"I thought by you."
The senator shook his head. "I loved her," he said. "Even after everything that happened, I still do. She was the love of my life. I could never have hurt her. How do you know she was murdered?"
"Because after she drowned, somebody tried to kill my father."
"When was this?"
"Nineteen ninety-four."
"How do you know that someone tried to kill your father?"
"I just do."
"Okay," he said. "I'll believe you."
"But whoever killed her and tried to kill my dad, it didn't end there. I believe that the same person killed Laszlo Toth and then burned down my old house."
"Because of the file?"
"Why else?"
Francis Truscott IV sat there and thought for a bit, and then he closed his eyes, put his hands over his face. "My God," he said softly.
"What?"
"No matter how sharp we think we are, Kyle, the only ones we're able to fool all the time are ourselves."
CHAPTER 47
AS KYLE WATCHED Truscott drag himself out of Bubba's, looking as if something had broken inside him, Kyle felt as if he himself had been punched in the gut. It could have been an act, the senator's sorry tale, a ruse, a pack of lies told by a merciless killer. And that the teller was a politician made such a possibility seem all the more plausible. But there was something about the story, and the telling of it, that rang so true. As did the tolling of that half a million dollars.
His father had never mentioned the payoff when he told Kyle of why he left. Kyle bet the half a mil made the exile a hell of a lot easier. And the fact that he had told Kyle to ask for the same amount put his father's present motives in serious doubt. Was he really trying to catch a killer, or was he merely using Kyle to set up another half-million-dollar score? Kyle had never realized before how difficult it was to be a son.
"Did the son of a bitch confess?" said Skitch, slipping into the senator's seat after a suitable interval. "Not really," said Kyle. "Bastard. But did you get what you needed?"
"I don't know what I need," said Kyle. "That's the problem."
"Bro, what's going on?"
"I have no idea," said Kyle, "but I don't have long to find out. And let me tell you something, Skitch. Once I do, somebody is going to pay."
"You got the look, man."
"What look?"
"Remember that game with Chaucer's when that creep tackled Bubba Jr. with a takeout slide into second? And you slammed the ball into the outfield and then jogged around the bases slow enough to ensure a play at the plate, and then you laid out the catcher so brutally they had to cart his ass off to the hospital?"
"I broke his jaw."
"That look," said Skitch.
"Hey, Kyle," said Bubba Jr. from behind the bar. "You got a call."
Kyle scooted out of the booth and reached for the phone, but Bubba pulled it away before he could get his hands on it. "Everything go okay?"
"I suppose. No gunplay at least."
"I got to tell you, Kyle, seeing a United States senator walk through my door scared the hell out of me. Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"Do I ever?"
"Be careful. You're in deep water now, where the sharks swim. And thanks a hell of a lot for pulling me in with you."
"I was wondering who I could rely on in the middle of a godawful mess, and I realized it was pretty much only Skitch and Kat and you."
"That's plain sad. But I got to tell you, you look damn good in a suit."
"Now you're scaring me, Junior," said Kyle as he took the handset.
Kyle figured it was Kat calling from her perch outside, letting him know where the senator headed after he left. He was hoping it was Kat, because if it wasn't, it was probably his father, and he had no idea what the hell he'd say to him, at least not yet. But he was wrong, it was neither.
"Is this Kyle Byrne?" came the voice, a female voice, old and tremulous, but with a brutal self-possession. "Yes, this is Kyle Byrne."
"You just had a meeting with Senator Truscott, and the senator just left, isn't that correct?"
"That's right. Who is this?"
"And in that meeting you discussed with the senator a certain file that you found in your old house, even as it was burning down around you."
"Maybe," said Kyle slowly.
"Dear, don't try to play games with me. You don't have the testicles for it."
Kyle couldn't keep himself from laughing.
"What was decided in your meeting?" said the voice.
"None of your business."
"But it is, you see. Nothing could be more my business. You wanted to sell the file to him, isn't that right?"
