He grinned, hoping she might return some indication of amiability. He was sorely disappointed.
“Maybe you’re bored. Is that it? Look.” He withdrew two large blue marbles from his coat pocket, placed them in his right palm, and held out his hands, knuckles up. He swirled his hands back and forth, over and under, up and down. “Okay, which hand are the marbles in?”
Cavanaugh’s expression did not change.
“Look, I’m sorry about taping you up. You left me no choice.”
Cavanaugh did not appear sympathetic.
“I’m not kidding. I didn’t want to bother you. Really. I just wanted your help. If anyone can figure a way out of this mess, I thought, Cavanaugh can. Got any suggestions?”
Her only response was communicated through angry, glaring eyes.
Travis sighed. He dipped the spoon back in the pot and slurped more soup. “I feel guilty eating in front of you. Can I get you some milk or something? I promise not to poison it.”
Cavanaugh kicked with both feet, then twisted from side to side, straining against her bonds. It was no use. She was securely fixed in place.
“If you agree not to scream, or call the police, or try to get away, I’ll untie you. You wouldn’t have to be civil to me. What d’ya say?”
No reaction.
“Oh well.” He finished the soup, then sat on the floor, his arms folded across his lap. “I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened to me since Moroconi busted out of jail. Maybe you can come up with some ideas. Okay?”
Cavanaugh glared at him with stony eyes. “Okay. Good. Well, it began when I got this phone call in the middle of the night. …”
36
10:10 P.M.
THIS TIME KRAMER MET Donny in the corridor outside Mario’s office. He snuck up behind him, grabbed a suspender, then let it pop.
“Owww!” Donny cried.
Kramer grabbed Donny by the throat. “Whatcha been up to, Donny-boy?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” His eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. “You’re hurting me.”
“I know,” Kramer replied. “That’s why I got this shit-eatin’ grin.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand and removed a fistful of handwritten notes. “Look what I found.”
“Hey! Those are mine! What were you doing in my desk?”
“Looking for backstabbing crap like this!” He threw the notes on the floor. “You’ve pushed your ass into my affairs once too often, Donny-boy.”
Donny struggled futilely against Kramer’s grip. “You can’t hurt me. I’m family.”
“So?”
“So you’re nothing. You’re just a sick bastard Uncle Mario uses to clean up shit too dirty for any normal—”
He never finished the sentence. Kramer’s fist brought it to a premature conclusion. Donny fell to his knees, his hand pressed against his face, tears in his eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?”
It was Mario, standing just behind them.
“Just handlin’ a little discipline problem,” Kramer replied. “Nothin’ important.”
“He hurt me!” Donny cried, rubbing his jaw. “He’s just mad because—”
“Silence!” Mario bellowed. “I’ve had all the petty bickering I can bear. Mr. Kramer, if I ever decide to hire you to enforce discipline within the family, I will let you know.”
Kramer muttered something under his breath.
Mario bent down and retrieved the notes, glanced at them, then dropped them in a trash can. “Donny, surely you didn’t think I needed you to set me straight?”
“I just wanted to keep a record. So you’d know why Kramer keeps screwing up.”
Kramer’s eyes widened, enraged. “You candy-assed son of a—”
Mario cut Kramer off with a wave of his hand. “If you ever hope to become a lieutenant, Donny, you must learn to follow instructions and observe the chain of command.” He turned to face Kramer. “I must admit, however, that to a large extent I share Donny’s concerns. Mr. Kramer, you have a reputation for efficiency that knows no bounds. As a result, you have been trusted with matters of great delicacy.” His voice swelled in volume. “So why the hell can’t you take care of one third-rate crook and one fucking lawyer?”
Kramer stuttered uncertainly. Mario interrupted before he could complete a word. “I don’t care to hear your excuses.” He placed his hand roughly against Kramer’s chest, shoving him back. “One more chance, Mr. Kramer. That is all that remains to you. One more failure, and you will no longer have any association with this family. You will be invisible to us. Transparent. A ghost. Do you understand?”
Kramer didn’t answer. His teeth were clenched tightly together.
“I said, do you understand?”
Kramer nodded his head slowly. “I understand.”
“Perfect.” Mario extended his hand to help Donny up, who was still lying on the floor.
“Thanks, Uncle Mario. I told you what a screwup he was—”
“Donny, shut up. You’ve been no more successful than Mr. Kramer. Indeed, I have to wonder whether your forced association with Mr. Kramer is the reason for his atypical incompetence.”
“Uncle Mario!”
“I’m shipping you back to your mother, Donny. It pains me, but I must tell Monica you have no place in this family. Not as a lieutenant, not even as the lowliest foot soldier. Perhaps we can reconsider when you have matured, say, in thirty or forty years. But for now, I want no part of you. Goodbye.”
“But, Uncle Mario!”
It was no use. Mario was already down the hall and out of sight.
Donny stared at Kramer, who was standing stiff as a board, obviously seething. He’d never seen anyone talk to Kramer like Mario just did. Served the bastard right.
