Shadow Season (18 page)

He makes his way to the nurse’s office and finds the door locked. The knob is frigid, no one’s been this way for a while.

At the bottom of the stairway he stumbles on the goddamn slate. He stomps twice on the stone and can feel the need for action rising in him. He’s this close to unleashing a flurry of blows against the wall. Wouldn’t
that be righteous, break his hands because he got mad at the paneling. He moves up the steps holding the banister, listening to the whispers in the wood.

A noise on the second floor quickens his stride. He thinks, Finally, here’s Roz, here’s Duchess, here’s Harley, here’s Violet. His world is a small one. He wonders how much further it can shrink.

Nearing his office, he hears a groan and thinks, Roz, did someone thump your head too? Are you wandering the halls now, your forehead bleeding, looking for me?

“Who is it?” he asks.

There’s no response.

He asks again, steel and heat in his voice. “Who’s there? Roz?”

A flat wet cough, almost shaped like a word, is the answer.

He takes a step toward it.

“Who is it?”

His name meets him.

“Finn.”

It sounds like Vi.

“Violet?”

“Finn.”

He steps forward into a thick blanket of mingling odors so strong that it snaps his head back. The scents of sperm and sweat and terror are so powerful that he gags and lets out a squawk.

And woven among them all is the stink of blood.

He raises the back of his hand to block his nostrils. “Ah …” Finn starts to drift and lets out a growl, clutching the cane tightly and forcing himself to stay in place. “Vi? What’s?”

“No, Finn, go—”

“Christ,” he hisses, and the midget halves are hacking at each other in his belly, the fury of Howie is overwhelming.

The end is here and you know it.

Vi whimpers, “Run. Run away, Finn.”

She can’t speak clearly. Her voice is contorted by pain. She’s outside his door, on the floor, clutching herself. Finn kneels beside her. He touches her swollen face. Her lips are split and bruised. She’s been slapped and punched, her nose gushing. The blood flows and tries to take him along. He sees her the way he’s seen a hundred domestic disputes, her eyes practically spinning with fear.

“Shh, shhh, you’re all right now, Violet.”

“You have to get out. You have to—”

“What happened?” he asks, and he’s not sure if he’s speaking to her. Something inside is trying to warn him. He holds his hand out and she grabs it, holds on tightly. Two of her nails are broken.

“They want you,” Vi tells him. “Run.”

“Who did this?”

“—run away, you have to leave.”

“No.”

“Run. Go.”

“Stop saying that.”

“There’s two of them, Finn.” Her voice is tight and strained. A gurgle of blood comes up and splashes against her teeth. Her hand clenches and she draws him near. “They have knives. Holler men.”

He snarls,
“Motherfuckers.”

“They’ve been waiting for you.”

“They’re going to die.”

Violet’s been raped. Violet is bleeding. He thinks, Jesus, she’s just a little girl. The irony doesn’t escape him. He can’t control himself anymore as he flails and falls into the ocean of color that used to be his life. He’s going to get to use his strong hands again. He knows he’s smiling.

TEN SECONDS BEFORE THEY’RE ABOUT TO
bust down the back door to a fish market where one of Carlyle’s captains does most of his business, Ray decides to shake up the universe by telling Finn, “He wants me dead.”

There’s no point in asking who or why. Finn’s half suspected that Ray’s been moved up from a minor dirty-bankroll cop to major corruption over the past year. He’s got a much nicer apartment, some extra flash in his clothes, and a new SUV that seats twelve. Like he’s going to be driving the women’s softball team around? All of that, but Ray’s probably only on board because it’s pretty dumb not to be.

But Carlyle’s up on charges again and this time it looks like they might stick. The DA’s wife was paralyzed by a shoddy car bomb six months earlier and it sent the guy nuclear. Finn has another subpoena but Ray doesn’t, which was really fucking imprudent for the DA’s office to do.

