St. Albans Fire (32 page)

On her street, as they approached the house, a man detached himself from the shadows of her garage door to greet them as they pulled into the driveway—another cop, here already a couple of hours, and assigned to watch the house for the rest of the night.

Joe killed the engine, got out, and circled the car to help Gail with the groceries she had nestled in her lap. As they were sorting out the bundles, Mark pulled past the driveway, sidled up to the curb, and then backed into the driveway beside them, facing out. As he did, Gail stepped out of the way, looking up as his headlights swept the row of parked cars across the street—and illuminated the pale, round face of a man sitting deep inside the shadows of an unmarked delivery truck.

From her countless examinations of his otherwise bland mug shot, Gail instantly recognized Gino Famolare.

She dropped her groceries onto the ground and grabbed Joe’s arm. “My God. That’s him. In the van.”

The headlights had moved on and were now pointing at the car directly behind the van. But Joe didn’t hesitate, trusting in what she’d seen. He threw her back into the car, pulled his gun out, and yelled, crouched in a shooter’s stance, “You in the van. Get out with your hands where I can see them.”

The two other cops instantly yielded to instinct, the one by the garage imitating Joe, and Mark, still in his car, turning on the spotlight by his outside mirror and shining it on the van.

All three saw Gino’s pale blur as he ducked down behind the wheel, fired up his engine, and stamped on the accelerator, clipping the car ahead of him as he spun out of his parking space.

But Mark had anticipated him. As the van emerged into the street, its rear tires squealing, the bodyguard drove his car like a battering ram against the other man’s rear quarter panel, throwing the van into a skid and causing its own momentum to propel it into a utility pole, where it stopped with a metal-crunching thud.

As Joe and the other cop ran toward the wreck, and Mark piled out of his car, his gun out, Gino stumbled from the van on the far side and began running, limping badly, in the opposite direction.

In his hand was a semiautomatic, clearly visible under the streetlight.

All three officers rounded the crashed cars at the same time and stood for a brief moment, lined up as at the range.

“Gino Famolare. Stop where you are,” Joe shouted, some twenty yards away.

His back to them, Gino stopped, still holding the gun.

“Put the gun down, kick it away, get on your knees, and lock your hands behind your head,” Joe ordered.

Instead, Gino turned around. The gun was still pointed at the ground. All three cops spread out as Joe repeated, “Put the gun down—
now.
”

But everyone knew what was going to happen, turning what followed into a ritualistic suicide. Gino brought his gun hand up, fired once in Joe’s direction, and immediately collapsed in a fusillade of bullets. He lay still and crumpled in the ear-ringing silence, faintly shrouded by a pale gray mist of gun smoke delivered by the cool, barely perceptible evening breeze. A thick rivulet of blood began to leak toward the gutter from under him.

SAMMIE MARTENS WALKED UP TO JOE
outside Gail’s condo. There were vehicles everywhere, supplying enough flashing strobes to satisfy a parade marshal, from the initial responders to the post-shoot investigators to the crime scene techs and the arson guys. This last group had been called in to remove all the incendiaries Gino had planted throughout Gail’s house.

“You okay, boss?”

“We are now,” he answered, nodding toward where the medical examiner was crouched over Gino’s body. “Suicide by cop.”

“So I heard,” she said. “How’s Gail?”

Joe hesitated, remembering Gail’s oddly shut-down demeanor following the shooting, when he’d hoped she might’ve been in some way relieved. “She didn’t get hurt,” he said cautiously.

“Great,” Sam answered vaguely, getting to the real reason she was here. “I don’t know if this is the time or place, but Linda Padgett’s gone missing, and her dad says one of his handguns isn’t where he left it. It’s usually locked up, because of the kids, but she knows where the key is.”

Joe nodded, his brain cataloging all he knew of this family’s complicated dynamics. “How long she been gone?”

“Five hours, give or take.”

“Any ideas?”

Sam smiled ruefully. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Okay,” he said. “I got one. Let me check on Gail again and get clearance to leave, and I’ll be right with you.”

