“Genovese? He’s locked in his trunk. Writhing in pain for sure. He will never gain full use of his right arm ever again.”
“You know his name?”
“Mom, he’s one of the guys who attacked me in Chicago last year.”
“The one with the dangling eyeball or the one with the broken jaw?”
I opened my mouth to ask her how she knew I knocked Genovese’s eyeball out; I never provided that detail when I told her about the attack.
“Don’t look at me like that, Legend. Remember, I’m the one who called around and figured out their names last year. My contact told me what you did to them.”
“He’s the one with the eyeball, Mom. The one with the broken jaw is in the lobby.”
Mom stopped packing to look me in the eye. “So, two guys who attacked you in the past drive from Chicago to the Ozarks to find me. And at least one of them brought that gun.”
“That about sums it up, Mom.”
“But why? What do they hope to gain coming after me?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. I figure these two are involved because they saw the opportunity for revenge after the beating I gave them last year.”
“Revenge? Sure maybe, but once again, why me and not just you?”
I didn’t answer with words, only a look that told her she already knew the answer.
“You’re convinced this is all because of Scott, aren’t you?”
“The FBI wanted me to believe it was related to the problem in Tennessee two years ago with the Dixie Mafia, but I knew they were bluffing. Do you have any other ideas, Mom?”
She shrugged her shoulders and continued packing for nearly a minute without saying a word. She finished zipping up a small bag before speaking again. “I know you have to be right about Scott, but it doesn’t make any sense. He’s become a bitter man obsessed with political ambition, but he’s not stupid. He’s not in my will. I leave everything to you. That dumb shit has to know that.” My mother cursed, a real rarity.
Mom was quiet while she finished packing. I could only imagine the thoughts running through her mind as she realized the man she was married to for 17 years was responsible for our current mess.
After closing her suitcase, she stopped to look me in the eyes once again. “The guy in the trunk, are you leaving him there?”
“Yes, his friend will eventually find him. Once Mancini sees his friend’s arm, he should be more focused on getting him to a hospital than messing with us.”
“Son, maybe these two won’t come after you, but do think you deterred the Outfit in any way?”
“One step at a time, Mom, one step at a time. Once I save Boyd from himself, he will help me send a message that will guarantee results.”
“What are your plans for Scott?”
“I wasn’t thinking about Scott, but thanks for reminding me to include him. Now, if you’re ready, let’s get out of Dodge.”
***
Hypervigilance has its advantages. I heard the whoosh — someone was swinging something long and solid at me as I opened the door of Mom’s cabin. I’m faster than 99.9 percent of the people on the earth, but even I could not avoid the blow. The best I could do was make sure it missed my head. A quick twist of my body caused the object to hit my left shoulder, slowing it down effectively before it slipped off and hit my left ear. It hurt. But only for a second. My fight or flight nervous system took over from there, dumping copious amounts of adrenaline into my bloodstream for the second time in ten minutes, effectively suppressing all pain at that moment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I finally saw the object — a tactical baton. The kind police often carry. My attacker was preparing for another swing.
I stepped in closer, reducing the attacker’s ability to take another big swing at me. Close enough to see the fear in Mancini’s face. His little surprise attack didn’t work as well as planned, and he had to remember that the last time we met, I hurt him. I hurt him bad.
Mancini took a weak swing at me, the baton bouncing harmlessly off my left arm. I reached out. Grabbed the baton with my right hand. Pulled hard enough to force him to grip the baton with two hands. Mancini pulled back with all his might. He had to know that if he lost the baton, any chance he had of winning our battle was gone.
My left hand was free, while Mancini’s focus was entirely on the baton. He never even tried to avoid the quick left jab aimed at his throat. The jab was more successful than I ever anticipated. The tiny, fragile bone in the front of his throat broke with an audible click, like pulling a chicken wishbone apart. I smiled.
Mancini let go of the baton and moved both hands up to his throat. The panicked look on his face told me all I needed to know — he was choking.
