by Mark Pryor
I forced myself to, though, made myself look at her face; and when I did, I wondered if she was waiting for him to say something. A flash of hope hit me like lightning—maybe she was waiting for him to crack a smile and laugh at me, tell me this was hazing for the new guy who came to play cards.
But that didn’t happen, and, like lightning, the brightness of hope flashed for a split second before it disappeared, letting the darkness of my fear settle over me again, chill my blood and bones as I waited for the same thing she did. Only I didn’t know what it was, or when it’d come. I wondered if she did.
Once before I’d felt like this. When I was nineteen, I lived in Omaha, and one Sunday morning I was driving to the mall to buy shoes when a car ran a stop sign and crashed into a police car in front of me. Right into the driver’s side, and the bang was so loud that I thought it had shattered my windows as well. I watched it happen, knew what was coming two seconds before it came to pass, like a slow-motion rerun.
I heard myself shouting No! a waste of my breath. And right after the crash, when I’d fallen silent and both cars had come to rest, there was a moment of complete and utter silence. A moment of unreality, too, as my mind was still processing what had happened—the explosion from a normal drive into a horrific accident, processing even as I got out of my car and walked toward the wreck.
The first sound I heard was a crunching under my feet, and I looked down at the ground and chided myself for stepping on the broken glass, but for no specific reason, as if I was equally guilty of contaminating a crime scene and also jeopardizing the soles of my battered, old shoes. One seemed as real as the other, both more immediate and real than the tangle of metal I was heading toward. My phone was in my hand, but I hadn’t called 911—part of me wanting to make sure I needed to, to see it with my own eyes before taking up the valuable time of the emergency services.
The truth of that accident hit me when I got to the police car and looked through the driver’s side window that had disintegrated over the blue uniform inside. The police officer’s head had flopped to the right, his cheek resting flat on his right shoulder in a way that made me copy him, cock my head sideways to make sure of what I was seeing.
Broken neck. Broken neck.
And then: Dead.
I felt that same way, sitting on the dusty sofa, seeing it all but not believing it, my mind searching for other explanations and rejecting the moments of callousness from Dominic that I’d seen over the past year, the coldness and cruelty that nudged out of him toward me like tentacles, that I’d ignored then and was terrified of now. Clues. Signals.
I waited for one of them to say something.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ELIZABETH
Dominic stood between me and Brian McNulty and finally said what I needed to hear. What I already knew:
“I did it.”
His voice was soft, matter-of-fact. “I killed Bobby. He murdered a police officer after I told him not to. I told him what would happen, that he’d never get away with it. I did it because they were going to catch him; and when they did, I’d get in trouble—you would too—and it would be the end for him. For all of us.”
Somewhere outside, a dog barked, and I glanced toward the window behind Dominic. It was a square of gray; spider webs, dust, and dirt blocked out the light, and I was suddenly aware of the smell of the place. Mold, stale alcohol, and something chemical. Burnt meth, maybe. And this was the place my little brother had died.
Had been murdered.
“How?” I asked, not sure I even wanted to know.
“He called one of my burners. He called to brag. I told him to meet me here, that he could hole up and I’d bring him some supplies while we figured things out. While the cops calmed down a little.”
“And you shot him in cold blood?”
Dominic stared at me for a moment. He did that when he was deciding on a tone of voice, a look, or some other calculated, fake emotional signal to appease me. But when he spoke, it actually sounded like the truth.
“That’s the only kind of blood I have,” he said quietly.
“Was he scared?”
Dominic shook his head. “Not for a second. At first he didn’t think I’d do it. By the time he realized I had no choice, he was . . .” He shrugged, then paused. “We don’t really get scared. You know that.”
“Yes. I know.”
Behind Dominic, McNulty spoke, his voice cracking. “Wait. He killed that kid? He murdered your brother?”
The gun felt heavy in my hand, and I looked at Dominic without answering McNulty. “Why do you think I won’t shoot you?”
