Mad Dog Justice (35 page)

“You know Morgan called me last week. I hadn’t seen him since that last time he came to my office a few days after we got back to work.”

“Yeah? What’d he want?”

“He just asked how I was doing.”

“And you said?” Roddy’s heart jumps.

“That I’m fine. But he started to ask a few questions about
John Harris.”

“Yeah? What’d you say?”

“Absolutely nothing. I was tempted to tell him off, but I didn’t say a word.”

“Keep it that way. The less said the better.”

“I know. Sometimes I talk too much.”

“Silence is golden, Danny.”

“You know, we were really lucky with Harris.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were no security cameras. It’s hard to understand. A guy with all that money and no cameras.”

“I guess he thought he couldn’t be touched.”

“More of the scorpion and the frog thing, huh?”

“I guess so.”

Dan gazes at the hills on the far side of Lake Rhoda. He turns to Roddy and says, “I sometimes think … in his office, after he confessed, I should’ve called the police right then. I shouldn’t have waited.”

“C’mon, Dan.”

“He’d never have gone for the gun.”

Roddy leans close to Danny. “Listen, Dan. You gotta stop beating yourself up. That
best boy
inside your head is gonna get you. You gotta control that. We all make mistakes, and we live with them. End of story. Show me a single person alive who hasn’t made mistakes or who doesn’t have regrets. Show me
one
person who has no regrets. You can’t because there’s nobody like that.”

“I know … I know …”

“I have plenty of regrets,” Roddy says softly. “That the whole thing with Kenny ever happened, that I sent him to you when I should’ve gone thumbs down on the proposition about McLaughlin’s. But most of all, I regret what this did to me and Tracy.” Roddy feels his throat close.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s different between us, and I don’t know if it’ll ever go back to how it was. There’s a certain distance, almost a coldness. I don’t know if she’ll ever feel really close to me again.”

“Why’s that?”

“She feels I don’t trust her enough because I hid things from her. And you know what, Dan? She’s right. I have trouble with it, with
really
trusting someone.” Roddy feels like he’s choking.

Danny sighs and closes his eyes.

“It’s the way I grew up. It’s just hard to trust.”

“Roddy, you’re the ultimate pragmatist.”

“Maybe I am. But it’s probably better to be like you, to feel things so deeply and have such a strict conscience. You’re better off that way.”

“I don’t know, Roddy. I get too worked up, and I feel guilt so easily.”

“Lighten up and look around, Dan. Here we are: it’s a gorgeous day; the sun’s shining; we’re sitting near this pristine lake high in the mountains. Pine trees and spruce are everywhere. I know it sounds corny, but birds are singing, the air is clean, our wives and kids are having a great time, and we’re here right now—together. And we’re free, absolutely free to enjoy the beauty, the peace, and the pleasure of it all. What else can I say?”

“That’s pragmatism. And you’re right, Roddy.”

“How else can I put it? We can’t undo a thing. It’s over and done. We gotta make the best of what we have. And you know what? That’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take it as it comes and be grateful for what I have. And I’m thankful we got past our mistakes. And we’ve made mistakes … plenty of them. They’re part of being alive. And now we have to live our lives the best way we know how.”

Danny looks out into the distance. “You think you’ll ever tell Tracy about Kenny and Grange and Harris?”

“Not a chance.”

“You think she knows you haven’t told her everything?”

“She knows. In her way, she knows. And it’s changed things between us.”

“Think she’ll ever let it go?”

“I don’t know.”

Dan leans close to Roddy. “I gotta confess to you. Sometimes I’m tempted to tell Angie.”

A swell of alarm washes over Roddy. He looks at Dan. His head is bowed. Roddy’s hand goes to the back of Danny’s neck and he shakes it gently. “What the
fuck
are you saying, Danny?”

“It’s stupid, I know. Sometimes I just feel that way.”

“
Jesus
. Don’t do it. Don’t
ever
tell her. If you do, it’ll put a very heavy burden on Angie.”