My mother’s scream interrupted the sick pleasure I was experiencing watching Mancini. “What’s wrong with him? Why is he standing there?”
“His hyoid bone is broke. His airway is blocked.”
“The hyoid bone. Like the guy you choked...,” her voice trailed off as she recalled the man I nearly choked to death when I was 16. “Is he dying?”
“Probably,” I replied nonchalantly. “Hopefully,” I added.
“You have to help him.”
“I don’t want to.” I didn’t turn around to look at Mom, choosing to watch Mancini in case he went for another weapon.
“But, he’ll die.”
“Then, he’ll die. Serves the son of a bitch right.”
“Legend!” she yelled. “You help him right now. You’re better than this.”
I didn’t want to help because I didn’t care if Mancini lived or died. But it appeared Mom did, despite her earlier assertions to the contrary. And I was sure Mancini cared. That was two out of three of the people present. Despite the singer Meatloaf’s assertion that two out of three ain’t bad, I didn’t share his sentiment. I hesitated until Mom yelled at me.
Mancini was still standing outside the door holding his throat. Unable to talk, unable to cough, unable to breathe. He was turning blue. Pleading with his eyes. As if he suddenly remembered I was a doctor and his best chance at survival.
“Ugh,” I groaned while reluctantly reaching out to grab Mancini by his shirt, pulling him into the room and shutting the door behind him. “Turn around,” I ordered before patting him down for weapons. “Get on the bed. On your back.”
He complied with little hesitation, his hands still on his throat.
“Mom, do you have a ballpoint pen?”
“What?”
“A ballpoint pen or a straw? I’m doing this for you, not him, so hurry, Mom.”
Mom walked away and started rummaging through her purse.
“Mancini, I need to cut a hole in your throat. You will let me, or you will die. You’ll die anyway if my mother can’t find a pen or a straw.”
“I’m looking. I’m looking,” Mom replied frantically.
“Blink if you understand.” He blinked twice.
I reached into my pocket to grab my pocket knife, then remembered it was sitting in my car at O’Hare airport.
Mom saw the confused look on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“I need a knife to make the cut. Do you have a sharp knife?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s dead, then.”
Mancini’s right hand left his throat and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pocket knife that he dropped on the bed.
“I’ll be damned; I guess I did a poor job patting you down. It’s your lucky day.”
I grabbed the knife, opened the blade, and then palpated for the sweet spot in the throat just below the Adam’s apple to make the incision.
Mom returned with a ballpoint pen. “Don’t you need to sterilize that first?”
“Not important. Besides, I figure he’s got about 20 seconds before he chokes to death. Mom, take the pen apart, please. I only need the outer casing.”
She started taking the pen apart while I leaned in to start cutting. Mancini flinche
d at the first cut but seemed to understand the importance of staying still. With a few more swipes, I made the half-inch horizontal cut deeper until I cut through the cricothyroid membrane to gain access to his airway.
“Pen, please.”
Mom handed me the pen casing, which I inserted into the cut about two inches deep. I grabbed Mancini’s hands and placed them on the pen casing. “You need to hold the pen steady. And don’t remove it. Let the ER doctor, or whomever you end up seeing, do that. The pen’s job is to keep the airway open. Do you understand? Oh, and don’t bother talking like that. Just nod.”
Mancini nodded.
“You’re getting your color back. Good. You are a lucky son of a bitch, Mancini. My mother thinks I wouldn’t have let you die. She’ very, very wrong. I would have watched it happen and wouldn’t have lost a second of sleep over you.”
I heard my mother start to say something, then stop.
“So you know, your friend is in the trunk of his car. Believe it or not, you might actually be doing better than him. Once you get to a doctor, you should be fine. Maybe you won’t even need surgery. As for your friend Genovese, his career as a tough guy is over forever. I’m telling you the same thing I told him. If I see you again...at all...for any reason...you’re dead. The same goes for my mother. If she sees you, you’re dead. That is not an empty threat. It is the most understated promise you’ve ever heard.”
