theory. Nobody’s going to listen to you. You’d be laughed out of court.”
I stayed on my feet. I looked at Edwards until the grin began to fade.
“That would be true,” I said. “Except for one thing.” I reached into my coat and took out a folded piece of paper. I tossed it on the desk in front of Edwards. He looked down at it, then back at me. Warily, he reached out and took the paper, unfolding it.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s an address.” I let him read it, saw the recognition in his eyes. “Bryce’s address, right here in Chicago. The second-floor walk-up on West Twenty-First. Not the nicest neighborhood, but fine as a base of operations.”
Edwards’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You’re bluffing.”
“You know I’m not.” I smiled and shook my head, as though in regret. “It’s what I do for a living, Edwards: I find people. Even people who are dead twice over.”
Edwards kept his eyes on me. He crumpled the paper in his right hand and dropped it on the desk, as though the act of doing so would make the problem go away.
“Bryce was a methodical thinker,” I continued. “I guess he had to be. He kept plans, notes, receipts. Even a journal.”
Edwards was searching my eyes for a tell, hoping against hope I was bluffing. Beads of sweat blossomed on his forehead. “You’re lying,” he said. “No phone calls, nothing in writing, that was the rule. Bryce knew the rule.”
“Maybe Bryce thought it was safe. Nobody knew he existed, so nobody would go looking for his apartment.” I shrugged and pretended not to notice the way his hand had started inching toward the top drawer of his desk. “I don’t think that was it, though. Notes are one thing, but keeping a detailed journal?” I paused for effect and then shook my head slowly. “An insurance policy. Against you throwing him to the wolves if things got messy.”
Edwards swallowed. “If this were true, if you had anything, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
“This is a favor. Not for you, for Banner. She still believes in the Bureau. She can’t stand what a scandal like this is going to do to it. Banner is the only reason I’m here: to give you a choice.”
Edwards digested that and then flinched visibly. “A choice? You mean . . .”
“They say it’s painless.”
He nodded slowly, as though coming to a decision. Then his right hand jerked the top drawer of the desk open. I was across the desk before he could bring his gun to bear on me. It wasn’t the standard Bureau-issue Glock 23, but the smaller, more compact Glock 27: his backup piece. I grabbed the gun with both hands and started to pull down. Edwards struggled and tried to push me off with his left hand, but I held firm. Then he tried pulling the trigger anyway, but I was putting too much pressure on his hand for him to keep his finger on it. After Caleb Wardell, overpowering this guy seemed about as challenging as wrestling a vanilla pudding.
He forgot about the gun and looked up at me, eyes bulging as he realized I wasn’t going to stop until I snapped his wrist. The fight evaporated from him, and I took the Glock, stepping back. I picked up the balled-up piece of paper with Bryce’s address on it, then walked to the door. When I turned back, Edwards was watching me, cradling his hand. There was a pleading look in his eyes.
Without taking my eyes from his, I used my shirtsleeve to wipe the grip and the barrel; then I bent one knee and placed the Glock on the carpet. I opened the door and stepped back into the corridor. I closed it behind me, being careful to wipe the handle down.
By my watch, it took me four minutes and eighteen seconds to reach the sidewalk taking the route Paxon had recommended, avoiding both of the security cameras on the tenth floor. Paxon herself would not remember my visit. The call to alert Edwards of my visit had not, in fact, come from reception. According to his schedule, Edwards was entirely alone.
I turned around when I reached the neat waist-high steel fence and looked up at the tenth floor of the building on West Roosevelt Road. I counted along until I located Edwards’s window. I waited for him to appear there, for a shiny, ashen face to look down to see me, but it never came. And then it was impossible to see anything, because the glass turned red. There was just a small, insignificant pop, barely audible over the traffic.
I thought about Rapid City. I thought about the little girl in the blue raincoat. Then I turned and walked away.
EPILOGUE
I met Banner twenty minutes later, a few blocks from the FBI building in an anonymous coffeehouse that looked out on Addams Park.
I glanced at my watch and wondered if they’d found him yet. I ran through the duration of the encounter in my head and satisfied myself that I hadn’t left any prints, or anything else to connect myself to the scene. With Edwards alone and only his own prints on his own gun, it ought to be an open-and-shut suicide verdict. I sipped a double espresso. Banner hadn’t ordered anything.
“He killed himself?” she asked, her tone cold.
“Yes.”
