The 7th Canon (37 page)

“To hope that your own child is dead? I just don’t want him suffering. I don’t want him hurting. I want him to be in a better place, someplace where no one can hurt him. Someplace where he can feel our love, where he knows we still love him, and that we tried. We really tried to get him back.”

“He’s there, Frank. He’s there, and that’s where we’ll think of him from now on. We’ll think of him in that better place, with your parents and mine watching over him.”

“My pop loved Frankie.”

“Yes, he did. So that’s what we’ll think. We’ll think they’re up there fishing together on a big lake with a bright-morning sun and doughnuts and coffee—”

“Hot chocolate and cinnamon twists,” he said.

“Hot chocolate and cinnamon twists.”

He clutched her to him, holding her in a fierce embrace.

“He’s in a better place,” he said. “So much better than this world has to offer.”

The nauseating odor of alcohol and cigarettes filled the car as they drove east on Sloat Boulevard, making their way across town—to where, Donley did not know. His mind raced, and he fought to slow his thinking and remain calm, but there was a howling in his ears like the wind blowing off the Pacific Ocean. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, the salt stinging his eyes.

He thought of hitting the brakes and trying to wrestle the gun away from Connor. If he crashed and died, it didn’t matter. Connor was going to kill him, anyway. At least he’d take the son of a bitch with him. The light fixtures along the sides of the road were metal poles but made to break away if hit. He looked for something solid to impact.

Dixon Connor spoke from the back of the car, like the devil on Donley’s shoulder.

“Keep your eyes forward. If you make any sudden movements, or do something stupid, I’ll blow your brains out.”

“It’s over, Connor. People know I came here. People know I came to your house.”

“No, they don’t. You know how I know that? Because I saw you and Frank Ross together, which means you’re working with him, and if Ross knew you were thinking of breaking into my house, he never would have let you do it. I actually admire your courage, Counselor. You got balls.”

“You’re wrong. I called Frank. I left a message. I told him where I was going.”

“Well, then, he’s too late, isn’t he?” Connor chuckled. “Good old Frank. Is he still crackers? He was a good man until someone stole his kid.”

Donley searched the deserted streets. “We found the red-haired kid. He told us everything. He’s giving the police a statement right now. We also know about the other two boys you killed, Jerry Burke and Manuel Rivera.”

“Without the video and the priest’s little black book, you don’t have shit. Do you think I picked that kid at random? He’s a druggie and a liar. Did he tell you he had hippie parents or give you the story about his father dying in Vietnam? He comes from Orinda, Counselor. His father’s a doctor. He’s just a punk loser whose parents threw him out of the house. He’s also a compulsive liar. But that’s all irrelevant because nobody is going to prosecute me.” Connor leaned forward, speaking into Donley’s ear. “You can count on that.”

Connor picked up the videocassette and held it between the bucket seats. “They had no idea what they had. I thought it was all bullshit, the rumors about three punks blackmailing people with videotapes. Then I paid a visit to that restaurant prick, Devine, and he cried like a baby. So I started thinking if they had clients like Jack Devine, who knew what else they had? When I got ahold of Burke and he told me he’d seen one of the guys on a local billboard, I nearly shit my drawers.”

“Bennet took the tape to the shelter, didn’t he?” Donley said. “He tried to hide it in one of the lockers.”

“Not bad, Counselor. Keep going.”

“You sent Red in to get it, but the lockers were locked. So you had to get it yourself. But you had another problem: two open files, Burke and Rivera. Three would set off alarms. So you framed Father Tom for Bennet’s murder.”

“Actually, the locks on the office door and lockers turned out to be a stroke of luck.”

“Because screwing up the evidence makes people more nervous the priest might walk, or this matter could go to trial,” Donley said.

“People tend to listen better when they’re nervous.”

“That’s why Ramsey is pushing a plea.”

Connor gave him instructions to turn on to back streets, avoiding the freeway and major arteries across town. They turned onto Third Street, an industrial area of cement plants, abandoned steel mills, and warehouses. The condition of the area declined as they drove south.

“Slow here,” Connor said, looking out the windshield. “Turn.”

Donley made a right turn onto a gravel road. The Saab lurched and pitched up an incline toward a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence with a single roll of barbed wire strung along the top.

“Pull up to the fence.”

“Where are we?”

“A long time ago, I was investigating a missing person’s report. The family became convinced a boyfriend killed their teenage daughter. The problem was, we couldn’t find the body. The boyfriend’s old man owned this wrecking yard. Eventually, the poor dumb bastard broke down and led me here. He and the son dumped the girlfriend’s body in the trunk of a car, flattened it, and sent the car inside the building, where it was melted down at about ten billion degrees. No car. No girlfriend. No body. Ingenious. I didn’t think the guy was that smart. Apparently, there’s a soil-contamination problem, so the yard has sat unused since father and son went off to San Quentin together.”

“Why not just take the tapes? Why kill those three kids?”

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Counselor. They were going to die, anyway, with all the drugs and crap they were putting in their veins. I just helped along the natural order.”

“Ross is right. You really went off the deep end. What happened to the decorated police officer and war hero? Your father must be looking down at you awful proud tonight.”

Connor grabbed a handful of Donley’s hair, pulled his head back, and bit down on the tip of his ear. A searing pain shot through his body, his back arching as if Connor had embedded a knife in his spine. Connor kept a grip on Donley’s hair and spit the tip of the ear onto the passenger seat. Donley felt warm blood dripping down the side of his neck.

