Everything to Lose: A Novel

by Andrew Gross

  He had to make him pay.

  Landry got up. Patrick felt him come up behind him. He put his foot on Patrick’s back and pushed him onto the floor—Oh, Jesus, he wanted so bad to be able to show him—but now his gaze faced no farther than the man’s shoes.

  “You’re probably wondering,” Landry said, “so I’ll tell you. It hardly matters now. I set the fire. After I killed her, of course. But I doubt they’ll ever know. I had to. I couldn’t let her bring me down. Or you, right? I mean, there were only three of you who knew. Who knew what those pages meant. The old woman. And we don’t have to worry about her anymore. You . . .”

  He paused.

  Hilary. Patrick flashed to her with trepidation. He wanted to say, No, no . . . He deserved this maybe, but she, no. . .

  But by that time all his strength had pretty much emptied from him and he was able to make out the band of morning light growing brighter over the sky through the open doors.

  He heard a voice that sounded very far away as Landry picked up his cell phone.

  “Now there’s just one more . . .”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  I opened my eyes, the morning sun shining into Robin’s guest room. The feeling swept over me that something wasn’t right.

  I jumped up and made sure Brandon was still next to me.

  He was. Curled up on the other side of the bed. Still in his clothes. Where we’d lain down just a few hours earlier.

  Thank God!

  He murmured, his eyes blinking narrowly. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” I stroked his face. “Go back to sleep, honey. It’s still early.”

  I reached for my cell and saw it was 8:26 A.M. Then it hit me what all my nerves were about.

  Five hours had passed since he left me, and I hadn’t heard back from Patrick.

  Today was the day we said we’d go to the police with everything that had happened. My phone showed the two calls I’d made to him during the night, unanswered, and the text, telling him that I was at Robin’s, whom I’d woken up at three in the morning after dropping off Elena with the tale that I had Brandon and that I couldn’t go home, and who said to me, “Please, Hil, don’t say another word, come on over. With the kids away, I have a couple of extra rooms.”

  My last message to Patrick was at 4:26 A.M., after I’d sat up with Robin for a while, explaining some of it, as little as I could actually, before finally dropping off to sleep. He would have gotten back to Staten Island around 3:30 A.M. He said he’d call me as soon as he knew something about Mrs. O’Byrne. That was five hours ago. This wasn’t like him. I’d been a little concerned before I’d fallen asleep.

  Now the concern had ratcheted up to worry.

  Something wasn’t right.

  I left Brandon in bed and threw on my jeans. I went into the bathroom and peed, and tried Patrick again.

  The call immediately connected to his voice mail.

  I left a message, my third: “Patrick, I never heard back from you. Are you okay? I’m at my friend’s. Everything’s okay here, but I’m worried. Please call me when you get this message.” I went downstairs.

  Robin was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, dressed in a beige and red sweater that picked up the color of her long auburn hair. “Coffee’s over there,” she said, pointing to the counter. “Want some?”

  “Sure.” I sat down at the counter.

  She poured one out. “Sugar’s here and milk’s in the fridge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So how’d you sleep?”

  I had told her the basics early this morning when we arrived. Leaving out Landry, and that I’d just had a gun pointed at me in the act of bartering back my kid. And that I’d probably played a hand in getting someone dropped in the river. Just basically that I had taken some money and I was scared to go home. You remember when I told you I had a way to get some money . . .

  “Rob, I can’t thank you enough for letting Brandon and me come here.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She waved it off. “I probably would have been up anyway to pee. I just hope everything works out, hon. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, nothing.” I shook my head. “I’m just a little freaked out that I haven’t heard from Patrick.”

  She had the news on, the CBS morning show, and I was hoping something might be on about the fire and Mrs. O’Byrne when it was time for the local news. Maybe Patrick was just too exhausted and had passed out at his house like we had here. What if he ran into the flaming house? What if something had happened and he was injured? Or worse . . . He loved that woman like his own mom. I glanced at the time: 8:43 A.M. Eight or nine minutes or so to the local news.

