Mad Dog Justice (15 page)

“I don’t know, Colleen. I’m wondering if I’ve been kidding myself all these years. I mean, look at Roddy’s background. How on earth could he go through a horrible childhood like that and not be terribly scarred? Completely ruined for life. I’d like to think he changed—that he really overcame all those things and became someone who could love and trust and live a good life. But I don’t know if that’s possible. How can a man survive that and turn out to be capable of really loving and trusting someone?” Tracy looks at her sister.

Colleen’s eyes are wide and her head is shaking from side to side. “Tracy, I think you need some time to—”

“
Time
? I’ve been married to a man for fifteen years, and after all that time, I now realize I don’t really know him. Maybe he’s like his father and mother were. God, I hate to say it, but maybe he’s just a bad seed.” A trenchant wave of sadness washes over Tracy as she thinks of Roddy’s childhood. She recalls the times
he talked about the
tar pits
of Brooklyn—the horror of his childhood—and how he couldn’t believe he’d escaped from it all.

“Maybe so, Tracy. I can tell you when I married Gene, I never thought he’d be the two-timing philandering sort. He seemed like a straight arrow. And look at me now, divorced and dating. Trying to sort out my life.”

“That might be how Roddy and I end up … divorced.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Tracy.”

Tracy closes her eyes and nods her head. “I don’t know what to think.”

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Colleen says. “But I’ll tell you this. There’s life after marriage. Nutley’s a lovely town. We have good schools here, and there’s an active social life for single parents. Right now, just take it one step at a time.”

“You know how I feel, Colleen? Like the past is back in spades. Or maybe it never left. Maybe Roddy’s always been like he was on those Brooklyn streets all those years ago, and I never wanted to see it. And now everything’s just coming apart at the seams.”

R
oddy gets out of the taxi at the intersection of Palmer Avenue and Parkway Road. He wears a brown leather jacket and dark gray cargo pants, and he carries a canvas satchel with items he’ll need. His inside jacket pocket holds the loaded pistol.

Entering Chase Bank, he sees Ginny Clyne, the white-haired branch manager, sitting at her desk. She waves to him, and he nods at her. He recalls his last contact with Ginny: he’d returned the fifteen thousand in hundred-dollar bills he’d brought to McLaughlin’s that night as a down payment. It was used to lure Grange into thinking they’d pay him half a million dollars in extortion money.

The juice is running
.

That was the beginning of this nightmare. But not really, because Roddy realizes it all began one evening a year and a half ago, when Kenny Egan came to the office and proposed he and Danny become silent partners in McLaughlin’s.

Ginny greets him in her usual warm way and asks a teller to escort him to the safe deposit area. Roddy feels furtive in the privacy of the cramped booth, as though he’s doing something illegal. Maybe it’s because he’s carrying a piece. Or does he feel this way because of what he did to that poor driver last night?

He opens the metal box. It’s all there: their marriage license, their birth and baptismal certificates, the necklace and brooch
Tracy’s mother gave her years ago, his army discharge papers, and some old silver coins Tracy’s father gave the kids. There’s the emerald ring Roddy gave Tracy on their tenth wedding anniversary—she wears it only on special occasions—and the deed to the house. Seeing objects that mark milestones in their lives, Roddy is flooded by a wave of sadness. He swallows hard—again and again—trying to get rid of the lump in his throat.

He inhales deeply, extracts an envelope, and begins counting hundred-dollar bills. He’s again reminded of that night in McLaughlin’s back office when he and Dan handed Grange thirty thousand—an opening gambit to convince him they’d pay the loan shark the money he wanted within a few days. Then Grange demanded his self-congratulatory drink, Glenfiddich scotch—
that good shit
, as he’d called it. The Klonopin-laced drink Roddy had prepared sank Grange into a twilight sleep.

And then: Snapper Pond.

But Roddy can’t waste time mulling over a past that can’t be undone. He must move on, get away from Bronxville—leave his home and the hospital. And above all, keep Tracy and the kids safe. And somehow, he must learn why he and Danny are in someone’s crosshairs. He can’t sit back and wait for something to happen. Sergeant Dawson’s words resound in his head:

Always be the hunter, not the hunted. Never let yourself be prey
.