He smiled, he actually smiled as he nodded toward McNulty. “Because then you’d be here alone with him. You’d also have a lot of explaining to do about all this, a lot more than if you walk out of here with me.”
“You killed my brother. You were supposed to be the one looking out for him.”
His eyes flashed angrily. Finally some emotion, you bastard. “I put my job on the line for that kid, and all I ever got in return was attitude. Which I don’t give a damn about, not really. But when he threatens my whole existence by shooting a fucking cop, then my caretaker role is over. Once he did that, all bets were off. All of them.” He took a breath. “Look, you and I both know how I am. But you have to understand; I didn’t want him spending the rest of his life in prison. I knew that would break you.”
I shook my head. “Except you don’t care that much about me. About anyone.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “You think I’m incapable of love or caring ; but that’s not true. Maybe it’s more of a need than anything else, maybe it’s not what you feel for people, but whatever you want to call it, I feel it. And I’ve felt it for you from the first moment I saw you.” When I didn’t speak, he carried on. “But you’re right if you’re suggesting I mostly did it for selfish reasons.”
“Because you wanted to keep yourself safe. You figured he’d give you up to save himself.”
“Of course he would have. The same way I’d sacrifice anyone else to save myself. That’s what we do.”
I hesitated a moment, then said, “That makes me wonder. Three people knew your secret, Dom. One’s dead and I’m the other one. The only one who isn’t you.”
“And yet it’s you standing there with the gun.” He took a step back.
“You want me to kill you?” I didn’t know if he was playing games again, or if maybe he was serious. I tried not to think about what he’d done, to keep my anger over that in check—because there was another side to this. Truthfully, and I’d never let him know it, but Dominic had been just about the best thing that had ever happened to me. He’d made a drab, endless existence exciting. He’d been the only one to help with Bobby. He’d been an outlet for my own desires to lash out at society, a tool for me to use to get money and have some fun, to break free of my own life for a while.
And until now, I’d assumed it was all no-strings. Dominic wasn’t the only one who had a hard time feeling for his fellow man. I’m no psychopath, but my childhood and, so far, adulthood have been devoid of love. Men always chased me, women, too; but it’s an exhausting game when you’re always the prey. I was tired of being chased, and these days I never let myself get caught.
I so rarely get to be the predator. With Dominic, as dangerous as he was, I felt like the struggle was more even. I didn’t love him and he didn’t love me, but we were fascinated by each other. I always knew about his emotional limitations, and I’d done enough reading to know that keeping him at arm’s length, playing it cool, would leave me in charge. Or something close to it.
But what was he playing at this time? Some kind of trust game?
“Thing is,” Dominic was saying. “Everything I’ve said here tonight is kind of a secret.” He looked over his shoulder. “Right, Brian?”
I felt bad for McNulty, truly. But I also felt bad for people who hopped into a cage with a tiger and got eaten. Which is to say, I didn’t feel ver
y bad, and not for long. Brian had done that; he’d poked at and irritated a tiger, gloated at getting a job Dominic wanted. Someone that dense, that blind, you couldn’t feel too sorry for them—they’re really just proof that Darwin was right.
“I guess,” McNulty said. He seemed relieved I was holding the gun, which meant he didn’t know what Dom was getting at. I did.
“Doesn’t that mean I have to shoot you both?” I said, giving Dom a slight smile.
“I don’t think so,” Dominic said. “Because I think we need to alter that saying.”
“How so?”
“Three can keep a secret, when two of them are implicated. And . . .” He paused and smiled, too.
“And the other one is dead?” I finished for him.
He stepped aside, and I raised the gun. I sighted it in the middle of McNulty’s chest as his mouth fell open and the color drained from his face. I stepped closer, the barrel six inches from his shirt, but he didn’t move, forward or back.