  To my surprise, Brandon shuffled in, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it, Mommy?”

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep, honey? You’re not going to school today.”

  He climbed onto a stool at the counter. “I’m hungry.”

  “There’s some cereal in the cabinet,” Robin said. “The kids still love it when they come home.”

  I said to him, “Why don’t you go into the family room and put on the TV? I’ll bring some in . . .”

  “Cap’n Crunch.” Robin helped me out.

  “You love Cap’n Crunch, don’t you?”

  I walked him out and he curled up on the couch with a pillow and put on the large-screen TV. The Cartoon Network came on.

  “Just stay in the TV room,” I said. “I’ll be right in, okay?”

  I didn’t want to upset him, any more than he’d already been. But I knew things were about to change. It was no longer possible, or more so, right, to keep what had happened over the past two days hidden any longer. When Patrick called in we had decided he would arrange a meet with friends of his in the NYPD and we would lay it all out to them. About the money, about what happened to Rollie. Charlie. Landry. By the end of the day, who knew if I’d be booked on charges or even held in jail? It was no longer about just taking the money; it was that people had died. Innocent people. I had no idea where that would leave me with my son. But it was too late for that.

  When I got back in the kitchen, Robin was tying up a bag of trash. “I have a business appointment I have to run out to. Is that okay? I could always cancel it and stay, if you need me.”

  “No, Robin, you go about your day.” I went over and gave her a warm hug.

  “I’ll just take this on the way out.” She pulled out and opened the bin. “And where the hell’s my bag? I just had it somewhere. Maybe it’s back in my room. I’m always crazy these days. How about I call you as soon as I finish up?”

  “Okay. Robin . . .” I caught her as she was about to head out of the kitchen. I smiled, both worried and appreciative. “I don’t know how to say thanks.”

  She smiled. “Things are gonna work out, honey. You’ll see.”

  She left and I went into the cabinet and took out Brandon’s cereal. I found a bowl in a lazy Susan and a tray leaning against the wall. I brought it in and thought I heard the door close as Robin called out, “Talk to you later!”

  Brandon was already immersed in some Transformers cartoon.

  I went back in the kitchen and checked my phone again. Still nothing. I watched the news for a minute, something about a woman who was helping homeless people get off the street; I was growing more and more concerned. I noticed the garbage bag still on the floor. Robin must have forgotten it. The TV announced the local news would be on in sixty seconds. I closed the bag and took it out to the garage where I assumed the trash containers were. I opened the door and saw the trash bin next to Robin’s car.

  My heart almost exploded.

  Robin.

  She was on the garage floor, crumpled against her car, her head slumped to the side. In horror, I fixed on the flower of dark blood pooling on her sweater. Her jaw was slack and her eyes were open and fixed in a terrifying expression.

  I screamed.

  I ran toward her, knowing it was too late, un
able to believe the horrifying sight I was facing.

  And then the most paralyzing shock of fear stabbed me. Brandon.

  My eyes darted back into the house.

  “Brandon!” I screamed, knowing instantly what had happened and that he was in danger. I ran back inside through the kitchen and into the TV room. The TV was still on, the Transformers on the screen. The cereal bowl was still on the tray where I had left it.

  He wasn’t there.

  Oh my God! Panic ripped through me. I ran back into the hallway, shouting throughout the house. “Brandon! Brandon! Where are you?”

  Why wasn’t he answering?

  I hurried to the front door. It was shut. My heart was beating like crazy. I spun, looking frantically in every direction. I knew who it was. I also knew it wasn’t Brandon he wanted.

  Then I fixed on something and stopped.

  The outside doors to the patio were open. They hadn’t been a minute ago. And there was something there I also hadn’t seen. A metal can with a long spout. Like an oil can.

  My eyes fastened on it as my heart started beating in escalating terror.

  I sprinted through the house, screaming in every direction, “Brandon!”

  Suddenly, “Mommy,” I heard him call. “Mommy, in here!” It sounded like it was coming from the living room.

