The wire poked him in the chest and he clapped both hands together, grabbing hold of it. It slipped from the conduit. He fell several more feet before stopping in midair. He dangled from the end of the wire.
He let go of one hand and pinched the three wires together.
Sparks flew.
Jacobs fell away, toward the floor below.
The clock stopped.
Epilogue
Two Weeks
Later
1
The Vinetti yacht, anchored off Hyannisport, barely rocked in the water. The only way Bob Russo could tell he was moving side to side was by the slight pitch of the surface of the wine in the crystal goblet. Russo took another sip and then cut the tenderloin with his fork and felt the beef melt across his tongue. “Wonderful meal,” he said anxiously. Dino Vinetti had been unusually silent this evening.
“Bobby,” Vinetti began, using a nickname Russo disliked, “you didn’t clear the Glascock thing with me. I was very surprised at that. Upset, even. You used my boys and I never heard boo about it. Why is that?”
Russo halted the cutting of beef in mid-stroke and set down his fork. “Sir, the job had to be done quickly. Glascock had become a serious liability to the organization—”
“Not even our counsel was notified. What kind of dealing is this? What kind of man would call Cleveland and use my name without checking with my people?” The harshness in Vinetti’s voice betrayed his calm dark eyes.
“He was a liability.”
“To whom? To whom was this man a liability? To Dino Vinetti?” The don lifted a small brass bell and rang it. A waiter entered. The don requested more wine and waited for his glass to be filled.
The waiter, a big stocky man, did not roll the bottle at the end of the pour. Russo failed to notice this. Yet he innately sensed the threat that this man represented.
“My problem is this,” Vinetti explained over the lip of the wineglass. The waiter moved toward Russo with the bottle of wine. “I can’t very well have my son-in-laws giving orders using my name, now, can I? Things could get quickly out of hand, could they not.”
“The way it was, sir—”
Vinetti held up his hand, silencing his guest. The waiter filled Russo’s glass and then set the bottle down. He passed Russo heading for the door.
“I went along with your vendetta against DeAngelo and Marv Haverill. We talked, and we both agreed to a certain exploitation of circumstances. The Green has cost us a great deal of money. That is all being resolved, of course. But there are things I cannot go along with.”
Russo felt perspiration bead up on his brow. He took a sip of wine and returned the half-empty glass to the linen tablecloth.
Anger sparked in Vinetti’s black agate eyes, and his lips trembled. A drop of saliva rolled off his lip and onto his plate. “You take young women other than your wife out in public. What kind of man is that? What kind of husband are you? Ritigliano is my friend. We are blood. You are a playboy. You have always been a playboy. Never any respect for the family. Always pushing the rules to the limit. You never grew up, Bobby. You had such promise at eighteen, nineteen, but you never grew up. This vengeance you sought against Yankee Green. A fool’s pipe dream. You lack the subtlety of a family member. You are undeserving of the family name. You have no imagination, no comprehension of delicacy. You ordered a man murdered in an airport! What kind of ass does that? What kind of fool ass does that?”
Russo rubbed his throat. It was exceptionally dry. He felt light-headed, and Vinetti’s voice seemed more distant than only moments before.
“The wine, Bobby,” Vinetti said with a devil’s grin. “You see. No imagination. Look at my glass, Bobby.” He held it aloft. “I haven’t sipped it, have I? But you? You would drink water from a puddle if it contained alcohol. You see how predictable you are? Predictability is a thief’s greatest enemy.” He smiled again. “And what are we but thieves?”
Russo found it hard to breathe. He tried to rise out of his chair but felt a thousand pounds of weight on his shoulders.
“It’s a simple poison, Bobby. It shouldn’t take too much longer. It affects the nervous system first. Go ahead, try to move. See? You can’t even lift a finger. That’s what makes it so safe. There’s nothing you can do to harm me. Your days of harming me are over. All you can do now is die. You can’t even speak, can you? No. All you can do is die.
“What will become of you? We’ll hang you in the meat locker for a few days and then make sure you are buried nice and deep. Several hundred fathoms, I think.”
A few minutes later, when Russo slumped forward into his food, Vinetti rang the bell.
***
The old hardwood-floor auditorium in Brown University’s Rand Hall echoed as the standing-room-only crowd watched the lights dim. Some of those in attendance coughed, clearing their throats. A young student at the back of the hall prepared his lips and fingers to release a deafening whistle.
Les Civichek appeared from the side of the stage and moved along slowly, unassisted, using his crutches well. The crowd rose to its feet. He didn’t need the crutches anymore, but they added a wonderful effect. A young man in the back released an ear-piercing whistle. The ovation lasted a full four minutes. Civichek, glancing at his Rolex watch, finally began to speak, and the crowd quieted quickly.
Tonight he would give the same speech he had been giving for the last week. If the crowd’s reaction was anything like it had been at his other stops, he would be very pleased.
Things were going just fine.
