The Price of Malice (29 page)

Keeping out of sight, Joe saw his nemesis stay at the wheel for half a minute, watching for any movements, before finally easing out of the car. Then, again, he surveyed everything around him, wary and tense, until, finally, he walked quickly to the warehouse door, unlocked it, and vanished inside.

Joe’s phone vibrated again. Irritated, he held it to his ear and growled, “What?”

Willy Kunkle’s voice filled his ear. “ ’Bout time you plugged that
fucking thing back in. I don’t know where the hell you are or what the hell you’re doing, but while you been screwing around, Sammie’s been shot. See you at the hospital, dipwad.”

Stunned, Joe stared at the dead phone, his chest hammering. Fumbling, he dialed a Brattleboro number.

“Emergency Room. How may I help you?”

“This is Joe Gunther of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation,” he said softly, struggling to control the quaver in his voice, his eyes glued to the door ahead of him. “An officer of mine was brought in with a gunshot wound. What’s her condition?”

“Joe?” the woman’s voice said. “It’s Elizabeth.”

“Willy just called me,” he said. “I’m stuck out of state. What the hell happened?”

“It’s Sammie, Joe,” Elizabeth Pace told him. “And she’s fine. She got winged in the lower leg. The bullet fractured her fibula, but it’s not bad. Very clean. You want me to put someone on? There’re a lot of them here right now—it’s like a cop convention.”

“No, not now. I’ll be there as soon as I can. They get the shooter?”

Her voice dropped. “What’s left of him. He’s being operated on right now.”

Joe saw Cathy’s head appear from behind her hiding place. She looked at him quizzically and gestured as if she were also holding a phone, asking him what on God’s earth he was doing.

“I gotta go, Elizabeth. I can’t thank you enough.”

He pocketed the phone and gave a thumbs-up. Willy’s histrionics aside, everything important back home seemed to be under control for the moment. One disaster at a time.

Joe slipped away from his spot, approached the building from a blind angle, and sidled up to the door that Beale had used earlier.

Cathy did the same from the other side, until she was positioned across from him, her back against the wall, waiting for either a legal justification to enter, or simply for Beale to reappear.

The latter occurred first. Startling them both, the door suddenly squealed open, followed by a familiar voice ordering someone, “Wait there. I gotta look around.”

Beale stepped into view, allowing Joe to place the muzzle of his gun against the man’s temple.

“You move, you die,” he said quietly.

L
ate at night, Joe entered Sam’s hospital room gingerly, half expecting to find Willy there, mad as hell and gun in hand.

He didn’t blame the man. He was naturally high-strung, had just seen his lover shot, and had then almost killed the perpetrator in return. Not to mention that it had all occurred on Joe’s watch and in his absence—a double sin in the eyes of each of them. Joe’s leadership had been wanting here from the beginning, and now—as a direct result—a member of his team had almost paid the highest price.

But Willy wasn’t there. Joe crossed the room to stand beside the bed, and looked down at Sam’s pale, sleeping face—perfectly smooth and trouble-free. He’d paused at the nurses’ station outside, and had spent hours making calls on the drive back from Maine. He now knew it was a clean break, just above the ankle, and that Ryan Hatch’s bullet had passed through the meat of her leg, barely glancing the fibula. A plate had been screwed into place and a cast applied. The doctor had told Joe that Sam should be as good as new in six weeks, aside from some PT.

Impulsively, Joe leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, touching her hair with his fingertips. She always gave everything she had to him and the job, and he felt terrible now, seeing her laid out so.

He settled into the chair adjacent to the bed, still studying her face, and began reviewing the last several hours.

At least, the worst of his distractions were now officially settled. Beale was under arrest for a felony he’d be hard placed to beat, and Lyn was back in Gloucester with her mother and brother—shaken but intact. It had been she who’d insisted he return straight to Brattleboro, rather than accompany her home. She’d assured him that Beale had done no more than scare the hell out of her.

Of course, many questions remained—why had he grabbed her? What role, if any, did Dick Brandhorst play in it all? What had Abílo and José been up to in the first place, and what exactly had befallen them in the end? And, lastly, what of all this was still obviously in motion, stimulating the vandalism of
The Silva Lining
?

