by J. R. Ward
“And if I don’t.”
“You lose.”
“Right then and there?”
The man nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “And I’ve seen where you end up after that. It’s not pretty.”
“What are you.”
Heron’s expression didn’t change. Neither did his stance. And he didn’t even stop with the smoking. But one minute he was a man; the next . . .
“Jesus . . . Christ . . .” Veck breathed.
“Not even close.” He stubbed out his cig on the sole of his combat boot. “But I am what I am.”
And that would be . . . an angel, evidently: In the weak and fading light of day, a refracted, gleaming show had appeared over his shoulders in the shape of giant wings, making him both magnificent and ethereal.
“I’ve been sent to help you.” The man . . . angel . . . shit, whatever . . . refocused on Veck. “So when you go to see your father, I want to be with you.”
“You already have been with me. Haven’t you.”
“Yup.” The guy cleared his throat. “But not when you were . . . you know.”
Veck’s brows popped. “Oh, yeah. Good . . .”
Annnnnd cue them both looking anywhere and everywhere else.
Veck thought about that night with Kroner. “What if the crossroads has already happened?”
“The Kroner thing? Wasn’t legal.”
“Well, yeah, murder ain’t.”
“No, not like that. I’m not the only one who wants you, but the other side jumped the gun on that setup.”
“Other side?”
“Like I said, it’s not just me in this game. And trust me, the enemy is a real bitch—I’m sure you’ll meet her soon, if you haven’t already.”
Oh, great, more good news, Veck thought.
And then he blurted, “I was going to kill him. Kroner, I mean.” Damn, it felt good to get that out.
“You mean, part of you was going to. Let’s get accurate—you didn’t do the damage, and you also called nine-one-one, and if you hadn’t done that, he’d have bled out right at your feet.”
“So what attacked him?”
“You think you’re surprised to be talking to an angel? You don’t want to know what else is out there.” Jim waved his hand dismissively. “But that’s not what you and I need to worry about. We’re going to go see your father. Together. ASAP.”
Veck thought about that sensation of destiny’s arrival, the one where he felt like his life had slipped into culmination mode. Not even remotely a hypothetical anymore, was it.
“Is that the crossroads?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Abruptly, Jim lowered his lids and tilted his head down. As he stared out of vicious slits, he was downright deadly—and precisely the kind of thing Veck was glad he had at his back: He had a feeling he was going to need another good fighter around if he was going to battle this side of himself.
And that was what this was. A fight to the death.
“We’ll find out,” the angel vowed, “when we get there.”
Everything happened for a reason, Reilly thought as she and Bails walked away from Kroner’s room a half an hour later.
Kroner’s condition had degraded, almost as if his injuries were a sea that he had briefly surfaced out of, only to be pulled back underneath: He hadn’t been able to focus, had mumbled replies that made no sense, and not long after they had arrived, she and Bails had given up.
“What’s with the suffering thing?” Bails muttered as he held the door of the elevator open for her.
Reilly shook her head as they began the descent. “I don’t know.”
It had been the same as before. He has to know she suffered. . . . He has to know she suffered. . . .
She hadn’t a clue on that one—and no idea what the connection was between Kroner and Veck. Hell, at this point, she didn’t feel like she could trust her instincts when it came to her own name. Speculating on this mess? Total nonstarter.
As they stepped out into the lobby and headed for the revolving door to the parking lot, Bails checked his watch. “You want a drink? I’m due to go make my statement in a little over an hour, and I need one beforehand.”
Yeah, because when one detective has information like he did on another, it wasn’t the sort of thing that people waited around for. He’d called HQ right after they’d spoken, and within a minute and a half, the sergeant himself had set up a meeting of high-ups, even though it was going to happen well after business hours.
No wonder Bails wanted a beer.
“Thanks,” she murmured, “but like I said, I’ve got my rendezvous with my supervisor right now.”
So didn’t that make them two peas in a pod.
Together, she and Bails walked into the rows of cars, got into her unmarked, and did up their seat belts. They were both silent during the trip back to headquarters. Not a lot to talk about, and Bails looked as betrayed and sick as she felt.
They parted ways on a hug, and as he headed to his own car, she watched him walk off. Veck had put them in the same boat, and that meant someone who had been a stranger was now a kind of friend—
As her phone went off in her purse, she knew who it was before she took the thing out.
Veck.
Now, this was what they made voice mail for, she thought.
Except he would probably come looking for her, and that was the last thing she wanted. Face-to-face was to be avoided at all costs.
She hit send. “Hello.”
There was a whirring sound in the background, as if he were in a car. “Reilly . . . what’s wrong?”
In a dispassionate way, as if she were observing him from the far side of a two-way mirror, she thought, yup, this was how he’d seduced her: The emotion he was projecting in that deep voice was the perfect combination of concern and sharp-edged protection.
“I’m fine. Just out from seeing Kroner—we didn’t get anything new.” Not from the guy, of course. Bails was a different story.
