“W
E NEED TO KNOW, Finn,”
McGuire said.
“What?” Finn asked. He felt disconnected from the world. So much so that he couldn’t tell how much of the disorientation was from the electric shock he’d sustained when he was abducted, the surreal nature of his circumstances, or the realization of Preston’s betrayal. In any case, he wasn’t sure he had the strength left to fight.
“How you found these names, Finn. We need to know.” He was still leaning forward, within the circle of light cast on Finn by the powerful beam shining in his eyes. Finn could see other shadows moving behind McGuire, and wondered if Preston was in the room. He supposed it didn’t matter.
Finn thought for a moment, focusing on McGuire’s question. It seemed like years ago that he and Bostick had made the list. In his foggy state he was having trouble remembering how the whole exercise started in the first place. “They were in the case notes,” he finally mumbled. “Three of them were, at least. I thought they might make good witnesses.”
“Make good witnesses?” It was clear McGuire wasn’t following Finn’s point. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He leaned in farther. “Whose notes were the names in?”
Finn’s head lolled slightly to the side, as if he were drunk. That’s how he felt. “Natalie’s,” he said. The mere act of mentioning her name brought him back to the reality of his situation. He looked at McGuire, his apathy hardening into anger. “Why?” he asked with discernible hostility.
McGuire seemed startled by the shift in Finn’s demeanor, and he leaned back in his chair, allowing some space between them. “Why what?”
“Why did you have to kill Natalie?” Finn’s question was asked with a hatred so fierce it caught McGuire by surprise.
He glared at Finn as he considered his answer. “I didn’t,” he said at last.
Finn’s eyes never left McGuire’s. “Who did, then? Preston?” He spat out the question, watching carefully to see McGuire’s reaction. McGuire didn’t flinch, but Finn thought he saw a shift in the shadows behind the mob boss. After a moment, McGuire smiled—a thin, toothy, evil grin that successfully conveyed a sense of superiority Finn hadn’t guessed at. Finn was starting to realize how badly he’d underestimated McGuire.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Finn,” he said. “And I think we are getting a little off track here. I need
my
questions answered, and I need them answered quickly. If I have to, I’ll start presenting you with some motivation, but, trust me, you don’t want it to get to that point.” He paused and looked at the list. “I gather you found some of these names in Natalie Caldwell’s case notes, but how did you find the others? Was that Bostick’s role in this?”
“Bostick.” Finn nodded as he felt the guilt of having dragged Bostick into the mess that led to his death. He should have listened more carefully to the ex-cop’s concerns. “Another person you killed for no reason,” Finn commented. “What’s this whole thing worth to you? A few hundred thousand? A million? You’re so fucking pathetic!”
Finn was so preoccupied with his own anger, and McGuire moved so quickly, that Finn didn’t even see the punch coming. McGuire’s massive fist smashed into his nose, and Finn could hear the cartilage pop. Seconds later he felt the rush of blood down his face.
McGuire was already leaning back in his chair by the time Finn realized what had happened. McGuire looked down at his hand, examining his knuckles for a moment. Then he sighed heavily. “I don’t have any interest in hurting you, Finn. You seem like an okay guy, so don’t make me do that again. You can’t be so stupid that you’d think this was simply over a million dollars, or even several million. And you should keep in mind that I wasn’t the one who got Bostick involved in this situation; you did that all on your own. As for Natalie, all I’ll say is that I didn’t have anything to do with her death.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Yeah, well, fortunately for me, I don’t give a fuck what you believe. What I do care about is what you can tell me. Let’s get back to this list.” He tapped the papers in his lap. “Who else knows about this?”
“Fuck you,” Finn hissed defiantly.
“Wrong answer,” McGuire said. He reached over and grabbed the pinkie finger on Finn’s left hand, bending it backward with a brutal twist. Finn heard the bone break before the pain shot up his arm, spreading through his body like a wave.
Finn screamed in pain. “No one!” he yelled in agony. “No one else knows!”
“No one?” McGuire seemed ready to pounce, and, when he leaned forward, Finn could see the gun holstered underneath his jacket. He suddenly realized he might have signed his own death warrant.
He shook his head. “No one yet,” he said.
“Now, that’s very interesting,” McGuire said. “What should I assume from that?”
Finn was having trouble concentrating because of the pain coming from his finger. He gulped for air as his mind worked quickly. “I made copies,” he lied. “I made copies and I put them in a safe-deposit box. If I die, they’ll be found eventually.”
McGuire frowned. “Where?” he growled.
“I can get them for you.”
McGuire grunted in disgust.
