Close Call

by Laura Disilverio

  The click of a lighter and the flicker of the small, blue flame pulled Paul forward the three strides necessary. His field of view collapsed to a narrow tunnel, with the old man’s tormentors at the far end. As the boy closest to him half turned, alerted not by any sound Paul made but by instinct, he brought his arm up and fired. Phut. The alley’s rough brick walls absorbed the sound of the silenced shot. The bullet ploughed through the boy’s temple and he sagged to the ground.

  The other teen, standing near the mouth of the alley, hesitated. In the sweeping light of a car’s headlights, Paul read the evil intent on his face. The hand holding the lighter started to move. Without remorse, he raised the gun and fired twice, hitting the boy in the neck and face. Surprise and pain glazed the boy’s eyes as the force of the bullets slammed him back, onto the sidewalk. He dropped the lighter as he fell, and his body smothered the flame.

  Paul stared down at the bodies for a moment, alert for movement. A buttery leather bomber jacket on one, crocodile boots on the other, a gleam of platinum on an outflung wrist … rich kids out for kicks. Rot in hell. His unusually savage reaction startled him, and he turned away.

  “They tried to … they wanted to … ” the bum babbled. He fumbled with his grungy windbreaker, trying to shed the flammable garment. His hands were shaking so badly, from the liquor or fear, that he couldn’t work the zipper. He wasn’t looking at Paul, and Paul was certain he’d be unable to describe him, would have only a blurred memory of the evening’s events by the time he dried out in some holding cell.

  He leaned forward to help with the zipper, but the old guy’s eyes widened in fear and he crab-walked backward. “Get away from me, mother fucker! Don’t think I don’t know. You’re all in it.” Spittle flecked at the corners of his mouth.

  In what? Paul backed off a step.

  “Get ’em off me!” The drunk began to scratch viciously at his arms and scalp. “They’re all over me. Don’t touch me!”

  Understanding dawned. The DTs.

  Hurrying footsteps approached and a woman screamed. A voice Paul recognized said, “Christ almighty! What’s going on?”

  Montoya. Shit. This mission was FUBAR. He was really losing it. With one last look at the bum, Paul loped down the alley to the door of the dry cleaning shop he’d jimmied earlier. Voices, sharp with excitement, floated from the front of the alley as he slipped inside the darkened shop that smelled of starch and chemical cleaners. He snapped off his latex gloves and shoved them in his pocket. Two deep breaths settled the last of his frustration. He eased himself out the front door onto the sidewalk, deserted at this hour except for a few people outside a bar two blocks down. He sucked in a deep breath, this time just to appreciate the clean air untainted by rotting food or chemicals, and then strode away from the late revelers and Montoya, headed for the Mall with its several Metro stops. It wouldn’t do to use the one closest to the scene: if the cops were on top of things, they’d check the security videos.

  At almost midnight, the air had cooled and the slight breeze felt good on his damp brow. Still, he was uncomfortably warm and the wound in his shoulder pulsed as if alive. Fever. He was sweating because he had a fever. He walked on, eyes searching the street for a likely sewer grate, saying a quiet “Good evening” to a young couple he passed. He wasn’t much given to analyzing himself, but the irony of a killer shooting two killers and feeling righteous about it hit him as he walked. He didn’t usually feel anything after a hit, not good, not bad, maybe just a twinge of satisfaction if it went well. What a lawyer felt when he won a case or a bricklayer felt when he finished a project. But tonight … what he did for a living was surgical compared to what those psychos were planning to do, had already done, according to news reports. Setting people on fire … Jesus!

  He knew he should get rid of the gun and silencer, but when he spotted the gap in the curb he’d been searching for, he hesitated. He didn’t have time to acquire yet another weapon. And the silencer was custom, hard to come by. There were no sounds of pursuit—he’d chance it. Cutting across the Mall, almost deserted at this hour, his steps slowed involuntarily as he neared the Vietnam Memorial. An uncompromising wall of black, the monument shimmered in the scant moonlight.