He decided to run back to his room before Kramer snapped out of it and started slugging again. He wasn’t going to pack, though. He couldn’t believe Mario would really ship him back home. This was a warning, that’s all. Shape up or ship out.
So he would shape up. He would prove to Uncle Mario that he could be a valuable asset to the organization. By accomplishing what Kramer could not.
He would kill Travis Byrne stone-cold dead. And not make a mess of it.
FRIDAY
April 19
37
1:00 A.M.
TRAVIS HAD RECOUNTED EVERYTHING that had happened since Al Moroconi called him the night before. Cavanaugh listened quietly and patiently to the entire story—not that she really had any choice.
“So you see where I am,” Travis concluded. “There’s nowhere I can go. There’s no one I can trust. Visiting friends would be fatal, both for them and me. So I came here.”
Cavanaugh leaned forward, the dishrag still wedged in her mouth. “Mmmwhtantfmmmeeee?”
“I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I missed the last part.”
Cavanaugh kicked up her heels, sending the chair within inches of capsizing.
“For the millionth time, I’ll take the rag out of your mouth if you won’t scream. You don’t have to help me. Just promise you won’t try to attract any attention.”
He waited a long time. Eventually, her head moved slowly up and down.
Travis crawled over beside her. “This is going to sting a little. Should I do it all at once, or slowly?”
She rolled her eyes.
In a quick jerk, he ripped the duct tape off her face. Cavanaugh made a noise, but it was muffled by the dishrag. He yanked it out of her mouth. “Does this mean you believe what I told you?”
“No,” she replied curtly. “It means I’m tired of having a dirty dishrag in my mouth. Blech!” She rubbed the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You could at least have used something clean.”
“You didn’t allow me much time to look around.”
“That was the same towel I used to mop up the spilt soup!”
“So? I thought the soup was delicious.”
“It’s bett
er on a spoon than a dishrag. I think you’re totally delusional, Byrne. But even if what you say is true, what do you want from me?”
“I told you. I just need a place to crash for the night.”
Cavanaugh glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’ve half-accomplished that goal already.”
“Of course,” he added, “any recommendations you could make would be greatly appreciated.”
“I recommend counseling, Byrne. Intensive, psychiatric counseling. Shock therapy, perhaps.”
Travis ignored her. “Didn’t you say you used to be a skip tracer? You must know all kinds of dodges for finding people who have disappeared.”
“That was a long time ago, Byrne.”
“So? I’ve seen you in the courtroom. You have a great memory.”
“For some things, yes. For others, no. That’s a part of my life I try to block out.”
“But this is an emergency—”
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying, Byrne? This is not a part of my life I wish to remember. Do you have any idea what that might be like?”
Travis looked down suddenly. “I have … some idea, yes.”
“Good. Then leave me alone. And get me the hell out of this chair.”
“Do you promise not to try to get away?”
“Get away? I live here Byrne, remember?”
“I can’t untie you unless you promise not to leave.”
“Why not? Christ!” She struggled against the tape strapping her to the chair. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid this hundred-and-five-pound woman will overpower you?”
“Frankly, yes. You damn near got away the last time we struggled. I’m not taking any chances.” He smiled slightly. “After all, you are a martial-arts expert.”
“This is probably how you get your cheap thrills. Bondage. S-and-M fantasies.”
“Oh, please—”
“I bet that’s it. I’m surprised you haven’t been sitting over there jerking off.”
“Such language. Next time I’ll put a bar of soap in your mouth.”
“Sicko.”
This was the drawback to overpowering people and taping them to the kitchen furniture: they tended to be somewhat hostile afterward. “Look, I understand how you feel. Some guy you only know from the other side of the courtroom breaks into your apartment, and for all you know he may be a … a …”
“Psychosexual sadist who likes to tie women up?”
“Those weren’t exactly the words I had in mind, but …” He cleared his throat. “The point is, I understand how you must feel, but I can’t let you leave.”
There was a long silence. Travis could feel her eyes scrutinizing him. It didn’t matter. It was too late and he’d been at it too long. He was beyond caring.
“Okay,” she said suddenly.
He looked up. “Okay what?”
“I promise not to turn you in. I promise I won’t try to leave. Mother, may I please be untied?”
His eyes brightened. “Then you do believe me.”
“Wrong. I’m just dead tired. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s after one in the morning, somewhat later than my usual bedtime. I’m weary to the bone, and I’m not likely to get any sleep duct-taped to a kitchen chair.”
“Okay.” Travis took a knife from the kitchen and cut the tape.
Cavanaugh rose slowly from her chair. Her knees creaked. “Oh God.” She ripped the cut tape from her clothing. “Well, you can stay up all night if you want, Travis, but I’m going to bed. I have to work on another case tomorrow.” She walked wearily toward the bedroom, then stopped. “You can sleep on the sofa if you like. It folds out.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t wake me. I plan to sleep in.”
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
“And don’t get the wrong idea, pal. This is for one night and one night only. As soon as the sun rises, you’re out of here.”
“Agreed.” He hesitated. “And thanks. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t get sentimental. I might change my mind yet.” She closed her bedroom door.
