The 8th Circle

by Sarah Cain

  *

  Danny rode the elevator to the twelfth floor of the paper. Andy’s faithful secretary was not at her desk, and Danny slipped into the office. He took a moment to look around at the pictures and awards.

  This was Andy’s private sanctum, though Danny could never remember Andy spending more than ten minutes at a time here, unless he brought a bimbo with him and he wanted to get laid. Even then, twenty minutes was his limit. Andy was always afraid he’d miss something.

  The new chief had been operating out of here for the last six weeks, but Andy’s ghost would always prowl the room, his hair unkempt, his eyes full of mischief, and his heart? Christ only knew what was in Andy’s heart.

  Danny slipped the picture of Andy and him off the wall then picked up the framed essay that hung below it: “My Night in Prison,” by Daniel Francis Ryan.

  That essay . . . You’ll want it back, Daniel, but I won’t give it to you. You’ll have to wait ’til I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.

  When he turned the essay over, he saw a manila envelope addressed to him taped to the back. It had a gold label with a Florida return address in the corner. Inside was one disc labeled “Justin.” Andy’s just-in-case-everything-else-fails insurance. Danny took the envelope and tucked the photograph and essay under his arm. He headed for the elevator.

  It really was time to leave.

  82

  Novell eyed the “For Sale” sign on Ryan’s farmhouse and the new black BMW Z4 that sat in the driveway. A tiny blue lightsaber and a dog’s tag dangled from the rearview mirror. He wondered if Ryan had gotten himself a pierced ear and a fancy Italian suit to match the car, but when he approached the back door, Ryan stood there in jeans and a faded black sweatshirt.

  Though in the past few months, he’d gained some weight and the skin no longer stretched too tight over the bones of his face, Ryan would never look like a kid again. Lines etched around his eyes and furrows cut between his brows. A pink burn scar skimmed his cheekbone. But it was something in the depths of those eyes that had changed, as though Ryan had gained a secret knowledge, one forged in suffering and burned into his soul.

  “Nice wheels, Ryan,” Novell said. “You going yuppie now?”

  “John Novell. Good to see you too.” Ryan’s mouth curved into that enigmatic half smile. “I haven’t had much luck with Jeeps.” He paused and looked down. “My son always wanted me to buy one of these, but he was too small to ride in the front seat. Maybe now he will.”

  Ryan looked up and met Novell’s eyes. Did that agony ever really go away? Novell hoped it faded to a tolerable ache in time.

  “Have you come to make an offer on my house?”

  “Three and a half million’s a little beyond my budget,” Novell said.

  Ryan waved at a stack of glossy brochures that sat on the kitchen table. “Beth had a talent for decorating. I was the only project that didn’t work out as planned.” He cleared his throat. “Scotch?”

  Novell shook his head. He didn’t want to elaborate on his six weeks in detox. That was his business. After today, he’d fade off into the sunset, and maybe he’d finally be able to start that new life he craved. Or pick up the shreds of his old life and weave them into something new. God, now he sounded like one of the goofy new-age preachers at the nut hut where he’d been spending his days.

  “I’ve given up scotch for the moment,” Novell said. “I’m tying up my loose ends here before I leave.”

  Hell, who besides Sean McFarland gave a shit what happened to him anyway? And that was only because they had been partners. Sean had given Novell the speech about how he had so much left to teach. When he turned in his badge and gun, Novell shook his head and handed McFarland a case of Dos Equis.

  “Geez, how did you know?” Sean had said.

  Novell had just smiled.

  “You know, Beth and Conor Ryan’s accident was no accident.”

  “I know. Put it away and forget it,”

  “But—”

  “You’re a good cop, Sean. Don’t ever doubt it, but let this one go.” Novell had walked away without looking back.

  Now he set the cardboard box he’d retrieved from Kate’s apartment down on the edge of the granite counter and slipped a small package in among the contents. “I’m retiring. It’s time.”

  Ryan didn’t answer, and his eyes remained like the clear surface of a lake under a cloudless sky. Maybe that was what now struck Novell about him. The eerie silence in those dark-blue eyes. Something between resignation and sorrow, but not quite despair.

