by Linda Sands
“Just fucking tell me, Cecil. Tell me what is so goddamned important?”
“JR’s dead.”
“What?”
“I called his phone and some broad answered it. She said he was dead. Some cop shot him in a bar, and White Shoes—”
”Ho-ho-hold it. Jesus! What the fuck, Cecil? No names!” Gallo pushed the girl off him and sat up on the edge of the bed. He squeezed his temples with his thumb and middle finger.
“This is what you’re gonna do. Hang up the phone and get your cousin. Meet me at my office. Got that?”
“Yeah.”
When Berger woke up, Reilly didn’t know which guy he’d get, so he prepared himself for all three.
He knew he couldn’t do this by himself, and after a few minutes with the wack-job in the back of the truck he’d come to the conclusion that Berger was the right guy for the job. Reilly could be two good legs and he’d let Berger come up with the rest. One gun, a box of explosives and surprise—that might add up to half a chance, up here on the mountain under a sliver of moonlight.
Reilly knelt next to Berger in the back of the van, shook him a little. “Rise and shine.”
“What?’ Berger squinted into the dark. “Who are you?”
“Reilly. Gina sent me. Said Gallo’s goons are after you and I should give you a hand. She also said you should take these.” Reilly gave some pills to Berger. He hoped they’d help. He watched Berger swallow, saw recognition in his face and went on. “There’s a guy coming in a red pick-up about a mile behind us. This is his van.”
Berger looked past him out the van’s rear door. “What are we doing sitting here?’ He pulled himself upright, bumping the box of wires and Semtex that JR and Reilly had been assembling on the way down. He sniffed the air, then reached inside the box. When he withdrew his hand he held a marble-sized ball of explosive and a tail of wire.
He looked at Reilly. “Well, what do you know?”
Reilly shrugged. “It was their idea.”
Berger smiled. “And not a bad one.” He tipped his chin. “Pull the van over there, like you ran off the road. Let’s give that asshole a taste of his own medicine.”
Reilly drove off the shoulder and down a slight incline into the trees. When he came around back, Berger had a small penlight in his mouth, wire and Semtex in each hand.
He spoke around the penlight. “Help me out here.”
Reilly reached in, grabbed the older man by his good leg and dragged him to the edge of the van.
Berger hated needing help. The wound didn’t hurt as much, but the damn leg had stiffened up and there was no way around it. He lowered himself to the grass and made his way around to the driver’s side as Reilly closed the back doors.
A few minutes later, they were hunkered down behind some limestone boulders, well hidden in the copse of trees just south of the road. Though the night was dark, Berger had rubbed dirt into his face and hands and insisted Reilly do the same. The whites of their eyes stood out against the dark, dirty skin. Reilly looked at Berger and started to giggle, the way you do when you’re not supposed to laugh. He faked a cough to get rid of it, got a stern look from Berger. He was about to explain when he heard the approaching sounds of a truck and someone wrestling with a tight gearbox.
The small pickup came around the bend at about thirty miles an hour, then began to slow. Berger shut his eyes against the headlights to preserve his night vision. They guy would have seen the van in the woods. He counted to five and opened his eyes. Perfect. The pickup had stopped on the side of the road, facing the van.
Part of Reilly hoped White Shoes would go straight to the driver’s door of the van. He’d told Berger the guy was a little looped and might not be thinking too straight. Berger had grinned when he wired the rear doors and the driver’s side. “This’ll have him thinking straight—all the way to Hell.”
Berger rigged the explosives, while Reilly tramped down a few paths into the woods. He’d come back scratched and out of breath, a little from the running and a little from the fear of what lay beyond the paths he’d tramped. It was better up here by the road, the darkness and rustling behind them and the promise before them.
White Shoes left the truck in gear and turned the key off. He listened. Nothing. He drew his gun from the ankle holster, flicked off the safety and stepped out of the truck, leaving the headlights on. The hot engine tinged and ticked. Large insects smacked into the headlamps, drawn to the blackness beyond.