· · ·

Sunset was long gone from the ridge hosting the cemetery. Now, replacing the swatches of red and orange across the fading blue sky was a canopy of cold, sharp stars mirroring the St. Albans city lights cradled in the trough of land below.

Sam and Joe parked their car well shy of the cemetery gate and made their way slowly and quietly through the short undergrowth of headstones, helped by the night’s dim light. Eventually, they made out the dark shape of a figure wrapped in a blanket, bundled up against Bobby’s new stone and outlined against the urban glow far below.

Joe gestured to Sam to stand watch from two rows behind as he moved to a spot slightly off to one side of their quarry and cleared his throat, gently so as not to startle her.

She was so motionless, he wondered if she was even alive, a thought that had crossed his mind on the drive over here.

“Nice night,” he said hopefully, his eyes on the invisible horizon. “A little cold, still. You warm enough?”

Linda didn’t answer.

Joe slowly, almost casually, sidestepped in her direction, causing her to stir at last.

“I have a gun.”

“I know,” he said lightly, trying to hide his relief. “I just thought I’d pick the next pew, if that’s all right. This one right here.” He laid his hand atop a headstone two over from her and sat on the ground as she was, using the stone as a backrest.

“Beautiful spot,” he commented. “Sad Bobby can’t enjoy it.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I want you to give me the gun and come with me so we can sort this out.”

“What’s to sort out? I heard you’ve been asking questions. You know what happened.”

“I know there was an accident. That Bobby died when he shouldn’t have. That was nobody’s intention.”

“I killed John Gregory, too.”

He wished she hadn’t said that. The finality of it worried him. “I’m not so sure that was all your fault, either,” he told her.

“I killed him with a baling hook. The one your people took.”

He nodded, unsure if she was watching him. “True, but that doesn’t have to mean much—there were mitigating circumstances. Life isn’t as black and white as you’re painting it, Linda. It’s not that simple.”

“Simple?” she burst out.

He pretended to laugh. “Yeah. I know what you mean. But that’s the beauty of the law. It takes things like that into account. Plus, you’ve got your dreams, your ambitions. Reasons to keep going regardless of what any lawyers might say.”

“All gone.”

“Your kids… Jeff.”

“They might as well be gone, too.”

He continued staring out at the vastness before him, stretched like a black sheet punctured with hundreds of tiny, light-leaking holes. Personally, her finality struck Joe like an all-too-familiar chord—Gino’s decision to die at the hands of strangers, Marie choosing the legacy of a dead father over her own family’s happiness, John Gregory killed because of his own greed, and Peggy dead because of loyalty.

Which thoughts, as they so often did, brought him back to his own life’s watershed moment. “I had a wife once, long ago. I loved her like I never loved anyone. I thought losing her would kill me, too.”

Linda remained silent.

As did Joe. He was no longer just negotiating with her, he realized. This last admission made that clear. For while it was true that losing Ellen to cancer had knocked his legs out from under him, it had done more permanent damage than he’d ever comfortably acknowledged. It had killed a vital response deep inside him, stunting his ability to love with abandon forever after. It occurred to him now, with sudden conviction, that Gail’s increasing estrangement, while fueled by her own ambitions and fears, had also been abetted by his own reluctance—inability, really—to fight for their continuing union.

It was an admission of his own form of cancer—emotional in his case—that he’d been staving off for most of a lifetime.

He pressed his hand against his forehead, overwhelmed by the feelings this released in him, and murmured, “God almighty.”

“What?” Linda asked.

He turned to her, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be talking you out of doing something foolish, and instead, I’m thinking about myself.”

“Your wife?” she asked, surprised to not be the topic of conversation.

“Her—and the woman in my life now. Things aren’t going too well with us. They say life never turns out the way you expect, but they make it sound like it’s all because of outside forces. That we have nothing to do with it, like it’s preordained.”

“You said your wife died,” she argued. “You didn’t make that happen, did you?”

“No. She got sick.”

“Then you
didn’t
have anything to do with it.”

“And you had everything to do with Bobby dying?” he countered, bringing the conversation back around.

“I hired the guy who burned the barn.”

