Brothers and Bones (38 page)

“That someone’s on his way. Probably several someones, with guns. We’ve gotta get out of here right now.”

Bonz hurried to the front door, threw the deadbolt, and opened the door a crack. He peered out into Louisburg Square.

“Looks clear.”

I looked down at Lippincott lying on the floor. For a second, I feared Bonz’s blow had killed him, then I saw a shallow rise of his shallow chest.

“You bastard,” I said to his unconscious form, “who did you call? I mean, whom. I mean, fuck you.”

“Let’s go, Charlie.”

I followed Bonz out the door. We ran down Mount Vernon Street, away from Louisburg Square, Bonz slipping with his ever-surprising speed from shadow to shadow, flowing like dark water, until we reached the corner of West Cedar Street, a block away. He pulled me into the darkness of a brownstone doorway.

Mount Vernon is one-way, so we knew that they—whoever “they” were—would be coming from the opposite direction. Assuming, of course, that they were coming by car. There was the chance that they’d park nearby and approach Lippincott’s brownstone on foot, in which case they could theoretically come up behind us. So while Bonz watched Lippincott’s place, I kept my eyes trained on the semidark, lamp-lit street behind us. Twenty seconds later, two cars with darkened headlights pulled quietly to the curb a block away from Lippincott’s, two blocks from where we were hiding. Eight car doors opened and I noticed that the dome lights inside the vehicles did not come on. Eight figures emerged. The car doors closed very quietly. Four of the figures walked past the front door and disappeared around the corner, presumably to cover any rear exits. The other four men moved quickly but quietly to Lippincott’s big oak door. The biggest guy, the one in front, walked with a slight limp I’d come to know well. Bonz and I turned away, moved as quietly as possible up West Cedar for half a block, then ran like hell.

FORTY-ONE

Bonz and I both knew what we’d seen at Lippincott’s. Siracuse’s men, with Grossi in the lead. United States Attorney Andrew Lippincott, the most important federal prosecutor in Massachusetts, appointed by the president of the United States himself, my mentor, had dropped a dime on us. And he’d called the mob. Not the cops. Not the FBI. But Uncle Carmen, his sworn enemy.

Lippincott’s actions left me feeling dazed and a little nauseated, like I’d been sideswiped at high speed on the interstate, forced through half a dozen dizzying three-sixties before spinning into a ditch. This didn’t make any sense. I knew—I
knew
beyond doubt—that Lippincott despised Carmen Siracuse. When he’d spoken of the mob boss over the years, the look in his eyes couldn’t have been harder, the venom in his voice couldn’t have been more poisonous, or more real. He couldn’t possibly have faked that. So why would he turn us over to Siracuse?

I sighed and pulled my coat collar tighter against my throat to keep out the chill wind that suddenly gusted, whipping scraps of paper and plastic bags into a frenzy in front of me, then sweeping them away into the dark. September would be giving way to October in a few days and the New England nights were growing chillier. Not a pleasant time to find yourself on the streets of Boston. But that’s where we were.

After leaving Lippincott’s, we decided to hole up for a while, somewhere out of harm’s way, away from Mafia men with guns and pituitary disorders and hard-ons to make their names by taking us down, and away from the cops who wanted us just as badly. We had to find somewhere to rest, to think things through. But seeing as we’d already been made at the Stay-Long Motel, it seemed too risky to rent a room somewhere else. It was better to stay away from public places entirely. And we couldn’t go to a friend’s. None of Bonz’s friends had homes that weren’t made of cardboard, and my friends had either been murdered recently or were sure to be the subject of surveillance, either by the authorities or the mob, or both.

So I entered Bonz’s world, the one he’d inhabited for the past thirteen years. The world of the homeless.

For a while, we made our hurried way through the city on foot, traveling the most shadowed streets we could find, passing, it seemed to me, from the world of light into the world of shadows, of dark streets and darker futures.