He threw himself down on the sofa and tried to relax. It was no use. Whether he liked it or not, he had a thousand stray images racing through his head, a thousand loose ends, a thousand unanswered questions.
He took a legal pad from Cavanaugh’s briefcase and started sketching a diagram of what had happened so far. He drew the FBI on the left, Moroconi on the right. But where did he put those men at the shopping mall? Were they with the FBI, or the police, or the mob? And who were the men at the West End? Where did they fit into his diagram?
He was dog tired, but he was never one who could rest first; he had to get the work done before he could even think about relaxing. Like in the poem, the woods were pretty damn dark and deep and he had miles to go before he could sleep.
He had to figure out what to do. Where to go. How to get himself out of this mess.
Before it was too late.
38
2:35 A.M.
KRAMER CRUISED INTO THE apartment-complex parking lot just off Forest Lane, lights dimmed. Sure enough, there it was—Travis Byrne’s car. The license plate and description were both perfect matches.
His broad smile made the scar on the side of his face crinkle. This would show Mario. He had been certain his men would find the car eventually, but in truth he had thought it would take longer than this. Sometimes you just get lucky, he supposed. Of course, some of the luck could be attributed to the time-tested technique of putting the fear of death into a group of men who were basically spineless bootlickers. Part of the luck was also attributable to Byrne’s own stupidity—why was he still in the Dallas metro area? If Kramer had been on the run, he’d be in Chicago by now. Maybe Paris.
Byrne’s car was empty. Kramer slid a thin, long sheet of metal between the window glass and the car frame, pushed it down about a foot and a half, then jerked it to the right. He heard a popping noise that told him the lock had been sprung.
He crawled into the car and began rooting around. Nothing particularly suspicious—a change of clothes, an overcoat, a briefcase. Kramer popped open the briefcase and examined the contents. A lot of boring documents written on long legal paper. Some pens, pencils, yellow Post-Its. And a business card.
Now, that was interesting—Kramer had heard of Special Agent Henderson and knew what the man really did. Who had contacted Byrne, he wondered, and why? He slipped the card into his pocket.
Nothing else in the car seemed particularly noteworthy. Nothing indicated in which of the apartments Byrne was hiding.
Kramer considered his options. He could set the car on fire. That would be fun. That would give him great pleasure. And that might bring Byrne out of hiding.
On the other hand, he considered, it might just tip Byrne off and send him scurrying out the back window. No, he should figure out which of these apartments Byrne was in. Once he knew that, he could use a more direct approach. And if that didn’t work, he thought, grinning, he could still blow the car to hell and back—with Byrne in it. That would be Plan B.
Yeah, that’s the ticket. He strolled across the parking lot, crisscrossing toward the main office building. He casually passed the front door, glancing at the lock. Piece of cake. And the office would undoubtedly have files identifying every, tenant. And from that list, he could likely deduce which apartment Byrne was in. He would just look for someone Byrne would be likely to know—a coworker, or a relative, or another lawyer. He’d start with the apartments nearest Byrne’s car.
Kramer returned to his car. He checked the trunk and found all his favorite tools—cans of gasoline, lighter fluid, an incendiary blowtorch, cord. He examined a small brown box, barely three by four inches. Everything was there—a tiny triggering mechanism, a smidgen of plastic explosive, and four hundred nails. Ready to go. He crawled under Byrne’s car and locked the box into place.
He’d get Byrne in the apartment, or later when he ran to
his car. Either way Kramer would get him, and have a little fun in the process. And then he’d be in a position to make that fat fucker Mario regret talking to him like he did.
There were going to be a few surprises for Mr. Travis Byrne in the morning.
39
9:30 A.M.
TRAVIS ROLLED OVER, GROANING, and untangled his body from the living-room furniture.
“Pffst—wha—?” He had carpet hair in his mouth. He was lying on the floor in a twisted knot between the coffee table and the sofa. He stretched his legs and tried to remember when he had finally conked out. His neck and back were stiff; pins and needles shot through his legs. He might be awake, but his legs weren’t.
He tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to wake Cavanaugh. The cabinets were still littered with utensils and ingredients for the bell-pepper soup.
He wondered if Cavanaugh had anything for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator and found it well stocked: milk, orange juice, eggs, bacon. Much more than he could have found in his own kitchen. He congratulated himself for holing up with someone who cooked.
He decided to start with coffee. He couldn’t find a coffeemaker, but he did locate a jar of instant. He pulled a brass teakettle out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and turned the heat up high.
The doorbell rang. He frowned. Who would be here at this time of—
He checked his watch. It was already nine-thirty. How could he have slept so late?
He rushed to the door, hoping he could get rid of whoever it was before Cavanaugh awoke. If she was aroused too early, she was certain to be grumpy. Come to think of it, she was certain to be grumpy in any case, but the less provocation the better.
He peered through the peephole. The face was unfamiliar—which was good. A tall, medium-sized white male in a spiffy-looking blue suit and tie.
“Package,” the man said.
Why would someone be delivering a package? Then it dawned on him—Cavanaugh had said she was going to work on a new case. She probably had the files couriered to her apartment to save herself the trouble of lugging them.
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