The Killing Room (41 page)

Although he couldn’t see her, Jessica was certain Byrne knew she was there, just as she knew he would always be there for her.

They were partners.

This was the life they chose.

II

The kid looked happy.

Considering the hell that had been his life before his path intersected with Detective Kevin Francis Byrne, and the insanity that followed, it was quite remarkable.

Since that terrible night at St. Gedeon’s, Gabriel had attended six counseling sessions with a child psychologist. When Byrne pressed for information he was told that, all things considered, the boy was doing well.

They walked through the parking lot at the Wells Fargo Center, neither of them anxious for the evening to end. Byrne had called in a few markers, and finally got them courtside seats for the Sixers, as promised. On a historic night – the 50th anniversary of Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-point game – the Sixers won, beating the Golden State Warriors 105–83.

Still sore from his injury, Byrne had to exert a little extra
effort to keep up with the boy. He would be damned if he would show it, though.

‘Think you might play ball one day?’ Byrne asked.

‘Nah,’ Gabriel said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be tall enough. My brother Terrell? He had a bomb
diggity
hook pass, man. You should have seen him.’

‘I would have liked that,’ Byrne said. ‘But keep in mind that being tall isn’t the whole game.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘Far from it. Look at A.I.,’ Byrne said, referencing Allen Iverson, the former Sixers point guard. ‘He’s only six feet or so.’

‘Even shorter than you,’ Gabriel said.

Byrne laughed. ‘Even shorter than me.’

They drove to North Philly in near silence, still feeling each other out in many ways. They never spoke of St. Gedeon’s. The cut on Gabriel’s forehead was treated at the scene that night, but did not require stitches. He would, however, have a small, crescent-shaped scar for the rest of his life.

Byrne pulled over in front of the foster home, put the car in park. Out of habit, he scanned the two side mirrors and rearview. No gangbangers on the corner. Maybe the word had gotten out.

‘I know it’s not your birthday for a few weeks, but in case I don’t see you, I wanted you to have this.’ Byrne reached into the back seat, brought forward the wrapped package. He handed it to Gabriel.

The boy beamed. ‘What is this?’

‘See, that’s kinda the point of the wrapping paper. You’re not supposed to know until you open it.’

Gabriel smiled, tore into the paper. Byrne watched the boy’s face as he turned the book over and saw the title:

FORGOTTEN PHILADELPHIA
:
LOST ARCHITECTURE OF THE QUAKER CITY

Gabriel started thumbing through it. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This is really cool.’

Byrne was a bit worried about giving an eleven year old boy a book on architecture. He seemed to genuinely like it.

Gabriel stopped on a page with a photograph of the original Chestnut Street Theater. He turned the book so Byrne could see the picture.

‘Maybe I’ll do something like this some day,’ Gabriel said.

‘Maybe.’

‘I mean, you never know, right?’

‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘You never know.’

With Gabriel safely inside, Byrne thought about their time together, and what the future might hold. He wondered when Gabriel would learn of the scholarship fund that had been started for him, a trust that, coincidentally, was opened for the exact same amount recently taken from a North Philly drug dealer named Carter Wilson.

Allegedly
taken, Byrne amended.

After sustaining his near fatal wounds, Byrne had been unconscious for eighteen hours, his mind misted with dark dreams, dreams that told him the visions – the premonitions and intuitions that had haunted him for more than two decades – were not quite done with him. Beneath it all he
heard the echo of those five words, spoken by a madwoman.

You are the last saint
.

Byrne eased into traffic, then turned onto Sixth Street, the glow of Center City before him like an armor of light, thinking:

No, Ruby Longstreet, I am not a saint, not by a long shot. Saints are blameless and pure. Saints are people like Father Thomas Leone.

I am just a man.

I am a guardian.

Acknowledgements

With deepest gratitude to:

Meg Ruley, Peggy Gordijn, Jane Berkey, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency;

Dominic Montanari, Kathleen Franco MD, Sergeant Joanne Beres, Detective Eddie Rocks, Rick Jackson, Brian Zoldessy, Ramon Alvarez, Robert Kaminski, and Lou Baldwin;

Mike Driscoll, Pat Ghegan, Dominic Aspite, and the rest of the Philly crew;

My new family at Little, Brown;

The city and people of Philadelphia. While the places of worship mentioned in this book are based in fact, their names, locations, and dark secrets revealed within, are fiction.

Read on for an E
XCLUSIVE
E
XTRACT
from
Richard Montanari’s terrifying new thriller
The Stolen Ones

Out July 2013

1

In the city beneath the city, through these hollow black halls where dead souls murmur and the seasons do not change, he moves, silent as dust.

By day he walks the city above — teacher, salesman, con man, cop. He is the man in the shabby overcoat on the bus, the man in the bright scarlet vest who parks your car, the man who holds the door for you, touching a finger to the brim of his cap if you are a woman, offering a tactful dip of the chin if you are a man.

There is something in his manner that whispers of another time, something formal and reserved. It is not politeness or courtesy, nor could it be described as politesse — although most people who met him would, if asked, comment on his courtly manner.

It is by night he has seen the very heart of human vice, and knows that it is his own. It is by night he moves through his warren of long-shadowed corridors and shabby rooms, bearing silent witness to assignations in cold basement chambers.

His name is Luther.

He first killed a man when he was twelve years old.

He has never stopped.

On this frigid morning in March, five days before the ground will tremble beneath the weight of the giant machines, he stands third in line at the Super Fresh Market on Frankford Avenue. The trade at this store is lively: young mothers shopping for the week; lonely single men lingering over the frozen dinner racks, each defined by the content of their carts.

The old woman stands in front of him. He considers her purchases: Five boxes of Jell-O, various flavors, a quart of Half and Half, angel hair pasta, a jar of smooth peanut butter. Cancer food, he thinks.