  Something primeval rippled down Paul’s spine. Despite frequent visits to DC, he’d never come to the Vietnam Memorial. Now it loomed in his peripheral vision. It dared him. He swung to face the wall and it glowered blackly. Slowly, slowly, he approached. Stopping a bare eighteen inches away, he could almost see his reflection. Almost, but not quite. He didn’t see the men whose names scarred the polished granite either. Dawson’s name would be there, and Manny’s. Lieutenant Dixon, Jesus Gutierrez, and that boy from Kansas—Mathieson. Other names and faces churned in his head. Men Paul thought he’d forgotten. They were nothing but memories and names chiseled into stone. They weren’t here. That print that was so popular, the one with the vet touching his hand to the memorial and the soldiers in the wall connecting to him—it wasn’t like that. He was the only one here.

  Warmth flushed through him, sending tingles to his fingertips. He’d survived it all, he thought, recognizing the savage emotion that rose in him as exultation. He was alive. Goddamned fucking alive. These men, they’d never left ’Nam. Coming home in a body bag didn’t count. A capricious gust of wind knocked over a tribute of flowers in a metal vase. The clink roused Paul and he righted it, collecting the silk poppies and restoring them gently to the vase. He hesitated a moment, then turned his back on the wall and strode across the dark expanse of the Mall to the Metro station.

  33

  Sydney

  Sunday, August 6

  Reese woke Sydney at seven o’clock the next morning. “Church starts at eight,” she said. “Better get ready.”

  Half awake, Sydney blinked at her sister standing at her bedside, bony-slim in a cami and undies that doubled as sleepwear, freckles standing out on her chest. She had six-pack abs, Sydney noted ruefully, and some serious biceps. She wanted to complain about being wakened, but went with “You go to church?”

  Reese nodded without a hint of self-consciousness. “I do. I make a point of trying different churches wherever I am. I’ve been to Baptist services and Catholic ones, to evangelical revivals, cowboy church, and Quaker meetings. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. It’s something I do. I’m not leaving you here alone, so up and at ’em.” Reese turned away, clearly considering the conversation finished.

  More intrigued by a side of Reese she’d never guessed existed than annoyed by the early wake-up call, Sydney slid out of bed.

  St. James Episcopal Church was only a half mile from the townhouse, and they walked to it. Lowering clouds like bursts of diesel exhaust locked in a mugginess that dampened Sydney’s skin before they even reached the church. The interior was a cool relief. Reese selected a pew in the back, and they seated themselves just as the priest and his acolytes started up the aisle to the turgid strains of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Sydney wished the organist would speed up so the hymn wasn’t so dirge-like. At Nana Linn’s funeral, it had sounded like a promise. She sang. Reese didn’t.

  Once seated for the lessons, Sydney looked around. Only a handful of elderly parishioners, mostly women, worshiped in twos and threes at this early service. She pegged a young couple half a dozen rows up as tourists, and briefly eyed the sixtyish man across the aisle studying the bulletin before deciding he had recently lost someone important to him, probably a wife since he was alone, and was searching for a way to make sense of his loss. She couldn’t pinpoint why she thought that about him; he struck her as both hesitant and purposeful. Maybe it was something to do with the shaft of violet light from a stained glass depiction of the Last Supper that gave his jowly face a melancholy tinge.

  Throughout the service, Sydney tried to worship, tried to ease herself into the familiar cadence of the liturgy Nana Linn had loved, but her mind kept returning to Jaso
n and the events since his murder. She hoped the police would let her attend his funeral in New York. Not until the priest led the small congregation in saying “O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, grant us thy peace” did her heart and mind focus on the altar. Grant me your peace, Father, she prayed, going forward to take Communion. Reese stayed in the pew. By the time they’d said the Prayer of Thanksgiving and sung the recessional hymn, she felt better, lighter.

  When they left the church, the sun was rising and, with it, the humidity. Sydney felt the strands of hair along her face begin to curl. It was going to be a scorcher, the kind of day that made moving to northern Michigan seem like a good plan. She wanted to ask Reese what she’d gotten out of the service but didn’t want to presume on their new relationship, with its foundation that felt no more stable than a bog. She didn’t know where Reese’s hot spots were, what she might consider prying or even criticism. Sydney did know that she wanted the chance to see if she and Reese could bridge the crevasse that had kept them apart for most of their adult lives. It was strange, she mused, keeping up with Reese’s long-legged stride. If someone had asked her a week ago if she cared if she ever spoke to her sister again, she’d have said no. Now, though, she cared. A little bit.

