A Dark and Broken Heart

by R.J. Ellory

  Sandià laughed to himself. “You should have seen her face, Vincent. It was a helluva thing to witness.”

  “So I get her all quieted down and she starts to behave herself, and that gives me a little time to think. Why is Vincent Madigan sheltering this woman? Why is my longtime friend and associate hiding this woman from me, a woman who can implicate me in something that will cause me a great deal of trouble? What is this all about? And then I am wondering if Vincent Madigan feels guilty. Maybe he is doing this out of guilt. And what could he feel guilty for? Why on earth would he feel so guilty that he would have anything to do with this Arias woman? Maybe he has hurt her in some way? Maybe he feels guilty because he has hurt her or harmed her in some way. I am wondering if this could be it, no? And what could that be? How could he know this woman? And then I am thinking that maybe he didn’t hurt this woman directly, but perhaps someone she knew. Someone she cared for. Someone like a husband or a sister or a brother . . . or maybe a child, Vincent? Could Vincent Madigan feel guilty because he did something that hurt her child? The one in the hospital? The one that was in my house when my house was robbed and my money was taken and my nephew was killed? Could that be it, perhaps?”

  Madigan could not speak. He could not breathe. There was nothing to say.

  “Come, Vincent,” Sandià said, and he leveled the same .38 that he had used to kill Bryant at Madigan’s stomach. “Raise your hands slowly above your head.”

  Madigan complied.

  “And now, with your left hand, take out your gun. Hold it with your fingertips, nothing else, and drop it behind you.”

  Madigan did as he was asked.

  The gun clattered heavily into the sink.

  “Walk forward,” Sandià said.

  Madigan took two steps.

  “Raise your pants’ leg, each side . . . Show me if you have an ankle holster.”

  Madigan showed him. There was nothing.

  Sandià stepped to the side. He waved the gun, indicated that Madigan should step into the front room.

  Madigan did as he was instructed, knowing what he would see when he walked in there, and he could not bear to imagine what she would be feeling.

  She was there—Isabella Arias—gagged, bound to a chair, her eyes wide, disbelieving, and Madigan right there in front of her, and she’d heard everything that Sandià had said, and—more important—the lack of denial from Madigan.

  Madigan’s expression said all that needed to be said.

  He could not hide the truth from her.

  He had been the one to rob the Sandià house, and irrespective of whether he had been the one to pull the trigger, he had still been there when her daughter was shot.

  And if he had been there in the house, then he had been the one to kill the three associates and leave their bodies in the storage unit.

  And then Madigan saw the money.

  More than a hundred grand, right there on the floor, money that had come from beneath the floorboards upstairs.

  “Hard to face sometimes,” Sandià said. “Isn’t it? The truth, I mean. Sometimes it is just so hard to face.”

  Isabella Arias just stared at Vincent Madigan.

  He looked away. He felt sick, ashamed. He felt like nothing.

  “And people are just so unimaginative when it comes to finding places to hide their secrets, Vincent. I am disappointed in you. I thought you were a man of greater vision. Under the floorboards? Come on, seriously.” Sandià shook his head. “You are a smart man . . . Or maybe I should say you were a smart man, because you just ran out of smarts and you just ran out of future . . .”

  Madigan opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to explain himself—not to Sandià, but to Isabella.

  “I don’t want to hear you lie, Vincent,” Sandià said. “I figure you either respect or fear me sufficiently by now to not insult me with any more lies . . .”

  Madigan was suddenly without words, once again speechless.

  There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. Just as he had told Bryant, his own actions had brought him here and he had to face responsibility for the consequences. Perhaps his arrival in hell would not be so far behind Bryant’s.

  He thought of Cassie, of the car she would never get. He thought of Lucy and Tom, of Adam, of Angela and Ivonne and Catherine . . .

  He thought of how he had met all of their expectations, satisfied all their doubts, proved them all right . . .

