by David Hosp
Jacobs walked to the door that led out to the warehouse. ‘I’ll be behind the door.’
McDougal nodded. ‘Wait for a few minutes after he gets here, then make the call. You understand? Don’t do anything unless it sounds like there is a problem. I need to know who else he’s working for. If he won’t tell me when we’re alone, then you and I can spend some time with him and convince him to talk. I want the chance to get it out of him myself first.’
Jacobs opened the door and slipped out, closing the door behind him. The door was cheap and flimsy. Jacobs would hear everything that went on in the office. So would Sal. McDougal had told him to follow Coale in, and to listen at the door that led back out to the reception area. Plus Smitty was out in the car. The three of them could handle one man, even someone with Coale’s reputation. In McDougal’s experience, reputations tended to be overblown. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met someone who’d lived up to their hype.
He sat down in the chair behind his desk to wait.
Coale walked slowly, carefully through the reception area. There was a closet, and he eased it open to make sure it was empty. He glanced behind the desk. No one. Four doors opened off the narrow hallway that led to McDougal’s office. One led back out to the reception area. One was a bathroom. One was the entrance to McDougal’s office, and the last one went out to the warehouse. He peered into the bathroom; it was empty. That left just the office and the warehouse.
He took out his gun, unscrewed the silencer and put it in his pocket. Accuracy and speed were at a premium over quiet now. He put the gun in his shoulder holster, kept the holster unclipped, the gun balanced, barely held, ready to be pulled out. He knocked on the door to McDougal’s office.
‘Come in,’ McDougal called.
Coale pushed against the door and stepped inside. McDougal was sitting at his desk, one elbow resting on the desktop, the other in his lap, hidden. Coale looked at him for a moment, surveyed the room. There was no one else there. It was a square space without closets. A sofa was set against the wall, but there was no room behind that for a grown man to hide. That left only the door that led out to the warehouse. It opened inward, the hinges on the far side.
At least he had a good idea where everyone was now.
‘Congratulations,’ McDougal said.
Coale moved into the room, stood in front of the sofa so that he was on the other side of the hinges on the door to the warehouse. ‘For what?’
‘A job well done. I just spoke to Kevin.’
Coale controlled his breathing. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s at his apartment.’ Coale could feel McDougal watching him, evaluating his reaction. He didn’t care. He’d played the game for too long to give himself away. ‘He’s going to call us in a few minutes. He sounds more like a man than he ever has. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
Coale kept his face still, showing nothing. No surprise, no emotion. ‘It sometimes happens that way.’
‘It does. A man’s first kill. The realization that you have the power over life and death is a powerful thing. I remember my first, back in Ireland. I was a child, no more than fourteen. Tommy O’Dea. A local boy who owed me money.’ McDougal laughed, an evil chuckle. ‘I was scared wet; I didn’t want to do it. Once it was done, though, I knew I could do anything. There was nothing I wanted that I couldn’t have if I set my mind to it. That’s when I left for the States.’
Coale was looking McDougal in the eyes, but he was paying attention to the hand under the desk out of his peripheral vision.
‘Do you remember your first?’ McDougal asked.
Coale thought about his mother, dying in childbirth. Bleeding out at the same moment she gave him life. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
‘No?’ McDougal sounded surprised. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess when you’ve sent as many off as you have, it doesn’t even make an impression anymore, does it? Like swatting a bug to you. How many has it been? Twenty?’
Coale said nothing.
‘Fifty? A hundred?’
‘We have some things to discuss,’ Coale said.
‘We do.’ McDougal sat forward in his chair. His hand stayed beneath the desk. ‘Complications, you said on the phone.’
Coale nodded slowly. ‘Complications. The lawyer said he didn’t give any information over to the police.’
McDougal let out a sarcastic grunt. ‘We have him on camera breaking into the place, coming out with the files. We know that he did. He was trying to save his ass.’
‘He didn’t deny breaking in,’ Coale said. ‘He said that he only gave over material on other people. Nothing on you. He said it was the only way he could keep Kevin from doing time.’
‘Did you believe him?’
Coale nodded slowly.
‘Wouldn’t that be ironic?’ McDougal’s face turned serious. ‘You killed him anyway, right? You didn’t let him go, did you?’
‘Kevin killed him. You talked to Kevin already, right?’
A shadow of doubt crossed McDougal’s face. ‘Yeah. I talked to him. He’s going to be calling back in a few minutes.’ He was still scrutinizing Coale as he spoke.
‘So you said.’
The silence hung heavy between them for a long moment. ‘Any other complications?’ McDougal asked.
Coale shook his head. ‘None.’
‘So, what else is there to talk about?’
‘I’m out,’ Coale said. ‘I’m done.’
‘I hired you to do a job.’
‘You did. And I did the job.’
‘Did you, now?’
‘I did,’ Coale said. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, so that his right hand rested on the gun in his shoulder holster under his jacket. ‘You hired me to take care of the situation with the Connor woman. I did that. The police found nothing. I took care of the situation in New Hampshire. I took care of the lawyer. I’m done.’
