The Guardian (24 page)

‘I’m coming for you, Charlie,’ she said quietly. ‘Just hang on for me.’

‘You’re on your own.’

Jack Saunders heard the words and took a deep breath before responding. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked. ‘They cut off Phelan’s hand.’

‘I heard you,’ Ainsworth said. ‘And just to let you know I’m not keeping anything from you, they killed O’Callaghan as well. Quite gruesomely, from what I
understand.’

‘That’s one dead that we know about. And this freak Sirus Stillwell took a shot at me and tried to kill the girl. Add to that the mutilation of Charlie Phelan, and you’re
telling me that isn’t enough to get others involved?’

‘I told you at the outset that we were off the reservation on this,’ Ainsworth said.

‘You said you would send in reinforcements if things turned bad.’

‘I’ve got my orders, and my orders are that we are not going after Charles Phelan. Bill Toney was very specific about that. If you pursue this any further, you are on your
own.’

‘Toney again?’ Saunders felt the anger and frustration boil up in him. ‘Jesus, you’d think he was working for the other side.’

The line was silent for a moment before Ainsworth’s voice came back, quiet and serious. ‘You need to be careful with accusations like that, Jack,’ he said. ‘Toney is a
very powerful man; you never know how he would react.’

‘What do you suggest I do?’

‘Leave the relic at the boathouse and get yourself back here. That’s your only option.’

Saunders could feel his fist tightening on his cell phone. ‘You’re kidding me, right, Lawrence? Tell me that this is a fucking joke. Give me the goddamned punchline.’

‘Sorry, Jack, there is no punchline.’

‘We still don’t know what this is all about!’

‘No, we don’t. And apparently that’s the way it’s going to stay. I don’t make policy.’

‘What about Charlie Phelan? He served his country, doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘He is a thief. He got himself into this mess.’

‘And the girl?’

For the first time, Ainsworth raised his voice. ‘What about the girl? She’s a convicted killer, for Christ sakes! She’s mentally unstable and a liability.’

‘She needs my help,’ Saunders said evenly.

‘Oh Jesus, Jack. You’re not losing your objectivity over a girl are you? Please tell me I’m not dealing with some romantic twenty-two-year-old just out of training.’

‘You’re not,’ Saunders said firmly. ‘There’s something more to all this. Something important. All I’m asking for is the backup you promised me.’

There was a long pause on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ came the response. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

Detective Morrell arrived back at the station house feeling like he’d aged a decade since the morning. He’d been on the police force for more than twenty-five
years, but he’d never seen the kind of sadistic violence that had been inflicted on his brother. The thought of it sapped his strength.

He nodded to several officers as he made his way through the public area of the precinct house and they nodded back, looking at him with that awful halting expression of pity, uncertain whether
to express their condolences or keep quiet. He crossed through the swinging door back into the restricted area where most of the work was done and headed back to his desk and checked his messages.
There were several tips on the whereabouts of Sal Decanta’s corpse, but it all seemed so pointless now.

He went to the men’s room to relieve himself, and to splash some water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he realized that he might have to retire soon. His stomach for the job seemed to
grow weaker every day, and even on days better than this, he wondered how he even dragged himself to work. And yet, he didn’t know what he would do if he retired. His work was all he had, and
for his brother’s sake he resolved to throw himself into it now.

He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and headed back out to the Desk Sergeant’s station. The sergeant on duty was busy helping a tourist who’d been robbed earlier in the day,
so Morrell went behind the desk and started flipping through the booking sheets. He was looking to find out where they were holding the Middle Eastern kid he’d arrested that morning near the
projects in Southie. He wanted to ask the young man some questions. The use of a power drill to torture Nick O’Callaghan was distinctive, and the only other place he’d heard of anything
similar was in the part of the world from which the kid had come. It might mean nothing, but he had to satisfy himself that there was no connection.