  But in that moment it was Isabella Arias that he cared about, her viewpoint, her thoughts and feelings, and he did not know why . . . Perhaps because she had never believed him anything other than trustworthy and honest. Because she had believed him someone other than who he really was. Because she had given him a single, simple chance to get it right, to make it good, and he had failed . . .

  Perhaps because of this.

  “The question for me,” Sandià said, “is who to kill first. You are both going to die, and you are both going to die in the next minute, and I am wondering if you should see her die, Vincent, or if I should let your death be the last thing she sees . . .” Sandià weighed the .38 in his hand. “Oh, and one further thing, Vincent . . . And this is just to recompense you for the death of my nephew. I want you to see this woman’s face now as I tell her that I will kill her daughter too. There is no doubt here. I want everyone present to be completely aware of what I am saying . . .”

  Isabella Arias—her eyes wide, the sound from behind the gag one of tortured anguish—wrestled against her ties much as Bryant had.

  “For the trouble Vincent Madigan has caused me, I am going to kill Melissa Arias. I am going to wait until she is released from the hospital, and then I will take her. I will cut off her pretty little head. I will smash her fragile little body to pieces and I will burn whatever remains until there is nothing. And this I will do because of the betrayal that Vincent Madigan has brought upon me. This I want you to understand and know.”

  “Dario,” Madigan said. “There is no reason to kill the child . . .”

  Sandià swept his arm wide, the gun caught the side of Madigan’s face, and he fell backward. Blood erupted from his torn lip. He was dazed, sick, and he stayed down for a moment. As he tried to get up again, Sandià let fly with a kick to Madigan’s shoulder.

  Madigan went down again, stayed down, and lay there silently.

  “There is one reason to kill the child,” Sandià said, “and that reason is you, Vincent. That reason is you. This is now personal, believe me. Just like Valderas, just like Bryant. I rely on people and they fuck things up. I relied on you, Vincent, and look where we are now. You can have the best people in the world, but sometimes you just have to make sure it gets done by doing it yourself.”

  Sandià turned back to Isabella. “I am going to shoot this woman in the face, Vincent. I am going to shoot her in the fucking face, and you are going to watch me do it. Then I am going to shoot you, and then I am going to kill her daughter, and this thing will be done. I will have my money back, the death of my nephew will be revenged, and you and Bryant will be in hell where you belong . . .”

  Sandià raised the gun. He cocked the hammer. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Isabella screamed through the gag, and the sound was one of unlimited anguish and terror, not only for her own life, but for the life of her daughter.

  Madigan could not bear to see it. He closed his eyes.

  The sound was deafening once again, just as it had been in the bathroom, and Madigan lay there for a second more, his eyes closed, his heart a clenched fist, until he dared to open them once more.

  The pain and tension in his chest almost unbearable, knowing already what he would see, Madigan opened his eyes one at a time. There it would be—the wide arc of blood on the wall behind Isabella, her head slumped forward, the matted rags of hair, the smell of cordite . . .

  Sandià was on his knees. The gun had slipped from his fingers. His head lolled to one side, and then he turned and looked at Madigan, his mouth
agape, a single line of blood running from his lower right temple to his jaw line.

  The world shifted. Madigan did not understand. Confusion, disorientation, disbelief.

  He scrabbled backward until he reached the wall, and then he saw Bernie Tomczak. Bernie stood there in the doorway, in his hand Madigan’s gun, his face grim, his eyes closed, his expression one of utter determination.

  Isabella was screaming again, her eyes wide and wild, the muffled sounds through the gag like some beaten animal.

  It was a minute before anyone moved, and then Madigan was up on his feet, there at Isabella’s side, untying the gag, the binding that held her wrists to the chair, and even as she got up from the chair she was coming at him.

  Her fists were like hammers, beating against his chest, his face, the side of his head.

  Madigan was down on his knees. He could not defend himself. He could not protect himself against the onslaught she delivered.

  Bernie Tomczak stood silent. He did nothing to help Madigan, nothing to stop Isabella Arias.

  Madigan was curled up, knees to his chest, his hands over his head, doing all he could to protect himself.

