The 8th Circle

by Sarah Cain

  “That’s my opinion.”

  “I know he can be a pain in the ass, and I don’t always agree with him. But I love him. I don’t want to constantly have to choose between you. I don’t want that for Conor.”

  Beth had the big money, but he had the celebrity. Danny had just published a book on the growing social divide in America that had received critical praise and decent sales. When they went to parties, her friends didn’t know whether to slither up to him or treat him like a rabid socialist. It had become simpler to hide, and that’s what he’d done that night.

  He’d consumed his third glass of club soda and was pretending to study the painting with the bright geometric patterns of color in the music room when she’d appeared at his side, the blonde with sympathetic smoke-colored eyes. She’d nodded toward the picture.

  “You like Kandinsky?”

  The most he knew about Kandinsky was that he painted abstracts. “Sorry, I’m not an art expert.”

  “You were staring at it like it meant something to you.”

  He’d wanted to make up some lie but couldn’t do it. “I was just faking it.”

  “You mean you were wishing you could escape.”

  “‘Wishes were ever fools.’”

  “‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’” She’d shrugged when his eyes widened. “Okay. I was showing off. I was an English major before law school. Please don’t hold it against me.”

  “Harvard?”

  She’d given him a wry smile. “Yale.”

  They’d spent the rest of the evening talking literature and politics, and he’d felt like he’d been starving, even more so when she’d slipped him her card. For the first time in years, the night had seemed too short.

  Beth had sulked in furious silence until they’d reached the driveway.

  “That bitch latched on to you because you’re my husband. You embarrassed me in front of our friends.” Beth had kneaded her evening bag like it was bread dough.

  “Nothing happened, Beth.” He hadn’t understood her fury. Beth had never really understood that he wasn’t looking to wander; he was hers. He had always been hers.

  “Do you think no one noticed?”

  He’d pulled into the garage, and she’d sat still for a moment before she’d turned to him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, and began to beat him with her fists. “You bastard! I hate you!”

  He’d caught her wrists, pinned her back against the seat, and for a moment, they’d stared at each other. He’d watched the pulse pounding in her throat, her breasts straining against the deep-red silk of her dress with every breath, and Christ, he’d wanted her so much his insides bled.

  In the dim light, her eyes had looked black, and then they’d changed as if a fire had begun to simmer in their depths. Her mouth had begun to sear his, her impatient hands ripped at the studs on his tuxedo. They hadn’t cared about anything but that moment. It was always that way, a dangerous dance.

  Danny ran his hand over the sand-colored leather. He should have driven his Jeep. He only drove the Mercedes because he knew it peeved Kevin.

  Mass was over, and he watched the people pour out of Immaculate Heart of Mary and head to their cars. Danny opened the door and stepped out when he saw Kevin, Jean, and their four kids walking toward the parking lot.

  Kevin looked bigger in the year since he’d seen him, though he was always the meatiest of the three Ryan boys. These days his belly jutted over the waistband of his black trousers, and his massive shoulders stretched the fabric of his checked sports jacket. He had more gray in his light hair, and his ruddy complexion had the broken veins and capillaries of an accomplished drinker.

  “Kevin,” Danny said, and Kevin stopped short. Danny watched his eyes shift to the Mercedes and back.

  “Jesus Christ,” Kevin said. When Jean gave a tiny whimper of distress, he glanced at her. “Take the kids and get in the car, honey.”

  “How are you, Jean?” Danny thought Kevin might backhand him.

  “Oh, just fine, Danny. Great, in fact. Just terrific. Happy holidays. We have to run.” Jean licked her lips and settled her small hands on the shoulders of her six-year-old son. “Come on, Tommy.”

  The boy stared up at Danny with wide blue eyes, but his mother dragged him away before Danny could speak. Thirteen-year-old Kelly gave her father a defiant glare and then ran over to give him a quick hug. She pulled back with a whispered, “Miss you.” She grabbed her ten-year-old twin brothers and marched them to the car.

  Danny had to grip the car door and grind it against his hand.

  “What are you doing here, Danny? I didn’t think we had anything to say to each other.” Kevin stepped close until he was about a foot from Danny. He stood with his legs spread and his hands fisted at his sides. Four inches taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier, Kevin always was an expert at using his size and bulk to intimidate.

  Danny held his ground. “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what? The last time we were together, you threw me out of your house.”

  “The last time we were together was at the funeral where you told me I was going to hell for burying my son in a Protestant cemetery.”

  “If you came for an apology, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Apology?” Danny held up his hands in mock horror. After all this time, they weren’t going to become best buds and hang at the neighborhood tappies. “God forbid. I thought I’d pop by to keep your spirits bright.”

  “Why can’t you be normal and just celebrate Christmas like the rest of us?”

  “I stopped celebrating Christmas last year.”

  Kevin looked him up and down another few seconds and stepped back. His hands relaxed. “What do you really want?”

  “I need to talk to you about a murder investigation.”

  Kevin’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted from one foot to the other. Cars whizzed past. Christmas music drifted on the wind. God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay. Not in his family.

  Kevin rubbed his chin. “What case?”