“You don’t sound right.”
Which meant any aspirations she might have had for becoming a psychopath were out the window. What a shame.
In fact, the idea that she couldn’t hide things was a relief. She didn’t want to be like Veck. Ever.
“Reilly . . . talk to me.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about my job today,” she said. “It is not appropriate for us to have taken our relationship where it’s gone. I’ve compromised the integrity of the force, my position, and myself. I’m going in to see my supervisor right now and I’m resigning from your case. There will probably be some reprimands on my side, but I’ll deal with that—”
“Wait, what? Why are you—”
“—and I don’t think we should see each other again.”
There was a pause. And then he said, “Just like that.”
Now he sounded cold, and that was what she wanted—the true him, the real him. Even though it just made her realize anew how stupid she’d been.
“It’s for the best,” she concluded.
When he didn’t say anything further, she began to get rattled, because she had to wonder exactly what he was capable of. No doubt he’d been the one stalking her the night before last . . . But whatever, this conversation was over, and once she made her disclosures to her boss, and Bails went in and did his duty, Veck was going to have so many other problems, he was going to be too busy looking for a defense attorney to waste time on retaliation. Or at least, she hoped that was going to be the case.
Hell, even better, he’d been in custody.
“I have to go,” she told him.
There was another pause, and then his voice was cool as a cucumber. “I won’t bother you again.”
“I’d appreciate that. Good-bye.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond. Wasn’t interested in getting pulled into a long, drawn-out conversation where he tried to manipulate her again, or worse, dropped that mask entirely and threatened her.
Her hand was shaking so badly, it took her two tries to get the phone back in her purse.
Steadying herself against her car, she looked up at the butt-ugly back end of headquarters, and didn’t feel like she had the strength to go in there and face her boss.
But she did what she had to do . . . because that was how she was raised.
CHAPTER 37
As Veck hung up his cell phone, he stared at the screen and found it hard to believe that conversation with Reilly had just happened.
“What.”
He glanced over at Heron. The guy, angel—who the fuck cared—was behind the wheel of the truck they were all in, and his friend, comrade in wings—Christ, how could this be real?—was in the backseat of the dual cab, taking up more than half the space.
The three of them were heading for the Northern Correctional Institution in Somers, Connecticut.
“Nothing,” Veck said smoothly.
“Bullshit,” came from the rear.
First word the other man had spoken. Which meant that and the fact that he was apparently breathing were the only clues he was alive.
Jim shifted his stare over. “There are no coincidences. When we get this close to the end, everything matters.”
“It was . . .” My girl? Ex-girl? Internal Affairs officr? “Reilly.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t want to see me. Ever again.”
The words were spoken factually, in a calm, deep voice—so at least his cock and balls were still with him. In the center of his chest, however, there was a big black hole of agony, as if he were a cartoon that had had a cannonball shot through him.
“Why? She give a reason?”
“Mind if I borrow a cigarette?” When Jim extended the pack, Veck took two, thinking that now was a perfect time to toss that I-quit thing right out the window.
“And the reason is?”
“Because I either smoke something right now or punch out the glass next to me.”
“Good call on the Marlboro,” came from the back. “We’re going seventy and it’s fucking cold outside.”
Veck took the lighter that was offered, flicked the Bic, and cracked the window. As he inhaled, he thought it was a damn shame there were so many carcinogens in the bastards, because sure as shit, this made him feel a little better.
Wasn’t going to last, though.
Unlike the pain behind his ribs. He had a feeling that was going to hang around for a loooooong time. Like a perpetual heart attack.
Except, man, he should have known this was coming. The woman went into Internal Affairs because she liked things that were done right, done well. Banging him? So not on that list. Falling in love with him? Don’t be f-in’ ridiculous.
“Reason?” Jim barked.
“Conflict of interest.”
“But why now? She had to know what was doing the whole time.”
“I don’t know. Don’t care, either.”
The good news was that they couldn’t fire him from his job just because she had woken up and smelled the crappies, so to speak. They were two consenting adults, and yeah, it looked bad, but she was doing the right thing and it was game over.
Inevitably, he was going to be called in for questions of the human resources variety, and he was going to be a stand-up guy and say it was all his idea. Which it had been: He’d been the pursuer, as well as the fathead with the I-love-yous.
Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was . . .
Not much else was said during the rest of the trip, which was fine with him. The images in his head of Reilly and him together made him not trust his voice—and not because it was going to go sad-sack cracking on him. He was liable to bite anyone’s head off at the moment.
When they got to within a mile of the prison, Jim pulled over in the town just before the institution and they traded places.
Now behind the wheel, Veck threw the truck in drive and assumed the role of what he was: a cop. “So no one is going to see you?”
Although it wasn’t as if he didn’t think the guy could go invisible. Heron had dogged him for days with nothing more than a whisper of instinct to tip that shit off.
“That’s right.”
“Just as long as—” Veck stopped talking as he looked over at the suddenly empty seat next to him. Quick check in the rearview mirror and the back was also completely filled by absolutely no big, tough guy.
