He parked the bike on the narrow road that wound its way through the burial ground and walked over to her grave. He read her name, the dates, the words on the stone: loving mother and sister. Not wife, though. You couldn’t say wife. He had betrayed her there, too.
Kyle leaned over to brush some leaves away from the grass atop her plot. He rubbed his hand across the carving of her name. He dropped to one knee.
“The old bastard’s come back,” he said to the stone.
He knelt there for a moment, as if waiting for a response. He lifted his chin and saw a woman in the distance who appeared to be walking toward him, and his heart clutched with an insane hope. But why the hell shouldn’t she come back from the grave just as his father had? It only fit everything else that had happened to him the past few days. And he’d trade a hundred of him for one of her. But it wasn’t her, it was just some older woman who stopped and turned and bowed before a patch of grass far away. And like a stone falling in a dark, cold pond, his heart fell.
No, his mother wasn’t coming back, and yet he could hear her voice, soft but insistent, the way she spoke to him whenever his father made those rare visits to the house.
Go to him,
she would say as they sat on the porch and saw his car pull up.
Go to your father.
He closed his eyes, and he remembered a shard from his boyhood, when he’d asked his mother about the father who had always been a mystery to him. They were sitting on the porch, and his mother was in the rocking chair, smoking, staring off with those impassive eyes of hers. “He’s a complicated man,” she had said to Kyle. “He’s difficult to understand.”
“And do you understand him?” Kyle said.
“No. But I love him, and you should, too.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s your father, Kyle. That’s just the way it is. And without him I wouldn’t have you.”
“Does he love us?” Kyle asked.
“In his way.”
“And what way is that, Mom?”
“The only way he can. And, Kyle, that’s all you’ll ever get from
anyone.”
Kyle didn’t understand then what she had meant, didn’t understand it still, but he remembered how he felt when his father’s car would pull up to the front of the house and his mother would tell him, “Go to him. Go to your father,” and off he’d run, down the steps to the car. And when the stranger stepped out, Kyle would hug his legs and the old man would pat him on the head and Kyle would smell the braided scents of old cigarette smoke, of Brylcreem and Aqua Velva, and the fear and the love both would overwhelm him.
But things were different now. Kyle was no longer a child with all a child’s pathetic needs, and his mother was dead, and all kinds of truths about his father had been branded into his soul. The way his father had used privileged information to extort money from a congressional candidate. The way his father had returned from the dead only to extort more money from the same candidate, and to rope his son into the scheme. The way his father had lied to and betrayed him all the years of his life. It would be different now, absolutely. He wouldn’t run to him and hug his legs, absolutely. All he felt now was anger, a seething anger that strained for release.
“So, boyo,” said the old man in the doorway of that New Jersey motel after Kyle had made his way back. The old man’s eyes were lit with greed, his smile yellow, his hands reached out with expectation. “How did it go? Are we in business?”
Kyle stared at his father for a long moment and felt the tectonic plates shift within him, before he lunged. And grabbed his father close. And buried his face in his father’s grizzled neck.
“I love you, Dad,” he said as his tears rubbed off on his father’s skin.
Fourteen years after Liam Byrne’s funeral, Kyle was finally crying for his father. And Kyle wasn’t lying. He did, truly, love his father. Despite all he knew, despite the anger that remained inside, despite the past and despite himself, he loved his father. Unqualifiedly. As had Kyle’s mother before him. Kyle didn’t trust his father, or admire him, or particularly like him. But a part of Kyle lived forever beyond the realm of reason, and that part had taken control. “I love you,” he said again.
“I know you do, boyo,” said Liam Byrne, patting his son’s head as he had all those years before, drawing out thick tears. “I know you do. Now, come inside. You have much to tell, and we have much to plan.”
BOBBY DRAGGED THE BLACK SATCHEL through the rhododen
dron, bony stalks tearing at his flesh and filthy clothes, grabbing at the bag, which more than once he had to yank free. It was almost nine, he was almost late. He needed to be in position for when the boy showed up.
It had been no simple task getting here, with his car being watched and his whole body covered in filth. When he climbed out of the Dumpster, he knew he had to hurry, but he couldn’t just hail a cab. That Puerto Rican slut had probably called in his description to all the taxis in the area, hoping he’d turn up in the street with his hand raised as if volunteering for the electric chair. So instead he decided to move. Out of the area. North would send him through Center City, east was the waterfront, so he chose south, into South Philadelphia, stepping through the narrow streets with cars lined on either side. It would have been easy just to break open a window and steal one, except he didn’t know how to steal a car.
