by Tim Green
Tony gazed at Angelo's face. A few greedy flies scurried and buzzed about his lips. His eyes were wide open but foggy and lifeless. Tony shook his head and went back into the living room to sit down and wait. Mikey would be back soon, he knew that. Of all the things in the world he didn't know, he did know that the next person to come through that door would be Mikey.
Tony sat for an hour and a half without moving. He was thinking, planning just what they were going to do, where they were going to go, and how they would start things all over again. He smiled from time to time, thinking that he'd drop Hunter Logan a little line, just to let him know that for the rest of his life he would have to worry about when it would come. It would come. Tony promised himself that. It would come to his wife, and his little girl, and finally, after he'd seen his life torn to pieces and everything he loved destroyed, then and only then would Tony Rizzo gleefully plant three slugs in the back of his head.
Tony heard a car coming up the drive. Moving his head back against the chair, he looked up into the heavy beams of the cabin. He started from his seat when he realized there was a ruckus. Mikey came through the door like a shot and fell splayed out on his face on the wood-plank floor. As if from nowhere, two big, heavy-set men appeared and trained their jet-black automatic weapons on him. Frozen with his arms half raised in the air, Tony heard another car pull up outside and feet crunching on gravel as the newcomers approached the front porch.
When he saw Sal Gamone and Mark Ianuzzo, he smiled warmly and said, "Sal! Mark! I'm glad you came yourselves! This is something that I needed to explain to you myself. Everything will be fine. Don't worry, I'm going to get all your money back. It will be easy for me. I know--"
Sal held his hand up for silence. He glanced at Mike Cometti, who was groveling and crying like a child on the floor. He gave one of his men a puzzled look, and the man ripped off a burst of automatic fire that shook the floor and silenced Mike Cometti for good.
Tony's mouth hung open for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure and held up his hands as if to fend off a friendly blow. "Now, wait--" he began.
"Where's your phone, Tony?" Sal asked politely.
"Here," Tony said, lifting the phone anxiously.
"You dial," Sal said. "I want you to call your uncle."
"My uncle ..." Tony dialed the number and then held the phone out once again.
"No. You talk," Sal said.
"Hello" came the sad, quiet voice at the other end.
Tony didn't know what to do, but Sal was looking at him expectantly. "Vinny? Vinny, it's me, Tony. Vinny, I just heard . . . I'm sorry ..."
There was a long silence, then Vincent Mondolffi, Jr., spoke, Tony, my father treated you like a son for your whole life. You-- you'll rot in hell."
"Hey, fuck you!" Tony bellowed, sounding as insulted as he Could. He was still hanging on, still trying to squirm and snake his way out. There was always a way out. Tony believed that.
But Sal Gamone snatched the phone from his hand before he could continue his act. "Vinny?" he said gently. Tm sorry what happened, Vinny. We all loved and respected your father. Mark Ianuzzo and I are here because we want to see justice done. You know as well as anyone that we can't have people doing things like this. This is why we have the council, and we want you to know, as the one who will be taking over your family, that this is how we do things. Now, did you find the guy that did it? Your neighbor got the plate? You already paid him a visit? It was Tony's man? You're sure?"
Sal looked at Tony in disgust as if he actually believed this was the first he'd heard of it. "We didn't want to make a mistake, Vinny, but if you're sure, we're going to make a gift out of this for you. Yes . . . we'll gift-wrap it in the East River."
Sal stepped back as he said those words, and automatic fire hit Tony's lower legs from different angles at the same time, dropping him in his tracks. The rest of his body was riddled with hot lead as he lay there in a spasm of gore.
The shooting stopped, and Tony looked up defiantly at Sal Gamone and Mark Ianuzzo. He focused on them because in his mind they were his equals. From the corner of his eye he saw one of their nameless thugs bend down over his broken body. It wasn't right! Tony's eyes clouded with anger, and he willed these men to acknowledge his greatness. They would have to dirty their own hands if they wanted to put an end to him!