Ray keeps giving Finn the look. There’s some serious strain on their partnership. The threatening notes are being slipped into Finn’s locker again. He’s examined the handwriting and wonders if any of it is Ray’s.

At home, Danielle told him that some pervert has
been making phone calls. He explains the situation to her. She’s got to be on guard for whatever might be coming down. She packs a .32 and they go to the gun range together. She’s already a better shot than he is.

In the deep night Dani turns over in bed and asks, What’ll happen when they finally ask you about Ray?

He doesn’t know the answer. He’s never perjured himself on the stand because he’s never had information that could help put the big players away. But if IAD ever comes sniffing around, Finn will have to decide how far out on the ledge he’s willing to go.

Now, with this one comment about Carlyle wanting him dead, Ray has confessed to all kinds of illegal activities, subterfuge, extortion, kickbacks, and chicanery. Finn rolls his eyes and pulls an aggrieved face, knowing why Ray has chosen this moment to confess.

It means Ray is going to pop Carlyle’s captain in the back of the fish market. He’s switching sides in the middle of the game. He’s going to help hang Carlyle’s ass out on the flagpole and he wants Finn to open fire and frag however many crew members might be inside stuffing their faces with calamari or counting up the day’s receipts.

“You are such a motherless bitch prick asshole,” Finn says.

It gets Ray grinning. “You love me anyway. Okay, now, follow my lead.”

“Did you just fucking say ‘follow my lead’?”

“Come on.”

The door isn’t even locked. These syndicate guys aren’t worried about anybody or anything except a RICO case, and the feds take so long with those that by
the time the court date is made all the mob players can pretend to have Alzheimer’s by walking around town in their bathrobes and slippers.

Ray goes in first, Finn on his heels. Inside are the captain, two well-known shooters, and a couple of other notable wiseguys sitting around a table drinking white wine and having what looks like trout almondine.

Finn does the talking, by the book, reads off the Miranda shit, tells them to get up against the wall. The captain stands while everybody else keeps eating.

You’ve got to give them one thing, the crew is old school and very cool.

The cap pours himself more wine and asks Finn and Ray if they’d like a glass. Ray is still smiling, actually breaks off a chuckle, and puts one hand out like he’s going for the bottle.

Ray says, “Sure, I could use a sip.”

But what Ray’s really doing, what Finn knows he’s doing, is getting into firing position. Finn’s got a half second to wonder what he should do next. His mind works fast. The world will never miss any of the syndicate soldiers in this room. This crew has committed more murders and Class-A felonies than any sixty mooks you might pull out of C-Block on any given day.

But he can’t kid himself, he can’t let Ray butcher anybody in cold blood. Finn fully realizes that Ray is at least halfway thinking about taking Finn out too, just to be on the safe side.

After twenty years of friendship, almost thirteen on the force, five with gold shields, he finally sees with a painful clarity that he’s never really liked Ray much.

He does the thing he knows he shouldn’t do, that
will not be good for him at all. That will cause strife and much anguish in the coming days, despite staying true to himself.

Finn reaches out and clamps his hand onto Ray’s wrist. He squeezes and Ray lets out a grunt of pain, turns his eyes onto Finn, and tries to break the hold but can’t.

The crew knows this isn’t SOP but they’re all smart enough not to immediately go for their guns. In a way, it’s a show of faith in Finn. Look at that. Even while he wrestles with Ray he also struggles with the notion that these guys are on his side, wishing him well, hoping he’ll win.

You can’t go ten goddamn minutes in this life without some kind of confusing shit like this rearing its head.

The fraternal order of blue brotherhood wants you dead and the wiseguys are practically toasting you with Sauvignon Blanc.

How did the battle against evil go today?

Ray leans in close and says, “Knock it off, choirboy.”

Finn keeps the crew covered. They’re trying not to look interested. Two cops in the back room, clearly off the grid, doing bad things, and the wiseguys are still picking at their fish.

“We’re not going down this road.”