"Yes, actually."
"And is he buying?"
"No. He refused. He told me to do with it as I wished."
"The truculent fool. So then the file is still for sale, I presume."
Kyle thought for a moment and laughed again. This time he laughed because, even though he had never heard the voice before, he realized exactly whom he was talking to. "Yes, it's still for sale."
"Do you have a price in mind?"
"Half a mil."
"You are an ambitious guttersnipe, aren't you?"
"Aren't we all?"
"Yes, I suppose. But it's important we each remember our respective stations. That's something your father frequently forgot." She gave him an address in Chestnut Hill, among the toniest old-line neighborhoods in the city. "Can you find it?"
"Probably."
"You will come tonight, you will bring the file, we will discuss your price."
"There won't be any discussion," said Kyle. "And no checks.
Cash."
"I wouldn't have it any other way. And of course you will come alone."
"Don't worry about that, I'm not into sharing."
"Just like your father."
"You'll have the money when I show?"
"Of course I will, dear. I'll keep up my end, I always do. Nine o'clock. Don't be late. Ciao."
Kyle shook his head for a bit, listened some more to make sure the line was actually dead, and then tossed the handset back to Bubba Jr.
"Who was that?" said Bubba Jr.
"That," said Kyle, with a smile both broad and dangerous, "was a cold-blooded killer. And I am next on her list."
CHAPTER 48
EVEN WITH HIS BLACK BAG on the passenger seat beside him, Bobby Spangler felt under-armed.
Parked in the alley he'd found that faced Bubba's almost head-on, he had the uncontrollable urge to ram his car straight through the bar's front door. And he was ready to do it, too, because just then he had that potent combination of aggrieved self-righteousness and sexual frustration that was detonating murderous explosions all over the globe. If only he had a swill of fertilizer and nitromethane in his trunk, or a huge sack of hand grenades. If only he had something devastatingly powerful that would crater that bar and obliterate everyone inside, including Kyle Byrne, who had dismissed his help, and Senator Francis Truscott IV, who had been the bane of Robert's existence for pretty much his entire life.
He wondered what they were talking about in there, Kyle and Francis. Of course there was the file to discuss. Kyle had found it, that clever boy, and Francis wanted it, and an agreement would be made, because that was the way Francis worked: give them everything they wanted so long as Francis got more. It was what the O'Malley file was all about in the first place: take a girl against her will and buy off the rape charge, the whole time maintaining the loving support of the mother who provided him everything.
But they were taking too long a time. This had gone beyond "How much do you want?" and "We have a deal." Maybe they were laughing together, telling jokes. Maybe they were laughing about him.
He wanted a bomb, he needed a bomb. Bobby slapped the steering wheel in frustration. One bomb and he'd destroy the Truscotts' fondest hopes once and for all, obliterate Kyle Byrne, and end his own torment at the same time. A b
undle of dynamite, tied tight like a fasces, or an empty fifth of vodka filled with nitroglycerin, or a half ton of Semtex sculpted into a ten-foot phallus. He closed his eyes and imagined the sensation of the car engine coming to life, revving higher and higher until he punched it into gear and plunged it into the bar's cheap doorway, shattering brick and wood as he rammed through. And then being lifted by the fire and force, by the sheer power of his unleashed anger, rising ecstatically through the flame and blood as his will consumed everything about him until he felt himself all-powerful, all-knowing, the creator.
But he had no bomb, no grand instrument of destruction. He wondered what would happen if he set his car on fire and then, with flames shooting out the rear, barreled into the heart of that bar. Would they all be exploded into the sky, or would only he flame out, screaming horribly as he burned, while they laughed at him once again? No, he couldn't allow that. He had to stick with his plan.