Tony felt a cold barrel of steel pushed up behind his ear, and he screamed in rage as he watched the passive faces of the godfathers for some kind of sign. The gun exploded and his mind spun wildly downward into the blackened depths of an empty soul.
EPILOGUE:
Hunter walked alone on the dark beach. Night had only just come, and he could make out a figure in white running toward him. It was Rachel, and she was beautiful, but terror was cut into her face as if it were a permanent part of her moment-to-moment existence.
She was crying. "Hunter! Hunter!"
Her moans came to him through the steady surge of the waves and gave it a surreal quality. He froze in his tracks, knowing without her saying that they had come, that they had finally found his family. He looked past Rachel at their house, which sat like an old ghost, pale and white among a cluster of twisted pines, enclosed in the darkening night. It wasn't a house that he thought of as his own anymore, although inside he knew it was his, and he knew that it was where Sara was . . . with them.
"Where's Sara!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Where is Sara!"
The sound of Rachel's voice told him what words could not.
"Hunter! Hunnnt-errrrr!"
It was a death wail.
His insides turned to lead and he began to vomit the viscera of his inner being out onto the wet sand. The sound was itself sickening.
"Hunter!"
"Nooooooo!" he screamed, tearing himself away.
"Hunter!"
Hunter could smell the ocean. A warm breeze wafted in from the open window. Outside, he could see the big trees swaying heavily in the morning breeze. Rachel stood at the bedside with her hand on his arm and a look of concern on her face.
"Hunter?" she said lovingly. "Are you all right?"
He reached up and pulled her close, feeling her warm flesh as if for the first time. "Kiss me," he said softly as he pulled her close to him.
"Is everything OK, Hunter?"
Hunter put his chin on her head and gazed out the window again. "Yes," he said. "I had a dream . . .
"I want to go," he said. "I want to tell him myself."
"OK," Rachel said, gently pulling away and getting to her feet. "Sara's all set. All you have to do is get dressed."
Hunter propped himself up on one elbow. "God, I love you, Rachel," he said.
"I love you, too."
"I'm so sorry . . . you know that," he said.
"I know that, but you don't have to be. It happened, but it wasn't your fault, Hunter. It wasn't."
Hunter nodded, but she knew it would still be some time before he believed her.
"It doesn't matter now anyway," she said with a warm smile. "I'm here. You're here, and Sara. We're all together. That's what matters."
Hunter nodded and almost smiled. "OK," he said, rising from the bed. "I'll throw on some jeans and we'll go."
Sara chattered the entire way. Rachel and Hunter were relieved at how quickly she had recovered from the trauma of the past few weeks. It was as though none of it had ever happened. She had already met once with a psychologist; they all were doing it. Rachel wanted to make sure that everything that was buried would stay buried, a precaution Hunter had readily agreed to. Already the doctor had assured them that Sara would be fine. Hunter didn't worry about Rachel--she was a rock. And himself? He shook his head as he pulled off the highway. He didn't think he deserved to bury it. He wanted to keep it with him, not to torment him, but to remind him. Hunter didn't like making the same kind of mistake twice.
In the daylight he didn't recognize anything, but, as before, he simply followed the blue signs with the large white Hs
, and within minutes they were pulling into the parking lot of a brick, single-story building that looked too simple to be a hospital. They were able to park close to the entrance. Not that it mattered, the sun shone brightly and the air was unseasonably warm. Inside, an elderly volunteer in a candy striper's uniform gave them directions. They walked down a long corridor, then another. Outside the door to Cook's room stood two rigid-faced agents in dark suits. They looked at Hunter and his family and stepped aside so they could pass.
A young but overweight doctor was listening to Cook's lungs as they walked in. Natasha and Aunt Esther sat beside each other in chairs backed up against the window on the far side of the room. Natasha smiled shyly and Esther gave a curt nod. Hunter already knew the story of how the old aunt had taken Natasha and disappeared for weeks, making her way slowly and cautiously down to Georgia, where there were people she knew and trusted, the same people whom she knew Cook would contact as soon as he could. He gave the old woman a respectful smile.