  “Where are you headed, Novell?”

  “California. I have a daughter there.”

  “You’re full of surprises. You never mentioned a daughter.”

  “We had a fight.”

  “A fight? About what?”

  Always the questions. Ryan’s old man was right. This kid had ink in his veins. Novell shrugged. “Does it matter? She’s there now. She isn’t leaving.”

  Ryan nodded like maybe he understood, though Novell wasn’t sure how. Then again, Ryan had an odd sort of understanding of people.

  Ryan’s eyes strayed to the box. “What’s in the box?”

  “Kate’s things . . . and a gift for you. I think she’d want you to have them.” The son of a bitch might have made her happy, but Kate didn’t believe in happy endings.

  Ryan tilted his head and curved his lips in a half smile. Novell still hated that smile. “Where’s she buried?”

  “She isn’t. She’s cremated. You were in the hospital.”

  “Her ashes?”

  Novell shrugged. “Gone.”

  “You might have waited.”

  “When you’re dead, you should stay that way.”

  Ryan lifted up one last disc. “It features a kid named Justin. You don’t want to watch it.”

  “It’s all out of my hands now. I suggest you put it someplace very safe.”

  Ryan ran his hand over the box. He hesitated and then went into his office and reappeared with a small bundle of cash. “If I’d known you were leaving, I’d have gotten more. There’s twenty thousand. Send me an address.”

  “I don’t want your money.” Novell looked at the bundle.

  “Think of it as security. I expect you’ll need security. You and your daughter.”

  “Not as much as you.” Against his better judgment, Novell felt a kind of pity. “She’s not coming back, Danny.”

  Ryan looked away. “I’ll wait.”

  83

  Florida’s new Seven Mile Bridge, in fact, only stretched 6.7 miles, but when Danny headed over the turquoise water toward Little Duck Key, it looked like it ran clear to Cuba.

  The old bridge stood alongside the new one, and it was missing chunks here and there. When it was completed in 1912, it was hailed as the Eighth Wonder of the World; now it looked like a crumbling fishing pier spotted with pelican shit. Still, it had a strange dignity. It had stood up to the hurricane of ’35 and was, in its own way, a survivor.

  Danny appreciated survivors.

  He thought of the cardboard box he’d left in a storage facility in Atlanta. Kate’s things. Funny that so many of Kate’s things turned out to be from his family: his old copybooks, the old man’s notebooks, a cassette tape of the old man’s conversation with Bartlett Scott, the picture of Kate and the old man, and one last thing: the package from Novell. Danny didn’t know how he managed to retrieve it. It contained copies of the discs, pictures, and photos plus classified information from the DEA investigation. Novell’s cryptic note only read, “Keep it safe. It may keep you alive.” He left Andy’s letter with the rest of the items.

  If he wanted, Danny could finally write the last word on the Sandman killings, but somehow he didn’t think he would. Not yet. The dead needed to rest, even if they did so uneasily, and as Kevin noted, he had family. How odd to find himself in the old man’s shoes.

  He headed onto the Overseas Highway, looked for his turnoff on Big Pine Key, and then followed the wander
ing road off onto a narrow lane edged with brush, slash pine, and cactus. The late afternoon breeze, heavy with the scent of citrus, rustled the palms and red-barked gumbo limbo trees. It was much wilder than Key West or the eminently more luxurious Shark Key, but perhaps that was the point.

  At last he came to the dead end of a hard-packed dirt road where a huge, white house stood behind iron gates. Just beyond, he could see the turquoise water of the Atlantic Ocean sparkling in the sun. He rang the bell and gave his name.

  When the gates swung open, he pulled down the sweeping driveway where a woman waited on the steps for him. Her great rolls of fat strained against the fabric of her bright-aqua dress, and her perfect face was dimpled and creased with laugh lines. Two hundred pounds ago, she probably looked like Tyra Banks. Even now her face had a perfect symmetry. Her large, brown eyes, flecked with gold, held his gaze, and he realized she wasn’t much older than Kate.