And then the trigger gave away, and my ears rang with the explosion. At first I thought I’d missed. Then McNulty toppled to his right, his head hitting the armrest and his neck bending at an unnatural angle. His eyes stayed open, as if surprised by it all. Which, in truth, I was, too.
I looked at Dominic, who said, “I wasn’t sure you’d do it.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t; I’d just shot a man.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
I took a calming breath and told him the truth. “I figured it was him or you,” I said. “Maybe him or me.”
Dominic smiled, but his eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Either way, better him than either of us.”
“Yeah,” I said, though I felt like my throat was closing up. “I guess so.”
I realized I was still holding the gun up, as if McNulty might come back to life. Or as if my arm was in control, and not me. I lowered it and looked Dom in the eye. “I’m trusting you,” I said. “I’m trusting you to have all this figured out.”
“I do. Even if you’d shot me, he would’ve taken the blame and you’d be in the clear. You know, assuming you’d wiped the gun clean or handed it to him. Which reminds me.” He went to his bag and took out a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. Then he took out a cloth and walked over to me, putting his hand out for the gun. I gave it to him and watched as he wiped it down, his movements slow and careful, Dominic handling the gun like it was a baby and he was caring for it.
When he was done, he went over to McNulty’s body and pressed the gun into his hand, making sure DNA and fingerprints were on it, I guessed. Then he dropped the weapon onto the floor and I flinched, but it didn’t go off. Dominic laughed gently.
“They’re made not to go off when you drop them.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “Not a regular user of guns.”
He inclined his head toward McNulty. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I was glad he’d taken the gun away; my hands and fingers were trembling with the adrenaline, my heart still pounding. “He committed suicide?” I asked.
“He did.”
I looked at the chest would. “Do men commit suicide that way? By shooting themselves in the chest?”
“Not usually. Usually the head, either under the chin or through the temple. Women usually do it that way, in the chest.”
“For real?” I felt a sudden chill run down my spine.
“Preserve their beauty. That’s the theory, anyway. In reality, the only women I’ve seen commit suicide that way didn’t have a lot of beauty to preserve.”
He was pulling cans out of his bag. “What are those?”
“Empty beer cans. Once they start putting two and two together, they may have another look at Bobby’s death; I’m not sure.” He went into the bedroom and tossed a few cans into an open closet. “They have McNulty’s prints on them. I was going to use them at White’s shooting but didn’t have time to put any in his car. They can be insurance here, so to speak.”
“Will they find evidence of us here?” I asked. “I didn’t keep track of what I touched. Maybe DNA somehow?”
“I was here with the police, so if they find my prints or DNA it won’t mean anything. And if worse comes to worst,” he said, “you can tell them that you came by the house because it’s where Bobby died. You can say that you wanted to see it. They won’t be happy, but they’ll understand.”
“You really do think of everything, don’t you?”
Except he didn’t know how close he’d come to dying. He didn’t know how strong the urge was for me to swing my arm six inches to the left and shoot him for killing Bobby, giving him the same ending in the same place—a poetic justice I have no idea whether he’d understand or not. I really had considered doing that, had to fight the urge to do it; but I knew he’d have thought of that, too. Even if he was telling the truth about his feelings for me, I knew somewhere in this complicated scheme there’d be a booby trap for me if I turned on him. Something of mine left somewhere the police would see it. A fingerprint, an e-mail, some sort of trail. And, as he’d told me so many times, once the police lock onto you, they keep going until they get you, unless you can prove to them you’re innocent. That’s what it takes, he says, that you have to prove your innocence to them. Backward, but that’s how they do it. And impossible for me, obviously. First of all, if I shot him I wouldn’t be innocent. Second, I have no idea what’s been happening inside Dominic’s mind for the past week. I have no idea why he lured McNulty here to kill him, for me to kill him. I just know, 100 percent know, that if Dominic didn’t get his way today, then I’d be next for the firing squad.
