“Fifty large. When Victor heard that, he was ready to sign up himself.”
“Why the fuck not,” Victor said. “One kidney is all you need. It was right there in the pamphlet.”
“I can’t even tell if he’s kidding,” Frank said.
We drank tea and Cokes as we went over the details again, then Frank left in Riklitis’s car. Victor guided us south out of Brookline and along the Jamaicaway.
“See that dark spot on the right?” Victor said. “That’s Jamaica Pond. Me and Frank go fishing there sometimes.”
“For what?” Ryan asked.
“Pickerel, bass, hornpout, perch. Those are all natural to the place. Plus they stock it with salmon and trout.”
“Can you eat any of it?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah, that’s clean water. Cleanest around here, anyway. Spring-fed, Frank told me. You guys come down in the summer, we’ll grab a rod and some six-packs.”
“Can’t wait,” Ryan said.
Stayner had told us to meet him in the administration parking lot at Forest Hills Cemetery; from there, we’d all go in his car, from a cemetery above Mattapan to the mortuary down below. There were no other cars when we got there so I pulled in and shut off the engine. Darkness shrouded us; a steady rain was visible in the glare of tungsten lights. While we waited, Victor and Ryan applied shoe polish to whatever skin wasn’t covered by their balaclavas. I sat with my eyes closed, breathing in the smell of the polish; I realized we were just on the other side of Franklin Park, where Carol-Ann Meacham’s battered body had been found. A cemetery, a mortuary, a dumping ground for the murdered. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Jonah Geller’s Boston. Maps and guidebooks sold here. Don’t mind the bloodstains, folks. A little soda water will lift those right up.
Headlights swept across my field of vision as Chuck Stayner drove a champagne-coloured Cadillac CTS sedan into the lot and pulled up beside us. We transferred a gym bag containing our guns and other supplies to his trunk, then locked up the Charger. The worst that could happen to it here was it would be towed away. Better that than having it stripped and stolen in Mattapan and having to file a police report-or have Ryan make another rental-car clerk wet his pants.
I sat in the front, Victor and Ryan in the back. I didn’t introduce Victor. I figured both he and Stayner would feel better that way.
“You ready?” I asked Stayner.
“I will be,” he said. “Right now, you might say I’m shitting a brick of considerable dimensions, but I am also known to have a high degree of self-control.”
“What do you usually bring in with you from the car?”
“Most of the equipment will already have been laid out by the nurses and Jim Reimer. But I do bring a medical bag in with me that has a few favourite instruments.”
“The gun will go in there then. On top.”
“Do I have to-”
“Yes, you do. Take it out first chance you get and hide it under the table the donor will lie on. Got that? The table is draped, right?”
“Of course.”
“Set the bag down at your feet. Relax. Undo your tie. Loosen your collar. Drop something, kneel down to tie your shoe, whatever, and put the gun under that table. That way we’ll all know where it is if we need it.”
“All right.”
“We have a man inside posing as the donor. He’ll choose the moment to send out Reimer.”
“When do you think that will that be?”
“When everyone is in place and there’s the least security around.”
An overgrown laneway ran behind Halladay’s and its neighbouring storefronts. DeMaurice Simms had taken photos of it, had shown us how to access it through one of the abandoned storefronts. “None of them’s alarmed,” he had said, “and none have locks worth shit.” Stayner went past the entrance to Halladay’s and pulled up to the curb when I told him to. We each took two sets of latex gloves from a box Stayner had on the console between the seats and put them on, one over the other in case they tore. Ryan and Victor headed out into the darkness, Ryan melting into the storefront that would take him to the rear laneway where he’d begin work on the hoarding at the rear. Victor crouched in another lane to wait for the anesthesiologist’s big Lincoln to arrive. I slipped green hospital scrubs over my track suit, then put on a cap and mask and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses like the ones Reimer wore, bought at a drugstore in the mall. I threaded the suppressor onto the barrel of my Beretta and placed the Colt M4 in a small gym bag with a shoulder strap.
I closed the trunk in on myself and Stayner pulled away, circled the block, made one more turn and braked and honked.
He was at the gate of Halladay’s.
It took a moment for the sound of footsteps to reach me in the trunk. They got louder as a man approached the gate. I leaned my head into the deepest part, behind the upholstery of the rear seat. I heard Stayner’s window buzz down. A man said, “Okay, Doc, go around and park in the back.”
Stayner paused.
Say it, I thought. Say it.
“Tell them I want to park inside the bay,” Stayner finally said.
“No one parks-”
“I am the one doing this goddamn surgery, and I’m not feeling well and don’t wish to develop a chill that would affect my ability to work tonight, which would cost your boss a million dollars and you your miserable life. Tell whoever is on the other end to open the goddamn door. Now!”
This was the E. Charles Stayner who ruled the operating theatre. What had his assistant said? Some of them grow up to be Napoleon.