A while later, I was sitting on the litter-strewn ground leaning back against a thick, cement support column, under an overpass beneath Storrow Drive. We weren’t far from Kenmore Square, where, just a few blocks away, college kids gave their parents’ money to bartenders in the pubs near Fenway Park for beer and hard alcohol, and to pushers on the street corners for the drug du jour. Not far away, young people were laughing, flirting, dancing, making out, being obnoxious, being wealthy, enjoying themselves with reckless abandon, living dangerously, hooking up with strangers, doing all the things people in this city—and just about every other city—do with their evenings. And there I was, just around the corner, crouched under an overpass, the cold concrete around me littered with the detritus of lives that had been thrown on the scrap heap. There was a rotting, filthy mattress, now too far gone to be of use even to people who hadn’t slept in a bed in years. There were empty suitcases, empty boxes, empty bottles, evidence of empty, discarded lives. I wondered how many homeless people had huddled through their nights in this very spot over the years. How many had slept in places just like this throughout Boston? Throughout the country? While ten feet above, people in cars, people still part of the world, roared over them. Graffiti decorated the cement support columns holding up the overpass. One particular statement in bold red letters seemed to say it all—“Fuck this.” Below that, someone had painted “Help yourself,” though I couldn’t imagine what anyone would want to help himself to down here.

I almost thought I could hear the laughter of the people from the world above not far away, enjoying the evening, unaware of the daily misery practically beneath their feet. Not long ago, it could have been me up there.

Though it was clear that probably hundreds of people had spent time in this dirty, lonely place over the years, at that moment there were just five of us. Bonz and I sat leaning against the same column. A few feet away two other men in rags huddled over something, perhaps eating. I didn’t want to know what it was they had. The fifth person was a ways off, squatting on his haunches beside a shopping cart filled with plastic bags. From what I could see, the bags contained aluminum cans and plastic bottles. The man was staring at the rest of us, suspicion etched as clearly on his face as the lines that time and street life had carved there, as if he believed the four of us would set upon him suddenly and kill him for his aluminum and plastic treasures. I gave him a tired smile that I hoped was nonetheless reassuring. He gave me the finger in return and I didn’t blame him for it.

I looked from the shopping-cart guy to the two diners and back again, with a touch of suspicion of my own. Too many people wanted me caught. Too many knew my face. Perhaps one of these street people had passed a newspaper rack and noticed my picture on the front page. Maybe he recognized me, was biding his time, looking for a chance to slip casually away, only to return with the cops or the mob. It would probably pocket him a few twenties, enough to keep him in food or alcohol for a week, at least. Bonz had assured me, however, that these people neither knew nor cared who I was. They had problems of their own and didn’t give a rat’s dick about mine. His words, not mine.

I thought again about Lippincott’s betrayal. Only two explanations. Either Lippincott was dirty and in bed with Siracuse, or he’d made a mistake somewhere along the line, a mistake Siracuse had kept in the bank until now, when he could use it to blackmail the U.S. Attorney. Whatever the answer was, I wasn’t going to find it sitting on my ass. I looked at my watch. Only ten thirty, but I was exhausted. I closed my eyes. My mind was spinning, my thoughts tumbling, rattle-thumping around my brain like wet sneakers in a clothes dryer. I needed rest. I didn’t know if I’d be able to sleep with the hard ground under my butt, the cold concrete against my back, the cars rumbling by overhead, while sharing the space with Bonz and three hungry, suspicious homeless people. But I intended to try, at least for a little while. I tried to relax my mind, but my thoughts careened wildly around inside my skull. How had I slipped from federal prosecutor to murder suspect on the run, with a list of offenses growing every hour, it seemed? How had my boss and mentor, whom I trusted and respected, turned out to be someone not deserving of that trust or, probably, that respect?

Thank God for Jessica. She still loved me, or at least she thought she might. Even though her father—

I opened my eyes. A thought began to creep toward the front of my mind, like a panther stalking prey through tall grass. I didn’t want it to burst from cover. I didn’t want to consider it. But I had to. My survival could depend on it. If the great Andrew Lippincott was somehow involved, was it too great a stretch to believe that his daughter was, too? Lippincott had introduced us, after all. He’d seemed pleased about our relationship, maybe even encouraged it. Could it be that he put Jessica up to it? Did she enter my life, my heart, just to spy on me, the way Angel had spied on me? If so, would she go so far as to accept my marriage proposal? Would she have gone through with the marriage if necessary? The more I thought about her, the more I began to wonder. For the first few years of our relationship she’d tried to convince me to stop looking into Jake’s disappearance. Was that because she knew the truth and didn’t want me to learn it? And after I told her about Bonz, she was suddenly fully behind the idea of me finding him. Was that so I’d lead her father to him? I could definitely see Lippincott wanting to use Jess to manipulate me, or to obtain information. The question was, would Jessica have agreed to do it? And, if so, could she have pulled it off so convincingly, pretending to care for me while spying for Daddy?