The doctor finished his exam and turned to greet his patient's guests. "Well, damn!" Cappy exclaimed, sticking his stethoscope haphazardly into his coat pocket and extending his hand to Hunter. "I'm Dr. Capman, Cappy, really. Cook told me you were coming," he said, his fat red face beaming with true admiration. Told me that it must have been you who brought him in, but I don't know. It wasn't you, was it?"
Hunter nodded. "Yes, it was me."
"Damn, I could've met you twice," Cappy said, rubbing his nose and stepping aside so that they could see Cook. "Well, it was a pleasure. I have some other patients to see, but I'll try to stop back before you leave. I love to talk to anyone who'll listen about how I saved Agent Cook. He'll be like new in a few weeks. Well, I don't know about new, but all his moving parts will work, and that's a lot considering the shape he was in when you delivered him. He's my Lazarus, back from the dead ..." Cappy left the room with a wave and a parting salvo of chuckles.
Cook lifted his right hand as much as he could, and Hunter reached out and shook it gently before he introduced his family to Natasha and Esther. Then he turned to Cook. "My God, Cook," he said. "You made it."
Cook nodded his swollen head slightly and in a soft, raspy voice he said, 'Thank you."
Hunter shrugged it off and said, "I should be the one thanking you. Here," he said, taking a folded newspaper that Rachel had been holding for him in her pocketbook.
It was a copy of the New York Times metro section from a week ago.
"I know you know about it," Hunter said, "but I didn't know if you had seen the picture. I did. I wouldn't believe it until I did."
The caption above the picture read MAFIA KILLING ESCALATES, BODY FOUND IN EAST RIVER. The picture below was clearly the mangled form that had once been Tony Rizzo. The media had had a field day when Vincent Mondolffi and Tony Rizzo turned up dead within a day of each other. The article also mentioned that the bodies of Angelo Quatrini, William Vantressa, Michael Cometti, and Carl Lutz had been found and were presumed to be victims of the same mob war. There was no mention made of Hunter or Cook or Duncan Fellows. As far as the world was concerned, none of it had ever happened.
"So ..." Hunter said, "you were right."
Cook nodded slowly and said, "I'm glad for you. You deserve to have your life back."
"So do you," Hunter said, smiling. "In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm here. Remember that senator I told you about? The one I know?"
Cook furrowed his swollen brow, then said, "Yeah, I do."
"Well, I called him as soon as I found out Rizzo was dead. I told him everything, and I told him about you. Well, I'll let you hear it from them, but I wanted to be here when you did."
Hunter picked up the phone on the table next to Cook's bed and began dialing. "Miles Zulaff, please . . . This is Hunter Logan. Thank you . . . Miles? I've got Cook here. No, Senator Ward and I thought it would be better if you told him."
Hunter put the phone up to Cook's ear. Cook slowly raised his hand and held the receiver gently against the good side of his head.
"Hello, sir."
"Cook?" said the FBI assistant director. They tell me you're going to be all right. I'm glad to hear it. We've cleared everything up, Cook. I'm sorry about the guards that have been there, but, well, we just didn't know what the hell was going on. But let's not talk about all that," Zulaff continued. "We'll have plenty of time for that when you get to Washington. We're going ahead with our special task forces around the country, and the director wants someone who knows the practical difficulties of the field to coordinate our efforts from here. That's you ... if you want it."
"Yes," Cook said. 'Thank you, sir. I look forward to it."
"Great! Well, when you're better and you get back, we've got a lot of work to do . . . Oh, Cook. There is one thing ..."
"Yes?"
"I got a call this morning from Agent Duffy. He asked if he could be reassigned to your staff here in Washington. I didn't know how you felt about that."
That would be fine," Cook said.
"Good, well, get well Cook. We need you back."
Cook held out the phone, and Hunter put it back on the hook. Cook's good eye searched out his little Natasha, and they smiled at each other. Then he looked, at Hunter. His friend was standing there, also smiling at him, with one arm around Rachel and the other around Sara. Cook thought then that Hunter Logan was a man who had everything. He was right.