He flipped through the list of holding cells, looking for Hadid, the name on the young man’s license, but came up with nothing. He closed that book, and picked up another that had the
specifics on each arrest that was kept updated. It took a moment for him to find the entry McMurphy had made when booking the kid in. He’d been processed and printed and placed in holding.
Then, at the end of the final column, Morrell saw an entry that made no sense. It read ‘Released’
.

He looked around, confused. ‘Hey, Joe!’ he shouted.

The Desk Sergeant held up his hand and kept talking to the distraught tourist.

‘Joe!’ Morrell said, more insistent.

The Desk Sergeant turned toward him, annoyed. When he saw that it was Morrell, though, he looked instantly apologetic. ‘Morrell. Sorry about your brother. He was a good man.’

Morrell ignored the condolences. ‘McMurphy brought in a kid this morning. Name was Hadid. What happened to him?’

The Desk Sergeant looked confused for a moment and glanced at the booking record. After a moment he nodded, ‘Oh, yeah. Junior towelhead, right? He must’ve had some juice. Maybe he
was a diplomat’s son or something.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean we were told to cut him loose.’

Morrell was dumbstruck. ‘Who gave that order?’

The Desk Sergeant shrugged. ‘How do I know? The kid got his one phone call, and fifteen minutes later, the word came down from upstairs to let him go. So we let him go. Damnedest thing
I’ve seen in a while, but there wasn’t anything we could do but follow orders, right?’

‘And you have no idea why?’

‘No, like I said. But the word around the house is that the feds got involved. That’s why I’m guessing he’s a diplomat’s son.’

Morrell shook his head. ‘He didn’t strike me as a diplomat’s son.’

It was dark when they arrived at the boathouse on the Cambridge-side shore of the Charles River, several hundred yards northeast of the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge. It was a
great Victorian structure with gabled roofs and angled bay windows. Twin towers at the corners framed the building, making it appear as though the structure loomed out over the river. In the
darkness it looked like a haunted house, leering at Saunders.

The parking lot was empty as Saunders guided the car through the gates and parked at the side of the building. The two of them got out and came together at the front of the car. They paused
there, staring at the building. Saunders carried the dagger wrapped in O’Callaghan’s old shirt. He checked his watch; it was just before ten.

‘You sure about the meeting time?’ Saunders asked.

‘I’m sure,’ she said. Neither of them moved. ‘You sure your people aren’t sending backup?’

‘I’m sure,’ he said.

‘I guess there’s no point in waiting, then,’ she said. Her determination seemed only to have hardened since he’d told her that Nick was dead.

He nodded and walked toward the front door. She fell into step with him. The only sound was the crunching of the gravel under their feet. His head swiveled, keen for any movement, but he sensed
none.

The door was a heavy institutional portal with thick glass over wire mesh in the window. He peered through, but it was dark inside and he saw nothing. Reaching out, he tried the knob, and it
turned without resistance. He pushed the door open and stepped into the building.

They stood there in the darkness for a moment, waiting. There was no sound, no movement within the building. He looked at her. ‘What’s supposed to happen now?’ he asked.

She looked at a loss. ‘I don’t know. He just said to meet here.’

‘It’s a big place. Did he say where?’ She shook her head. His eyes had adjusted enough for him to see the interior better. They were on the ground floor in a vestibule with an
archway in front of them. There were two sets of stairs off to their left, one leading up and the other down. He nodded to her, and they moved slowly further into the building, through the archway
into the main room where the sculls were kept. It was an enormous space with fifteen-foot ceilings, taking up most of the building’s footprint. There were racks forming aisles running
parallel to each other throughout the place, on which were stacked the long boats, upside down, their hulls shining like oddly thin coffins in a crypt. Along the far wall a series of oversized
glass doors, large enough to allow the boats to be carried out to the water, looked out to the riverfront and the docks. Long sharp oars stood in racks near the doors. The place smelled of old wood
and sweat and mildewed leather. ‘Keep close,’ Saunders whispered to Cianna.

They walked up and down the aisles slowly, quietly, peering around the boats that partially blocked their view.

‘Nothing,’ he said, after they’d made their way through the place.