  I ran down the hall. “Brandon, where are you? Answer me, honey. I—”

  He was there in front of a love seat next to Robin’s couch. My first instinct was to let out a breath in relief. That he was okay.

  But the breath never got halfway out of my chest.

  Landry was sitting next to him in the love seat, a hand tucked around my son’s waist.

  His other hand had a gun in it.

  The muzzle was pressed so tightly underneath Brandon’s jaw, it forced his face upward.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Brandon and I were just talking,” Landry said, nudging him with a smile. “Right, buddy?”

  “I know you told me to stay there.” Brandon looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

  “That’s okay, honey,” I said, trying to appear together. Though my heart was beating out of control. I forced a tremulous smile for him. “It’s okay.”

  Then I fixed on Landry’s icy, almost mocking eyes. “Leave him alone. Please.” I took a step toward them. “He’s innocent. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Nice little guy . . .” Landry jostled Brandon amiably. He looked larger than I’d imagined. Sandy hair. Slightly balding on top. A narrow face. “We’ve been talking. Seems we might have some things in common, right? Do you always need to act out on your urges, Brandon? Do you want to show people what you’re made of inside? Violence doesn’t bother you. In fact, you even kind of enjoy it, don’t you? Watching it occur. Even stepping on an ant, you don’t much care, do you, Brandon, when you extinguish life?”

  “Stop it!” I glared at him. “He’s nothing like you. Nothing.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure. I know it when I see it. The problem is, little guy”—Landry jostled him again, good-naturedly—“I’m not sure we’re ever going to fully find out.”

  That shot through my blood like ice. I knew at that moment that everything was all on me. Patrick was on Staten Island. Robin was dead. No one was going to come. I took another step. “What do you want?”

  “Let me see. What. Would. I. Want?” Landry let out a sigh. “I think you know what I want, Hilary. Can we start with those diary pages?” He motioned to the couch. “By the way, if I were you, I might sit down.”

  I stood there, my eyes drifting around the room. Trying to identify anything I could possibly use against him. I spotted an iron poker next to the fireplace. On the coffee table, I saw a kind of animal horn mounted on a wood base, like a zebu or an African cow.

  If I could even get to them.

  Landry looked at me and pushed the muzzle deeper into Brandon’s jaw. “I said, sit down.”

  Brandon was strangely calm, just standing in Landry’s arm, blinking. Not showing any outward signs of fear. I stepped back toward the couch. “Whatever you think you’re going to do, you won’t get away with it. We know. We know about Deirdre O’Byrne. And I’m not the only one.”

  “You mean the old hag?” Landry shrugged with a snort. “Nothing to worry about there. She’s gone. Oh, and your boyfriend? Kelty’s son . . . You probably mean him too. Solid guy. Whatever happened to Charlie, anyway? I really would like to know. Anyway, don’t waste away your precious time thinking he’ll be coming round any time soon to save you . . .”

  My heart picked up with worry. “What do you mean?”

  Landry winked. “He ran into a little situation after the fire. He’s dead too.”

  I shook my head and felt my knees start to wobble. “No.”

  “Afraid so. Here, check out the phone . . .” Landry lowered the gun, keeping his hand tucked tightly around Brandon’s waist, and took a cell phone from his jacket pocket and tossed it at my feet. I felt my heart constrict. I was almost afraid to pick it up and look. I shook my head back and forth, staring at Landry with both heartbreak and anger. “No!”

  “Go on . . . I’m afraid, yes, it’s his. And thank you very much for those texts you sent, which made it easy to find you.” He brought the gun back to Brandon’s jaw and smiled. “His gun too.”

  No . . . ! I felt the blood rush out of my head and my knees start to buckle. It couldn’t be. Landry couldn’t have killed him. Patrick was more than a match for him. It had to be a lie. Suddenly I felt as if a thousand pounds was pressing me into the floor and I would drop.

  Oh, Patrick, I thought, tears filling up my eyes.

  I fell back on the couch.

  Landry chuckled. “I told you to sit, didn’t I? And so, you see, you are . . .” He smiled, seemingly satisfied, at me. “You are the only one left to worry about.”