“But she’s an incredibly strong person. She can handle anything. And I trust her completely.”

“Dan, if you tell her, if you even
hint
at it to her, you’ll ruin everything in your life. One thing’s for sure. You’ll ruin your marriage.”

“How do you mean?”

“If you tell Angie, you make her an accessory after the fact.”

Dan’s breath sucks inward. “
Jesus
. I never thought of that.”

“So, Danny, just hold your tongue … for the rest of your life.”

Dan closes his eyes.

Roddy leans closer to him and says, “Danny, we all live with
some
secrets. That’s just the way it is.”

R
oddy, Tracy, Danny, and Angela sit in the last row of folding chairs. They’re in a recently built empty lakefront house. The chirring of crickets can be heard outside. Though it’s five o’clock, bright sunshine filters through the windows. The interior smells of cedar and pine. Nearly fifty people are present, mostly owners of cabins near the lake, along with a few renters.

Joyce Fama, president of the homeowners association, stands at a lectern and explains that Braddock Development Corporation has gotten permission from the county to build condominiums around Lake Rhoda. She describes the proposed plan and introduces Charles Braddock, president of the development company.

He’s a tall, thin man who describes the plan for the condominium complex. Some members of the audience ask questions. “Let me assure you,” Braddock says. “Those of you who sell will be paid generously for your existing properties. But the really good news is: when the condominiums are built, each of you, whether a homeowner or renter, will be able to buy in at an insider’s price. That will be 15 percent below market value paid by buyers from the outside.” He explains the buyout option in detail.

“Are there any other plans for this development?” asks a woman in the front row.

“Oh yes. We’ve purchased land in the surrounding area.” Braddock describes an eighteen-hole golf course to be built, along with other facilities, all to be detailed in the prospectus, which will be ready in two weeks.

“Where will you build the golf course?” someone asks.

“Most of the surrounding area is unused,” Braddock says. “There’s one area called Snapper Pond, which will become part of the golf course.”

“What will you do with that swamp?” someone asks.

“It’s a mosquito-infested blight, and we’ll be dredging the pond.”

Roddy’s thoughts blitz through his head in a frenzy.

Dredging the pond? That’s where I threw the .45 and the three shell casings, along with Grange’s finger and ring. It’s physical evidence of what went down
.

“After dredging,” Braddock says, “which will include a wide swath of land surrounding the pond, we’ll fill it in, and we’ll clear the surrounding forest for fairways,” Braddock says.

They’ll dig up Grange’s and Kenny’s remains
.

“We expect to have the dredging and filling done by the end of the summer,” Braddock says.

Roddy peers over at Dan.

Danny’s face is drained—chalky white. Their eyes lock. Roddy feels he can actually read his blood brother’s thoughts.

And Roddy is certain Danny knows exactly what’s going through his mind, too, because without uttering a single word—it’s all there, written on their faces—they convey the same thing to each other.

What’s done is done and there’s no going back.

I
owe a great deal to many people.

Kristen Weber, my fabulous editor, always believed in me. As usual, she added her wisdom and incredible skills to my efforts to tell a story. She’s made an incalculable difference in my writing life.

Other writers with whom I’ve spoken have been sources of inspiration. I’ve learned more from them than they could ever know. Just speaking with them, sharing author panels, or interviewing them has taught me more about the craft of writing than I can describe. They include Steve Berry, Barry Eisler, Elissa Grodin, Andrew Gross, Rosemary Harris, Dorothy Hayes, John Land, David Mamet, Judith Marks-White, Joe Meyers, David Morrell, Scott Pratt, M. J. Rose, Larry Sabato, E. J. Simon, Jessica Speart, Cathi Stoler, Simon Toyne, Karen Vaughan, and Jane Velez-Mitchell.