Everything was images and illusions; a tree branch looked like a waving arm, a bush was someone crouched down waiting to spring. White Shoes cursed under his breath and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
He looked at the van then back at the pickup. The lights of the truck showed a path into the woods—broken twigs, fallen leaves. Someone had gone this way. He followed the trail, his distorted shadow like a phantom projected on a spook house wall. A few steps in, he was faced with a choice. Two paths ran off the main one and the dim light from the truck’s headlights didn’t reach this far. He listened, thought he heard something off to the left. White Shoes leaned into the darkness and headed that way.
Reilly peeked over the boulder and watched White Shoes disappear into the woods.
“He’s gone.”
Berger said, “Which way did he go?”
“To the left.”
Berger grinned. “Good.” He waited for Reilly to slip back down behind the boulder and sit next to him then asked, “What are you doing messed up in this?”
“Uh, you know, drugs.” And it was true, in a way. He pointed to Berger’s leg, “What happened to you?”
“Slight disagreement.” He grinned. “You should see the other guy. Now quit changing the subject.”
“I’m trying to help a friend. A guy you put in jail a long time ago. Ray Bentley.”
Berger’s shoulders started to shake.
Reilly thought, oh Jesus, the guy’s crying.
Then Berger looked up, laughing a silent laugh, his face squeezed with the effort of containing the sound. Tears ran down his cheeks. “You got yourself mixed up with Lou Gallo to save some loser from a life in prison? You must be on drugs!”
He wiped at his eyes with his dirty hand. “Go home kid,” he said. “Go home and get yourself clean. You hear me? If someone gave me a second chance, I’d take it—in a heartbeat.” His eyes glazed. “I’d be living in a small town with a lake. Fishing every day, and Gina, she’d be…” Berger stared off, seeing things that weren’t there, things that never would be.
Reilly noticed fresh blood on Berger’s bandages and wondered how much blood a person could lose before things got worse. The meds had made him clearer, but he seemed to be drifting now.
Reilly tried to reel him in. “So you remember Ray?”
Berger kept staring.
Reilly tried again. “Ray Bentley? He was with Jefferson “Chancy” LeChance when he killed James King in 1977 at the variety store.” Nothing. “The guy you beat with a phone book for twelve hours, then took his confession?”
Berger blinked. “Bentley. Yeah.” His eyes re-focused. “Yeah, I remember. He had a white girlfriend—pregnant at the time. Real pretty. Wait.” He squinted at Reilly. “You ain’t -Nah. What am I thinking?” He looked away. “Now that would be something.”
Reilly tried again. The guy was losing it. “We need you to tell your side of the story. Enough time has passed.”
“Never enough time passed for them. They hold a grudge until you die, and sometimes after.”
“It was a mistake. Never should have happened.”
“What never should have happened?”
“He pissed me off, that’s what happened. Bentley wanting out. Then stupid-ass Chancy. Shit, King was my meal ticket. Best money in town. We kept his heroin off the street, took our cut off the top. It was like a sideline business, you know? And I could respect that, then the lines got blurry, where as a cop I was doing this one thing, then off the job, I was somebody else. Like the book
said this is what you have to do, and the street said this is what you need to do.” Berger touched his leg and winced, sucked air through his teeth. “This is because I never know when to stop. You know how that is?”
Reilly nodded, gave him a small smile.
Berger said, “Gina and me, we were gonna go away, leave Philly and start new. We had plans. Then here comes Gallo, asking for shit, like he owns me. But I figure, okay, one more time. Like going out with a bang, you know?” He laughed and said “bang” again, then shook his head. “Anyway, Gallo took something of mine he had no right to take—something I’d earned. So, I fought back.”
He paused for a long time, and then finally said, “Just like Daddy taught me.”
“What about Bentley?”
Berger bobbed his head. “Yeah. Poor bastard. Deluca took him for a ride. Shit, Gallo owed big after that one.”
“Gallo owed him? Who? Deluca?”
Reilly saw the flash before he heard the shots. He scrambled around the boulder. “Shit. Who’s that?”