  “You son of a bitch!” I glared. The tears ran unstoppably now.

  Patrick.

  “I told him he should’ve just left well enough alone. Taken the money. It wasn’t the money I ever really wanted. You know that. Though now that I mention it, I wouldn’t mind it if you gave me a clue as to where the hell it all went?”

  “You’re a fucking monster.” My glare burned into his eyes. “You killed Robin. She was innocent too. You killed that old woman and her daughter. You even killed your own wife!”

  That seemed to sting him a bit. He nodded, letting out a breath that actually seemed contrite. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Brandon? It’s hard to explain this to someone on the outside. Who doesn’t know.”

  “Stop it!”

  “It seems easy, doesn’t it, to point a finger? But that wasn’t me.”

  “It wasn’t you . . . ?” Mucus and tears slid down my face. Tears of grief and hatred.

  “No.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t. Tell her what I mean, won’t you, son?”

  “Mommy, Mommy, I don’t want to be here . . .” Brandon tried to pull away.

  “Please, please,” I begged. “For God’s sake, let him go.”

  Landry held him back and turned to me. “So where are they? You know what I mean.”

  “You can do what you want to me. Just let him go. I’m begging you. You have children. I saw them. You understand. He can’t do anything to you . . .”

  “The pages,” Landry said again, his eyes unblinking. He pressed the muzzle on top of Brandon’s yellow hair. “I think one thing’s been made clear, don’t you agree? I won’t have a lot of hesitation about pulling this trigger. And take it from me, I don’t think that’s a sight you care to see.”

  “Mommy!” Brandon started squirming in his arms. “Mommy, don’t let him hurt me.” Landry tightened his hold.

  “Please!” I was dying. I knew any minute my life could end. Brandon’s too. I had to do something. No one was going to come. Listening to my son imploring me was killing me.

  “I have them,” I said. “They’re in my purse
. Just, don’t! Don’t.” I put up my palms. “Please.”

  “All right.” I’d left my bag on the table by the front door. “Bring the bag over here. And don’t do anything foolish or you’ll watch your son’s brains splatter all over the fancy upholstery.”

  I got up, my legs jelly. Time was running out. Soon as I showed him those pages, I had no idea what he would do. I went and grabbed my handbag by the straps and took it over to him. I stopped about five feet away. “Here . . .”

  “Open it,” Landry said. “Let me see.”

  I pulled out the plastic folder Patrick’s Russian friend had given us. I wished the man was here now. The three pages were visible through the clear binding. Landry seemed satisfied.

  “I knew that fucking nickname would come back to haunt me one day.” He shook his head. “Stupid, huh? I would never have let it come out, even after all these years, if I knew this silly diary even existed. Hard to believe, how that girl managed to point the finger at me after being stuffed in a hole all those years. I loved her, you know . . .”

  “Just like you loved your wife. Like you love your kids.”

  “I did, though.” He shrugged. “I still do.”

  My gaze drifted to the fireplace. The iron poker leaning there. “What are you going to do?”

  “There is a plan, such as it may be. You saw that oil can over there?” I involuntarily glanced toward the open doors. “It has a little fuel left in it. Just enough . . . And identical to what they might find accelerated that fire in Staten Island last night.

  “And this . . .” He showed me Patrick’s gun, lifting it away from Brandon. “Your police boyfriend’s gun . . . Which when found here ties you to both those crime scenes from last night. The fire and Kelty.”

  “Who do you think is going to believe that?” I asked.

  “It’s not perfect. I admit.” He squeezed Brandon by the shoulder and stood up. “But there will be a trail of interaction between the two of you, and somehow they’ll tie it to the money—cops are good, you know—wherever it may be. To me, it’ll seem like you told the son you’d taken it from his father and the son was threatening to turn you in. You killed him and the woman, and then yourself. Oh, and your friend, in the garage. I admit, it’s a bit rough. But the good news is, I don’t see how any of it points toward me. Especially”—he grinned and glanced at the pages in my hand—“without that diary . . .”