But Lyn was at least safe, and Joe could now concentrate on the metaphorical oil slick that was spreading around the still unsolved murder of Wayne Castine.

He laid his head back against the cushion of the visitor’s chair, feeling the weight of no sleep bearing down on him.

And more good news? Willy hadn’t killed Ryan Hatch. The boy had undergone hours of brain, rib, and hip surgery, and remained on the critical list at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, where he’d been airlifted, but the doctors there had assured Joe they anticipated only improvement.

As for Willy’s fate legally, the Windham County state’s attorney had been cagier, at first. That phone call had begun with Jack Derby reciting Kunkle’s trespasses, foremost being his reckless disregard for public safety. But added was a total failure to coordinate his actions
with local law enforcement or, for that matter, his own team. According to Derby—since Joe hadn’t yet asked Willy for his version—Willy had undermined the planned low-key approach to Ryan Hatch in the bakery, instead marching up to him, grabbing him by the collar, and throwing him against the wall, thereby causing the boy to drop and scatter the drugs he’d been selling to another kid at his table.

Joe had successfully argued the obvious—that Ryan was a suspect in a homicide, that he’d run when apprehended, shot an identified police officer, and sought to elude capture. What better example did the state’s attorney need of an ongoing, active threat, which had been so rapidly and completely dealt with?

An old and practiced pragmatist, Derby had only grumpily conceded, suggesting that this could come back to haunt them—including possible civil suits—once the shock wore off and the facts were aired. In his words, in a town as politically sensitive as Brattleboro—and as left-leaning—“such a demonstration of police exuberance is unlikely to be left to drift away like a bad odor.”

With a sigh, Joe had then called Bill Allard, perversely grateful that all this chatter was keeping him from falling asleep at the wheel. Nevertheless, Allard’s tone had only joined the chorus of disapproving voices. What had Joe been thinking? Was Bill going to have to start reviewing basic tenets of VBI’s organization? Was Willy Kunkle still so indispensable an asset, and Joe still so eager to pin his own future to his?

Joe had barely heard it. The smooth black pavement had drawn him in like a soothing melody, and he’d abandoned himself to simply staying between the white lines, only just noticing any oncoming headlights . . .

Joe opened his eyes, unaware they’d fallen shut. Standing beside Sammie in the dark hospital room was a thin, small boy. He was staring
fixedly at her, his hands slack by his sides and his mouth slightly open.

Joe spoke in a near whisper, thinking he knew who this might be. “Hey there.”

The boy gave a twitch, as if he’d been caught daydreaming in class. His wide, guileless eyes took in Joe.

“You okay?” Joe asked him.

“Yeah.” He pointed his chin at Sam. “Is she?”

Joe lifted his head off the seat cushion behind him. “She’s fine. Just a broken leg. They probably gave her something so she could sleep. You’re Richard, right?”

The boy nodded.

“She really likes you.”

Richard considered that for a moment. “She’s cool.”

“I think so, too. I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

Richard returned to watching Sam. “Yeah.”

“He hanging in there?”

“Yeah.”

“You seen him yet?”

“Nah. My mom’s up there.”

“The whole family must be pretty upset.”

“I guess.”

That answer told him a fair deal. “I don’t suppose you’ve been home much.”

“Nope.”

Sammie stirred at their voices. She reached out gently and touched Richard’s chest with her fingertips. He stared at the IV attached to the back of her hand.

“Hey, Richard,” she said softly, as if she, too, were being careful not to wake anyone up. “You come to check up on me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m fine. Honest. Just a broken bone.”

“I’m real sorry Ryan shot you,” he said.

“I’m sorry he got so messed up,” she countered. “I think we scared him.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Richard said firmly. “He was wrong.”

“How’s your sister taking all this?” Sam asked.

Richard glanced at Joe. “That’s what I was telling him. I don’t know. I been pretty much hanging out alone.”

Sam turned her head to see Joe for the first time. She smiled tiredly. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Joe reached out and squeezed her other hand briefly.

“He’s your boss?” Richard asked.

“Yeah. This is Joe. Joe—meet Richard Vial.”

“We’ve been chatting,” Joe admitted.