The door of the bar opened, and he spied once more the chief antagonist of his life, Francis Truscott IV. Francis was dressed down, jeans and leather and a silly ball cap, but it was still the same old prig who looked around guiltily and then made his way down the street. Bobby fought the urge to pick up the shotgun right then and there. Francis had gotten everything from her, while Robert had gotten nothing. Francis had been groomed for greatness by her, while Robert had been forced lower and lower until there was nothing left of him but the lowing beast inside. And what was the difference between the two in her eyes? Simple. Francis was half a Truscott, while Robert was all Spangler. But she underestimated her birth family. She thought she could outrun it and create something new, but there was no running from blood. He would prove that soon enough. First, though, there was business.
"He just left," said Bobby into his cell.
"Thank you, dear. I might need you tonight."
"I'm busy."
"Not too busy for this."
"What kind of job is it this time?"
"Your specialty, you naughty boy. If things in that bar went as I expected, and go as I expect, young Byrne will be coming to the house tonight at nine. I want him to come but not leave, do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"You don't sound enthused."
"I'm tired of taking your orders."
"It's not an order, it's an offer. Anything he has on him is yours. And there will be plenty, trust me. One more job, Bobby, and then it's over and my promises will finally be fulfilled."
"Liar."
"We'll see, won't we?"
Yes, we will see, thought Bobby as he hung up his phone. They'd both see when he showed up at nine with the file and a gun and had his sweet way with her. And then, when it was all over, he'd give that young thing from the police department a call. She seemed interested enough in a Spangler. Maybe all along his problem was shooting too high. She was just low enough to be in his range. He'd wow her with his charm like he wowed her before. She wouldn't know what hit her as he took her from behind. Yee-haw. But now it was just a matter of waiting until Kyle Byrne slipped out from the bar like the insect he was and then, shotgun at the ready, following the son of a bitch to his death.
The door opened, and there he was, Kyle Byrne, in a suit, with some fat little tattooed spark plug by his side. Bobby turned on the car engine and prepared to follow when something stopped him.
Who was that approaching Byrne? With that walk. It was her, the pretty detective, that Ramirez. She was grabbing Kyle Byrne's arm, hard, like she knew him. She was grabbing his arm, like she knew him, like they were great friends, and she was looking around, and she was pulling him back into the bar.
What the hell? What was her connection with Byrne? Bobby thought it through, quickly, let the possibilities fall like dominoes one after the other in his consciousness. Maybe she was in on it all. Maybe they were a team. Maybe they were lovers. That two-timing bitch. Or wait. Something else, something far more disturbing.
Maybe he hadn't played the scene in his apartment as well as he had thought. Maybe her suspicions hadn't been quelled but instead ratcheted higher. Maybe her romantic interest was feigned. Maybe she had followed Bobby to the bar. Maybe she herself was waiting to see who came out. Which meant she saw Truscott. And then saw Byrne. And now was escorting that Kyle Byrne to safety. As if something were about to happen on the street. Which meant she wasn't alone. Which meant—
He didn't wait to figure out the rest. He grabbed the black bag, leaped out of the car, ran as fast as he could down the alley and away from the bar. He tripped as he heard the police cars slam to a halt in front of the alley, rose back to his feet amid shouts from behind him and sirens in the distance.
He cut through one alleyway and another, stopped, searched for refuge like a hunted animal, spied a Dumpster out behind a restaurant. He dashed to it, threw the bag in, pulled himself up and over, buried himself in a week's worth of garbage—pizza boxes, newspapers, rotted vegetables, maggoty knuckles of meat, excrement leaking from those little blue doggie bags—buried himself until he was completely covered.
He waited for the police to arrive, which they did. He waited as they searched, waited as they left. He waited as the sirens in the distance died. He waited, and waited some more, he waited for hours, just to be sure, he waited, and every breath through the fetid garbage was a reminder of exactly what he had become.
And it was sweet as honey cake.
CHAPTER 49
AFTER DETECTIVE RAMIREZ yanked Kyle Byrne back into Bubba's, she twisted the lock in the door and pushed him into a booth halfway down the bar. Then she stood with her back to him, facing the rest of the bar, and pulled out her badge and her revolver.