“We’re already on it, and nearing the end of it. Just another half step or so and we’re off it for good.”

“You can never get off it, that’s the point.”

Ray hides his anger and disappointment behind the full-wattage charm. “Hey now, don’t you know anything? After they bump me, how long do you think it’ll be before you follow?”

“That’s not—”

“And after you, Dani?”

The invocation of Dani’s name is meant to freeze Finn. It works. His muscles lock so abruptly that his elbows crack like rifle shots. His fist tightens on Ray’s wrist and the small bones grind and scrape until real agony squirms in Ray’s eyes. At least he’s not smiling anymore. Sometimes Finn thinks he’d pay anything, even his life, just to knock the edges off Ray’s grin.

Ray sucks air through his teeth, makes a fist of his free hand, and goes in for a short jab to Finn’s ribs. Finn parries, keeping his grip locked on Ray’s wrist and continuing to squeeze harder. An almost orgasmic moan rushes from Ray’s chest and one of the mob shooters inches toward a cabinet like he’s about to jump for it.

His name is Franco or Marco or Loco, and he’s supposed to be pretty good with a sawed-off twelve pump. Finn catches his gaze and lets him know without any words, but in no uncertain terms, that if he tries it, everyone in the room dies together. Ray kicks out for Finn’s groin.

“Kicking is for sissies,” Finn says. It’s a comment fourteen years in the making. He thought he’d get more catharsis out of saying it. He should’ve waited longer.

A couple more syndicate guys stroll into the back room from the front market area, looking to get a plate of dinner. There’s definitely too many to ace now. Finn releases Ray and the two of them make exactly the same gesture, motioning the new guys farther into the room by wagging their guns at them, C’mere, c’mere.

Now he and Ray are side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and the familiarity and comfort returns them to
where they ought to be—partners trusting each other. Ray is back to being himself, the version that Finn knows perfectly well. None of this follow-my-lead shit.

Ray eases his way to the table and takes a long pull of wine directly from the bottle. Without warning, Finn rushes over and rabbit-punches Franco Marco Loco hard, knocking him to the floor.

Hey, they have to fully comprehend that they shouldn’t even fucking think about pulling a move on you.

After his Adam’s apple has been working steadily for fifteen seconds, Ray finishes off the Sauvignon Blanc, takes a breath, and lets loose with a loud belch. He throws the empty bottle on top of the fish and says, “You’d think with all this brain food around here, you pricks would’ve learned a little something by now.”

Cap says, “I learned something about you today.”

“Yeah? What might that be?” Ray is grinning again, in charge, indestructible. “What? Tell me. Let me hear it.”

Cap is cool enough that he just stares with a touch of amusement in his face. Finn sees what’s about to happen as plainly as any prophet. Ray gets the cuffs on Cap and knees him hard in the nuts. There it is.

While the cap is tossing his lunch Ray says, “I didn’t quite catch that. Next time, speak up a little.”

Leading the limping wiseguy out to the car parked down the block, Ray can’t even keep his voice down to a whisper. He glares at Finn. His finger slips on and off the trigger. Finn watches the finger very closely.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Ray asks.

“Maybe not.”

“I know too much. I have too much on them. They’re going to ace me.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“You can’t stop it, choirboy.”

“Haven’t you botched things up enough?” Finn thinks they should have it out once and for all, but on a city street in front of Carlyle’s captain isn’t the best time. Cap is moaning and starting to struggle some, so Finn chops him across the back of the neck. Cap hits the cement and lies there twitching. “You had to move up in line to be a big dog? You couldn’t just take a little under the table? You had to jump all the way into bed?”

“You still don’t know how it works. You’re the dumbest son of a bitch on the force. Nobody else wants anything to do with you. Nobody else would partner up with you. Nobody trusts you, not since the very beginning. Not since the rooftop.”

“It’s your ass on the line now. If Carlyle’s afraid of what you know, then so are the boys on the payroll.”