There is a small hole at the back of her cardigan, a starfish of threads peeking out. Through it he can see a tear in the fabric of her blouse. It is where she cut out the label, perhaps because it irritated her skin. Her shoes are sturdy, round at heel, tightly laced. Her fingernails are scrubbed and clipped short. She wears no jewelry.

He watches as she scrutinizes each entry on the cashier’s LCD monitor, oblivious — or, more likely ambivalent — to the fact that she is holding up the line. He remembers this about her, this obstinacy. Transaction completed, she takes her bagged groceries, walks a few steps toward the exit, scanning the register receipt, making sure she has not been cheated.

He had watched her over the years, watched as the lines furrowed deeper on her face, watched as spots blossomed on her hands, watched as her gait slowed to an arthritic shuffle. What had once passed for regal comportment, an imperious manner that shunned intimacy or acquaintance at any level, has now become a scowling, ill-mannered dotage.

As the woman walks to the door, she puts down her bags, buttons her coat. She is being observed, but not just by the tall man behind her.

There is a boy of seventeen or so standing near the Red Box video rental machine — loitering, witnessing, looking for some sort of opportunity. He is just a few feet away.

When the woman picks up her bags she drops her credit card onto the floor. She does not notice.

The boy does.

Träumen Sie?

Yes.

Where are you?

Tallinn. In the Old City.

What is the year?

It is 1948, nine years adrift from the first independence. It is five days before Christmas. Food is scarce, but there is still joy in the twinkling lights.

Where will you go?

To Lanamäe, in the eastern section of the city, to one of the Soviet hostels. I am to meet a man.

Who is this man?

A blind man, a Baltic German. He is a thief. He preys upon the elderly who have little to begin with. He stole something from a friend, and I will have it back this night.

How is this possible? How would a blind man be able to do this?

He does not yet know of his blindness.

Luther shadows the thief at a discrete distance, down Frankford Avenue to Mark Street, then east. Most of the buildings on this block are boarded up, abandoned.

Before they reach Eastland Avenue the thief ducks down an alley, shoulders open a door.

Luther follows. When his shadow darkens the wall opposite the splintered doorway the thief notices. He spins around, startled.

They are alone.

“You have something that does not belong to you,” Luther says.

The thief looks him up and down, assessing his size and strength, perhaps looking for a telltale bulge that might signal possession of a handgun. Seeing none, he is emboldened. “D’fuck are you?”

“Just a ragged stranger.”

The thief looks to the doorway, back. Recognition dawns. “I remember you. You was at the store.”

Luther does not correct the thief’s deplorable grammar. He remains silent. The thief takes a step back. Not a defensive move, but rather a gauging of range. He slowly drops his hands to his sides.

“What you want, man?” the thief asks. “I got business to tend.”

“What business would that be?”

“Not
your
business, motherfucker.” The thief begins to move his right hand toward his back pocket. “Maybe I take what
you
got. Maybe I cut you up
, pendejo
.”

“Perhaps so.”

Another few inches toward the pocket. “You talk fucked up, man. Where you from?”

“I am from everywhere and nowhere. I am from right beneath your feet.”

The thief looks at the ground, as if the answer might be there, as if there might suddenly appear a dog-eared Baedeker.

When he looks back up, the man before him removes his overcoat, takes a felt cap from his back pocket, slips it onto his head. What had only moments ago been curiosity becomes something else, something of nightmares. The thief’s eyes roam the man — the tattered brown suit, the frayed sleeves, the patch pockets crudely sewn, the missing button.

The blood stains.

In one fluid motion, the thief reaches into his back pocket. He retrieves a butterfly knife. Before he can get it open, the knife is slapped from his hand, and he is spun around and slammed into the wall.

Seconds later the tall man has taken everything from his pockets and thrown the contents across the room. With a frightening strength the thief is turned back around, and brought to the floor.

Luther takes a few steps away, picks up the butterfly knife. With a flourish — slick and practiced — he has it open.

“What were you going to do with this?” Luther asks.

The thief has yet to catch his breath. When he does, he says, “Nothing.”

Luther flips the knife. It sticks into a wooden pallet on the floor.

“My name is Luther,” he says. “I think it is important for you to know this.”

The thief says nothing.

“I say this because I know, from experience, that what happens in this room will be a turning point in your life, a story you will repeat many times over, and that people will ask you: ‘What was this man’s name?’”

“I don’t need to know who you are.”

“Well, this is merely what I am called,” Luther says. “It is not who I am.”

“Just take my shit man. I didn’t mean what I said before. I wasn’t going to cut you.”

Luther nods. “Let me ask you a question.”

The thief just stares.

“When you sleep at night, or when you nap in the afternoon after a particularly good meal, do you dream?”

“I don’t … yeah. I dream.”

“Some people say they do not, but the truth is we all dream. What these people mean to say is that they do not
remember
their dreams.”

Luther crosses the room, leans against the wall. The thief glances at the knife sticking out of the pallet. His eyes say he will never make it.

“Let me give you an example,” Luther says. “Do you know how sometimes, when you are dreaming, it begins as one thing, and then magically — for dreaming truly is in the realm of magic — it becomes something else? Something … other?”

The thief remains silent.

“In the dream you are, let us say, a famous matador. You are in the ring with the beast, being cheered by thousands. You wave the
muleta
, you ready your
espada
for the kill.

“Then, suddenly you have the ability to fly, to soar above the crowd, to cast your shadow on the countryside, to taste the salt of the sea. Such dreams, I suggest to you, are difficult to leave behind. For most, it is such a disappointment to awaken, to relinquish such godlike powers, only discover that were we are still, simply, ourselves. Still bound by this mortal coil.”