He thought it amazing that just a month ago his Flock had been on the verge of defeat. He had been ready to give up. Even now, the newspapers continued to warn the public of the dangers of “vigilante groups” like the Flock. Editorials spoke out openly against him. But they couldn’t stop him. He could feel it. Momentum. The contributions were pouring in. The Flock was gaining immense popular support. All thanks to one afternoon at Yankee Green.
He started the speech with his standard opener. “I come here tonight as a common citizen. I come to free you of the fears you have lived with so long….”
The crowd erupted into applause.
Les Civichek grinned.
***
In a chowder house in downtown Hillsdale, Laura Haff Shole sat down across from her husband. Keze sat at her side.
“To freedom,” she said, lifting her water glass. “You may be in a wheelchair, but at least you’re out of the hospital.”
“I’ll be walking by Thanksgiving. I promise.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Me too,” echoed the animated Shelly. Keze played with the packets of sugar.
Laura spun the wedding ring on her finger. She thought of Tim and felt no regret. She was a new woman, full of love for Sam Shole and confident of the good fortune the future would bring.
“Are we ready for our first family trip?” Sam asked Laura.
“Should we?”
“Why not? I’ll be fine.”
“Where to?”
“I know. I know,” insisted Shelly.
“Oh, you do, do you?” asked Sam.
Shelly nodded, then blushed, reconsidered, and shook her head.
Sam bent over and kissed the top of her head.
“I thought we’d take a drive up into New Hampshire.”
“Oh, Sam, seriously?” Laura’s eyes sparkled with hope.
“You bet.” He faked an accent. “Had enough of this city life.”
She reached out and touched her husband’s hand. He took hers tenderly. “Can we go for one of those long, long walks, where we don’t know where we’re headed and we don’t know when we’ll turn back?”
***
“Just what I had in mind, sweetheart. Exactly what I had in mind.”
The early September sky shimmered like polished turquoise, the sun still climbing toward its noon peak. Far below, tiny cars crisscrossed intersections; the occasional sound of a car horn shattered the still air. A bl
anket of Indian summer warmth lay over Hillsdale.
They sat in silence, he chewing on a piece of grass, she abstractedly using her fingers to comb the shaggy lawn. She wore madras Bermuda shorts and a white collared T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back. “You sure you wouldn’t rather be there?”
“Positive,” he said softly, toying with the stitches in his arm.
“Did you read my article this morning?”
“Of course. You’re good, you know that? You’re really very good.”
“You don’t need to sound so surprised.”
They both laughed. Silence followed. She reached out and took his hand in hers, studying closely the fit of their entwined fingers.
“Here goes,” he said, handing her the extra pair of binoculars.
Through the glasses they both watched as the crane swung the giant ball back and then unleashed it against the wall of the FunWorld pavilion. Dust fell around the ball and a large crack appeared beneath it. Again the ball swung back; again it struck the wall. On the far end, by the stadium, several hundred yards from the ball and crane, workers were in the process of erecting a brand-new pavilion.
She said, “Out with the old, in with the new. I can’t believe they have to tear it down.”
“No one would insure it. The cheapest policy they could find was astronomical. If they left it standing, it still had to be rebuilt. This was the only way out. The lawsuits will probably bring down High Star Redevelopment Corporation. But they won’t own it soon anyway. Alex Macdonald will. It starts all over.”
“You’re sad.” It was a statement.
“It’s a funny kind of sad, like when the monster dies at the end of the movie. You know it has to die, but still, you kind of hate to see it go.” He hesitated a long time and then said, “It’s right that they do this. That wing was cursed from the beginning. Alex Macdonald will turn a profit. He always does.”
“I don’t know about that.” She tugged him over to her. “It’s been closed for nearly a month. People are shopping elsewhere. That’ll be a big hurdle to overcome.”
He tossed the binoculars aside. “How much you want to bet that Shleit gets my old job? He asked me about it, you know. He said he wants a nice office and a good salary. I told him to buy foot pads.”
“No bet,” she replied. “You’re probably right.” She brushed his dark hair off his forehead. “So, what’s next, Sherlock? You’ve been kind of quiet these last few days.”
“Later on, I thought we’d go by and see how Mrs. Popolov’s doing. Did I tell you that the Rappaports tried to talk her into traveling with them, but she refused?”
“I don’t mean today. I mean next.”
“First I have to live through that damn dinner you arranged. That could have been the end of us—you and me—you know.”
“I took my chances. They’re your family, Toby. He’s your father. He wants this as much as you do. Besides, you have to show him the Angel.”
“Oh, do I?”
“Yes, I think you should. It’s beautiful.”
He rolled over and looked at the pristine sky. “I’m scared of him. After all these years I’m still scared of him.”
“It’s good for you. He’s scared of you too.”
“It’s going to be a terrific dinner,” he quipped sarcastically.
“It’s all what you make of it,” she said stretching to kiss him on the cheek. “Just like us—like you said—the possibilities are endless.”
He toyed with the buttons of her blouse. “You sure I said that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m very, very sure.”
RIDLEY PEARSON, a writer and musician, is the author of two previous thrillers, Never Look Back and Blood of the Albatross. He and his wife, Colleen, live in a log house in a high mountain valley in Idaho.
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