Mad Dog Justice (14 page)

But they could machine gun the place or firebomb the house, or toss a grenade, and it would be all over.

Looking at the Navigator, Roddy sees the lit end of a cigarette arc through the inside of the SUV. The tip glows brightly as the driver sucks on the butt. The orange light barely illuminates part of a face—the portion around the mouth and beneath the nose. The glow dims and dips downward.

Whoever’s in the Navigator is waiting. Why? What are they going to do?

But why wait for them to come to him? You don’t wait for the enemy to execute their plan. You take the fight to them—quickly
and with extreme prejudice.

Roddy sets the bottle of beer down and goes to the Parsons table behind the sofa. He picks up his handgun. It feels hefty with seven rounds in the cylinder. It could be his great equalizer. But he can’t approach the SUV directly. He’ll have to use stealth—ambush whoever’s inside the thing. What’s the best way to come at them? How can he get to their vehicle without them knowing he’s coming? How does he turn it into something like a black ops operation under cover of darkness?

At the coat closet, he grabs his ski jacket and slips into it. His muscles feel coiled, ready. It’s an adrenaline dump directly into his bloodstream. Yes, he’s primed and getting ready to go primal. The ski jacket is perfect: it’s deep blue, virtually made for a nighttime foray. He’s wearing jeans, which are dark enough. He reaches onto the closet shelf, pats around, and comes across it: a black wool ski mask. He slips it over his head and adjusts it. Then he feels for his leather gloves, finds them, and puts them on.

His skin feels like it’s wired, as though an electric current runs just beneath it.

He slips the pistol into the ski jacket’s pocket and zips it. He heads into the kitchen and opens the door leading into the garage. He’s immersed in darkness next to the Rogue. It occurs to Roddy that even approaching from behind, he could forfeit the element of surprise if the Navigator’s doors are locked. He’d tug on the handle and nothing would happen. The men inside would whip out their guns and start firing. He’d be dead in a second or two.

He moves toward the worktable. Leaning against the pegboard is a tool he bought last year: a minisledgehammer with a forged-steel head weighing three pounds. It has a twelve-inch handle. He feels around the tabletop, and in a moment, the tool is in his gloved hand. He tucks the sledgehammer into his belt and opens the garage’s side door. He steps into the backyard. The air
is still and cold.

Roddy moves to the rear of the backyard and slips through a small opening in the hedge separating his house from the Hartmans’.

He’s in their backyard.

Light from the Hartman house casts dull luminescence over their backyard. He moves quietly across their property, estimating that by now he’s parallel to the Navigator idling on the street.

He hoists himself over a six-foot-high cedar fence separating the Hartman property from the Williams house, drops down on the other side, and makes his way to the far end of Scott and Terry Williams’s property. If he sneaks along the far side of their house, he’ll come out on Clubway, a good fifty feet behind the SUV. The only possible hitch could be if the Williams house has motion-activated spotlights.

Crouching, he moves steadily, hugging the outer wall of the Williams house, staying as close to it as possible, hoping it lessens the chance a motion-activated light will switch on. He controls his breathing, letting air in and out through his nose. He stops and crouches where the house faces Clubway. He peers through the darkness across the street. His estimation was correct: he’s well behind the rear of the SUV. But he must traverse the Williamses’ front lawn and make his way across Clubway—unseen.

A large clump of rhododendron sits in front of the Williams home. He crosses the lawn and crouches behind the foliage. He estimates the distance across Clubway to be about forty feet. After crossing the road, he’ll be on the same side as the SUV. But the area in front of the Williams house is dimly lit by diffuse illumination from the house. And the porch light—basically, decorative—is on. He’ll have to risk crossing Clubway. Unless the driver looks in his rearview mirror, the chance of being seen is minimal.

He moves quickly across the street and crouches on the grass shoulder. He waits, listening to his breath snort loudly in his ears.
The ski mask feels hot and itchy on his cheeks. He can’t just walk up to the SUV from behind. He drops to the ground and begins crawling toward the vehicle—alligator style, an army crawl. The minisledgehammer drags along the grass. The pistol is well secured inside the zippered pocket.

