The 8th Circle (7 page)

C
arrie Norton parked her Volvo in front of the mailbox and reached in to collect her grandmother’s mail. She didn’t know why Gram didn’t just stop the mail when she went to Florida, but she insisted the postal service would let news of her vacation slip out, and then hordes of robbers would descend on the house.

The box was nearly full. Carrie stacked the pile of cards and catalogues on the passenger seat and then ran across the road to empty the second mailbox. It was technically for their tenant in the little white house overlooking the fields, but Gram hadn’t had a real tenant in a year. She was planning to leave the land to the County Green Spaces Preserve—her way of thumbing her nose at the developers—but she hadn’t gotten around to finishing the paperwork. Occasionally Carrie would find a stray piece of Gram’s mail or a flyer tucked inside, but today she saw a whole package, and it was addressed to Danny Ryan.

Wasn’t that peculiar? It hadn’t been mailed. It was just stuck in there. Something was written very faintly in the left corner. Michael something. The last name was smudged with a brown stain.

Carrie ran her fingers over the package. She knew Reverend Gray called Danny Ryan an advocate of sin and Satan, but Carrie
thought Danny was just confused because he hadn’t found the healing love of Jesus. That didn’t make him a bad man. He needed to come into the light.

He always was so kind to Gram, who was shameless about getting him to fix little things around her house. It was a disgrace the way Gram would ask him to change her floodlights just so she could watch him climb up the ladder.

“Good butt,” Gram would say.

Carrie’s face grew a little warm, and she glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair looked good. She reached into her purse for lipstick and applied a fresh coat. She knew she was indulging in vanity, but she couldn’t help herself. She wished she had a tray of cookies or maybe a pamphlet from church.

Carrie pulled into Danny Ryan’s driveway and parked by the back door. The stone farmhouse was beautiful, the kind of home that should be filled with children. She just loved that big, old weeping cherry tree in the front yard and the pink, red, and salmon roses that climbed against the fieldstone wall near the pool. Of course, it was dormant now, but by spring, the garden would be like paradise itself. Carrie took a deep breath, knocked at the back door, and waited.

No answer.

She could leave the package on the porch for him, but there was probably some more of his mail mixed in with Gram’s. It always happened, especially at this time of year. Maybe she’d just take it with her and bring it back with cookies. The poor man was alone, and it was Christmas.

The Lord had tested Danny Ryan with a great tribulation last year. Carrie understood that finding this package was a sign that she had been chosen to help him find a way to heal. In any case, it would give her a good reason to return when she was sure he was home.

D
anny hated church. As a kid, he would play train with his rosary on the edge of the pew until his mother would take it away from him and still his hands. After his mother died, his grandmother would drag him to daily mass and hit him on the side of the head with her boney knuckle when he’d fidget. God didn’t like disrespectful little boys, she’d say. Danny would look up at the sad-eyed Jesus hanging on the big wooden cross and figure he’d probably rather play train as well.

Now Danny parked outside of Immaculate Heart of Mary Church in Roxborough and waited for services to let out.

He’d driven Beth’s Mercedes today and could feel her all around him. He fingered the tiny gouge in the wood trim on the dash, the gouge made by her high heel when they’d fucked in the car.

It had started as another of those endless parties she dragged him to, the ones he hated. He’d be dressed in a designer tuxedo and still feel like he should be hanging in the kitchen with the caterers.

“You do clean up well,” she’d said when they walked toward the senior partner’s mansion in Gladwyne. “Please don’t talk about Dad, Ken.”

She’d taken to calling him “Ken” after one of their acquaintances had remarked that they were a perfect “Ken and Barbie.”

“Come on, Barbie, let’s go party.” He’d watched the corners of her mouth twitch in an effort not to laugh.

Since the place was the size of a small museum, Danny had planned to escape to the many side parlors to avoid the inevitable political debates. He’d hold his own against them, but it always led to after-party unpleasantness.

“You can’t call my father the standard bearer for toxic waste in Pennsylvania,” Beth had said after one gathering.

“That’s my opinion.”

“I know he can be a pain in the ass, and I don’t always agree with him. But I love him. I don’t want to constantly have to choose between you. I don’t want that for Conor.”

Beth had the big money, but he had the celebrity. Danny had just published a book on the growing social divide in America that had received critical praise and decent sales. When they went to parties, her friends didn’t know whether to slither up to him or treat him like a rabid socialist. It had become simpler to hide, and that’s what he’d done that night.

He’d consumed his third glass of club soda and was pretending to study the painting with the bright geometric patterns of color in the music room when she’d appeared at his side, the blonde with sympathetic smoke-colored eyes. She’d nodded toward the picture.

“You like Kandinsky?”

The most he knew about Kandinsky was that he painted abstracts. “Sorry, I’m not an art expert.”

“You were staring at it like it meant something to you.”

