by J. D. Sloane
“That’s what you think.”
“That’s what I know. People like us should have more protection.”
Byron set the cup down in front of him and inclined his hand towards it as he smothered another grin.
“Quite a bit more, from the looks of it.”
“I’m serious. You should have a secured entrance at least.”
“It’s good to see you too, Michael. It’s been too long.”
Byron felt a sharp pang of nostalgia rush through him as Michael rubbed his hand through the back of his close-cropped dark hair, a gesture of frustration he had used since he was a boy.
“I don’t want any tea, Byron. I’m in trouble.”
“This business in the paper.”
Byron opened his eyes and fixed his clear blue eyes on him, the light in the living room so dim they seemed almost colorless.
“You knew?”
Byron grimaced and stood up, walking over to a tall oak cabinet without speaking.
“I knew what you told me,” he said, pulling out two glass tumblers as he reached for a labeled bottle of whiskey. “The rest I assumed.”
“I said I didn’t want anything.”
Byron shrugged and brought both glasses over, tipping his lightly as Michael hesitated and then took the glass.
“Let me play host, Michael. I get to do it so rarely with young people I like.”
Michael took a drink and gave him that ghost of a smile again, the expression leaving his face almost before he could properly identify it.
“I take it Henry is still haunting your flat in Quebec?”
“Margot’s flat. Margot’s flat, Margot’s rules. Believe me, if he was my son he would be living in a very different world.”
Michael rolled his drink between his hands.
“And how is Margot?”
“Margot is good. She’s wonderful. Margot is never the problem. Her children on the other hand…”
“You’re being a bit hard on him, aren’t you?”
“But that is precisely the problem, Michael. No one is hard on him. And tell me, what is the terrible tragedy keeping this generation from holding down a job these days? Hmm? You did it, didn’t you? What’s to be done? You become a man, you find work, you keep the work. If you’re lucky one day you find a nice wife and raise your children. Simple. Men have been doing it since the dawn of time without encouragement.”
Michael glanced up at him, his expression thinning as he finished his drink.
“Maybe he should look into our line of work.”
“Maybe he should,” Byron said, pointing at him. “At least we had a profession. And how is Elle? Doing well, I hope.”
“I hear she’s doing very well with her new husband.”
Byron looked up at him quickly and then shook his head as he finished his drink.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Now that’s not true. You knew before I did. Admit it. You never liked her.”
“I liked her well enough. I just didn’t like her for you. Is that a crime?”
“Ambition in women isn’t forbidden, you know.”
“No, but I believe it ought to discouraged. It makes them terrible wives.”
“And mother?”
“Your parents were a special case, Michael. And as ruthless as our profession forced her to be, your mother never allowed it to make her heartless.”
Michael’s eye gleamed for a moment as he heard the omission and Byron bit back an annoyed sneer as he set down his glass. Michael had always been incredibly adept at verbal gymnastics, a trait which his father had encouraged, mostly by arguing with him.
I don’t think he ever forgave him for what happened to her, he thought, glancing towards his liquor cabinet almost on cue. And why should he? I’m not sure I ever forgave him myself.
He rubbed his hands together as Michael sat forward in his chair, meeting his eyes across the table with an intensity that could be unnerving. In the handful of times Michael had left witnesses alive, it was the only thing about his appearance that they had been absolutely unwavering about- that calm, killer’s stare.
“You aren’t hearing me, Byron. I need your help.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“I am. This isn’t me coming back. This is something else.”
“If you are retired, my friend, I’m at least twice as retired.”
Michael’s face hardened, and he stood up suddenly, his mask of impassive politeness returning as he walked across the room to the door wall. He pulled the cord to the blinds, the Detroit skyline shifting into focus like a kaleidoscope image and stepped closer to the window, the sunset casting his tall, broad-shouldered frame into sudden shadow.
Byron looked out at the river, momentarily caught by the beauty of the sunset, the bridge arcing across the water in a gentle haze of red and gold. The first time Margot had visited his apartment she had rolled her big brown eyes over the exposed industrial ceiling and the painted cement floors and called the place charming, which was as close as Margot ever came to being rude about anything. On one memorable occasion, he had gotten her to admit that she found place a bit “rustic”, which he had found rather fitting. Certainly there was nothing fancy about the place, and nothing to recommend it to anyone with Margot’s exacting standards.
No, nothing fancy at all. Aside from the view.
Byron looked over Michael from the living room, his stance so much like his father’s it was like holding a conversation with a very lively ghost. From where he was sitting, the clear glass of the balcony was almost unnoticeable which made it seem as if he was standing of the very precipice of the city itself, a man caught somewhere between this world and the next. Byron sighed, wondering as always how two cities that shared such a beautiful, singular view could develop so differently around it and then cleared his throat to catch Michael’s attention.
“You know, I was happy when you told me you were quitting, Michael. I know your father never wanted this life for you.”
“No? Then he shouldn’t have dragged me all over the world and exposed me to such interesting people.”
“He only exposed you to me. And I was the greatest person of all.”