The guard stepped away and spoke into a radio, listened, then told Stayner to go ahead, the door around back would be open. The window went up and Stayner took his foot off the brake and we rolled slowly ahead, grinding over the wet pavement. Then he made a wide turn and went forward until the sound of the rain hitting the trunk stopped suddenly. We were inside the bay. The engine stopped, the transmission went into park and his door opened. He got out and slammed it shut. Locked it with the fob. His footsteps went forward along the front of the car, then turned right for about ten steps. He climbed what sounded like three metal stairs. Then a door opened and his footsteps faded away as it shut. A motor kicked in above me and the garage door wound down and clanged shut against the asphalt.
I lay there with my head throbbing where Ryan and I had clocked melons. I knew it was superficial, just a bump like half a walnut, but it reminded me of how vulnerable I still was. I pushed that thought away and replaced it with a vision of me levelling the Colt at Sean Daggett.
So close now to Jenn. If she wasn’t here already, she’d arrive sometime tonight. So hard to wait. I kept going over the plan, all the ifs and assumptions-would Reimer carry off the switch with me, would Ryan and Victor make it in? I went over the Colt’s switch from short burst to full auto, where the safety was on the Beretta. What I’d do if shooting started.
If the ball comes to me, where will I throw?
Waiting. Breathing. Envisioning. More waiting. Throbbing in head. Going to see Jenn. Going to see Jenn. Any minute now. Going to get her …
“I told you we should have left earlier,” Kieran said.
They had gotten completely swamped by traffic on the road into Boston. They had heard on the radio that the southbound I-95 was bumper to bumper, so Sean had tried Route 3 south toward Arlington, which would take them into the city via East Cambridge. It wasn’t moving any faster, and seemed to be slowing as they went. Kieran was hyper and restless as a terrier, and about as amusing to have in the front seat of the car. If it wasn’t for the poor fucker’s bad leg, Sean would have backhanded him by now.
“Think she’s awake yet?” Kieran asked.
“She wasn’t five minutes ago.”
“Come on, it has to be twenty minutes since we called.”
“It was five.”
“Then switch lanes. The right is moving faster.”
“Shut up, man. I need you to understand something,” Sean said. “And I do
n’t know if you can right now, with whatever the fuck you’re on, but you have to start thinking less street and more, I don’t know, avenue. You know what I mean? You know the difference between a street and an avenue?”
“What?”
“No, I’m asking you. What’s the association, what’s the first thing you think when you think street and avenue?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“I guess an avenue is kind of fancier than a street.”
“There you go. Even in your fucked-up condition, you get it. An avenue is fancier. This new racket of mine, it’s fancier than anything I ever done before. I’m dealing with suits now, and I don’t mean track suits. I’m dealing with top dogs. Rubbing shoulders with the best. I know Bev is gonna love it, running in a different pack. I think I might too. Now we have to maintain our street side if anyone tries to butt in on us, crowd us, but in general, I need you to start thinking a little more like a businessman and less like Jack Nicholson busting through a door with an axe.”
“You don’t think the bitch deserves payback?”
“Of course she does. But there’s professional and personal.”
“Yeah? You’d do the pro thing, I suppose.”
“That’s right.”
“And what would that be?”
Sean pursed his lips, thought a minute and said, “She broke your leg? I’d break her leg. Let her feel how it feels. Then I’d break the other leg too and let that sink in. And then I’d shoot her in the head and cut her kidneys out and cremate her like we did the Indian.”
“That’s it? Two broken legs and a bullet?”
“She didn’t torture you, Kieran. She hit you with a car.”
“It fucking hurts!”
“You should have stayed in the hospital.”
“Well, I’m out and you promised me my fun. You’re not taking that away.”
“Never said I was,” Sean said. “As long as you don’t freak out the congressman and his wife. They are exactly the kind of company I’m talking about. The creme de la creme, you know what that means?”
“I can barely keep up in English.”
Sean had to smile at his old friend, the big dumb bastard. “It means the best of the best,” he said. “The cream of society. The rich and the very rich. And since I have what they need, what’s that going to make me?”
“Very, very rich.”
“Damn right.”
“I get it.”
“Good.”
“Now can I call her?”
CHAPTER 38
I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, slow and measured, growing louder as someone approached Stayner’s car. A fob chirped and the trunk catch released. The darkness gave way to dim light, which brightened suddenly, almost painfully, as someone wearing scrubs opened it all the way. I looked up and saw a man in full surgical dress, mask included, wire-framed glasses over worried eyes.
“What do I do now?” he whispered.
“Get in as soon as I’m out.”
I eased my cramped body out of the trunk and he folded himself in.
“Stay there until someone lets you out,” I said. “It’s going to be the safest place for you.”
“What about the others?”
“They’ll be fine.”
I straightened up and looked around the loading bay. It was much as I’d pictured while in the trunk. The stairway was against the right wall, three steps up to the next level.
“How many men did you see?” I whispered, as I fished around in the trunk for the benefit of anyone watching.
“Five,” he said. “No, six.”
“Where?”
“There’s one by the front entrance and one just inside the door here.”
“And the others?”
“One has been in the room next to us the whole time. The other prep room. The other three walk around.”
“What about Sean Daggett? Do you know him?”
“Yes. We met him when we operated on his son.”
“He in there now?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did the guy at the back see you come out here?”
“Yes.”