He’d wanted to make up some lie but couldn’t do it. “I was just faking it.”

“You mean you were wishing you could escape.”

“‘Wishes were ever fools.’”

“‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’” She’d shrugged when his eyes widened. “Okay. I was showing off. I was an English major before law school. Please don’t hold it against me.”

“Harvard?”

She’d given him a wry smile. “Yale.”

They’d spent the rest of the evening talking literature and politics, and he’d felt like he’d been starving, even more so when she’d slipped him her card. For the first time in years, the night had seemed too short.

Beth had sulked in furious silence until they’d reached the driveway.

“That bitch latched on to you because you’re my husband. You embarrassed me in front of our friends.” Beth had kneaded her evening bag like it was bread dough.

“Nothing happened, Beth.” He hadn’t understood her fury. Beth had never really understood that he wasn’t looking to wander; he was hers. He had always been hers.

“Do you think no one noticed?”

He’d pulled into the garage, and she’d sat still for a moment before she’d turned to him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, and began to beat him with her fists. “You bastard! I hate you!”

He’d caught her wrists, pinned her back against the seat, and for a moment, they’d stared at each other. He’d watched the pulse pounding in her throat, her breasts straining against the deep-red silk of her dress with every breath, and Christ, he’d wanted her so much his insides bled.

In the dim light, her eyes had looked black, and then they’d changed as if a fire had begun to simmer in their depths. Her mouth had begun to sear his, her impatient hands ripped at the studs on his tuxedo. They hadn’t cared about anything but that moment. It was always that way, a dangerous dance.

Danny ran his hand over the sand-colored leather. He should have driven his Jeep. He only drove the Mercedes because he knew it peeved Kevin.

Mass was over, and he watched the people pour out of Immaculate Heart of Mary and head to their cars. Danny opened the door and stepped out when he saw Kevin, Jean, and their four kids walking toward the parking lot.

Kevin looked bigger in the year since he’d seen him, though he was always the meatiest of the three Ryan boys. These days his
belly jutted over the waistband of his black trousers, and his massive shoulders stretched the fabric of his checked sports jacket. He had more gray in his light hair, and his ruddy complexion had the broken veins and capillaries of an accomplished drinker.

“Kevin,” Danny said, and Kevin stopped short. Danny watched his eyes shift to the Mercedes and back.

“Jesus Christ,” Kevin said. When Jean gave a tiny whimper of distress, he glanced at her. “Take the kids and get in the car, honey.”

“How are you, Jean?” Danny thought Kevin might backhand him.

“Oh, just fine, Danny. Great, in fact. Just terrific. Happy holidays. We have to run.” Jean licked her lips and settled her small hands on the shoulders of her six-year-old son. “Come on, Tommy.”

The boy stared up at Danny with wide blue eyes, but his mother dragged him away before Danny could speak. Thirteen-year-old Kelly gave her father a defiant glare and then ran over to give him a quick hug. She pulled back with a whispered, “Miss you.” She grabbed her ten-year-old twin brothers and marched them to the car.

Danny had to grip the car door and grind it against his hand.

“What are you doing here, Danny? I didn’t think we had anything to say to each other.” Kevin stepped close until he was about a foot from Danny. He stood with his legs spread and his hands fisted at his sides. Four inches taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier, Kevin always was an expert at using his size and bulk to intimidate.

Danny held his ground. “I need to talk to you.”

“About what? The last time we were together, you threw me out of your house.”

“The last time we were together was at the funeral where you told me I was going to hell for burying my son in a Protestant cemetery.”

“If you came for an apology, you’re wasting your time.”

“Apology?” Danny held up his hands in mock horror. After all this time, they weren’t going to become best buds and hang at the neighborhood tappies. “God forbid. I thought I’d pop by to keep your spirits bright.”

“Why can’t you be normal and just celebrate Christmas like the rest of us?”

“I stopped celebrating Christmas last year.”

Kevin looked him up and down another few seconds and stepped back. His hands relaxed. “What do you really want?”

“I need to talk to you about a murder investigation.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted from one foot to the other. Cars whizzed past. Christmas music drifted on the wind.
God rest you merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay
. Not in his family.

Kevin rubbed his chin. “What case?”

“Michael Cohen’s.”

“I
t’s out of my jurisdiction,” Kevin said.

They sat in a booth at the Ridge Avenue Diner. Danny sipped his coffee and stared at the gold tinsel that hung around the window. A piece had pulled away and drooped over the red plastic candle on the sill. In the background, Elvis crooned “Blue Christmas.” Danny shifted on the red vinyl seat.

Kevin ordered home fries, two eggs sunny-side up, and a double order of sausage links to go with his short stack. “Don’t you want something besides scrambled eggs? What’s the matter with you? I’m not kidding, Danny, you look like hell. You must have lost fifteen pounds. Eat some fucking toast.”