Michael coughed, covering his laugh and then walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another glass.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Byron unfolded the paper and laid it out in front of him, smoothing it out with one hand before pointing to the photo which filled half the page. The photo was of what looked like a very tidy uptown apartment, crowded with several police officers who seemed to be sifting through a spreading pool of blood. The word ‘WHERE?’ was scrawled across the white wall above them in large, streaked red letters.
“This isn’t the kind of man you’re used to dealing with. This is his third killing in as many days. He knows this city, Michael. He has men, guns, resources. I’m not sure what you hope you to gain by tracking him down.”
Michael paused, his tanned, chiseled face looking strained and swirled his glass slightly before taking a drink.
“That’s me he’s looking for, Byron. He’s asking a question only I would know the answer to. And I don’t think he’ll stop until he finds someone I care about.”
“You’ve always been careful. And if you’re thinking of me, don’t let the gray hair fool you. I can take care of myself.”
“I honestly wish you were the only person on that list.”
Byron let out a deep sigh and then placed both hands on his knees as he stood up. He walked over to an aluminum gray desk in the corner of the room and pulled out one of the long drawers beneath it. He bent over to pull out a thick manila folder and then tossed it onto the tall bar table in front of the liquor cabinet, pulling out one of the stools. Michael looked at him quickly, his pale eyes shifting with a moment of pleasant surprise.
“But not that retired,” he said, sliding
into the stool across from him as Bryon shrugged.
“All men are creatures of habit,” he said stiffly, pulling his glasses out of his pocket. “If they weren’t we’d be out of business.”
“How long have you been working on this?”
“Since his escape.”
“How much do you have?”
“Not as much as I hoped. He is a very difficult man to anticipate. His one weakness seems to have been that woman of his. How you’ll draw him out without her, I can’t say.”
Bryon tapped his lips as Michael pulled a photo of Ronan White out of the pile and scanned it briskly, shaking his head.
“White never gave a damn about that girl, Byron. She was a valuable possession I stole from him, nothing more. He didn’t care about any of them. Did you see the body count he left behind? And those were just the girlfriends we knew about.”
“Did you know the men you left her with would kill her?”
Michael flinched slightly and then flipped to another page without raising his eyes.
“No. That was never the plan. White was the only one who was supposed to die. I misjudged the men I was working with. They panicked.”
“And did you know that she was his wife?”
Michael’s raised his eyes as Byron held up his finger, pulling out a sheet of paper tucked into the pocket at the back of the folder.
“Yes. I found it filed under the girl’s birth name. Apparently, they were married the night our Emergency Manager met his unlucky fate.”
Michael opened his mouth to say something and then stopped himself, setting down the marriage license next to a picture of Brooke, her wide green eyes so lovely they seemed to burn through the page itself. He looked up at Byron, his face frozen in a rare moment of bewilderment and then cleared his throat as he tilted his head at him.
“I didn’t know that.”
“No one did,” Byron said letting out a low sigh. “I only found it because I was looking carefully. And I’m telling you now because if you choose to go down this path it’s important that you know what you’re dealing with.”
Byron pulled a picture from one of White’s many crime scenes and laid it on top of the pile.
“And I think a man who hates this ferociously may not love lightly.”
Michael looked down at the photograph, his face hardening. He glanced at the inside of his wrist and then tented his hands in front of him on the table, his posture snapping to attention like an animal on the prowl.
“I can’t go home,” he said, his voice suddenly clipped and businesslike. “I don’t know if it’s been compromised and I can’t risk being seen.”
“You can stay here, of course. For as long as you need.”
“And I’m going to need some equipment. Your supplier? Is he still in town?’
“I hear that he is.”
“Good, I need you to contact him for me. And set up a meeting. As quickly as possible.”
Byron raised his brows and then stood up, beckoning with one hand as he walked towards the kitchen. Michael’s face flickered with irritation as Byron pulled his keys out of his pocket and whistled under his breath as he choose one. He opened both doors carefully as the lock let out a quiet click and waved his hand in front of the crisp stack of guns and ammo that filled the space from floor to ceiling like a game show host revealing a well-loved prize.
“Or you could borrow from me. I have many of the things he does. No specialty items, but anything basic should be here.”
“Armor, vests, ammo, explosives,” Byron said, smirking deeply as he passed his hand down the long line of handguns. “Yes. All the basics do seem to be covered. And when did you start stockpiling all this, if I might ask?”
Byron looked up at him as if his pride had been wounded and then closed one side of the closet with a crisp snap of his wrist.
“It’s what I always keep on hand. I said I was retired, Michael. Not that I’d given up everything.”
Nolan looked up as the waitress paused at his booth again and gave her a sigh, passing both menus back to her as he shook his head.
“The tempura shrimp for me and I think vegetable lo mein for her. And a couple of iced teas would be great, thanks.”
The waitress gave him a friendly smile, friendly enough for him to notice that she was young and pretty and seemed to be new and then raised his brows as Jessica walked around the corner, glancing for him quickly before she made a beeline for the table.