He pulls out a medium-sized envelope, slips in fifty bills, and returns the rest to the larger envelope inside the box. Five thousand in cash should be enough. He’s got two credit cards and won’t hesitate to use them; after all, he’s not being tracked by law enforcement and there’s no need to worry about leaving an electronic trail. On second thought, those guys in the garage could have been from Little Odessa, Brooklyn. The Russian Bratva is big into credit card fraud and has long tentacles into the world of plastic. He’ll use credit cards only if necessary.

Leaving the bank, he waves to Ginny, wondering if he’ll ever
see Bronxville or Tracy and the kids again.

Roddy walks onto Parkway Road and heads for the Bronxville Metro North train station. He’s primed for anything. Escape and evade is a mantra from his Ranger training; it will dictate his next moves. Roddy scans the street as he walks. He swivels his head from side to side, hearing his neck bones crack as he does. He recalls the keys to survival Sergeant Dawson pounded relentlessly into the platoon: “
Use all your senses. Be primed for what you see, hear, and smell. Live by your wits. Vanquish fear and panic. A Ranger does what he must; he eats snakes, bugs, and tree bark to survive. Remember, you’re never out of tactics for staying alive.”

Roddy knows a good soldier stays aware of his surroundings no matter what the situation. There can never be a lapse of attention. A break in concentration can mean death. Danger heightens the senses—primes a man for full use of his capacities. And Roddy’s in the bull’s-eye of a kill zone. You must act, no hesitation—not for a millisecond. You harness your instincts and use them in the service of survival. And you show no mercy.

It’s all connected—his Ranger training from thirty years ago and the here and now on Parkway Road in the lovely village of Bronxville. Past and present are simply pages in the same ugly book.

Roddy glances over his shoulder. He thinks he sees someone duck into an alley between two stores. It was a momentary blur; he’s uncertain who or what it was. He stands still and waits. No one emerges from the alley. A few cars and SUVs pass by. Roddy’s reminded of that thuggish-looking guy in the Navigator. Most SUVs in this town are driven by women going about their daily tasks. He scans everything as though he’s on scout patrol in the Georgia forests. For a moment, he actually feels he’s back in time—nearly thirty years ago—with Bravo Company, on a forced, full-gear trek through Fort Benning’s swamp-filled woodlands.

He looks back down Parkway and sees a man in a dark leather
jacket ambling along the far side of the street. Is that the guy who ducked into the alley? The man walks casually on a cold winter day. Roddy’s hand slips into his pocket; he grips the pistol. He turns and continues walking toward the station. He feels the air on his neck and his skin feels tender. He knows this feeling: it’s a sense of exposure, of vulnerability and the possibility of death coming from an unseen place. He sees and hears everything: tires whooshing past him on the street, car horns, a truck’s exhaust in the wintry air. He even hears the click mechanism as a streetlight changes from red to green. He glances back: the guy is window-shopping in a sporting goods store on the far side of the street.

A group of teenagers approaches on his side of the road. They carry book bags; they are wearing baggy pants and baseball caps. They’re a harmless bunch, lost in the hormone-driven tangle of adolescent angst. Yet he scans them carefully. As they near him, two teens eye him curiously. He looks directly at them and they avert their eyes.

Roddy keeps walking and hears cars approach from behind. He listens for the sound of one slowing as it nears him. He won’t be a victim like Walt McKay. He can’t banish the image of Walt—dead on the concrete floor.

Roddy recalls the maxim from paratrooper training: there are two kinds of soldiers—the quick and the dead. He’s ready to act: he’ll duck for cover or spin quickly and shoot at the nearest threat. Casting a look back, he no longer sees the guy in the leather coat. Maybe he entered the store.

Roddy bristles with wariness as he nears the train station. He recalls the same feeling from years ago—as you came to Coyle Street, enemy territory, where the Germans lived. If you couldn’t run like a jackrabbit, you’d be beaten to a pulp.

At the platform ticket machine, he slips a bill into the slot and presses the touch screen for a one-way ticket to Grand Central and a ten-trip MetroCard for the New York City subway. The
tickets drop into the slot.

The station clock reads 4:15 in the afternoon. He’ll catch the 4:20, and according to the schedule, he’ll get to Grand Central at 4:48, just as rush hour begins peaking. Perfect timing: he’ll blend into the crowd—just one more soul among thousands of commuters scurrying like ants through the gigantic terminal. They’ll all be heading home. But he no longer has a place to go at the end of the day. A deep sense of alienation—of complete isolation—seeps through him. He feels it in his bones.

