The Galilee Falls Trilogy (Book 3): Fall of Heroes (16 page)

“How—”

“Moonlight. And it’s a damn good thing he said something, otherwise we would be having this conversation at the station. But I can only protect you so damn much. The Feds are involved, and
they
are asking questions. A man is dead, Jo! One you were engaged in illegal activities with!”

Fuck. I can’t do this with him. Not now. Only one way to get rid of a cop. “Then perhaps you should be speaking to my lawyer, Martin Ferdman. And if you accuse any of the guards of accepting an alleged bribe, then a swarm of attorneys will descend on the GFPD like the plague. We had nothing to do with the break-out, and I have nothing more to say on the subject. I’m hanging up, Harry. Bye.”

I end the call. Fuck. Fuck! This is not good. At all. I could be in serious trouble. Harry’ll shield me as much as he can, but the truth is I have committed a crime. The guards’ll lose their jobs at the very least. I planned for that contingency though. Pendergast is always hiring loyal souls. Still. I might want to talk to Martin. I have to call information for his number just as a train comes and goes. I make an appointment with his assistant for tomorrow morning. If I get hauled in before that, he’s on notice. The guards know his number too. If it gets bad, they’ll call him. I hope. If it gets bad…fuck. I sigh. How the fuck can it get any worse? Maybe the guy in the hood standing by the stairwell plans to rape me. He has been hanging around since I got off. Too tall and wide to be Jem. Luckily the train screeches into the station, and I hurry on. So does the man, but he keeps his back to me. He doesn’t turn around once. He also doesn’t move to get off the train when I do. Jesus, I’m as paranoid as everyone else in this city. The two times I glance back on my way to Trinity Church, a two-story former store by the looks of it, now a house of God, the man’s not there.

The meeting has already begun. A decent turn-out, about a dozen people from ages twenty to eighty, some in suits but most in hoodies and jeans like me. I take a seat toward the middle of the small space as the group leader pontificates on the steps about how brave we all are to be here. I can recite this speech verbatim by now. Yet I still come. I have no idea why this works, but it does. Maybe it’s the visual proof I’m not the only one struggling. Maybe it’s the fact I decide to attend that cements in my subconscious I’m dedicated to my sobriety. Maybe they just put something in the coffee. I don’t care. All that matters is it works for me.

I’m not one for sharing though. It’s hard to be anonymous when your face has been plastered on every newspaper around the world more than twice. I give mad props to everyone who has the guts to get up there and bare their soul, air their dirty laundry. The rapes, the abusive parents, their own crimes. Such damage. A vicious cycle we’re all hoping to break. I—

Motherfucker
.

The thing about paranoia is sometimes they
are
out to get you. In the giant mirrored cross at the front of the church, I see the hooded man from the subway take a seat off to the side in the back. He’s added an Independence Eagles cap to his disguise and keeps his head down. Fuck. One of Ryder’s goons? Just a garden variety nutto? Thank Christ I brought my gu—

My stalker glances up and my stomach, my lungs, hell my whole body locks up tighter than a boa constrictor’s grip. Not from nerves but from pure goddamn rage. I stare straight ahead at the twentyish speaker but suddenly can’t hear her words. All I can hear is my pounding heart and deep, ragged breaths. Motherfucking, cocksucking prick. I ball my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms to quell the fury. To stop myself from giving into my overwhelming impulse to use those fists against his face. At this moment in time all I want to hear is the crack of his nose as I break it. To rake my fingernails down his cheeks. To watch as the blood gushes down his beautiful face. To spit on it. But because life is unfair, five minutes later he’d be fully healed and I’d be under arrest for assault. How the hell did he even find me? Only—Jem. Of course. Bosom buddies. Tag-team stalking
brothers in arms
.
Bastards. This is supposed to be anonymous for a reason. A safe haven to share our worst without fear of judgment. Another violation of trust. What am I going to do? They cannot keep doing this to me. What the hell
can
I do?

The girl must finish because the people in front of me applaud, and after a nervous smile she steps away from the podium, replaced by the leader. “Would anyone else like to share?” he asks, voice far away.

“I would,” someone with my voice says.

“Come on up,” says the leader.