  They reached the townhouse and stood just outside the front gate. Mrs. Colwell peered at them from behind the lace curtain at her front window. The curtain dropped back into place when Sydney waved. A swell of irritation rolled through her, but she stifled it. Reese put her thoughts into words.

  “Nosy old bat.”

  “She’s probably lonely,” Sydney said, trying to be charitable.

  When Reese slanted a brow at her, she grinned. “No, you’re right. She’s a nosy old bat.”

  “You know how to find Jimmy’s stables?” Reese asked.

  Sydney nodded. “Yes. And I’ve got directions to Emma Fewell’s place, too. Montoya texted that she’s willing to see us this afternoon.”

  “Then let’s change and saddle up,” Reese said, “and go brace Junior. I’ll bet he’s just as full of shit as his daddy.”

  “No bet.”

  34

  Sydney

  “This place has too much shit,” Reese complained, scraping her sneaker in the grass to wipe off muck. “There are many reasons I hate horses, but horseshit is at the top of the list, closely followed by ‘they bite’ and ‘they kick’ and ‘they stink.’”

  Sydney gave her a sympathetic smile, in her element surrounded by green fields bounded by miles of white fencing with horses grazing. Sambrano’s Elite Training read a small sign fronting the barn. Tours daily. The sun glossed the chestnut, bay, and palomino hides in the distance. Tails swished, flicking away the ubiquitous flies. One horse rolled in the grass, kicking her legs in the air, and Sydney smiled. Always nervous around horses, Reese had preferred softball and track, but Sydney had taken riding lessons from the time she was eight until she graduated from high school.

  “It’s a horse farm. Horse shit is part of the deal,” she said.

  “I’ll wait,” Reese said, propping herself against the hood of her Highlander and crossing her arms over her chest. “You can tackle this one on your own.”

  If Reese was willing to let her interview Jimmy Montoya alone, her fear of horses must be more intense than she’d let on, Sydney reflected. Reese’s need to accompany her wouldn’t be due to safety concerns this time—just to nosiness. Prying into others’ lives was the equivalent of an addict shooting up for her, and she’d do a lot for that high. Sydney thought about her sister’s adventures in war zones and the union exposé she’d written before turning to true crime. At least most of the murderers she talked to now were already behind bars.

  Sydney crossed the barn’s threshold and stepped into her past. The twilight gloom inside, with dust motes swirling in a shaft of sunlight; the smell of horse, hay, and liniment; and the soft whickers and thuds as the large animals moved about in their stalls transported her back to her days as a horse-crazy adolescent. Now, breathing in the familiar scent, she felt the old excitement rising, the love nurtured by reading King of the Wind, Misty of Chincoteague, and the Black Stallion series. Maybe she should take up riding again. She could even buy a horse, board it someplace like this …

  “Are you here for the tour? The next one is in twenty minutes.” A friendly voice pulled Sydney out of her reverie.

  She looked around to see a young woman with an open face, red hair in braids, and the bow-legged stance of a serious rider. Wearing jeans and work boots liberally spattered with Reese’s favorite substance, she carried a shovel and a bucket.

  “Actually, I’m looking for Jimmy Montoya. I was told he’d be here.”

  “Jimmy? He’s watching Ed work Banger. That way.” The girl pointed with the shovel handle to a door at the far end of the long corridor separating two rows of stalls.

  “Who’s Banger?”

  The girl smiled, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. “Bang the Drum. Jimmy’s Derby hopeful.”

  “Does he have a chance?”

  The girl shrugged. “They all have a chance.” She nodded goodbye to Sydney and nudged open an empty stall.

  The scrape of the girl’s shovel followed Sydney down the main corridor. An inquisitive gray accosted her by straining his neck to its full length and bumping her with his nose. “Whoa, you’re a pushy one,” she said.

  He snorted and lowered his head to snuffle in the vicinity of her pockets. “Sorry, boy. No treats today.” She wished she’d packed her pockets with carrots and apple bits.