I owe a special debt of gratitude to Barry Nathanson and Susan Nathanson for having read an early version of the manuscript and providing valuable feedback. David Copen also read the manuscript early on and assuaged my concern that readers who hadn’t read
Mad Dog House
might have difficulty understanding elements of this sequel to the first novel. He assured me the chain of events was comprehensible to someone who had not read the first novel.

Other people have had an enormous impact on my career as a psychiatrist and writer. In psychiatry and for helping me understand human development and character, I owe an enormous debt to Bill Console, Dick Simons, and Warren Tanenbaum.

Others who have helped my writing life are Melissa Danaczko, Jerriann Geller, Sharon Goldinger, Veronica Grossman, Sarah Hausman, Kristen Havens, Martin Isler, Natalie Isler, Helen Kaufman, Phil Kaufman, Arthur Kotch, Jill Kotch, Sam Kuo, Lynda Ling, Penina Lopez, Pam Miller, Tracy Minsky, McKenzie Morrell, Meryl Moss, Kevin Vallerie, Skye Wentworth, Lester Zabronsky, and Judy Zuklie.

My wife, Linda, is my editor-in-chief, my sage adviser, and an indefatigable activist on my behalf and has blessed me with her enduring patience, guidance, and love.

A
fter graduating from NYU with a degree in business administration, Mark Rubinstein served in the US Army as a field medic tending to paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division. After discharge from the army, he gained admission to medical school. He became a physician and then took a psychiatric residency, becoming involved in forensic psychiatry and testifying in trials as an expert witness.

He became an attending psychiatrist at New York Presbyterian Hospital and a clinical assistant professor of psychiatry at Cornell University Medical School, teaching psychiatric residents, psychologists, and social workers while practicing psychiatry.

Before turning to fiction, he coauthored five nonfiction, self-help books for the general public. His first two novels,
Mad Dog House
and
Love Gone Mad
, and
The Foot Soldier
(a novella) were published by Thunder Lake Press. He blogs for the
Huffington Post
and is a contributor to
Psychology Today
. He is working on his next novel.

You can visit Mark at
www.markrubinstein-author.com
. Or, chat with him via Twitter using @mrubinsteinCT. Mark’s e-mail address is
[email protected]
.

I
should have known everything would change the moment I saw her. But I could never have known the life I knew and loved would come to a disastrous end.

It began fifteen years ago at a West Village party when John Coltrane’s saxophone stopped crooning “You Don’t Know What Love Is” on the sound system.

The sudden silence was odd for this maxed-out throng gathered in a brownstone apartment. It seemed strange because this crowd—artists, actors, musicians, and writers—was always clamorous. Plenty of booze, coke, and weed made for stratospherically high spirits.

But when Coltrane’s saxophone stopped—leaving a wake of silence—the lights began dimming.

That’s when my life changed.

Because that’s when I saw Nora.

I didn’t know her name. I simply saw a raven-haired, olive-skinned woman take the dance floor. Her hair was drawn back in a bun, accentuating her strikingly high cheekbones. She had dark eyes, a sloping nose with flared nostrils, and luscious lips. Her crimson-red pencil skirt was slit high on one side and was so very Latin-looking—so sensuous.

The crowd edged to the periphery. A low-level voltage pervaded the room. This incredible-looking woman—Nora, I later learned—stood theatrically poised, as some svelte Latin-looking guy slipped an arm around her.

She gazed into this conquistador’s eyes hungrily, yet there was distance, too. I felt my pulse throb as my heart drubbed wildly. My legs felt like rubber. She reminded me of Carmen in Bizet’s opera and a trampoline sensation filled my chest.

Suddenly, voluptuous tango music swelled through the sound system.

The dance began. Nora moved with intense feline grace. I was riveted by the arch of her back, by its muscularity, by her toned arms and the sheen of her bronzed skin. As they tangoed, Nora’s head snaps were violent. They were at one with the music, turning, swirling, gliding, dipping.

It was a dialogue of passion, a promise of something to come—the prologue of a love story.