He nodded, even though I didn’t ask him to acknowledge understanding.
“One last thing. You need to write down the name of your boss.” Mancini pretended not to understand. “Don’t do that. I’ll pull that pen out and let you suffocate. Write it down!”
Mancini grabbed the pen my mother handed him and scribbled out the name Robert Deluca on a piece of paper.
“This had better not be wrong. I know your name is Tony Mancini, and your partner’s name is Anthony Genovese. If I have to track you down because you lied to me, well, let’s say it will not end well for you.”
The fear in Mancini’s eyes told me he was telling me the truth.
“Good,” I said. “Do me a favor, tell Deluca and Scott Beyers I’m coming for them, and hell’s coming with me.”
CHAPTER 26
Jessica couldn’t believe it. She had made a wild assumption, and now her assumption proved correct. They had found Boyd. More or less anyway. All evidence indicated he was listening to Mansfield’s home with a laser microphone stashed inside a white panel van outside his house. The photos revealed a bright spot on one of Mansfield’s windows from Boyd’s infrared laser. And one of the photos of Jessica throwing dirt in the air captured reflections from the laser housed in the cargo area. Jessica could barely hide her satisfied smile as they left the camera shop.
“You did good, Jess, real good,” Larry said as soon as they exited the camera shop. “Being married to L.T. is rubbing off on you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Larry. It was fortuitous that Ellen bought you an infrared filter.”
“Still, you’re the one who figured out how to use it. Any ideas on how we narrow down the search for Boyd? I figure he has an RF transmitter hooked to the laser mic so he can listen in real-time without needing to be in the van. Assuming a range of two or three miles in each direction, that’s a lot of territory for him to hide.”
“I do have an idea. Legend once told me that a lot of spies get caught coming back to change the batteries on their surveillance equipment. I want to disable the microphone. Boyd is too smart to allow himself to get spotted, but we can leave the evidence we have on the front seat of the van and step away. He will see what we have so far, and it will be enough to cast doubt.”
“I love your idea of disabling the microphone, but do you think our evidence will be enough to deter Boyd?”
“Are you doubting the evidence or doubting Boyd? Be careful how you answer that, Larry. We’re friends; I’d hate to have to change my mind about that.”
Larry studied her for a few seconds to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.
“I doubt the evidence, Jess. Think about it. What do we have?”
Jessica was glad Larry expressed his doubt in the evidence and not in Boyd. It allowed her to stay focused on Larry’s question instead of wanting to punch him. What evidence did they have? Boyd already knew there were three dead men in Wisconsin. Boyd was most likely responsible for their death. Plus, someone had taken the IDs of the men. Once again, mostly likely Boyd, which meant he already knew the two cousins were from Iowa and the other man was from Florida.
Larry interrupted her thought process. “What are you thinking, Jess?”
“Give me a second, will you.”
She weighed the evidence against what she knew about Boyd and what she suspected about his involvement with Shelley Baxter. Why was he helping her? That was easy; he considered her to be the victim, which made George Mansfield the enemy by default.
“Jess, please let me interrupt for a second.” Jessica cast him a perturbed look but motioned for him to continue. “I think we have to consider the fact Boyd might not be controlling the situation. Do you think he removed the fingertips from the men in Wisconsin?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Then, why ask the question, Larry?”
“I know I’m making you angry, Jess, but humor me. I’m simply trying to see all the angles here. If Boyd didn’t do it, then who did?”
Jessica thought she knew the answer but couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“I know L.T. is still convinced Mansfield is dirty, that he sent those men after Baxter and Boyd. I don’t see it that way. I’m convinced Mansfield is telling the truth about Shelley Baxter. She faked her own kidnapping, she faked her own death by killing someone who looked like her, and she has successfully evaded the law for seven years. She sounds like an evil genius.”