She frowned. ‘The stairs,’ she suggested after a moment. He nodded and they headed back out toward the entryway. They looked up the staircase that led to the upper floor, and down
the one that led to the basement. ‘Which way?’ she asked.

Saunders gave it a moment’s consideration. ‘Up,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘No reason. It’s gotta be one or the other.’

He took his gun out and started up, the stairs creaking with his weight. At the top of the stairs was a large room that looked like it hadn’t been touched since World War II. The
overstuffed chairs were covered in soft, cracked leather, and the walls fluttered with ancient posters and news clippings with pictures of thin, muscular, short-haired young men in boats, the
headlines announcing victories from days long passed. A rug that looked as though it might once have been a nice oriental lay tattered and worn on the floor. A hill of pewter cups and trophies
stood in a corner of the room, the patina of age making them appear at once forgotten and revered.

Saunders moved quickly through the room to two doors at the far end, opened them, turned to look at Cianna. He shook his head. ‘Office and bathroom,’ he said. ‘No one’s
here.’

‘Downstairs?’

He nodded. ‘Looks like that’s all that’s left.’

He led the way, retracing their steps back down to the ground floor, stepping as lightly as he could to ease the creaking. It was useless, and he knew that each step was announcing their
approach like an entourage of trumpeters.

The staircase wrapped around the landing on the ground floor and continued to a basement. As they started down, he could smell the heavy, damp odor of chlorine and wet cement. His fingers
tightened on his gun and he slowed his pace, taking each step carefully. He motioned again for Cianna to keep close to him.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Saunders was surprised at how light it was. He’d been expecting a basement with no windows allowing the wan moonlight in. He hadn’t
realized that the building was built on a rise, and that the land on the northern side of the structure fell away so that there were more glass doors leading out to a lawn. The moon was nearly
full, and it shone low in the sky, directly behind the windows, casting blue shadows throughout the place.

The basement was a training facility. The smell of chlorine came from two large indoor rowing tanks, both of which had sculls set in the middle of them, oars slung over the side, hanging over
the water. A spit of cement roughly five feet wide ran between the two tanks. The windows were at the far end from where they were standing. Set off to the side was an elaborate set of fitness
equipment including weight machines, stationary bicycles, and treadmills. Saunders had tried crew briefly as a freshman in college, and discovered it was a test of physical endurance that pushed
most bodies to the limits of their tolerance. He’d dropped the sport and taken up rugby, far preferring the head-to-head physical brutality of the scrum to the slow, steady self-torture of
the sculls.

He saw them as soon as they turned to face the far wall: two silhouettes set against the moonlight coming through the windows, standing across the room from them on the other side of the two
rowing tanks. One of them was recognizable, even in outline. He was huge, set with square shoulders, the moonlight shining off a gleaming bald pate. ‘Sirus,’ Saunders said quietly to
Cianna. He raised his gun slightly. Not so much that it was aimed directly at either of the figures, but enough so that it would be noticed.

The other dark figure was the first to talk. He was much smaller than Sirus, and there was something softer about him, even in the way he stood. His voice, too, was gentle and assuring as it
floated in echoes across the enormous expanse of the basement.

‘Ms Phelan,’ he said. ‘Do you have my property?’ She replied, ‘Do you have my brother?’

From across the darkened room, Saunders could see the man smile, his teeth large and white. ‘In due time,’ he said. ‘In due time.’

Saunders raised his gun so that it was aimed at the man’s chest. He was tempted to pull the trigger. The man stood there without any trace of fear in his eyes. He had a
fanatic’s confidence, and Saunders was generally of the view that fanatics made the world a more dangerous place. He wanted to shoot, but he knew that it would mean the end of Cianna’s
brother’s life. Besides, Saunders still didn’t have enough information about the conspiracy that had brought the soft-spoken sociopath to Boston. He wouldn’t get that information
if the man died.

Slowly he lowered the gun again so that it was pointed at the man’s feet, keeping it in a position that would enable him to react instantly if necessary.

‘Who are you?’ Saunders asked.