“He say anything?”
“He asked where I was going. I said we’d left some gear here.”
“All right,” I said. “Sit tight.” Like he had a choice. I closed the trunk. I didn’t know if I was on camera or not. I took out my gym bag and slung it over my right shoulder. It wasn’t zipped closed. I could get my hand in and get the Beretta out fast or fire the Colt right through the canvas bottom if I had to. I turned toward the rear door to open it for whoever might be waiting.
Before I got two steps, the garage door engaged and started rolling up. Headlights flared in my eyes.
“You find what you needed?” a voice called behind me.
I turned to see a man on the loading dock, his hand near the switch that controlled the garage door.
I held up the gym bag without speaking.
“Come on then,” he said. “Move it.”
The car was a pinstriped Monte Carlo-fucking Daggett’s car, idling as the door rolled up, flexing its considerable muscle. I turned my back and walked toward the stairs, zipping the bag halfway closed.
On my own now with no way to let Ryan or Victor in. No one at my back.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” the man on the dock said to me.
Don’t be in such a hurry, I thought. You could be the first to die.
I walked up the steps, not wanting to make eye contact with the man, focusing instead on the pistol in his belt. Wondering if he’d want to look in the bag. Before he could, the driver of the Monte Carlo opened his door and called out, “Denny! What’s that guy doing out here?”
I knew the voice. Daggett himself.
“He needed something from his car,” Denny said.
“Like what?” Daggett asked.
I didn’t want him to hear my voice, so I mumbled something low beneath my surgical mask.
“Didn’t catch that,” Daggett said.
I shrugged.
“I’m talking to you,” he said. “What’s in the fucking bag?”
“Let’s see it,” Denny said.
I let my shoulders fall in a big sigh, trying to play the exasperated, arrogant surgeon. I unzipped the bag and held it open. As Denny leaned in to see what was in it, I lashed out with a front kick that caught him under the chin and sent him flying backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground. I snatched the Beretta out of the bag and whirled around. Daggett was standing by the driver’s-side door, no gun in sight. A big man was pulling himself out of the passenger seat, one hand on the door frame, the other holding a pair of aluminum crutches. It was the guy Jenn had hit with her car.
I jumped down from the loading dock, keeping the gun on him, and pulled the mask away from my face.
“Fuck me,” Daggett said. “If it isn’t the Lone Canadian.”
“Put your hands on your head.”
“Or what? You know how many guys I got inside?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as I have you. Now put your hands on your head. And you,” I said to the big man, “drop the crutches. Do it.”
“How’m I supposed to walk without them?”
“You’re not.” I pointed the barrel of the gun at his thigh and squeezed the trigger. With the suppressor on, all I heard was the dry snap of the hammer striking the cartridge. And the big man’s cry as he crumpled.
“You fucking crazy?” Daggett yelled. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I am a little crazy,” I said.
The big man rolled back and forth, clutching his thigh as blood oozed through his fingers. “Take off your coat,” I told Daggett.
“Fuck that, man, it’s cold in here.”
I pointed the gun at his leg and he shrugged and took off his coat. I saw a chrome gun butt in his waistband. “Take it out with two fingers,” I said. “Drop it and kick
it over here. Now!”
He did as he was told. I picked it up and tucked it in my bag.
“Turn around. Lift your shirt.”
Again he obeyed. I saw no other weapons.
I kept the gun on him as I moved to the back door and pushed it open and felt a flood of relief when I saw Dante Ryan and Victor waiting there, guns at the ready.
“Started without us?” Ryan said.
“Had to.”
“This the cunt that took Jenn?”
“Yes.”
Ryan walked over casually and circled Daggett as if all he wanted to do was survey him up close. When he came around the front, he slammed the butt of his shotgun into Daggett’s gut. He collapsed with both hands around his middle. I came up behind him and put the Beretta into the soft spot where his head and spine joined. I grabbed his hair with my other hand and pulled him to his feet.
“How does that feel?” I asked.
“Is it supposed to hurt?”
I stepped away from him then shifted my weight right back in a side kick that caved his right knee in. He yelled as the ligaments tore and the leg buckled under him.
“Bastard,” he hissed, rocking on his side and clutching his leg.
“You’re lucky you’re not worth the cost of a bullet. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I drew my leg back.
“Inside,” he said.
“Inside where?”
“Prep Room B.”
“If she’s been hurt in any way, you’re dead.”
“Relax, Hymie,” he panted, “she’s been asleep the whole time. On an IV drip.”
I could only hope it was true.
I told Victor to check the big man for guns. He found a Glock under his left arm and dropped it in his coat pocket.
“Put him in the trunk,” I said.
Victor and Ryan put their guns down, took hold of the man’s arms and legs. He howled in pain as they lifted him.
“Shut your hole,” Victor said.
The man told him to go fuck himself.
They got him into the trunk. Ryan was about to slam the lid when Victor said, “One sec,” drew his fist back and threw a punch. I didn’t see it land but I heard the cold hard smack. Heard the man tell Victor to go fuck himself again. Ryan said, “We got no time for this shit,” and closed the trunk before Victor could hit him again.
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