"Police," shouted Ramirez.
"Hello there, Detective," said Kyle. "Thirsty?"
"Just shut up, you. Now, I want everyone to get down. Something might be coming through that door, and if it does, it won't be pretty."
As the bar's patrons scattered to the floor and started crawling behind the bar, the bartender, still standing, reached down and pulled out a shotgun. With a quick pump, he slid a cartridge into the chamber.
"What the hell are you doing?" said Ramirez.
"This was my father's bar," said the bartender. "You think I'm not going to defend it?"
She looked at him, a skinny black kid with raw hands and a mouth set like granite. The gun sat solid in his hands. "What's your name?"
"Bubba."
"Bubba? You're kidding, right?"
"Bubba Jr."
"Well, listen, Bubba Jr.," said Ramirez. "You point the muzzle at the floor and don't raise it an inch until I give the word. Understand?"
"I understand," said the bartender.
"Something's going down outside right about now, so it's probably safer for all of you in here. But don't be surprised if what comes through that door next is a car."
Ramirez squatted down and faced the door with her gun, held in both hands, pointing right at it. She spoke softly enough so that only Kyle could hear. "Remember that number your girlfriend gave me?"
"She's just a friend."
"Really?"
"You sound pleased to hear it."
"Shut the hell up." Ramirez was angry at the lift she felt. She shook her head to bring herself back to business. "There was only one person other than you who called it. I traced the guy down and asked him some questions, and I got to tell you, he creeped me the hell out. Then I realized that his voice matched the voice on the 911 call that reported your break-in at your father's old office. So as I called for backup and a warrant to search his place, I stayed outside his building to make sure he didn't run. Next thing I knew, he was lugging a black satchel to his car. And I have to tell you, I don't think the satchel was filled with underwear. I followed him to here, though I wasn't sure exactly what he was doing until I saw you step out of the bar."
"You think he's here to kill me?"
"He's here to something you, baby. Didn't I tell you to stop stirring the pot?"
"T
he pot kept stirring me. So we're just waiting here like sitting ducks for him to come and get me?"
"I called in the cavalry," said Ramirez. She glanced at her watch.
"They'll be here about—"
The squeal of brakes slipped through the door, and then shouting, and then sirens.
The short, fat kid who had left the bar with Kyle popped his head above the bar.
"Get down, you fool," said Ramirez.
The kid's head dropped below the bar again.
There was a knock. Ramirez put a finger to her lips and gestured at Bubba Jr., who pointed his shotgun at the door.
"It's Henderson," came the voice from the other side of the door.
"Henderson who?" said Ramirez.
"Henderson your mama. Open the hell up."
Ramirez smiled as she stood and holstered her gun. "Put it away," she said to Bubba Jr. while she twisted open the lock. "It's one of the good guys. Or at least a reasonable facsimile."
Detective Henderson stepped into the bar with wariness, looked around, spotted the shotgun still in Bubba's hand, and raised an eyebrow. Then he spotted Kyle Byrne, sprawled in the booth where Ramirez had pushed him, and he growled.
"You get him?" said Ramirez.
"Not yet," said Henderson. "You talk to the kid, find out what the hell is happening?"
"Haven't had the chance."
"Want to take him down to the box?"
"We can do it here."
"And if he clams up?"
"Then we'll box him nice and tight for a week," said Ramirez. "Let's see what's going on outside first." As they both walked to the door, Ramirez turned and pointed at Kyle. "Don't you dare move," she said. Then she turned to Bubba Jr. "If he stands up, shoot him."
"With pleasure," said Junior.
Ten minutes later Ramirez and Henderson were sitting in Kyle's booth, Henderson beside Kyle, blocking his exit, and Ramirez across from him. The two cops had mugs of soda before them, Kyle a half-finished bottle of Rolling Rock.
"What was in the file cabinet, Kyle?" said Ramirez.
"What file cabinet?"
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