  “Michael Cohen’s.”

  16

  “It’s out of my jurisdiction,” Kevin said.

  They sat in a booth at the Ridge Avenue Diner. Danny sipped his coffee and stared at the gold tinsel that hung around the window. A piece had pulled away and drooped over the red plastic candle on the sill. In the background, Elvis crooned “Blue Christmas.” Danny shifted on the red vinyl seat.

  Kevin ordered home fries, two eggs sunny-side up, and a double order of sausage links to go with his short stack. “Don’t you want something besides scrambled eggs? What’s the matter with you? I’m not kidding, Danny, you look like hell. You must have lost fifteen pounds. Eat some fucking toast.”

  Five minutes and Kevin was already starting with the big brother act. He almost sounded convincing, but Danny knew better. When they were kids, Kevin had always been the lure with his brotherly pseudocamaraderie. He was at his best when he’d been leading Danny into whatever torment Junior and he had planned for the day.

  “You know, Ma wasn’t much older than you when she got the cancer.”

  Danny smiled. “Wishful thinking?”

  “Christ. Try to talk to you like a human being.” Kevin shook his head in disgust.

  I’m not a human being. I’m a vulture.

  Kevin drummed his fingers on the table, and Danny figured he’d finally quit smoking. Judging by the amount of weight Kevin had gained, he’d made a real effort. It hadn’t improved his temper.

  “You quit smoking?” Danny said.

  Kevin made a face. “Eight months, and I gained thirty pounds. I’m not going on a fucking diet either.” His chin jutted out defiantly. “So what’s with Michael Cohen?”

  “He crashed into my duck pond with a .22 in his gut.”

  “He probably pissed off his dealer.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he was trying to bring me evidence.”


  “Evidence of what?” Kevin took a sip of coffee, then added more sugar.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then why would you think that?”

  “Because someone broke into my house the other night.”

  The waitress approached with their order. She laid Danny’s platter of scrambled eggs in front of him, and he stared at them while she settled Kevin’s plates on the table.

  “And why is this related?”

  “My house was trashed. I found Beowulf in the garage with . . .” Danny cleared his throat. It still felt raw. “They killed him, Kevin.”

  “Beowulf?” Kevin’s face turned hard. “Someone killed Beowulf? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Why would I?”

  “For Chrissake. I’m your brother.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Inferno?”

  Kevin let out a slow breath. The fine web of broken veins stood out on his nose, and Danny could see the old man in his tired features.

  “Oh Jesus,” Kevin said. “Not this again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget it.” Kevin waved his hand. “Forget it.”

  “Jesus Christ! Tell me something.”

  “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

  “Listen, Kevin—”

  “No, you listen. You’re just like the old man. You don’t know when to give up.” Kevin slammed his hand on the table. “Walk away from all this, and I mean right now.”

  “You’re a fucking cop! How can you tell me that?”

  “That last case drove the old man over the edge. I mean he lost it completely. If he hadn’t quit the force, he would have been fired. As it was, they let him retire.”

  Danny shook his head. “But what does that have to do with Michael Cohen?”

  “The goddamn Inferno. The old man talked about it. After he’d left the force. I used to meet him from time to time down at the Shamrock to check up on him because he didn’t want anyone near the house. Then he’d go off on his little conspiracy trip. First the Inferno was a person or a group, then it was a place, and then it was everywhere and no one was safe, but he, old Tommy Ryan, had outfoxed them. Jesus.”

  Kevin dug into his short stack, and Danny considered for a moment. Something almost made sense. “Are you saying the old man knew about the Inferno?”

  “I’m saying the old man lost it.”

  “I thought he never got over Junior.” Danny shrugged at Kevin’s scowl.

  If Kevin was the ox of the family, Junior was the golden lion. He had the old man’s strength and size, his blond hair, but his mother’s fine features and bright blue eyes. Junior could run faster, jump higher, and beat the shit out of everyone in the neighborhood, but he had the lethal, aw-shucks charm that adults found irresistible. He had grown up big and bad, a beautiful bully. And Kevin, who was terrified of being called weak, signed on for most of Junior’s schemes.

  Junior was invincible until Paulie Ritter had managed to drive a number-two Ticonderoga pencil through Junior’s right temple in the middle of writing out his confession to the Sandman murders. Paulie Ritter was a psycho and a cop killer, but he’d never been connected to sex clubs or devil worship.

  The air seemed to leave Kevin’s body as if he was remembering, and he slumped down on the seat. Danny’s own shoulders sagged a little.

  Danny knew if you wanted to survive, you took the soft parts of yourself and locked them away. When life became unbearable, you drank too much, took drugs, or drifted into a black hole, but maybe if you were lucky, someone came along and opened the door to another life, like Andy had for him. He’d escaped. No regrets.

  Kevin stabbed a sausage. “Junior’s dead. The old man’s dead. You look dead. Let it go.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you think about Michael Cohen. He got himself killed on his way to see me. He was trying to bring me something. I think it was tied to the Inferno.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit.” Danny stared at the scrambled eggs glistening on his plate, picked up his fork, and then set it down. He could still smell Beowulf’s blood, feel his fur against his cheek as he carried him down to the willow that last time. “Don’t tell me it’s bullshit. Beowulf didn’t fucking commit suicide.”