  And then she had the gun in her hand. Sandià’s gun. The .38 with which he had killed Bryant.

  “Enough!” Bernie shouted. He raised Madigan’s gun and aimed it at Isabella.

  “He dies!” she screamed. “He fucking dies for what he did. He shot my daughter. He shot my daughter . . . He nearly killed her. He lied to me. He lied to me about this . . . He was involved in this and he lied to me all along!”

  Bernie Tomczak took one step forward and grabbed the .38. Isabella—caught off guard, Tomczak’s action utterly unexpected—felt nothing but pain as Tomczak twisted her wrist back. The gun was relinquished, and Tomczak stood there, Madigan’s 9mm in one hand, Sandià’s .38 in the other. He held them steady, one aimed unerringly at Madigan, now seated on the floor, his back against the wall, the other at Isabella.

  “No one else is dying here,” Bernie said, and even he was surprised at the level certainty of his own voice. “Enough already. Enough. I came for my money, and I’m taking it. Whatever the hell goes on between you is your business, not mine.”

  Isabella started crying. She put her face in her hands and her chest was racked with staggered breaths as she sobbed.

  Madigan started to move. Bernie shook his head. “You just sit right there, Vincent . . . Seriously. Don’t say a goddamned word, okay? It all ends here. This is it. The game is over, all right?”

  Madigan didn’t respond. He looked at Isabella Arias. Still she sobbed, each gasp of air sounding painful and labored.

  Bernie nodded at the money on the floor. “What can you get on this?” he said.

  Madigan frowned.

  “Don’t act freakin’ dumb, Vincent. Right now, the next two hours, what can you get me on this?”

  Madigan shook his head. “In two hours? Fuck, Bernie, I don’t know . . .”

  “You know people, Vincent. You know everyone it’s worth knowing in this city. What can you get me in two hours?”

  “Maybe forty, maybe thirty-five on the dollar . . . In two hours you’re not going to get much better than that.”

  “And how much is there?”

  “A hundred and twenty, give or take.”

  “So what’s that? Forty, forty-five grand? That’ll do. Put it in the bag.”

  Madigan hesitated.

  “Put it in the damned bag, Vincent. Jesus, what the hell is this? I’m asking you to do something real simple here . . .”

  Madigan shuffled forward on his knees. He started scooping wads of money into the duffel.

  Bernie Tomczak had to lunge forward and wrest Isabella Arias back. She’d moved to the left and let fly with a kick to Madigan’s ribs. Madigan grunted painfully, but he did not stop putting the money in the bag.

  “Enough!” Bernie shouted. “Jesus Christ. Enough of this shit, okay?”

  Isabella backed up. She sat down again. She glared at Bernie. She glared at Madigan. Her rage was palpable.

  Madigan put the last of the money inside and held out the bag.

  “You carry it,” Bernie said. “Both of you are coming with me.”

  “Wha—” Isabella started.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Bernie said. “Christ Al-fucking-mighty, I’m just about ready to shoot the pair of you. Now shut the hell up and start walking. We’re going outside. I’m behind you. Don’t you run or anything. I’m just gonna shoot you dead in the damned street, so help me God, if you even take one goddamned step the wrong way.”

  “Where are we going?” Isabella asked.

  “Enough questions,” Bernie said. “We’re going out to Vincent’s car, and he’s gonna drive us.”

  Madigan took his car keys from the kitchen table. He went out of the rear door, along the side of the house and into the street. Isabella walked beside him. He tried to look sideways at her, but the sheer force of hatred that he felt from her dissuaded him from trying to make any gesture.

  “You’re in the passenger seat,” Bernie said to Isabella. “I’m in back.”

  The three of them got in. Madigan started the engine.

  “Where to?”

  “Wherever we can get the most for this money,” Bernie said.

  “You just killed the guy who would have given you the most,” Madigan said.

  “Shut up, Vincent. Just drive.”