Glancing about, he sees only a handful of people on the southbound platform waiting for the train to the city. No one’s waiting on the opposite side of the tracks because the northbound train just departed.

The city-bound train roars into the station at 4:20. Right on time. A sucking wind rush accompanies the train as Roddy positions himself to board the last car. When he enters the train, the interior feels overheated. It smells like old clothes mixed with a uriniferous odor from the restroom. He takes a seat on the right side, at the rear of the car. It’s safest since no one can approach him from behind. And he’ll have a good view of anyone boarding his car.

A scattering of people occupy the car, mostly black and Hispanic women—housekeepers and nannies for the upper-middle-class types living in the tony burbs north of Mount Vernon and the Bronx.

Leaving the station, the train picks up speed, heading toward the city. Roddy feels bone-tired and wants to settle back in the seat, close his eyes, and drift off. But he can’t allow himself to nap.

About two minutes out of the Bronxville station, the car’s front door opens. A tall man wearing a waist-length, black leather jacket and faded jeans enters from the car ahead. Is he the guy he spotted on Parkway Avenue, the window-shopper? Roddy isn’t certain; he was too far away to get a good look at him. The
man has a Bluetooth device over his left ear and carries a folded newspaper under one arm. He lets the front door close and peers about the car. The guy has a hollowed-out, Slavic-looking face. He’s rugged-looking and steep-jawed. And he needs a shave. Could be Russian, Ukrainian, or Albanian, or maybe from some other Eastern European country—but for sure, he wasn’t born in America. He reminds Roddy of Wladimir Klitschko, the boxer, but not as tall. His eyes are lifeless. His light brown hair is shorn in a military cut.

Roddy eyes him, looking for telltale tattoos—hallmarks of the Russian Brotherhood. None are visible on his hands, face, or neck. That doesn’t mean his torso and back aren’t covered with a swarm of Brotherhood
abzuka
markings—a history of the guy’s trek through the Russian prison system. Nor is there a hint of a bulge beneath his jacket. But that doesn’t mean a thing—Roddy doesn’t look like he’s carrying, either. The guy sits one row in front of Roddy, across the aisle on the left side of the car. He moves to a window seat, opens a copy of the
Daily News
, and begins reading.

Roddy eyes the man out of the corner of his eye. He decides there’s a more surreptitious way to do it. It’s nearly dark outside on this somber winter afternoon, and in the fluorescent-lit car, Roddy gazes into the window to his right. In the reflection of the car’s interior, he gets a clear bead on the man. Thumbing through the newspaper, the guy looks relaxed—maybe overly so—but Roddy can’t tell if there’s anything to set off an internal alarm.

The conductor enters the car through the front door, the one used by the Slavic-looking guy moments earlier. He begins collecting tickets. Roddy watches as Slavic Guy hands over his ticket. The conductor punches it and slips it into his pocket. That means Slavic Guy doesn’t have a round-trip ticket, a ten-tripper, or a monthly. It’s a one-time, one-way ride, the same as Roddy’s. The needle on Roddy’s internal danger gauge hovers near the red zone. His muscles begin to quiver. He reaches into his pocket and
grips the revolver’s handle.

Watching Slavic Guy through the reflection, Roddy tries to discern if the man is actually reading the newspaper. He stays on the same page for what seems a very long time. Roddy even wonders if the guy can read English but tells himself not to jump to conclusions on flimsy evidence.

At Mount Vernon West, a book-bag-carrying group of black teenagers enters the car. The noise level escalates as they horse around, laugh, and yell amid the train’s clacking and roaring. Slavic Guy doesn’t look up; he’s now thumbing through the newspaper. Roddy wonders if his indifference to the tumult is feigned. Is he just using the paper as a prop? It’s impossible to tell.

At the next stop—Woodlawn—most of the cleaning women and nannies get off.

At the Botanical Gardens station, a bunch of young girls wearing Campbell plaid pleated skirts with navy blue blazers and overcoats board the train. Must be a parochial school nearby. Roddy keeps eyeing Slavic Guy, trying to determine if he does anything even remotely suspicious. He’s now looking at the sports section. Considering the length of time he’s had the paper open to the same page, he must have trouble reading English, or maybe he’s not reading at all.