Berger said, “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
Jeremy brought them through the woods, a rock-lined stream on their left, and low scraggly bushes on the right. At first the gurgling of the water was soothing and mildly hypnotic. As they trekked uphill, the water seemed to gain momentum and the gently sloping banks became hard ridges of slick limestone dropping away to a rough-hewn gorge.
Banning trudged along, his footing going from rock to moss to rock again. The gun bumped against his leg. He heard Sailor slapping mosquitoes and cursing softly behind him.
Jeremy stopped suddenly. They heard the crunch and snap of footsteps. Jeremy slipped the pack off and raised his gun toward the bushes, then turned with a finger to his lips. He crouched down, motioning for them to do the same.
When the fawn pushed her head through the leaves, she was as surprised to see them as they were to see her. She froze, then blinked her large brown eyes and flared her nostrils. Sailor could have touched her wet nose.
The shot rang out, slapping thick night air like an angry hand. The fawn bolted, kicking up leaves and breaking branches, joining two other deer in a fearful retreat.
Sailor grabbed Banning’s arm. Jeremy yelled, “Stay down!” then crashed through the bush, leaving his pack behind. Tree branches snapped at his chest, thorny bushes snagged his pants, and roots and rocks tripped him as he barreled headfirst toward the sound of a skirmish.
White Shoes had been standing on the path where it forked, trying not to think about the shape of his Bucs or how bad he had to piss, when he heard him—the bastard—crashing through the forest like a wild man and coming right for him. White Shoes didn’t have time to aim, he just leveled his arm and fired. Whatever it was kept coming.
The frightened doe clipped White Shoes, knocking him into a tree.
“Fuck!”
He tried to catch his fall with the gun hand and heard his wrist snap before the pain shot up his arm like a bolt of lightning. His hand flopped uselessly at the end of his arm. Over his shoulder, the branches still juddered in the wake of the fleeing doe.
When the guy yelled, Jeremy stopped. He rolled behind a thick hemlock and took a look around. Recently broken branches and snapped twigs made a path to the moonlit road. The dim headlights of a small pickup shone on a white van.
Ten feet away, he saw a big guy on his hands and knees scrambling around and cursing. Jeremy recognized the footwear. Of course Gallo would send White Shoes. This was his kind of thing.
“Hello, White Shoes.”
When the man raised his face, Jeremy adjusted his aim, settling the red laser dot between the his eyes.
White Shoes recognized the voice but kept fumbling in the undergrowth looking for the gun. Trying to stall, he said, “Strom! What are you doing out here? Did you see that deer? Man, that was something.” His fingers struck pay dirt and curled around the Glock.
“Stand up!”
White Shoes moved slowly, awkwardly.
Jeremy stepped from behind the tree.
White Shoes drew the Glock, swinging his good hand across his body.
Jeremy saw it and rushed White Shoes, taking the first bullet in his arm. But he kept coming, and tackled him to the ground. They wrestled in the leaves and ivy, scrambling for position. Jeremy got in two good punches, breaking White Shoes’ nose and shattering his cheekbone before the guy could draw the Glock again. Jeremy took the second bullet in the throat. He jerked back then fell sideways. His lifeless body pinned White Shoes to the ground.
The smell of blood and urine mixed with pine and rotten leaves.
White Shoes said, “Fuckin’ Strom.”
He wiped the spray of blood from his face then tried to push Jeremy off his thighs but couldn’t move him and had to wriggle out one leg at a time, losing a shoe. He stood up, cradling his bad hand.
Plink.
The bullet zipped past White Shoes, nicked a nearby tree and ricocheted, sending bark flying. White Shoes returned fire, shooting wildly as he ran to the tree line in a hail of bullets.
Berger cut him off. Out of ammo and choices, White Shoes ran for the van.
Reilly sat by the road with his back to the warm boulder, wishing he could crawl under it. He’d watched Berger disappear into the woods dragging his bad leg behind him, heard the gunshots, the yelling, then three deer shot from the shadows, one with bloody hindquarters. Reilly watched them bound onto the road and hesitate, their tails twitching. The doe looked at Reilly then dashed into the forest on the other side with her family close behind.