“Why?”

“Christ,” she let out, her reticence falling away. “Count the reasons: being buried in debt and cow shit, having a crazy mother and a henpecked father and a husband whose head is so deep in the sand, he wouldn’t recognize daylight if it hit him in the face. You talk about my kids. What the hell do they have to look forward to?”

“What you set in motion,” he tried to explain, “you were doing for everyone’s sake. Except that Bobby died by accident and screwed everything up.” Joe turned toward her suddenly, as if struck by a revelation. “Don’t you see what that tells you? If you’d been coldhearted and selfish, thinking only of yourself, you would have kept going—collected the money, sold the farm, rebuilt a life. But you didn’t. You loved Bobby. You love them all. You’re a good person, Linda,” he stressed, ignoring the patent absurdity of the assertion in the hopes that, this time, at least, he might prevent another death.

“This accident,” he continued, “this horrible miscalculation—it meant nothing to John Gregory or to the arsonist. They took it in stride. But to you, who had everything to gain by having the same attitude, it stopped you cold. You couldn’t go on. You had to set things right and balance the books. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that why you’re here with that gun?”

She took a while before conceding, “I guess.”

“Well, then,” he said, working with that small opening, “that’s it. You’ve got one last thing to do, and you’re done.”

“What?” she asked, startled and clearly confused.

“Get it all out. Tell them what happened—everything.”

He could hear the scowl in her voice. “That’ll make a good impression.”

“What kind of impression do you think you’ll leave by blowing your brains out?” he asked, challenging her. “What’ll Jeff and the kids be left with then? Gossip and rumors generated by people who’ll have no clue what really happened. You think you’ve messed things up now. Take a wild guess how they’ll turn out after you’re gone.”

“I’ll be in jail. How’ll that be any good?”

“It’ll show you held yourself responsible. Your grandfather drank himself to death. Look what that did to your mother. You want the same thing to happen to the people in your life? Cindy and Mike? Or are you going to own up to your mistakes and show them how it’s done?”

She didn’t respond. The silence stretched out between them for a long time.

He spoke one more time, very quietly. “You made a mess of things, Linda. I’m not saying otherwise. It’s your choice whether that stops now and you own up, or you end your life and cripple your children.”

After another half minute of not saying a word, she finally shook her right hand free of the blanket’s folds and laid a large handgun on the ground between them. He could see in the half-light that it was fully cocked.

“Okay,” she said, her resignation clear.

That sense of defeat, so at odds with the tone of his sales pitch, left him wondering what favor he might in fact have done them all.

· · ·

Joe pulled up to Gail’s condo around midnight, not surprised to find people still milling about and all the lights on inside. Fatal shootings in Vermont were not the routine they were in large urban areas. Even the experienced cops here took extra time to get it right.

He cut the engine and swung his legs out tiredly onto the driveway, pausing to watch a crime scene tech in the distance set up a photograph that included both the pool of blood and a ruler he clearly didn’t want dirtied.

“Anything wrong, sir?”

Joe glanced to his immediate right, where a uniformed Montpelier patrolman was standing in the shadows.

“No—been a long day,” he told him. “The senator inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe rose to his feet and watched the photographer a moment longer, all the while thinking of both the conversation ahead and the one he’d just left behind. He recalled the first time he’d set eyes on Linda Padgett and how her youthful beauty had so struck him. Now she, in a living parody of Peggy DeAngelis, was done with a life she’d barely begun to taste.

“The choices we make,” he murmured.

“Yes, sir,” came the voice from the darkness.

He smiled and shook his head, making a mental note to stop thinking out loud.

He didn’t use the entry code on the condo’s front door lock, but rang the bell instead.

Gail opened up a minute later. She was pale and exhausted. She also looked resolved.

“Hi, Joe.” She didn’t give him a hug, and he hesitated offering one. “Did you find the girl?”

“Yeah. She’s okay. I never told you, what with all that’s gone on, but she was the one—”

She interrupted him with a raised hand. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know.”

He nodded, as much in confirmation to himself as in acknowledgment of her request. Never before had she countered him like that.