And with Bobby gone there was no one else left in my life for me to protect, only myself and maybe a drug-addicted aunt.
Dominic left his gloves on as he gathered up Brian’s bag, and he showed me the envelope full of cash. “Take it. I don’t need money right now.”
I did take it. It would pay for Bobby’s funeral. But I didn’t say thank you. “Should we put out the candles?” I asked.
“No. I expect the cops will be here before long ; and if not we can call them ourselves. In the meantime, one of those candles might just topple over and start a nice little fire. Make sure our tracks are covered. Either way, we’re good.”
“You’re sure?”
“You know I am.” He straightened and smiled. “And I find that life is more fun when you leave a little something to chance.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DOMINIC
The news shows and papers were all over the story by that evening, and I could see why: a conspiracy and an attempt to kill one prosecutor, another dead prosecutor found in the same house where a cop-killer had shot himself in the head. It was like there’d been an old-fashioned Wild West shoot-out and the good guys had won. The next day, CNN, FOX News, and every major newspaper sent someone to Austin to cover the story. And everyone wanted to interview me. Twice in a year I’d been targeted, and twice I’d managed to escape with my life and my freedom. I was at the center of this story, and my phone didn’t stop ringing until midnight, then started again at six the next morning.
I continued to play hard to get on Sunday. I didn’t answer my phone unless I recognized the caller, and I didn’t answer my door at all. All I did was announce on my website that I’d be making a statement after my Monday evening gig at Steamboat. I knew full well that the journalists would try to get a jump on each other to buff up their stories as much as possible with B-roll shots of me playing and, I’m sure they hoped, a private word, so I called Bernadette Phillips and told her to put out extra empty beer jugs that she used for tip jars. She laughed when I told her why, and we both knew I’d win our bet that night.
I did. Every journalist and thrill seeker in the place—and there were hundreds—made sure to catch my eye as they dropped fives and tens into the tip jugs. A couple of the early stories had compared my survival to that of a cat, perhaps thanks to my subtle suggestion via frie
nds, so the cameras clicked and flashed when I started into one my own songs, “Nine Lives.” You can’t imagine the feeling of such an adoring, admiring crowd, a mass of people crammed together, spilling wine and beer on each other, and all thinking they were the only ones to make the connection. And all of them, every single one, dancing like my puppet to the song I knew I’d be playing for them.
At the end of my set, Bernadette paid up quickly and happily, as well she should have because I’d made her even more money than I’d made for myself, and she knew she had no cause for complaint. She’d even set aside a conference room on the second floor, and I fielded questions in my usual way, humble and respectful, sipping at my post-gig bottle of water as I said the right things and pulled the right faces: appropriately sad for the dead, duly modest about my role in defending myself, and suitably observant of the rights of those as-yet-unidentified people heading into the whirling blades of the justice system.
Throughout the gig and the press conference, my eyes drifted to two different people who stood at the back of the room, not near each other and acting like they weren’t aware of each other. The place was so packed, maybe they weren’t.
One was a beautiful woman, more beautiful than I’d ever seen, wearing for the first time in a year the lime green dress that showed off every brilliant curve and straight line she had, every dip and rise of that perfect body. She wore her red heels, too, drawing my eye and countless others to those taut calves, the start of an irresistible journey upward to her creamy complexion and those cherry red lips that barely moved as they silently mouthed the words to my songs. She was a siren-like seductress to me and everyone else there, perfectly gorgeous yet unattainable, her movie-star hair framing her face and glowing like burnished gold in every light that place threw at her.
The other figure at the back of the room was Sergeant Jeremy Brannon, slouched in the corner, looking like a common PI in his trench coat and fedora, as if he were at a costume party playing a cheesy version of himself. He didn’t sing along but, to his credit, he was the one who found me in the little kitchen behind the conference room after I’d slid the mic into its holder and politely, respectfully, and humbly excused myself from the media. He came in as I was refilling my water bottle from the tap.