“Did you know the ear is all cartilage?” Connor said, still spitting. “That’s the reason it atrophies so bad. You see those wrestlers with the big cauliflower ears? They can’t fix ’em. Plastic surgery doesn’t work. You hurt someone’s ear and they’re scarred for life. You want to talk about my father? My father taught me that when I wrestled. He said go for their ears.”

Donley grimaced at the sudden, searing pain. Spit projected through the gaps in his teeth. He had trouble focusing, thinking clearly. The pain caused his hands to clench into fists and bile to inch up his throat.

Connor sat back, laughing. “You want to know what happened?”

Donley tried to swallow, but his saliva stuck in his throat. Connor slapped the ear with the cup of his hand. “Hey, you with me? I asked, do you want to know what happened?”

Donley buckled over as far as the seat belt allowed, his ear on fire. Mentally, he tried to absorb the anger and the pain, to redirect it, to use it to help him focus. “Yeah, Connor, what happened? I’m dying to know.”

Connor leaned between the seats and whispered in Donley’s ear. “What happened is this whole world fell apart, and you’re part of the problem. Lawyers have screwed it up for everybody with your bullshit lawsuits. Civil-rights crap. Affirmative action. Equal opportunity. Sexual harassment. It cost my old man the only job he loved. It wasn’t just that bitch that killed him; it was guys like you. You sucked the life out of him. Twenty-five years he put his ass on the line every day, and they killed him because of one lying bitch.”

“I didn’t do anything, Connor. I didn’t even know your father.”

Connor sat back. “Lawyers and politicians love to talk about the public welfare, but they don’t give a shit about public welfare. It’s about money. Everything is about how much cash everyone can stuff in his pockets. You don’t give a shit about the consequences so long as you get your money.”

Connor leaned forward again. His breath brushed against Donley’s ear, the same bitter, acidic odor Donley had smelled so many times when his father came into his room, belt in hand.

“It used to be survival of the fittest. Nature’s way, just like the animals. You fought for what you got, and whoever fought the hardest got the most. You got a job and a promotion because you earned it. What went wrong is this country lost sight of the natural order. We’re no longer Americans. We’re Mexicans and Latinos, blacks and Chinese, and a thousand other things. Men want to be women, and women want to be men. And everybody wants to be treated special. Everybody is entitled to something. You don’t earn anything anymore. You just whine about something long enough, and the politicians hand it to you. If you don’t like what you get, you hire a lawyer, and he sues to get you more. Well, I’m getting what my old man should’ve got, what he was entitled to, and what I’m entitled to. And I’m getting justice in the process.”

He pulled the key from the ignition between the seats and grabbed the tape and the Bible, putting them in his jacket. “Get out.”

Donley took a breath, the pain making him disoriented. This would be his one chance. He needed to pull it together. He pushed open the door, swung his legs out, and stood, though he felt off-balance.

Connor motioned to him with the gun. “Step away from the car, and turn around. Don’t even think about running. I’ll shoot you in the back.”

Donley took two steps, fighting to focus. He felt dizzy. When he heard Connor push the seat forward and get out of the car, Donley leaped. His left leg swept in an arc head high, but he was too far away. Connor leaned back, and Donley’s foot shot past him. He landed on his left leg, raised his right leg, and kicked out, his foot uncoiling, but Connor had stepped to the side, and Donley had lost the moment of surprise. Connor grabbed the leg and yanked it toward him, pulling Donley off-balance. He fell backward, landing hard, his head slamming against the ground.

Connor held Donley’s leg in the air, one foot pressed against Donley’s cheek, grinding his face into the dirt.

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Still, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t at least tried.” Connor removed his foot and dropped Donley’s leg. “Get up.”

Donley got to his knees, panting from the exertion and the searing pain in his ear. He stumbled trying to get to his feet. His eyes searched the ground, but he did not see anything he could use as a weapon. Connor kicked him hard in the face, knocking him onto his back. Blood streamed from his lip and nose, filling his mouth with a metallic taste.

“I said get up.”

Donley stumbled to his hands and knees and slowly stood.

“Turn around.”

He complied. Connor pushed him toward the chain-link fence. Donley bent under a locked chain and squeezed between the gates. Connor followed. He directed Donley to walk down an aisle of flattened cars stacked two stories high. Rusted car parts littered the ground. The air smelled like petroleum.

“Stop,” Connor said. “Well, what do you know?” Connor motioned to a stripped-down Chevy Impala. “Looks just like the one I used to drive. Must be fate. You can’t say I didn’t pick a proper final resting place. Open the trunk, and try it on for size, Counselor.”

Donley faced Connor. “No. I’m not making this that easy for you, Connor. If you’re going to kill me, do it here while I’m looking at you. I’m not some young kid you can bully.”

Connor smiled. “Why is it at the moment when it matters least, everyone becomes so brave?” He shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said, and aimed the gun.

Frank Ross lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Julia rested her head on his shoulder, rubbing her hand through the hairs on his chest.

“Frank,” she said in that soft voice.

Ross closed his eyes. She wanted another child. He knew it. She wasn’t getting any younger. Neither was he, but her biological clock was ticking. He also knew it wasn’t fair to her. She’d stuck by him through his drinking, the car accident, and the year it took to get back some semblance of a life. She had ignored her own pain and suffering to help him, and he had been too self-absorbed to see that she was hurting, too. But now, he felt different, accepting that Frankie was in a better place. It was time to care for her again.