‘The police are asking questions about me. They’re asking questions about my connections to Buchanan.’ McDougal drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘That was what I was trying to avoid.’
‘Maybe you should have been more careful,’ Coale said.
‘Or maybe you’ve not finished the fuckin’ job.’
‘I’m finished with the job. I’m finished working for you.’
‘Are you? You working for someone else now, is that it? Maybe our good senator has offered you more? Maybe you think you can sell me out and save his royal ass?’ The fingers stopped drumming. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘I think you watch too many movies. I think we’re done.’
The phone on the table rang. Neither man looked at it. Their eyes were locked; neither would look away. McDougal reached out and picked up the receiver without even glancing at it, held it up to his ear. ‘Hello?’ There was a pause. ‘Kevin,’ he said, still focused on Coale. ‘He’s right here.’ McDougal held the phone out to Coale. Coale didn’t reach for it. His arms stayed folded, his hand inching toward his gun; he wrapped his fingers around the grip. ‘No?’ McDougal said. ‘You don’t want to talk to him?’
Coale said nothing. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready.
McDougal let the phone hang down from his hand. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ he said. ‘You killed my son.’
They both moved at the same time. Coale brought his hand out of his jacket just as McDougal’s arm came up from beneath the desk. The guns were in motion. It was like a tribute to the Old West, except that McDougal was sitting, putting him at a disadvantage. It was a critical mistake. They pulled their triggers within milliseconds of each other. Not enough time to be measured by standard commercial timers, but enough to make a difference. Coale’s shot took McDougal in the forehead even as McDougal was firing. McDougal’s head was thrown back and the momentum of his shot was affected. It wasn’t enough to prevent him from getting the shot off, but it was sufficient to disrupt his aim. The slug that would have hit Coale in the center of the chest caught him inste
ad in the muscle of his left shoulder.
The two shots firing at once created an explosion that was deafening in the tiny space. Coale ignored the sound, though, just as he ignored the pain shooting through his shoulder. He spun toward the door to the warehouse, ducking slightly to his left as he did.
It was perfectly planned. McDougal’s final man came through the door at the sound of the gunfire. The door opened inward, with Coale on the other side even as it swung open and the man stepped into the room, gun drawn. Coale aimed at the center of the thin, balsawood door and fired seven shots in quick succession.
The door rocked, and Coale heard the familiar grunts and gurgles of a man taking a bullet in the thoracic cavity. There was a loud thud, and the door swung fully open, so that it was flush to the office wall. The man was lying on the floor, his jacket covered in blood. A dark red line ran from his nose, and he wheezed, gasping for breath.
The man’s hand was still wrapped around his gun, lying flat on the ground. He looked up, and as he saw Coale, the hand twitched. He was trying to raise it but he had no strength.
Coale walked over and stepped on the hand. He could feel the fingers crack beneath his weight, trapped between his heavy shoe, the butt of the gun, and the floor. The man on the floor winced in agony. It was amazing to Coale that even with multiple slugs having ripped through it, the human body still functioned effectively enough to recognize a new source of pain.
The man looked up at Coale, his eyes pleading.
Coale looked back at him. He shook his head slightly.
He raised his gun, and put a bullet into the man’s forehead.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Long didn’t go home. There was no point. Finn’s words rang in his ears.
He said he was going to finish it.
Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon.
He went to the station house, to the detectives’ bureau, where his desk had been for the better part of a decade. The place was empty. Even downstairs, it was quiet; not a lot of street action in the city that night. At night, the station house took on an otherworldly feel. An empty, abandoned feeling. It fit his mood.
He stood at the window, looking down on the street from the second floor. The rain continued to fall, and the streetlights sparked diamonds on the asphalt. The steady slosh of tires over the wet streets made him think of the ocean down at Nantasket Beach, where his family went for a week every summer when he was a child. They stayed at a run-down motel across the street from the beach, a quarter mile down from the arcades and the honky-tonks. It had been heaven to him. It was beautiful and clean – a respite from the violence of the rest of their lives. The sound of the waves so close set an even, steady rhythm that calmed everyone.
Tires through puddles seemed a poor substitute.
A hand touched his shoulder. ‘You okay?’
He turned to look at Racine. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You?’
She shrugged. ‘I figured you’d be here.’
‘I’ve got no place else to go.’ As he said the words, he felt their full meaning.
‘I know.’
‘Kevin McDougal’s dead.’
‘I heard.’ She took her hand off his back, leaned against a desk. ‘It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘It is.’ He walked over and leaned against the same desk, next to her. They were shoulder to shoulder, both looking out the window. Lights from a squad car flashed off the raindrops sliding down the glass.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
He thought about it for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can do.’
Coale made it back to his loft without attracting attention. Soon there would be a full search for him underway. The lawyer and the girl would give a complete description of him, and by morning every cop on the street would have a composite sketch so detailed it would look like a photograph. He took a significant risk letting them go. He hadn’t had a choice, though, had he?