He moves forward, on his belly, hugging the grass—knees bending and then straightening, forearms pulling him along. He closes the distance between himself and the Navigator. About ten feet behind the vehicle, he smells its exhaust—penetrating and pungent. The closer he gets, the less likelihood there is of being seen so long as he stays low to the ground. At the rear of the SUV, he stops, reaches for the hammer, and slips it from his belt. He unzips his pocket so the pistol is quickly accessible. Inching forward, he moves along the right side of the Navigator.

It’s best to come at them from the right side, away from and behind the driver. It’s unlikely the Navigator has reinforced windows; it’s probably an ordinary commercial vehicle.

The hammer is in his right hand; the pistol is in his left. The leather gloves are thin; he has a fine feel for the trigger. He inches his way past the right rear tire, pulls his legs up, and goes into a crouch. He gathers his breath. In a swift movement, he shoots to his feet and swings the hammer. The right rear window shatters in an explosive blast.

“Don’t move,” he shouts, leaning through the opening. The sledgehammer lies on the grass; the pistol goes to his right hand. Roddy scans the interior. The rear bench seat is empty. The driver is alone.

“Please,” the man cries, staring wide-eyed at Roddy.

The pistol points at his head.

“Show me your fuckin’ hands,” Roddy growls in a deep rasp.

The driver’s hands shoot up.

“Unlock the doors.”

“The button’s down here at my left,” the driver says in a shaky
voice.

“Unlock ’em.”

Four door locks clunk up.

Roddy rips the passenger-side door open and leans in. The car’s interior lights go on.

“Please, mister. I’m only a driver. Eagle Car Service … I’m waiting for a pickup.”

Poor bastard’s just a driver. I’ve head-fucked him. But now I gotta keep up the act because he’ll run to the cops the minute he gets outta here
.

“Please. I’ll give you my money. Just don’t hurt me.”

“Your wallet.”

Fumbling in his coat, the guy produces a wallet.

“Drop it on the seat.”

The driver sets his wallet on the passenger’s seat. He gasps and inhales. Then his head bobs up and down as he lets out a series of guttural sobs.

Roddy rummages through the guy’s wallet. The license and ID card come out. The man’s name is David Singleton. He works for Eagle Car Service.

He’s gonna call the cops as soon as I’m gone. Gotta make it look like a robbery
.

Roddy pulls out a wad of bills. “This
it
? This all you got?”

“Yes. Please don’t hurt me,” the driver blubbers. Tears stream down his face.

“You wanna die?”

“No … please …”

“Get the fuck outta here, or you’re a dead man.”

He tosses the wallet on the seat and slams the Navigator’s door shut.

The Navigator peels away, speeds down the street, makes a left turn, and disappears.

Roddy picks up the hammer and slips the pistol into his
pocket. He makes his way to the back of the Williams house, over the fence, across the Hartman backyard, through the hedges, and back to the garage.

Inside the house, he slips the pistol inside a breakfront drawer. He suddenly remembers the Hartmans mentioned a few weeks ago they were going to Florida until mid-March. Poor fucking driver—got the shit scared out of him. No doubt he’ll call the cops. If they come knocking on doors, Roddy won’t know a thing. He’s been sleeping for the last few hours after a long day at the hospital. And the driver will never recognize his voice.

Roddy’s not certain he’d recognize his own voice. He’s not the same man he was a few days ago.

The beast he thought he’d buried has returned.

W
hen the telephone rings, Colleen answers it. “Tracy, it’s for you. It’s Angela.”

“Hi, Angie,” Tracy says. “How’s Danny?” Tracy gazes about Colleen’s kitchen—sees the electric stove and thinks of her Garland gas range at the house back in Bronxville.

“He’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow. How’s Nutley?”

“What can I say, Angie? It’s really hard on the kids. How’s everything in Riverdale?”

“The kids can’t believe this. And I’m scared to death after what happened to Danny—and the incident with Roddy at the hospital.”

“
Roddy
? What happened?” Tracy’s body stiffens. A charged pang shoots through her.

“Danny said there were men waiting in the garage for Roddy—near his car—the night after Danny got shot,” Angela says in a quaking voice. “Some mob types …”

Tracy fumbles with the telephone, nearly dropping it. She grabs the kitchen counter and, weak-kneed, slumps onto a stool.

“Angie, forgive me. I have to go.”