From the gorge, Banning and Sailor heard the shots and thought the worst. When the second volley started they looked at each other, thinking the same thing.
Banning turned to Sailor, “There’s something I need to tell you. I mean if we don’t make it out of here.”
Sailor touched his arm then shook her head. She knew what he was going to say. But when Banning said, “Ray Bentley is your father,” she realized they hadn’t been thinking the same thing after all.
White Shoes opened the van door.
The explosion traveled through the woods and hit Sailor like a wall of heat. Thrown backward, she smacked her head on a stump. Banning fell hard beside her. Flames spread through the dry forest raising wild life from burrows and nesting spots, pushing them to the gorge in a noisy parade of survival.
Sailor looked at Banning. His lips were moving but she couldn’t hear him. She hoped he was saying, “It’s all a dream. Wake up now.” But it looked like he wanted her to move toward the fire, toward the road. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. She stumbled after him down a trampled path, running as if the path might take her to Connecticut.
CHAPTER 25
Because You’ve Got To Hope, or The Long Way Around
RAY left the law library with three books under his arm, and a file sandwiched between them. It had been a long day, his first back in the population. Voices were too loud, smells too sharp, as if his senses had been honed through deprivation. He walked slowly, tapping his fingers on his leg and thinking about tomorrow. If his case were reopened, as everyone expected, it would be big news. All eyes would be on Graterford. The warden understood the ramifications and had given Ray special permission to be in the law library at this hour.
CO Munsing hadn’t been too happy to get baby-sitting detail and he’d let Ray know it. Ten minutes after they’d arrived at the library, Munchy said, “Got to take a whiz, be right back.” He’d wagged a stubby finger at Ray. “And don’t get no ideas.”
It hadn’t taken Ray long to find the books he needed, or the files. He sat at the table and waited for Munchy. When he awoke with his head on the cool laminate, he figured, Fuck him. I’m going back to the block. Isn’t like they don’t know where to find me.
There’s something about the way your body works when it’s tired. Like mind and body go on automatic pilot, a kind of sleepy-headed funk. Ray was in this kind of funk when he focused his eyes on the men at
the end of the long corridor. “Shit.”
He’d taken the day route. Mornings and afternoons these halls were busy with COs and volunteers, safely occupied and fully monitored. But after five, you’d be a fool to come down here alone. He should have gone the long way around. He would have if he’d been thinking straight. Now he’d come too far to go back.
The boys who ran this strip stood less than twenty-five feet away, watching him. They were dark, but not black enough to be part of the gang that ran the block. Their skin had a soft mocha hue, making them light enough to ‘pass’ in the free world, had they tried. They might have had a chance at a different kind of life had they sold out on their skin, looked deeper into their heritage. Instead they went the other way.
Ray knew their kind. He thought of several ways to play it—lost, confused, crazy, mad, belligerent, friendly, tough, subservient. It all depended on them. He checked the hall cameras, looked back at the men, three of them now. One pointed in his direction.
Ray kept walking, knowing it would be worse if he turned and ran, not even sure he had the energy to run.
Fifteen feet away, one of them called, “Law dawg!”
Ray knew Skunk. He bobbed his head in the guy’s direction, moved the books and files across his chest.
“What you got for me, Brother?”
“Just some books, Skunk.” Ray shrugged, “Mostly bullshit, you know?”
“Books?’ Skunk elbowed his pudgy pal. “We like books, don’t we?”
They looked like poorly drawn cartoon characters, cardboard cutouts propped in the doorway and dressed in baggy Graterford browns. Skunk’s hair was a closely trimmed Mohawk, painted white and powdered. It accented his round head and tiny ears. Ray thought the pudgy one was the kid they called Nester. He had a habit of squirreling things away in his cell, in his nose, in his ass. Nester’s head was shaved in a crooked swirl of colors. They started behind his right ear and encircled his conical head, ending in a purple Kool-Aid-dyed circle on the crown. Ray got a faint whiff of grape when the kid approached.
“Let me see that, Law dawg.” Nester held out a beefy hand, fingertips rainbow-stained.