“What do you think? I’m going to let you go so that you can gather them up and bring them back to me?”
“I was hoping,” Finn conceded.
“I don’t think so, Finn,” McGuire said after a moment. “Instead, why don’t you tell me where you hid these supposed copies, and I’ll send someone to check out your story.”
“You can’t,” Finn protested. “The bank requires a photo ID, and they have my picture on their computer system to verify who I am. Even if I gave you the key, you couldn’t get in, and they’d call the cops to investigate.”
“Well then, Finn, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a problem, doesn’t it?” McGuire thought for a moment more. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you give me the name of the bank, and I’ll have someone check it out.”
The pain emanating from Finn’s broken finger was exquisite, and yet his brain no longer fully acknowledged it. He’d reached the point of fear beyond pain, where his only focus was on survival. As he regarded McGuire, he knew for certain that he was dealing with a man unencumbered by a conscience. He couldn’t be manipulated, Finn was sure. He had to find someone else to bargain with—someone who might think twice before putting a bullet in his brain. Suddenly, he focused on the shadows hovering behind McGuire.
“I’ll tell you the name of the bank,” Finn said. “But only if I can talk to Preston first.” He looked at McGuire again. “Where is he? Is he here?”
McGuire’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think Holland is involved in any of this?” he asked.
The pain in Finn’s finger was overwhelming. “Oh come on,” he said. “Just cut the bullshit. Preston’s your lawyer. He was having an affair with Natalie. He’s the one who knew I was going to the office to get the list. Is he behind you?” Finn spoke in the direction of the shadows. “I see him face-to-face or you get nothing out of me.”
McGuire scratched his head for a moment, as if considering his options. Then he shook his head and leaned forward again. “Sorry, that’s strike two, Finn.” He grabbed the next finger up from Finn’s pinkie and snapped it like a twig.
Finn screamed in agony. It was a loud, piercing scream that filled the entire room and echoed off the walls. McGuire screamed right back into his face—a horrible, bloodthirsty scream that shocked Finn almost as much as the pain. “See, no one’s going to hear us out here.” McGuire leaned forward again and punched him hard in the mouth, almost knocking him off the chair. “Wise up, Finn. It’s only going to get worse from here on out.”
Finn could feel the blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth. The metallic taste sent a new wave of terror running through him. It took all his concentration not to break, but he knew he had to hold on if he had any chance of surviving. He had to get Preston involved. His eyes watered as he fought back the fear. “Is he here?” Finn croaked. “Can’t he even face me?”
“Tell me what I want to know, Finn, and we can end this little morality play,” McGuire said, although Finn could read in his eyes that he hoped the game would continue.
“Fuck you, McGuire!” Finn spat.
“Fuck me? No, I don’t think so. I think fuck you. I think you don’t want to be pissing me off any more. I think you want to be making friends. I want to know where this bank is. Now.”
“Not until I talk to Preston.” Finn held out in spite of his agony. “I want to see his goddamned eyes when he tells me how he killed Natalie!”
“It’s not going to happen, Finn. What’s going to happen is, we’re going to keep going round and round, and I’m going to keep hurting you until you tell me what I want to know.”
“Then I guess you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” Finn said with all the bravado he had left. “I’m not talking until Preston comes out of the shadows.” He kept telling himself that if he could just get Preston involved in the interrogation, he might be able to talk his way out of his predicament.
McGuire shrugged. “Have it your way.” He reached forward again and pulled back Finn’s middle finger, pausing just as he reached the point at which the bone was ready to break. He smiled at Finn. “Last chance,” he said.
“Fuck you.” Finn almost choked on the words as he tried to brace himself. McGuire pushed the finger back and it snapped instantly, drawing a fresh round of screams from Finn. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he could hold out. His will had just about ebbed and he was on the edge of blind panic.
“Preston!” he screamed. “You bastard! Let me see your face!”
“Let it go, Finn,” McGuire said.
“Fuck you! Preston is the one who started this! He’s the one who killed Natalie! He’s the one I want to see!” Finn was beginning to lose it.
McGuire shook his head.
“Preston!” Finn screamed out again.
“You really want to go for a fourth finger?”
“Preston!” Finn’s screams were starting to dissolve into agonized sobs as the pain and exhaustion began to overtake him. For a brief moment the only sound in the room was that of Finn gasping for breath.
Then, just as Finn was considering giving up, one of the dark figures behind McGuire spoke. “Preston didn’t kill Natalie, Finn. I did.”
Finn recognized the voice, and wondered if he was hallucinating.