  Kevin set down his fork. “Then you might as well put a bullet in your brain as dig into that bag of worms.”

  “So you won’t help me?”

  “I’ve already lost one brother. And the old man went crazy. I’m done with it.”

  17

  Danny drove Kevin home from the diner in uncomfortable silence.

  Kevin lived in a cul de sac of redbrick twins with garages that faced the street and swing sets that filled the backyards. It helped that Jean had her teacher’s certificate, though Danny wasn’t sure that she dreamed of teaching history to tenth graders when she studied it at Temple long ago.

  Jean wasn’t a woman whom you’d pick out in a crowd, but she had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a soft smile that left her a half-inch shy of pretty. Her eyes used to brighten with a sort of nervous energy when she’d talk about traveling or going on to get her masters and then her doctorate.

  That fire was long gone, and Danny didn’t know whether it was the years of marriage to Kevin that had crushed it out or just the tiny disappointments that came when life didn’t work out the way she’d planned. The opportunities never quite materialized, and she watched her bright hopes fade away because she had no Andy Cohen to open just the right door.

  Jean had left the Navigator in the driveway, and Danny angled in behind it. Kevin didn’t get out. He sat with his arms folded and stared straight ahead. “You aren’t gonna let this Inferno thing go, are you?”

  “I won’t bother you anymore. I can try to get a hold of Stan.”

  Kevin banged the dash, and for once Danny didn’t flinch. He wasn’t sure whether Kevin noticed or not. He no longer cared.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re a dumbass. Don’t bother Stan. He’s got problems, so stay the hell away from him.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “He’s fuckin’ dying. He don’t need you pokin’ around his life.”

  When Danny didn’t answer, Kevin said, “Wait here.”

  He opened the door and stomped into the house. Ten minutes later the garage door rumbled open. Kevin stood framed in the doorway, a box in his arms, and he held it away from his body as if it contained dynamite. Kevin shoved it onto the seat.

  “The old man’s official crap,” Kevin said. “I haven’t looked at it since we packed up his house, so I don’t know if it has anything of use or not. You know how crazy he got at the end. He cut off everyone, even his partner. At Junior’s funeral he wouldn’t even shake Stan’s hand.”

  Was the old man so unusual in his grief? Was that where his darkness came from? Sins of the father?

  “You want to commit suicide, go ahead,” Kevin said.

  Danny didn’t understand Kevin. He could be such an asshole one minute and almost human the next. He’d always been that way. Maybe in a normal family, Kevin and he would have been able to work out their differences without spilling blood.

  “Thanks, Kevin. I appreciate it.”

  Kevin leaned into the Mercedes. “Look, you wanna come in? The pregame starts in fifteen. I got friends coming over, but you’re welcome.”

  Funny how the gulf between them never seemed so wide or so narrow as it did right now. “Thanks, but I . . . can’t.” He wanted to. Wanted the noise and confusion of Kevin’s house, the shrieks and yells of the kids, Jean’s gentle camaraderie.

  “I’ve got to get going.” Danny gripped the steering wheel. Let Kevin think he was an asshole. It was better than admitting he was a coward.

  Kevin gave Danny’s arm an awkward punch. “I saw Theresa the other day. She said she got out of rehab three months ago.”

  “She looks pretty good, doesn’t she?” In truth, Danny hadn’t seen their sister. He just wrote the chec
k to the rehab facility.

  “She looks straight. She said you footed the bill.” Kevin frowned. “You shoulda called me. I’da helped out.”

  Danny shook his head. “You’ve got kids, Kevin. I figured. I—It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t want to say the money meant nothing to him. Kevin would have taken it wrong.

  “I meant what I said. I don’t want to lose another brother.” Kevin’s voice wavered for an instant, and his mouth tightened.

  Christ, real emotion. Danny couldn’t deal with that right now. “Could you do one thing? Please?”

  Kevin folded his arms. “Maybe.”

  “Could you run these plates?” He passed the list through the window.

  “Jesus Christ. What is this?”

  “I got sideswiped the other day, and we pulled these numbers off the store’s security tape.”

  “Yeah, and I can fly.” Kevin took the list. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. For everything.” Danny couldn’t believe Kevin had agreed to help him.

  “And, Danny, if there is an Inferno, it’s probably a club. The old man babbled about it being for elites.”

  “What kind of club?”

  “Judging by the old man’s rants, a pretty exclusive sex club where rich old coots get jacked off by high-priced hookers.”

  “Nothing makes sense.”

  “You keep digging into this, you’re gonna be in deep shit fast. I sure as hell can’t protect you.”

  “I’ve got to find out what happened to Michael.”

  Kevin shook his head. “I must be insane, but call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. Look, could you check one other thing? There’s no particular rush, but I’d like to find out some information on a local address.”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Christ, do you a simple favor and it never ends. What’s the address?”

  Danny handed him the address of the house in Gladwyne.

  Kevin gave an elaborate sigh. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  18