Tracy slips the phone back on the receiver, barely aware of Angela’s voice trailing off as she hangs up.

She sits at the kitchen counter holding her head in her hands.

Her eyes are wet and her throat tightens.

“What’s wrong?” Colleen asks, sitting on the adjacent stool.

Tracy looks at her sister—her red hair is turning prematurely gray; her blue eyes and sharply etched features loom in front of her. “I can’t believe it. Roddy’s still hiding things from me.”

“What do you mean?” Colleen murmurs, stroking her sister’s hair.

“There were men waiting in the hospital garage for him the night after his best friend, Danny, was shot. And the following night, our friend Walt was killed right next to our car. And Roddy never said a word to me about men waiting for him.”

Colleen gasps and slips her arm around her sister’s shoulders.

Tracy shudders at the thought of Roddy seeing men in the garage … and then poor Walt McKay. “Colleen, how on earth do I deal with this? After all these years, I learn Roddy’s lying to me, covering up what’s going on in his life.”

“I understand, sweetie.”

Tracy peers at Colleen. Her sister’s eyes are cast downward, as though she’s lost in thoughts of her divorce from Gene two years earlier.

“Colleen, Roddy’s been living a lie for nearly a year. And now I have to rip our lives apart, take the kids out of school, and go into hiding?” Tears gush from Tracy’s eyes. She shakes her head. “And I just learned from Angie that he’s
still
lying to me.”

“It must be very hard. I understand,” Colleen says, shaking her head.

“You don’t really know Roddy’s background.”

“I know his father died in prison.”

“Yes, he was stabbed to death because a drug deal went bad. He was there for armed robbery. And Roddy’s mother was a drug-addicted prostitute.”

“My
God
,” Colleen says, as her hand goes to her mouth.

“It wasn’t until she met this man—Horst—that she stopped selling herself.”

Colleen shakes her head again. “It’s a life we can’t even begin to imagine, Tracy.”

“She stole money, food stamps, forged documents, and was drunk all the time. Horst abused her and tortured Roddy.”

“
Tortured
him?”

“He’d beat him with his fists or a strap. When Roddy was little, Horst would lock him in a closet for hours at a time. When I first met Roddy, he hated dark places. It was a long time before I could get him to go to a movie. When Horst was drunk, he’d burn Roddy with cigarettes. And his mother would laugh, if she was sober enough to know anything.

“When he could, Roddy would stay at Danny Burns’s place. Roddy still talks about Danny’s mother and about a boxing trainer, a man named Doc Schechter. And some sergeant from the army, a Sergeant Dawson. These people helped turn his life around.”

“My God, it was
that
bad?”

“Yes. Finally, when he was a teenager, he beat Horst half to death, and that was the last he saw of him. Roddy’s mother wasted away from alcohol and died. By then, Roddy was in medical school.”

“But, Tracy, look how far he’s come,” Colleen says, crossing her arms on her chest. “Try thinking of it that way.”

“I just wonder how much he’s really changed. As a teenager, he was part of a gang. They would go into German bars with wooden blackjacks and they’d break skulls. He and his ethnic friends—the three
I
’s: Ireland, Italy, and Israel. And he nearly went to prison at seventeen for grand larceny. I don’t know, Colleen. How much is there he still hasn’t told me?”

“Listen, Tracy. He was a tough kid from a poor neighborhood. You knew all about his past. It’s not news to you.” Colleen gets up and refills her coffee mug. “Tracy, he went into the army and turned his life around: summa cum laude from college, medical
school with honors, and he’s on the faculty at Columbia. You have to focus on the man he is
now
. Why look at his past, one you’ve always known about?”

Tracy leans her elbows on the counter. “You know, there are no family pictures of Roddy as a kid. The only ones are from school … class photos. Can you imagine that? You live in a house for seventeen years and there’s not a single picture of you or your parents. And in those class pictures, he looks like such an unhappy kid.

“He’s always called Danny’s mother, Peggy, the angel of his life. When Roddy was arrested, she got his teachers to write letters to the judge saying how smart Roddy was. That’s why he was sent to the army and not prison.” Tracy gets up and goes to the sink. She fills a glass with water and sips some to soothe her dry throat.

“Look at what he overcame, Tracy. He made a good life for himself and for you and the kids.”