  Madigan pulled away from the sidewalk. He reached the end of the street and turned right. He did not know how this was going to work, but he had to take Bernie Tomczak someplace where they could get the money cleaned, somewhere where there would be forty grand ready and waiting for them. There was no such place. Nowhere he could think of. Twenty-four hours, maybe less, and he could do it. But now—right now—in the middle of the night? It wasn’t happening. He couldn’t tell Bernie this. However long he could string this out increased his chances of doing something to extricate himself from this situation. Would Bernie shoot him? Probably not. But he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the knee-jerk reaction that might happen if he tried something. The guy had a gun in each hand. He had one trained on the back of Madigan’s seat, another at Isabella. Try something fast, something sudden, and he would more than likely just respond by pulling one of the triggers. Enough people had been hurt and killed. Enough damage had been done. It was now a matter of salvaging whatever he could out of this.

  “You need to let her go,” Madigan said.

  “What? What the hell are you saying?”

  “Seriously, Bernie . . . She doesn’t belong in this. You need to let her go.”

  “She’s insurance. She stays, Vincent, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I want to stay,” Isabella said. She looked at Madigan. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her lips were thin and bloodless. Such an intensity of emotion was communicated in that expression, it was hard for Madigan to even comprehend how much she hated him. “I want to see you die, Vincent Madigan. I want to see this crazy son of a bitch shoot you in the fucking head.”

  Madigan didn’t say a word.

  Bernie Tomczak leaned back in the rear seat and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, Vincent . . . You really are not in the making friends business, are you?”

  Madigan said nothing. He just drove. He drove in a straight line, turning left or right only when he had to, stopping at lights, moving off again, everything on automatic as he tried to work out any possible escape route.

  Maybe this was it. Maybe there wasn’t a way out of this. Maybe this was the end of the road.

  And then Bernie told him to stop the car. “Pull over,” he said. “Just pull over, Vincent . . .”

  Madigan did as he was told.

  “Out of the car,” Bernie said. “Both of you.”

  Isabella was out first, then Madigan. They stood apart on the sidewalk, ten or twelve feet between them.

  “Bernie—” Madigan started.

  “Shut the hell up, Vincent,�
�� Bernie said matter-of-factly. “Enough. Really, enough from you. Okay?”

  Bernie Tomczak seemed uncertain. He looked from Madigan to the woman and back again.

  “I shot Sandià,” he said. “I freakin’ well shot Sandià.” For a moment dismay crossed his face. He was elsewhere, his gun hand lowered, and Madigan thought to rush him, to get the gun off of him, to turn the tables on this thing.

  Bernie looked up.

  “You . . . Jesus, Vincent, the shit you get me into. What the hell is it with you? Everything, just everything you touch turns to shit.”

  “Bernie . . . we can figure this—”

  Bernie Tomczak took a step forward, and he swung his right arm in a sideways arc and connected with Madigan’s face. Madigan went down like a felled tree. Blood broke the surface. He felt like his eye had been punched clean from his face. He sat there awkwardly on the sidewalk, one hand against his cheek, the other on the ground.

  Bernie kicked him then. A hard, swift kick to the chest. Madigan howled in anguish, fell backward, feeling like every rib in his body had been smashed.

  Bernie stood above him, both guns aimed at his head. Madigan dared to open his one good eye. He could see nothing but Bernie’s silhouette against the streetlight behind him.

  “Not a goddamned word, Vincent! Not a single word. Okay? I’ve had enough of your shit and lies and crap. Jesus Christ, how the fuck do you get me into this shit? What the fuck is it with you?”

  Bernie kicked Madigan again, and then he was leaning down, all set to rail on him again. Madigan’s hands were over his head, his face, doing all he could to protect himself against the onslaught that was coming.

  A gunshot.

  Sudden. Unmistakable. The sound was deafening.

  Bernie Tomczak froze.

  He looked back, and there she stood—Isabella Arias, in her hand Madigan’s secondary gun, the one that had forever sat beneath the driver’s seat.

  “Enough,” she said, her voice calm, measured. She leveled the gun at Bernie Tomczak. “Put the guns down,” she said, “or so help me God I will shoot you. Don’t think I won’t . . .”