  “Mr. Ryan? Welcome to Bella Vista.” She smiled, flashing perfect white teeth.

  “Thank you.”

  “I am Asha,” she said in a voice, low and musical, not quite British, not of the islands.

  “South African?”

  “Cape Town. You have a good ear.”

  “Asha means life.”

  “That it does. And Daniel went into the lion’s den, did he not?” She patted his shoulder, and he noted the thick pink scars that ran up her arms. She nodded as if he’d asked and she’d answered a question. “It is safe here. Please come in. The madame will be happy to see you.”

  *

  Danny stood on the veranda and watched the water lap up against the sand. The faint aroma of orchids drifted in the air and mingled with the salt breeze and scent of lime while a white heron soared overhead and then settled on a rock near the water’s edge. He heard footsteps behind him.

  “Danny.” Her voice was soft.

  He steeled himself to face her, but she didn’t look all that different. She seemed to float toward him in her dove-gray dress, and he could see the faint red scar from the knife that had slashed her throat before she wrapped a gauzy white scarf around her neck. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Linda ran her hands over his face, let her fingers linger over the burn scar under his right eye. He put his arms around her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t come here for that.”

  “Andy liked the sex. The drugs. He was like a teenager with an unlimited supply of Playboy bunnies and cocaine and booze. The good times never stopped.”

  Linda cleared her throat, and Danny could feel the weight of her sorrow. He knew she loved Andy in a way he never did comprehend. He would watch the way her eyes followed him when they were at parties together and Andy would abandon her to chase some young thing with mile-long legs and an IQ that was smaller than her bra size. He’d see Linda wince and try to put up a what-the-hell front and recognize that inside, she was hurting like she’d been smashed by a freight train.

  “I got old. I wasn’t fresh and young and full of adoration. I saw through him. It happens.” Linda wiped her eyes and looked up at Danny, her lips curved in a wry smile. “No regrets.”

  And he knew she either believed that or would talk herself into it. Maybe that was how she got up every morning and lived with herself.

  “Linda, I thought you were . . .”

  “Yes. Andy thought it better to pretend I was in worse shape than I was.”

  She placed her hands back around his face. “We’re survivors, you and I. That’s hard, isn’t it?”

  “Kate tried to save me.” Danny’s voice cracked. Linda slid her palms down his arms until she grasped his hands in hers.

  “Kate was damaged. Don’t you understand that? You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. Know this: she did love you.”

  “I should have run away with her when I had the chance.”

  Linda shrugged. “Perhaps, but I’m not sure you’d have been happy in the end. Kate never believed she could be happy.”

  Danny could still feel Kate in his arms, smell the perfume she wore, see her haunted eyes. His Kate. She had crept into a deep recess of his heart and would never leave.

  Linda touched his face again. “Remember, thanks to you, Robert Harlan will never become president. That’s something.”

  “Is it?” Danny could see the senator sitting spiderlike in his wheelchair. Robert Harlan was still capable of malice. Of that he was sure. “The story barely made a dent.”

  Robert Harlan was like black mold that grew behind pristine walls. Patient. Insidious. He fed on people’s greed and lust, seeping into them until they were rotten and corrupt.

  “It made a dent.” Linda squeezed his hands. “You shared credit with Andy and Michael for the story. That was generous.”

  “There wouldn’t have been a story if it weren’t for Andy and Michael.”

  “Yes, and Andy will be remembered as a hero, not the old goat he was. You made him pure again, and for that I will always be grateful.”

  “I wrote a story.” The facts were there, but the characters would always be larger than life. The heroes braver, the villains darker. Because even a true story needed its clichés and color, and nobody knew that better than a journalist.

  “And now, here we are, you and I, and life continues.”

  He supposed she was right. God knew he’d fought to stay alive, killed to stay alive. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Maybe he never would be sure.

  “I know what you’ve lost, but you’re young, Danny. If I weren’t old enough to be your mother . . .” She smiled and patted his arm.

  “How did you manage it?”