Jessica interrupted. “Say you’re right. Why would she send men to attack herself?”
“I have no idea, but I doubt Boyd removed the fingertips. And I doubt anyone working for Mansfield did it. If someone were trying to hide their identity, they would have removed Pomeroy’s fingers as well. Being military, his fingertips are in the system. As is, only the guys from Iowa were missing their fingertips.”
“Nothing about the fingertips makes any sense, Larry. Why bother? The police still identified them, and cutting off the fingertips hardly slowed down the process at all.”
“Okay, I’ll admit it makes no sense, so back to my original question. Do you think Boyd did it?” Jessica shook her head. “Me neither. And I don’t think Mansfield’s men did it. That leaves Shelley Baxter.”
Jessica said, “Or Evan Baxter. You know, in case Legend is right about him. Either way, why is it important who cut off the fingers?”
“I’m trying to establish the state of mind of Shelley Baxter and what role Boyd is playing in aligning himself with her at this time. I know you think Boyd wouldn’t do anything stupid like killing someone in cold blood, and I mostly agree with you.”
“Only mostly?” Jessica’s irritation was evident as she asked the question.
“Let me finish. Boyd’s a good guy; I know that. He’s also the type of guy who will do what it takes to get a job done right.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that Boyd has aligned himself with Shelley Baxter, for better or worse. We know this because all our evidence points to the fact. We also think Boyd is after Mansfield.”
“Yeah, so.”
“Think about it, Jess. Assuming Boyd thinks Mansfield is dirty and that he’s filthy rich and powerful, what do you think Boyd is here to do?”
Jessica angrily dismissed Larry with a defiant flip of her wrist before turning her back on him to think. Larry was aware Boyd had killed four different men last year. Two who attacked Boyd directly, and two mercenaries who had kidnapped Jessica and Larry’s wife. This situation was different. She expected Larry to have more gratitude and less sus
picion of Boyd.
Damn him for thinking Boyd could kill in cold blood. Boyd wouldn’t do that. But what if killing Mansfield is justified in Boyd’s mind. Legend doesn’t trust Mansfield. Larry doesn’t like him either. And he did send off-duty cops after Legend. And he is filthy rich. Shit, Larry’s right. Boyd’s here to cut the head off the snake, and that snake’s name is George Mansfield.
Larry must have sensed a change in Jessica as she paced outside the camera shop. “What’s going through your pretty little head, Jess?”
“You and your damn angles, Larry. They teach you that shit in the FBI?” Jessica said with a defiant tone in her voice.
Larry looked puzzled by Jessica’s response. It was not what he’d expected. He watched her cautiously as she closed the distance between them, anger on her face and determination in her gait. Jessica leaned over to get in his face, causing Larry to pull back apprehensively before Jessica suddenly leaned in further and placed a kiss in the middle of his forehead.
“What the hell, Jess?”
“Thank you for being the asshole, Larry. For making me question the evidence. You’re right. It proves nothing.”
“I prefer devil’s advocate over asshole, but what are you saying, Jess?”
“My idea won’t work. I have to talk to Boyd. I know it. I feel it. Boyd’s already all-in on this one. He has to be, or he wouldn’t be here in D.C. planning whatever it is he’s planning. You have to take me back so I can disable that microphone and wait for him. It’s our only hope, and it’s not negotiable.”
***
“Let me get this straight. You expect me to leave you with the van by yourself?” Larry said as he maneuvered through the Bethesda evening traffic on the way back to the van as Jessica had insisted. Larry was smart enough not to argue with her about that point, although he was not happy about her insistence on waiting alone. “Unprotected?” Larry continued. “I don’t think so.”
“Larry, I kissed you and thanked you. Don’t make me regret my decision. Boyd won’t hurt me.”
“I know that, but L.T. would hurt me if anything happened to you.” Larry’s voice had a joking quality to it, although the look on his face was dead serious.
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