I rise from my seat before I realize I’m actually doing it. I don’t look at anyone on the walk down the aisle. Not until I reach the podium. Then I only have eyes for one person. The coward in the back who bows his head and pretends to find the floor fascinating.

“Hello, my name is J-Missy, and I’m an alcoholic,” I begin.

“Hello, Missy,” says all but one.

“Until about a week and a half ago, I was 442 days sober. Not a single slip. And it wasn’t until Day One that I thought I had a problem. My mother was an alcoholic. She could down a fifth of Jack in an hour, but she passed out in her own vomit. She finally burnt herself to death in her apartment. That wasn’t me. I never broke my kid’s arm for playing the TV too loud one morning. I never forgot my daughter’s name or make her pay the bills when the utilities were cut off. I was top in my profession. The people closest to me could always rely on me, even when they didn’t fucking deserve it,” I say with a titanium edge. “I drank. Sure. Got into minor trouble when I did, sure. Slept with the wrong people. Went to work when I wasn’t a hundred percent, but I wasn’t hurting anyone. It dulled the pain. It dulled the anger. It made it possible to watch my best friend, the man I loved, flirt and fall in love with women who weren’t me. Really
that
was my only problem. I just liked to drink. I had it under control. Until the man I loved, who I trusted, abandoned me. Left me alone to clean up his giant mess. Let me think I was responsible for his death. The man I loved. My supposed soul mate,” I say, voice cracking.

Keep it together.
Don’t you dare fucking cry. I literally swallow my emotions as best I can. My audience of one bow his head lower. His leg twitches a mile a minute. Uncomfortable. Good.

“So, I lost it. I lost everything. My job, my boyfriend, my fucking mind and will to live. And I’m not blaming him. Not fully. I chose to drink. He didn’t force it down my throat. But a person can only take so much. The alcohol felt like my only lifeline in the ocean of shit and pain and guilt he’d left in his wake. Thank God I still had people in my life, true friends who knocked sense into me. Got me into rehab. Supported me. Forgave me. And slowly but surely I found my feet. Got strong enough to help other lost people. Fell in love with a man who returned that gift. I was the happiest I’d ever been in my life.

“Until
he
came back. The Radioactive Man.”

Justin finally looks up. Looks at
me.
His face is as stony as mine, as my words. He’s breathing heavily, almost shuddering with each intake.

“Because that’s what he is. Radioactive. He can power cities. Help people survive the worst. Stop wars. He’s a goddamn marvel without question. But God forbid you get too close. Because he also infects everyone around him with poison. Mutating them into monsters. Riddling their lives with cancer until they’re praying for death to ease the agony. Maybe he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I don’t believe he sets out to hurt us. He doesn’t set out to be purposely cruel, but that almost makes it worse. He justifies his actions and worse convinces others he’s right. He convinced my fiancée to betray me. He opens a fucking door and my life explodes. Again. And I’m sure he’s sorry. That he never meant to hurt me. But he has. He has hurt me more than anyone. More than my mother. More than the fucker who murdered my father. More than the psychos who have threatened my life. My best friend. My soul mate. My devil. The Radioactive Man. He’s taken everything again. And I will
hate
him until the day I die.”

I wish I were holding the microphone because if ever a moment was perfect for a mic drop, this is it. Instead, I finally break eye contact, curl my lip in a snarl, and step away from the podium, and stalk down the aisle with my trembling chin stuck out. They were right, sharing does unburden the soul. Only a hundred tons to go.

*

Of course he follows me out. I barely make it out the church door when a stiff hand clamps on my shoulder. I spin around, my snarl rivaling a lion’s. “Touch me again and I’ll chop your head off. Not even you could survive that.” He jerks it away. “Now do what you do best. Fuck off.”

I turn on my heel again and continue down the city sidewalk. The bastard didn’t take the hint. In the storefronts reflections I see him tailing me about six feet behind. Fine. I warned him. I turn down the first ally with my shadow doing the same. Halfway down, I change course charging toward him. Justin puts up no resistance as I grab him by the lapel and shove him against the piss soaked brick wall. He even holds up his gloved hands in surrender. Jem did say he lost his hand. Must be a prosthetic. “Go back to the hole you crawled out of and leave. Me. Alone,” I growl through gritted teeth.