Five minutes and Kevin was already starting with the big brother act. He almost sounded convincing, but Danny knew better. When they were kids, Kevin had always been the lure with his brotherly pseudocamaraderie. He was at his best when he’d been leading Danny into whatever torment Junior and he had planned for the day.

“You know, Ma wasn’t much older than you when she got the cancer.”

Danny smiled. “Wishful thinking?”

“Christ. Try to talk to you like a human being.” Kevin shook his head in disgust.

I’m not a human being. I’m a vulture
.

Kevin drummed his fingers on the table, and Danny figured he’d finally quit smoking. Judging by the amount of weight Kevin had gained, he’d made a real effort. It hadn’t improved his temper.

“You quit smoking?” Danny said.

Kevin made a face. “Eight months, and I gained thirty pounds. I’m not going on a fucking diet either.” His chin jutted out defiantly. “So what’s with Michael Cohen?”

“He crashed into my duck pond with a .22 in his gut.”

“He probably pissed off his dealer.”

“I don’t think so. I think he was trying to bring me evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Kevin took a sip of coffee, then added more sugar.

“I’m not sure.”

“Then why would you think that?”

“Because someone broke into my house the other night.”

The waitress approached with their order. She laid Danny’s platter of scrambled eggs in front of him, and he stared at them while she settled Kevin’s plates on the table.

“And why is this related?”

“My house was trashed. I found Beowulf in the garage with . . .” Danny cleared his throat. It still felt raw. “They killed him, Kevin.”

“Beowulf?” Kevin’s face turned hard. “Someone killed Beowulf? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Why would I?”

“For Chrissake. I’m your brother.”

“Have you ever heard of the Inferno?”

Kevin let out a slow breath. The fine web of broken veins stood out on his nose, and Danny could see the old man in his tired features.

“Oh Jesus,” Kevin said. “Not this again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Forget it.” Kevin waved his hand. “Forget it.”

“Jesus Christ! Tell me something.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Listen, Kevin—”

“No, you listen. You’re just like the old man. You don’t know when to give up.” Kevin slammed his hand on the table. “Walk away from all this, and I mean right now.”

“You’re a fucking cop! How can you tell me that?”

“That last case drove the old man over the edge. I mean he lost it completely. If he hadn’t quit the force, he would have been fired. As it was, they let him retire.”

Danny shook his head. “But what does that have to do with Michael Cohen?”

“The goddamn Inferno. The old man talked about it. After he’d left the force. I used to meet him from time to time down at the Shamrock to check up on him because he didn’t want anyone near the house. Then he’d go off on his little conspiracy trip. First the Inferno was a person or a group, then it was a place, and then it was everywhere and no one was safe, but he, old Tommy Ryan, had outfoxed them. Jesus.”

Kevin dug into his short stack, and Danny considered for a moment. Something almost made sense. “Are you saying the old man knew about the Inferno?”

“I’m saying the old man lost it.”

“I thought he never got over Junior.” Danny shrugged at Kevin’s scowl.

If Kevin was the ox of the family, Junior was the golden lion. He had the old man’s strength and size, his blond hair, but his mother’s fine features and bright blue eyes. Junior could run faster, jump higher, and beat the shit out of everyone in the neighborhood, but he had the lethal, aw-shucks charm that adults found irresistible. He had grown up big and bad, a beautiful bully. And Kevin, who was terrified of being called weak, signed on for most of Junior’s schemes.

Junior was invincible until Paulie Ritter had managed to drive a number-two Ticonderoga pencil through Junior’s right temple in the middle of writing out his confession to the Sandman
murders. Paulie Ritter was a psycho and a cop killer, but he’d never been connected to sex clubs or devil worship.

The air seemed to leave Kevin’s body as if he was remembering, and he slumped down on the seat. Danny’s own shoulders sagged a little.

Danny knew if you wanted to survive, you took the soft parts of yourself and locked them away. When life became unbearable, you drank too much, took drugs, or drifted into a black hole, but maybe if you were lucky, someone came along and opened the door to another life, like Andy had for him. He’d escaped. No regrets.

Kevin stabbed a sausage. “Junior’s dead. The old man’s dead. You look dead. Let it go.”

“You still haven’t told me what you think about Michael Cohen. He got himself killed on his way to see me. He was trying to bring me something. I think it was tied to the Inferno.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.” Danny stared at the scrambled eggs glistening on his plate, picked up his fork, and then set it down. He could still smell Beowulf’s blood, feel his fur against his cheek as he carried him down to the willow that last time. “Don’t tell me it’s bullshit. Beowulf didn’t fucking commit suicide.”

Kevin set down his fork. “Then you might as well put a bullet in your brain as dig into that bag of worms.”

“So you won’t help me?”

“I’ve already lost one brother. And the old man went crazy. I’m done with it.”