“You SOBs ever think about robbing banks,” he said dryly.
“Don’t need the cash,” Jim said from the ether beside him.
“Don’t need the hassle,” came from the back.
Veck rubbed his face, thinking it would probably be better to feel like he’d gone crazy as he carried on conversations with thin air. Trouble was, he’d been dueling and dealing with this alternate reality all his life. The idea that it was an actuality and not a function of madness was nuts, but also made him feel sane.
Although . . . this was assuming he wasn’t Beautiful Mind-ing it entirely.
Then again, it was homicidal impulses and not schizophrenia that ran in his family, so he likely hadn’t lost his marbles, after all.
What. A. Relief.
Before leaving Caldwell, Veck had called ahead to the prison—not the number his father had provided, but the general line—and identified himself. It was not even close to visiting hours, but courtesies were extended in light of his professional occupation—as well as the fact that his father was going to be in a grave in about forty-eight hours. There was also undoubtedly the curiosity factor, something which Veck had no delusions about: in no time, this deathbed visit was going to show up everywhere . . . on the Internet, the television, the radio.
It was probably going to hit the Net before he even left to go back to New York State.
And what do you know.
As he zeroed in on the drive that ran up to the penitentiary’s walls, there was a small army gathered on both sides of the surrounding field.
His father’s fans.
There were at least a hundred of them, even though it was eight at night, dark as the inside of a hat, and chilly. They were prepared, however, with flashlights and candles and placards protesting the execution—and the moment they saw his vehicle, they rushed forward to the very edges of the asphalt, shouting, roaring, the din pressing into the truck even though they didn’t get close.
Clearly they’d had training on civil disobedience, in spite of their Sex Pistols style of dress and the rabid way they carried on: No one blocked or touched his vehicle, and he slowed down only to get a look at them.
Big mistake.
One of the men leaned in to Veck’s window, and obviously recognized him: As the guy hollered and pointed, the god-awful rapture that came over his features made Veck want to put down the glass between them and smack some sense into the sonofabitch.
But what a waste of knuckles that would be. Fidiot had the anarchy symbol scratched into his forehead. Try reasoning with that.
“It’s him! It’s him!”
The crowd tightened up and rushed at the truck.
“What is wrong with these people,” Veck muttered as he gunned it, prepared to turn them into hood ornaments if he had to.
“This is what she does,” Jim said out of the thin air.
“Who’s ‘she’?”
“Exactly what we’re going to try to get out of you.”
No time to follow up on t size. He turned in to the lane that law enforcement used and stopped at the gatehouse. Looking up at the guard, he put the window down and flashed his badge and creds. “DelVecchio, Thomas—Jr.”
In the background, the crowd was chanting his name—or his father’s. Both of theirs, actually, and how frickin’ efficient.
The guard’s eyes dropped to the ID, and came back to Veck’s face. There was a measure of distrust in that stare, but he’d no doubt been holding the hard line against the loonies for the last week.
Still, the guy hit the gate switch and the iron b
ars rolled back. “Stop as soon as you are clear. I’m going to have to search your vehicle, Detective.”
“No problem.” And good call not to do it on the outside. God only knew how long that crowd would stay put.
Veck followed protocol, idling into the compound and putting the brakes on the moment his rear bumper was on the far side of this first barrier. When he got out, he took Heron’s pack of Marlboros with him and put them to good use, lighting up while the gates reclosed and the officer crawled around with a flashlight.
As he smoked, he knew the angels were not far. He could sense them hovering, and he was glad they had his back—especially as he stared through the bars at the crowd of crazies. The energy in those nutjobs was the kind of thing that made him grateful for what separated the bunch of them.
“You’re free to proceed, Detective,” the officer said, his attitude dialed down. “Go up to your first left and park by the door for security purposes. A guard is waiting for you.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No smoking indoors. So you may want to take your time.”
“Good tip.”
Back in the truck. Pausing at the second gate. And then they were in the facility proper.
Maximum-security prisons were nothing like they were in the movies. No age-washed stone walls with gargoyles eyeballing your ass. No steeped-in-history, Al Capone–laid-his-head- here. No guided tours.
This was the very modern business of keeping people like his father isolated and out of the gen pop. This was about bright xenon lights at night, and video cameras, and computerized monitoring. There were still guards with guns, and enough barbed wire to run a circle around the whole city of Caldwell, but procedure was executed with pass cards and computers and automated cell doors.
He’d been in a number of these places, but never this one: As soon as his father had been sentenced, a letter had been hand-delivered to the frat house Veck was living in at college as a senior. He should never have opened the damn envelope, but he’d never suspected his father could get someone to sneak the note out of jail. Retrospect? How fucking naive.
Then again, at least it had told him where not to go.
So yeah, there was a good goddamn reason Veck didn’t work in Connecticut, and had gone into the police force instead of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No out-of-state for him, thank you very much.