I just didn’t see it. Maybe I was blinded by my feelings for her. Maybe I was being stupid and naive. But I just didn’t think she had faked everything, every emotion, every laugh, every tender moment, for six years. No, I didn’t believe that, I refused to—at least until I was forced to do so. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel an uncomfortable, slightly nauseating sense of unease deep inside.

With questions swirling in my mind like windblown litter, I finally fell asleep.

* * *

Ever since Jake disappeared, I’ve dreamed of him often. Sometimes it makes me sad. Most of the time, though, I don’t mind because it’s the only chance I get to see him. Jake showed up under the overpass that night. Everything was very much like it had been when my eyes were open. The two homeless guys, who seemed to be companions of a sort, were lying together in the dirt by one of the cement columns, one of them on his side in the fetal position, the other lying on his back, using his friend’s leg as a pillow. The third homeless guy sat in the shadows, watching, his wide, bloodshot eyes staring at me, one hand resting always on his shopping cart. To my right, Bonz snored away, his back against the column, one hand in his lap, the other in the pocket of his jacket, presumably wrapped around his gun. I looked to my left and saw Jake sitting there, his legs drawn up, his arms folded and resting on top of them. I smiled at him and he smiled back.

“How you doing?” I asked, as I always did.

“I’m just Jake,” he responded.

“I’m knee-deep in it, Jake. They’re out there, everywhere, looking for me.”

“I know.”

“I can’t figure out your clue.”

“You will.”

“Lippincott ratted on us.”

“Bastard.”

“Yeah. I can’t figure out how he’s involved.”

“You will.”

“You keep saying that, but I’m running out of time and I’ve got nowhere to go, no one to turn to.”

“Sure you do.”

“No, I don’t. Besides Bonz, there’s no one. I can’t drag Jessica into this. And I can’t see how she could help, anyway. The same with my friends at work. There’s no one I can count on. No one to turn to.”

“Yes, there is. You just haven’t opened the right file yet.” I looked at him, confused. He added, “You should listen to me, Charlie. Listen to me.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant but, as I looked at him, a line, like a crack, ran slowly down his handsome face, starting from his eye, moving down over one cheek, across the bridge of his nose, then trailing away near his jaw. Another crack began by his right ear and made its short way to the corner of his mouth. Pits grew in his face, the once-smooth visage growing rough, textured, like concrete. As I watched, red, spray-painted letters appeared on his forehead, from left to right, as if sprayed by an invisible hand. “Help yourself.” Jake smiled at me sadly as he faded away. Soon, the place where he’d been leaning against the cement column was empty.

I opened my eyes, which I’d thought were already open, and reached into our backpack. I pulled out Jake’s notes, pushed to my feet, and walked over to where a lamp on the overpass street high above carelessly dropped enough light for me to read by. I knew what I was looking for and I flipped until I found it.

Ten seconds later I shook Bonz’s shoulder and he drew his gun, causing the shopping cart guy crouching in the corner to jerk violently, rattling his cans.

“Relax,” I said to Bonz. “We have to go now.”

“Where?”

“To get some help.”

FORTY-TWO

The name beside the mailbox in the apartment building’s foyer read “N. Rantham.” It hadn’t been easy to find a cab at midnight, especially looking as ragtag as we did, but we finally got lucky. It looked like we’d gotten lucky again. Rantham still lived there.

I’d gone back into the file cabinets in my mind, using that admittedly powerful memory I have, to come up with Rantham’s name and address. Eight years ago, when I was still a green Assistant DA, I’d brought Nicholas James Rantham up on numerous charges, all relating to illegal use of a computer. The guy was a hacker. He’d stolen identities, committed fraud, and wreaked mayhem with malicious bugs and viruses he’d created. He was a small-timer then. I hadn’t heard his name recently, but I was running on a different playing field lately, so, for all I knew, Rantham could have been a reformed, rehabilitated individual. Or he could have worked his way into the big time. I wasn’t sure which I hoped, frankly. I just knew we needed his skills. He had a computer, which we needed, and the ability to find information that wasn’t necessarily available to the general public, which we also needed.