He stripped off his shirt. The left sleeve was soaked in blood, and there was a dark red hole on the outer edge of his shoulder. The bleeding had slowed, but it still oozed steadily. He’d been lucky. If the bullet had hit the bone, his mobility would have been severely impaired. That would have made his last task much more difficult. As it was, he would be stiff and sore, but not in a way that he would take notice of.
He pulled out a bowl and a medical kit, filled the bowl with rubbing alcohol. The medical kit had a needle and surgical thread. He put both into the alcohol, dipped a towel in and cleaned the wound. The alcohol on the bullet hole burned, but it was a good burn. A surface burn. Not the nauseous pain that came with more serious damage.
Once the wound was cleaned, he pulled out the needle and stitched the edges together. He had to wipe the blood out of the way several times, but by the time he was done he could already see the wound clotting. He put a bandage on it and put a clean undershirt on.
Resting on the edge of the bed, he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs. He tried to remember the last time he’d had a good sleep. Too long ago to recall. That would not be rectified tonight. He had to pack. By noon he planned to be long gone from Boston. Air travel was out of the question; too many law enforcement types at the airports. He’d drive out of the city. West. Keep going until he couldn’t stay on the road anymore, then find a place by the side of the highway. A cheap place. The kind of a place where no one asked any questions. The kind of a place where they assumed everyone was on the run from something. A husband. A wife. A life. He’d figure out where to go once he’d had a chance to rest. As much as it would hurt, he’d ditch the car, get something else to drive; something Midwestern, inconspicuous. But first, he had one more job to do.
He packed quickly. He was a minimalist, and took only what he needed. As he loaded his suitcase he glanced at the pocket where he kept the pictures. He was tempted to pull them out again. Until recently, he’d gone so long without looking at them that the pain had almost vanished. Not vanished, actually, but the scar tissue had grown so thick over the wound that it was almost like the pain wasn’t there anymore. It wasn’t true, of course. The pain had always been there. Waiting to grab at him at the first opportunity. Waiting for the scar tissue to tear open and reveal the true depth of the wound.
He left the pictures where they were. He would have time to look at them. He would have time to grapple with his past once he was gone. Right now he had to focus.
Early morning was the time to strike – a few hours before sunrise. That was when the attention of the security guards would be at its lowest ebb. That was when he would have the best chance of getting inside the house undetected. Once inside, he would find a way to get the man alone. He needed time. He needed to make himself understood. That required privacy.
After the suitcase was packed and he was fully dressed, he cleaned the loft – cleaned it like he’d cleaned a thousand places in his long career. People would be coming after him. The police. The feds. McDougal’s people. Others. No need to give them any help.
Once he was done, he looked around the place. He tried to remember how long he’d lived there. He had no idea, really. Ten years, maybe fifteen. A lifetime to some. To him, the blink of an eye.
He turned off the light and locked the door. He wasn’t coming back. Ever.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
‘You should try to sleep,’ Finn said.
Sally looked up at him. She was sitting on the couch in the living room, her knees drawn up to her chin. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘You should try, at least.’
Lissa and Kozlowski were sitting on stools at the kitchen counter. They’d come as soon as Finn called them to tell them what had happened. ‘Let her be,’ Lissa said to Finn.
He was standing against the wall, and he stared at Lissa, for a moment ready to argue with her. He didn’t have the energy, though. He nodded and felt his shoulders sag.
‘At least you kn
ow now,’ Lissa offered. ‘That’s something.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Finn said.
‘You know who killed your mother. Wasn’t that what this was all about?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know who killed her.’
‘The man in the alley. You said he told you.’
‘He was working for someone. Buchanan. Maybe Eamonn. Maybe both. He might have been the one who actually hit her, but someone else was pulling his strings. I need to know who.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Lissa said. ‘You need to let this go.’
‘Let it go?’ Finn said. ‘Kevin McDougal tried to kill me. He tried to kill Sally. We watched as some stranger put a bullet in his head. You think it doesn’t matter why?’
‘That’s right,’ Lissa said. ‘I don’t think it matters why. Right now the only thing that matters to me is that you and Sally weren’t killed. The only thing that matters to me is that you’re both here right now. I don’t know why the guy in the alley let you two go, but next time you may not be so lucky.’ She was raising her voice; the baby stirred in his car seat propped on the kitchen counter. She reached in and put her hand on top of him, lowered her voice to a hiss. ‘You need to focus on what’s important.’
‘This is important,’ Sally said.
The three adults looked at her, surprised.
‘It’s important,’ she said, ‘because I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. The one thing I know from where I grew up is that shit like this doesn’t just go away. Someone tries to kill you once, they’ll try again. It’s easier to deal with that if you can see it coming. If Finn let’s this go now, it’ll come back around. Maybe not this week, but sometime down the road.’
The room was silent for a while. The rain was beating against the windows. The baby gurgled softly.
‘What do you think?’ Finn asked Kozlowski.
He tilted his head. ‘If you’re really gonna follow this through, don’t bother starting with Eamonn,’ he said. ‘His son was just murdered – I would stay away from him. He’s not going to be warm and fuzzy, and you’re not gonna get any information out of him.’