Sam’s smile broadened. “I like doing that with Richard, too. He’s one of the good guys—a real trooper.”

Joe sensed the boy’s hesitation, and rose to his feet. “I think I’ll go get some coffee. You two all set?”

Sammie nodded. “Yeah, Joe. Go for it. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He left them alone and walked down the empty hallway. Hospitals have an eerie stillness at night, like an anxious person wrestling to sleep, knowing the next morning will be filled with chaos.

He reached the nurses’ station, where a lone woman glanced up from the magazine before her and inquired, “She okay?”

He wondered if Richard had managed, by pure habit, to slip in here unnoticed.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m just going for coffee.”

“There’s a machine one floor down. To the right off the elevator, at the end of the hall. It’s not too bad.”

“Thanks. You want any?”

She shook her head. “Thanks. All set.”

He rode the elevator down, and stepped through the doors to come face-to-face with Willy.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said sourly. “Been making your apologies?”

Joe ignored that. “Met Richard Vial. They’re talking right now. I thought I’d give them a little privacy.” He pointed down the corridor. “Buy you a coffee?”

Willy studied him a moment before allowing a half shrug. “Okay.”

They fell into step beside each other. Willy, to his credit, dropped his outrage long enough to comment, “You look terrible.”

“Been a long few days. You don’t look much the worse for wear. How’re you doing after the shootout?”

Willy said instead, “I hear you been working the phones.”

“Oh?”

“Allard, Jack Derby.”

“What did they tell you?” Joe asked, genuinely curious.

“That you’re the only reason I haven’t been fired.” He suddenly stopped in his tracks and stared at Joe. “What is it with that anyway? Why’re you always saving my butt? Why do you give a good goddamn? Am I the son you never had or some bullshit?”

Joe smiled. “Jesus, I hope not.”

“Then what?” Willy was almost shouting, his face red and his body tense. Joe knew not to tell him to settle down.

“We’ve had this out before, Willy,” he said quietly instead. “Maybe we’re salt and pepper, or yin and yang, or polar opposites that make for a good whole.” He reached out and laid his hand on Willy’s shoulder—a gesture he was surprised the other man accepted. “But I benefit from having you around. You’re a good cop, an honest man,
and you speak your mind. The fact that you’re a pain in the ass takes second place.”

He resumed walking down the hall, adding, “Maybe you should turn the question around—why do you stick around, when you seem so hell-bent on getting fired all the time?”

Willy joined him, but didn’t respond, staring in silence at the floor as they went.

Now it was Joe’s turn to stop and face his colleague. “And I do apologize,” he said. “For what it’s worth. I screwed up. I should’ve been there.”

Willy wouldn’t play. Joe saw him consider several responses, but his final choice was vintage Kunkle. “We didn’t need you.”

“ ’Cause you got the bad guy?”

“He shot Sam.”

“Did he kill Castine?”

Willy broke away and resumed their quest. “Doesn’t matter.”

Joe didn’t disagree. “For your sake, you’re right.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That, for the record, you ran him down because he shot Sam, and that I saved your bacon based on the same reason—a nice, clean whitewash, covering up the fact that none of you should’ve been there in the first place.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to quarterback after the game.”

Joe shook his head. “I do this time. All those phone calls I made tonight? One of them was to David Hawke. I called him at home. He told me they got the mini-STR results a few hours ago and will fax them over this morning. They were able to stretch out the DNA to nine loci. Bad news is that the reason you went in all fired up to grab Ryan Hatch fell apart—his DNA no longer matches the sample.”

Willy didn’t answer. They’d reached the coffee machine, but neither
of them turned to it. Instead, Willy stared out the window overlooking the darkened parking lot, studying his own translucent reflection.

“Where the fuck
were
you, boss?” he asked tiredly.

Joe looked at him, startled by the question’s plaintiveness. For all of Willy’s rudeness and rage, he was an honest man. But he was also a lost soul.

Joe knew why Willy stayed around, at once wrestling with self-destruction and clinging to the likes of Joe and Sammie. Despite his fury, he yearned for salvation, and perhaps saw the two of them as the only way to achieve it.

Not that he’d ever admit it.