“You knew he would, didn’t you?”
“I think you knew too.”
Her eyes dropped to regard the tabletop. “How did you know he’d believe you?”
I thought back to the previous night. The apartment on West Twenty-First. As empty as a nun’s little black book. Bryce had been as good as his word: nothing in writing. Nothing at all.
“I know the type. Edwards didn’t trust anyone, not really. Not even Bryce. That’s why he bought the story as soon as he knew I’d found Bryce’s apartment.”
“We had nothing on him,” Banner said quietly.
“He admitted it, if that makes you feel any better.”
“I suppose it ought to.”
“We did the right thing,” I said. “There was no way to get him. Not within the rules.”
Banner shivered and folded her arms around herself, avoiding my gaze and instead looking out at the street.
“That’s what they thought,” she said after a minute. “Edwards and Bryce. They thought they had to break the rules to make things right. What makes us different?”
I took another sip of coffee. “Maybe we’re not.”
She turned back to me, didn’t say anything.
“Banner, if you want to wallow in guilt about what we just did, be my guest. Edwards and Bryce freed a serial killer in the certain knowledge that he would kill innocent people. We didn’t kill any innocent people. You don’t have to feel great about yourself for this, but I think that’s kind of an important dist
inction, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Blake. This . . .” She shook her head and looked away again, lowering her voice. “Damn it. This isn’t why I joined the Bureau.”
“Then forget about it. Move on. This thing is done now. Go back to what you do: catching bad guys. You’re good at it. First female director, remember?”
She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Donaldson can’t actually fire me just now because I got Wardell, but he’s not happy with the way I handled things. I’m not promotion material anymore, not the way I wanted. I have a bunch of very well-paid PR engagements in my future, and that’s pretty much it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. What I used to think was important doesn’t seem so important anymore.”
“How’s Annie?”
“Holding up. Considering.”
“I’m glad. Tell her thanks for the get-well-soon card.”
She nodded. “So what about you?”
“I’m leaving. I think I’ll go someplace warm for a while, let the sutures heal. And then I’ll go back to what I do.”
“Finding people who don’t want to be found.”
“That’s what it would say on the business cards. If I had any.”
She leaned across the table and kissed me on the mouth. It was a long, searching kiss. I didn’t need much persuasion to return it. She broke the kiss after a minute and drew back, opening her eyes and staring into mine. She’d never looked at me like that before. It was like she was seeing something in my eyes she hadn’t noticed before. Or hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.
“Goodbye, Blake. Please don’t come back.”
I looked back at her for a moment and then nodded. I slid five bucks under my coffee cup and stood up. Banner stared straight ahead, not watching as I left. I pushed the glass door open and stepped out onto West Fifteenth Street. As the weathermen had predicted, it had begun to snow. I thought about warmer climes, pulled my jacket closed, and walked away.
Acknowledgements
Although there’s only one name on the cover, this book feels very much like a team effort. I am indebted to the following people, without whom this novel would not exist.
First and foremost, my former agent Thomas Stofer of LBA, for his astute suggestions and his relentless championing of the book. My new agent, the legendary Luigi Bonomi (also of LBA) for giving an unknown author his big break. My wonderful and talented editor Jemima Forrester and the whole team at Orion, who have been so positive and enthusiastic about the book since day one. Everybody who read the first draft and made helpful suggestions, particularly James Stansfield and Mary Hays. Last but not least, my fabulous wife Laura and our three children, for putting up with me and for not complaining too much on the days I spent more time on writing than with them.
About the Author
Mason Cross was born in Glasgow in 1979. He studied English at the University of Stirling and currently works in the voluntary sector. He has written a number of short stories, including A Living, which was shortlisted for the Quick Reads Get Britain Reading Award. He lives in Glasgow with his wife and three children.
Find out more at www.carterblake.net or follow him on Twitter @MasonCrossBooks
Copyright
An Orion eBook
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Orion Books
This eBook first published in 2014 by Orion Books
Copyright © Mason Cross 2014
The moral right of Mason Cross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs And Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book, except for those already in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
‘Nebraska’ Words and music by Bruce Springsteen © 1982 Reproduced by permission of Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP)/Sony/ATV Music Publishing (UK) Ltd, London w1f 9ld
‘America’ Words and music by Paul Simon © Copyright 1968 Paul Simon (BMI). All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission of Music Sales Corporation.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 4568 4
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