“Sorry, I’m late,” she said, giving him an uncomfortable smile before sliding into the seat across from him. “I got held up at work and then traffic was just terrible. I think I hit every light.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nolan said, his heart twisting at the guarded way she watched him, her hazel blue eyes shifting up to meet him before darting away. “I ordered you the vegetable lo mein.”
Jessica paused, her mouth screwing up almost imperceptibly and then nodded as she glanced around the empty Chinese restaurant and fidgeted with her paper placemat.
“That’s great, thanks,” she said in a way that he knew meant that it absolutely was not great but that she had decided to be polite about it.
I bet she wouldn’t even believe me if I told how endearing those little things are, He thought, adjusting his glasses with one hand as he tried to ignore the awkwardness between them. Those automatic nods to a polite society that doesn’t really exist anymore. Maybe you just have to be my age to notice the difference. Between what people spend their whole lives pretending to be versus what they actually are.
Nolan felt his lips twitch with annoyance as a sudden image of Ronan White rolled to the front of his mind like a flashing cosmic tilt sign and then cleared his throat as the waitress set down their drinks, smiling at Jessica warmly as she passed.
“I think she likes you,” Jessica said, reaching for the sugar and Nolan snapped his eyes towards her in embarrassed surprise as she bit back a grin.
“She’s just being friendly, that’s all.”
“Hmm. A little too friendly, I think. It’s kind of rude actually. I mean, you are wearing a wedding ring. How does she know I’m not your wife?”
“I would guess that the age difference would be a big hint,” Nolan said sliding his glass closer.
“I don’t know. Some girls like that, I guess.”
“If you’re trying to tell me something about someone on the force, just remember. I still carry a gun.”
Jessica laughed suddenly, the expression changing her face almost completely and then shook her head as she took a drink of her iced tea. She didn’t laugh as much as he liked but when she did she was all her mother, with the same wheat blond hair and wide, easy smile that had reeled him in to begin with. Years ago, White had drawn an unpleasant comparison between Brooke and his daughter and though it had enraged him at the time, aside from their height the two girls couldn’t have looked less similar. If Brooke was lush and delicate and childlike, then Jessica had the sweet, angular face of a college athlete, the kind of girl you could imagine waving to a crowd from the top of a float somewhere.
If, Nolan thought, she had inherited some of her mother’s sunny disposition to go along with that smile. Nope, that side’s all mine, and I’m not sure the world is going to thank her for it anytime soon. Oh well. We’re all mixed bags, every one of us. At least I always know where she’s coming from, whether she likes it or not.
He met her eyes over the table as Jessica rolled her jaw slightly and then folded her arms across her chest as she leaned back against the booth as if preparing for a battle. He leaned forward as the waitress set down their meal and let out a low sigh as she refilled their glasses.
“Did you go see the shrink yet?” He asked, his voice dropping an octave as he glanced towards the door. Jessica shook her head, giving him a tight annoyed smile and then picked up her fork and spun over her plate angrily for a moment.
“I should have known. The last time
we came to this place I was about fifteen years old.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You’re a creature of habit, dad. Dynasty Star for all the really bad news. So what is it? Did you talk to Welsh? Did he tell you he suspended me?”
“Jessica, it was a good shooting. They just have to cover their bases. It’s what they do.”
“I didn’t see anyone else in that alley.”
“No one doubts that. A week is nothing, believe me. That alone says that Welsh is on your side.”
“I heard that the boy…my bullet. It hit his spine. He might not walk again.”
“It’s too soon to worry about any of that. You did the right thing. That’s all that matters.”
Jessica dropped her eyes, chewing on her bottom lip to hide how much it was quivering and looked down at her plate, swirling the noodles around listlessly before taking a bite.
“That license plate,” he said a little more gently. “Did it pull anything?”
“No,” Jessica said shaking her head. “I asked. The detectives said that it was probably a dead plate. From a junk yard or something.”
“And they’re certain it’s White?” Nolan said, dropping his eyes. “That’s what the witnesses said?”
“Anyone who knows him identified him immediately. There was another attack last night. It looks like it was a low-level enforcer of some type, questioned the night after you brought White in. The chief wants it kept quiet until we know for sure, but it has all the same earmarks. The blood, the cutting, the initials…”
“Does anyone know who they belong to yet?”
Jessica hesitated and then reached into her purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
“It’s not a who,” she said as Nolan opened it up. “It’s what they’re calling themselves. The ‘Humans Against Humanity’. And from the look of the online chatter they seem to be gaining quite a following.”
Nolan felt his stomach do a slow flip as he looked over the printed page in front of him. In what looked like an abandoned mechanic’s bay, a man with tattoos that began right below his collarbone hung from a lift head down while what was left of his intestines unraveled in a bloody pile below him. Nolan grit his teeth as he saw that the body had been positioned below a flickering ‘Free Oil Change’ sign, his pale face frozen in a rictus of pain and terror. Across the floor in front of him the word ‘HAH!’ was spelled out in long red letters, the streaky script arcing up around the body like an inadvertent smile.