  “You found me.”

  “It’s my job.”

  She shrugged, and he had to laugh at her coy smile. He wondered how Andy could’ve ever looked at another woman. Perhaps if he had kept his eyes on Linda, Andy would still be alive.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  “I don’t think I need to.”

  “You gave Michael the story.”

  She turned away as if she were trying to come up with a decent lie and then sighed. “No. Andy gave him the story. Not on purpose, of course, but Andy could never keep things like passwords in his head. He wrote everything down. Michael loved machines more than people.”

  “But you must have known Andy was involved.”

  “Know? I financed him.” She turned back on him, her white scarf fluttering out behind her. Linda, who always looked so insubstantial, had the relentless eyes of a predator. She knew about the Inferno all along. She had to have known. She always was the financial heavyweight in the house. Andy never made any money decision without discussing it with her. “I loved him. Stupid, I know. I never understood it myself, but there you are. The heart doesn’t ask the head for permission to love, wisely or unwisely. I loved him. I stood by him all those years, through all those women, because in the end, I knew they meant nothing to him. I paid for his membership, but I didn’t look into the Inferno. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t want to know. I suppose I always suspected it was unsavory, so I atoned, like Bartlett Scott. Why do you think he gives so much away? Do you really think he’s such a philanthropist? He’s trying to save his soul. Andy would not have had sex with a child. I know that.”

  Danny nodded. “But he knew about the kids.”

  “I don’t know.” Linda turned away. “Andy always came home. Then one day he didn’t. One day he fell in love. He wanted a divorce. A divorce!” Linda quivered with fury. “And you know who that someone was?”

  Danny shook his head numbly, though he could feel the answer in his stomach.

  “Your wife. Your Beth. I knew why she latched onto him. She was using him. She thought you were heading for a divorce, and she wasn’t going to lose that boy of yours.”

  “But she wasn’t going to leave. She told her father.”

  Linda shook her head. “Andy didn’t wan
t to hear that. He came to me and told me he’d finally found the woman who could make him completely happy. He wanted another child, you know. He wanted another son. Like Conor. The stupid old bastard thought he could get himself another boy just like yours. I told Andy if they went through with it, I’d cut off his funding, but he wouldn’t listen. And then, well, you know the rest.”

  Danny could see desperate Andy in the ICU, grasping his hand, talking about Michael and Conor, and he finally understood Andy’s terrible darkness. Had Beth ever cared for Andy or had she been using him? Was she her father’s daughter or was that light he had always seen in her real?

  “Nothing was supposed to happen to Conor,” Linda said.

  “I don’t believe you. How could they know she’d be driving my car?” The earth seemed to tremble beneath his feet, and he caught the ends of her scarf. “My car, Linda. Did you want to get us both, just to be sure?”

  “It was Bruce. I told him I wanted Beth dead, and I paid double. I told him to make it look like an accident. I didn’t ask how. I didn’t think she’d be in your car. I didn’t think she’d have Conor. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted her dead.” She jerked the ends of her scarf from his hands. “I loved Conor too.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I thought of him as my grandson.”

  “That doesn’t make it better.”

  “No, but I called Bob Harlan after the accident. I’m the one who told him Beth was dead. The bastard screamed then.” Linda looked at Danny with a smile of bitter satisfaction on her face. “After the crash, Andy came to his senses. I knew he would. He always came around in the end.”

  “Jesus Christ, Linda. Do you think that made it okay? You killed my son. My wife.” He wanted to grab her, but he didn’t trust himself.

  She blinked at him as if she didn’t quite understand. “No. Conor was an accident.”

  “Conor was murdered by an ape named Lyle who snapped his neck.”

  “No.”

  Danny had to walk away from her and catch his breath. He stood at the edge of the veranda and breathed in the salt air. He listened to the tide wash up against the beach. It should have been peaceful, but he couldn’t reach that peaceful spot. Conor. Beth. His family. All those children who died. They had names. They had faces. They stood between him and peace. He waited until his heart slowed before he turned back to Linda. “What about your neck?”