So he kept moving, ignoring the reactions to his filth-streaked clothes and the way he smelled, always moving, slipping into doorways and alleys when police cars cruised by and then moving again, ever south. He figured if he could just keep moving, he would come up with a plan. And then he spied the instrument of his salvation, under one of the spans of the highway, a sweet little angel with a baby and a Buick. As she leaned into the backseat to pull her baby from the car seat, Bobby pulled his pistol from the black bag.
He had parked the Buick behind a hedge beneath a wide sycamore about half a mile from the Truscott estate. He hadn’t killed the mother and child—some remnant of Robert had stilled his hand— and by now the police would have the model and license plate in their computer. But he needed the car to start off his journey after he took care of business here, so he had made sure it was well hidden before he walked the rest of the way to the mansion. At the black iron fence, he had thrown his bag over and then climbed after it. Now he was batting fat-fingered rhododendron leaves away from his face as he maneuvered himself into position to have a view of the mansion’s front door.
His plan was simple. He’d stay out here until the Byrne boy came and went. Bobby imagined that Byrne would have a file in his hand on the way in and a briefcase full of money on his way out. It was this briefcase that she had promised to Bobby as payment for all his services, as if he were a mere handyman who’d been patiently waiting all this time for a cash payment. Well, he’d take the payment all right, killing the boy in the process, but that wouldn’t be the end of it, that would be just the start. And irony of ironies, it would be her hush money that would finance all the rest. He’d trade in the Buick for a Maserati, he’d slip hundred-dollar tips to strippers, he’d tour the country killing Truscotts, starting with a broken-down old whore. Just the thought of it sent a shiver through his veins.
A final yank of the bag and he was through, to the wide front lawn
342 WILLIAM LASHNER
that led to the great house with its majestic pillars, the house that had been the repository of all his fondest hopes for decades now. He knew its lines and curves, the texture of its skin, knew it as intimately as a lover. Every perfect piece of stone, every lovely blemish in its mortar. He adored the house, its shape, its scent, the movement through its rooms. Maybe when this was all over, he’d come back and blow it into splinters.
The driveway itself was flanked with gardens framed by low walls of boxwood. Bobby looked left, looked right, and then, like an infantryman advancing on Omaha Beach, ran toward the garden in a zigzag pattern, bent low at the waist with the bag clutched to his chest. When he reached the closest of the gardens, he jumped over the boxwood and rolled toward the house, knocking down pink-tipped Cleome like he was a scythe.
He peeked over the evergreen hedge just in time to see the great gate at the front of the property open. A car slowly made its way up the drive, its tires grinding at the gravel, its headlights painting the stone white before the car entered the circle and the headlights suddenly veered to the left, pointing straight at his garden. He ducked down and listened. A door opening and closing, a few words from a voice he recognized. The headlights washed by him as the car turned out of the circle and back up the drive.
He raised his head again to see the tall, lanky figure of Senator Francis Truscott IV entering the house.
Bobby dropped to the ground, spun around, took a deep breath. What the hell was Francis doing here? He was supposed to be at some sort of fund-raiser. Bobby panicked for a moment at the unexpected development before he pulled himself together. This was good. This was great. This made everything easier. Of course the senator would be here at the exchange. It was his crime they were covering up, after all. And now Bobby wouldn’t have to go hunting for Francis. He’d be right here, in Bobby’s sights. Perfect.
Bobby checked his watch. It was after nine. He turned around and lifted his head over the hedge and looked down the drive. It was just a matter now of waiting, waiting like a hyena for his prey, fighting not to laugh out loud.
I FEEL LIKE THERE ARE ANTS crawling across my chest,” said Kyle as he drove along a dark, private street.
“It’s just the tape,” said his father. “You’ll get used to it. I put it on tight so the thing won’t come loose in the middle of it all and give away the game.”
“I think they’ll figure out I’m wearing a transmitter when they see me scratching like an idiot.”
“Then don’t scratch. Show some control.”
“We should just tell the cops everything and let them deal with it.”
“That won’t do it. They’ll get away with what they’ve done, the two of them, if it’s only your words against theirs. In this world theirs count more. I should have known that the mother was involved. She might have been responsible for the killings without her son knowing. That would be quite politic of the old crone. Plausible deniability. Nixon still haunts the sordid edge of politics, I suppose. Will we never be free of that ghost?”
“What was so bad about Nixon anyway?”