  He gazed at her reproachfully, his white forelock falling into his dark, liquid eyes. Giving his neck a final pat, she moved on. The far end of the barn opened on a paddock with a couple of leggy horses milling around. Beyond the fenced enclosure was a half-mile track, also ringed in gleaming white, where two men stood watching a pair of horses, jockeys high in the stirrups, canter toward the post. Sydney had never spent any time around racing—her interest had been in jumpers—and she watched with fascination as the jockeys reined in the horses and then let them go at a signal from one of the men. The horses flew around the track, hooves thudding up clods of dirt. Slowly but surely, the horse on the outside, a tall chestnut, pulled ahead of his rival, galloping past the men leaning on the rail. Judging from the way Jimmy Montoya was jumping and shouting, the winner was Banger.

  Walking over, Sydney observed Jimmy as he high-fived the man beside him—Ed Sambrano, the trainer, maybe?—and stroked his colt’s nose when the jockey brought him to the rail. He looked like a less dynamic copy of his father. He was a couple of inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter, with his father’s dark hair but none of his air of command. He was dressed like a cross between the Marlboro man and a Ralph Lauren model in a four-hundred-dollar pair of jeans and a turquoise polo shirt. He sported hand-tooled ostrich-skin cowboy boots, and Sydney would have bet her entire trust fund that he’d never ridden a horse in his life.

  “D’ja see that?” Jimmy startled her by asking. He’d turned to face her as Sambrano drifted off to give instructions to the jockey. “He was tearing up the track!” The young man struck her as callow and younger than his twenty-five years.

  “He looked fast,” Sydney said.

  “Fast? He’s greased lightning. Put your money on him for the Derby right now,” Jimmy recommended, bringing a hand to his mouth and gnawing on the edge of his thumb. “You can’t lose.”

  Unless he breaks a leg or gets colic or just feels “off” on the big day, or if there’s a faster horse in the race, Sydney thought. Aloud, she said, “Thanks for the tip. I’m Sydney Ellison.” She held out her hand and he shook it, his grip sweaty but firm.

  “Jimmy Montoya. Nice to meet you.” He looked her over without much interest and she doubted he could have described her outside of “white female between thirty and fifty.” Clearly the horses, or gambling on horses,
held his attention to the exclusion of everything else.

  “Is he yours?” Sydney nodded toward the colt. The sun warmed her shoulders as she propped her forearms against the top rail, imitating Jimmy’s posture.

  “Yup. Bang the Drum. Out of Ophelia’s Heaven by Dancing Admiral, a descendant of War Admiral, you know.”

  “Wow.” That seemed like the response Jimmy was looking for. Sydney paused, expecting him to ask if she had a horse being trained by Sambrano, but Jimmy’s absorption with himself was total. “I know your dad,” she said finally.

  That earned her a sideways look. “Yeah, well, lots of people know my dad,” he said, fixing his eyes on a ladybug crawling along the fence rail.

  “Do you think he’ll win on Tuesday?”

  “Sure. He always wins, whatever it takes.” The words could’ve been bitter, but were delivered in a monotone that made it impossible for her to assess his feelings. Clearly Jimmy hadn’t been bitten by the political bug, despite his position with his father’s campaign. Sydney began to suspect that his job was nepotism, pure and simple. Either that or Montoya wanted to keep an eye on him. Jimmy put a finger in front of the ladybug and it crawled onto his nail. He watched it with the fascination of an eight-year-old.

  “Politics is like horse-racing, don’t you think?” Sydney asked, making a last ditch effort to snag his attention.

  “How so?” He turned to face her squarely for the first time, waving his hand to dislodge the ladybug.

  “Well, you have a field of contenders and everyone studies their records, trying to figure out who’s likely to win. And you have gamblers betting on the outcome in each case. Folks put their money on a horse to win, hoping to cash in, and investors or PACs put money on a candidate, expecting a certain return if he or she ends up in office. And sometimes trainers or campaign managers resort to dirty tricks of one kind or another to ensure their ‘horse’ wins: giving a rival too much to drink right before a race to slow him down, drugs, negative campaigning, putting a hit out on an opponent.” Sydney held her breath, afraid she’d been too explicit.