“I can’t do that.”

I release him. “The fuck you can’t.
That’s
been proven.”

“Ryder’s loose. You’re not safe.”

I release him and take a step back. “
Now
? Now you’re worried about my well-being?” I ask incredulously. “Where the hell were you when I was drinking myself to death? When Jordan Ambrose was trying to kill me and half the city?” I shove him again. “Every fucking night when I cried myself to sleep?” I shove him again. “When the guilt was crushing me so hard I literally couldn’t breathe?
Then
. Then I needed you. Justin. And you abandoned me.”

“I had no choice.”

“No. Bullshit.
No.
You had a choice. A phone call. An e-mail. A message through Lucy or Jem. Something. Anything. One word. But you let me go on thinking I was responsible for your death. You convinced my fiancée to lie to me. You ruined my life. James Ryder may be a monster, but I meant it. You’re my fucking devil.”

“I know,” he says, hanging his head. “You think I don’t know that? Marnie. Daisy. Rebecca. Aunt Lucy. You.” He shakes his head. “You’re right. I am radioactive.
Anyone
close to me gets hurt. I
knew
you’d be better off without me. And I was right. You flourished, Jo. You conquered the world. Saved millions of lives. You fell in love. You came back better. Stronger. I was holding you back. Making your life miserable. I could sense it. I could. I just didn’t want to face it. Because I needed you. Jo, I needed you a hell of a lot more than you needed me.” He takes a step toward me. “I did what I did to save you. From me.”

“Just like you never told me about Justice. Just like you had Jem betray me. It was for my own good. Do I seem good, Justin? Do I?”

“No. And that’s on me too.”

“Then leave.”

“I can’t,” he says quietly. “He’s out there. Planning God knows what. Jem can’t watch you. You’re not safe, Jo.”

“James Ryder has better things to do than terrorize me. And even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t touch a hair on my head. A lot’s changed since you abandoned me. Ryder and I are…colleagues of sorts.”

“What?” Justin snaps, finally getting angry.

“He helps me. On cases. Hell, just in general.”

Justin’s jaw drops in horror. “Yo-You’re friends with him?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He’s my informant. But unlike you, the great hero,
he’s
never lied to me. Not once. He respects me. He has no reason to hurt me. Unless
you
give him reason to.” I take the final step, bridging the small gap between us and catching his eyes with my hard ones. “Do us both a favor. Crawl back into your empty grave and pull the dirt back over yourself. Because you got one thing right: I don’t need you. I don’t
want
you in my life. I wish I’d never met you. And I’m not going to waste another minute of my life on you.” I turn my back on him and start walking away. “You’re not worth it.”

If he follows, I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t look back. Nothing but agony there.

For us both.

CHAPTER TEN

Third Degree Burns

Jesus, it’s been awhile since I’ve set foot in here. Nothing’s changed. Same bullpen with overworked cops in either rumpled suits with coffee stains or barely out of puberty uniformed officers answering phones or running around. Priority Homicide: my home away from home for almost two amazing years. I closed almost fifty cases, had a seventy percent clearance rate, and made lifelong friends within these walls. I always got a tiny thrill walking in here. Guess it’s different when you enter as a potential perp. Now I feel like throwing up.

A hush comes over the room when Martin and I stroll in. A few mouths even drop in nervous surprise. The joy of infamy. I spot Kowalski reviewing the white board with Cam in the corner, and the momentary lull in conversation draws their attention my way. Their faces aren’t as friendly as I’d like. Both quickly smile at me before returning to the board. This must be awkward for them as it is for me. Of course, they don’t run the chance of leaving in handcuffs.

Harry steps out of his office with two suited men holding files behind him. Feds. I can always tell. Same dark blue three-piece-suits, same stiff posture, same scowl. I’d swear they’re all clones save for the one of the left has red hair and the other is African American. “Joanna,” Harry says without a hint of pleasantry. “These are Marshalls Devitt and Jackson. They’ll be conducting your interview.”

“Wish I could say it was a pleasure, gentlemen. This is my attorney Martin Ferdman. Shall we get this over with?”

“You’re in Interview Two,” Harry says.

“I remember the way,” I say with a smile.