“Ah, the sad ignorance of youth. But you’re a swift one, you’ll get her to admit everything, and I’ll have it right here on tape. Except don’t you dare forget, boyo, it only works if you bring out the money.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I told you, yes. That’s the key to everything. Tapes can be disputed, but the money is proof of their guilt. You bring back the money, and we’ll take it, along with the tape, to that police detective you go on about so much. That will jolt her career. She’ll be grateful, you can bet, and she’ll show it, too.”
“You sound like a pimp.”
Liam Byrne laughed. “Life is sweet, boyo, and you shouldn’t be denying yourself all of its pleasures. But reward or no, it’s a grand thing we’re doing here. Father and son, working together to right ancient wrongs. In all my days, I never thought I’d see it. I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited.”
Kyle turned and looked at his father in the glow from the dashboard. His face was ruddy and beaming. One hand was shaking with excitement, the other was clutching the file on his lap. This was a moment Kyle would always remember, father and son on a bold mission of justice, bonded at last. No matter how it ended.
“And after?” said Kyle.
“Then it’s time for me to lie low. That’s why I already packed my bag. Just get me to a bus station, and I’ll be on my way.”
“You don’t want to maybe stay around a bit?”
“Too dangerous. They’ll be hunting me for sure.”
“Who?”
“The senator, his mother, that little killer the cops told you about.” He glanced to the side as if suddenly scared and lowered his voice. “Not to mention the first Mrs. Byrne, if she ever got an inkling of the truth. Trust me on this, that would be a frightening thing indeed.” “Tell me about it.”
“No, boyo, I’ve been too long here already. Remember the scare at Ponzio’s? It’s time I get back on the road.”
“Dad?”
“Kyle, son, I’ve got no choice. But you can come along if you choose. I’ve enough for two tickets. Have you ever seen the way the country unfurls on a slow trip west?”
“No.”
“It’s a grand sight, boyo, something to share and build on. But those considerations are for after. We need to focus on the here and the now. It will be dangerous in there. You need to keep your wits about you. And we’re agreed on the plan?”
“Sure,” said Kyle, “we’re agreed.”
“And everything’s clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Now, that must be the gate. I’ll duck down so the cameras don’t catch me.”
Kyle pulled up to the gate, leaned over and pushed the button to the squawk box. There was no response, so he pushed it again. And again. He waited, figuring that a fourth time might be rude, but after a few moments he thought what the hell and pushed it once more. He looked around for the camera, saw it turning like a robot’s head above the gate. He gave it a wave, and at that very moment the gate slowly swung open. Kyle drove through.
The lawn was wide and open as it rose toward a cold stone monstrosity of a mansion with huge gray pillars and wings wrapped around it like a great Gothic bat. Lights dimly illuminated the circular gravel drive, leaving dark blobs of shadow across the pillars and the front door. The windows in front were all dark. Kyle drove into the circular drive, stopped in a gulf of shadows between two weak patches of light, killed the engine. He tapped his father’s knee, and his father sat back up in the front seat.
“I guess this is it,” said Kyle. He looked into his father’s eyes once more before he opened the door. The car beeped, and he pulled out the key to silence it. He pocketed the key as he climbed out of the car and slammed shut the door. He leaned into the open window.
“Whatever happens in there, I’m really glad you came back.”
“As am I, son.”
“Whatever happens, know that I love you.”
“Nothing but good will happen, don’t you worry.”
“Okay,” said Kyle. “I won’t.” Pause. “I suppose I’ll need the file now.”
“Of course, yes,” said his father as he raised his hand and offered the black folder. When Kyle took hold, it was the first time he had touched the file since he had given it to his father in his old house. He had to tug twice till the old man released it.
“Good luck, boyo,” said Liam Byrne. “And remember the plan.”
“I’ll remember,” said Kyle before straightening up, looking at the creepy old place. He heard something rustling to the left of the house. His breath caught, and his head turned quickly. He could just make out a small garden there, but nothing else. A squirrel, most likely. Or a chipmunk, a frightening little chipmunk. He took a deep breath to settle his nerves. This was delicate work, he couldn’t be so jumpy. Calm down, boy, he told himself.
Inside the car his father put on a set of headphones connected to the receiver. Kyle tapped his chest, his father raised a thumb. It was time. He took another deep breath, and then, with file in hand, he headed across the drive, up the stairs to the portico, past the pillars and to the front door. He knocked a couple of times, heard nothing, reached to the handle, pressed down the latch.
The lock released, the door opened. Kyle Byrne stepped inside, into the darkness.