T
HE TUNNEL WAS COLD
and damp and cramped. Kozlowski led the way, hunched over, slogging his heavy legs forward as his flashlight crept over the dark walls of the crypt, illuminating the nitre that hung glittering on the damp stone. Flaherty could almost hear Fortunato’s cough echoing from within the imagination of a young private stationed at Fort Independence more than a century before.
The passageway was much longer than they’d anticipated, and the going was slow in the darkness. More than once their progress was interrupted by the squealing of rats as Kozlowski accidentally upset a nest.
Flaherty was behind him, and could see almost nothing. Occasionally she let her hand brush against her partner’s suit jacket to make sure of where she was. She noticed that Loring, who was following her, was in a similar predicament, although she was not wearing a jacket. As a result, Loring’s hand periodically brushed against her hips, or the area just below the small of her back. She had a brief thought of Janet Reed, the young woman she’d seen in Loring’s office, tennis racquet at the ready, and wondered whether Loring was being more aggressive than necessary in keeping his bearings. She let the thought pass, though, so that she could concentrate on more immediate concerns.
She couldn’t keep her mind off Finn, and the thought of what might be happening to him turned her stomach. She wished she’d listened to him. She’d been so careful not to let her personal feelings bias her in Finn’s direction that she may have let herself become biased against him.
Please let him be alive
, she prayed silently.
She no longer even considered the possibility that he was guilty, that he’d actually killed Natalie Caldwell. She couldn’t. She’d been back and forth too many times on the issue, and had consciously decided to land on a position once and for all, if only to save her sanity. Finn was innocent, and that’s all there was to it.
Suddenly, Kozlowski stopped short. “I think I’ve got it,” he whispered.
Flaherty looked up. Just in front of Kozlowski on the ceiling was a break in the stone. A steel and wood square was cut into the granite, like a hatch cover on an old ship.
The sergeant moved the flashlight from the trapdoor to the faces of Flaherty and Loring. “Are we ready?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Loring said. He looked a little green to Kozlowski, but at least he had his gun drawn.
“All right,” Flaherty said. “You handle the door, Koz, and I’m coming right up underneath your arms with my gun, just in case there’s someone waiting for us.”
“Be ready to shoot,” Kozlowski said. “If McCluen got this wrong, there’s a possibility that we’re coming up right into the room where McGuire’s holding Finn. If that happens, the only advantage we’ll have is the element of surprise—and that will only give us a few seconds.”
“I know,” Flaherty said. “I’ll get through the opening quickly, you guys just make sure you’re right behind me.” Loring nodded and flipped the safety on his gun.
Kozlowski handed the flashlight to Flaherty, who took it and held it parallel to the barrel of her gun in a two-handed grip, and then pointed both at the trapdoor. “Ready when you are,” she whispered.
Kozlowski squatted under the hatch cover. The tunnel was only around four feet high, so all he needed to do was to straighten his legs and push the door over his head and there would be plenty of room in which Flaherty would be able to maneuver. He put his hands on the rusted steel ties that held the trapdoor together, took a deep breath, and fired his weight upward.
As soon as the door was raised, Flaherty popped her head into the opening, following the beam of light that guided her gun in a sweep around the room.
“All clear,” she said quietly after a moment. Then she pulled back into the tunnel, and she and Loring helped Kozlowski push the hatch cover out of the way, sliding it on the stone floor above.
One by one they pulled themselves through the opening into a small, dark room. Gray steel government-issue filing cabinets and desks were stacked along the walls. Apparently the room was a storage area for files and other junk that would likely never again see the light of day.
“Tigh said that the room where they conduct their interrogations is only fifty feet away to the right,” Loring reminded.
Flaherty nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Tigh said to wait for his signal,” Loring warned.
“Are you kidding?” Flaherty hissed. “For all we know, they could be killing Finn right now. We’re not even sure if McCluen ever made it into the fort. We can’t wait.”
“Look, if we go busting in there without knowing what we’re up against, we’re just as likely to get everyone killed—including Mr. Finn,” Loring argued back. “Believe me, Tigh McCluen is very resourceful. We’ll be better off if we wait for his signal.”
“Are you crazy! We’re right here, and we’re not going to do anything? That’s insane. Koz, tell this asshole we’re going in now.”
“No, I think he’s right, Lieutenant. We’re better off waiting to see if McCluen pulls off his end of this.”
“What are you saying? We should just sit here?”
“I’m saying we should wait.” Kozlowski looked at his watch. Then he looked up pointedly at Loring. “For five minutes.”
Fort Independence’s heavy metal door was open just a crack. Tigh looked up at the giant edifice—twenty feet of stone hanging over him, foreboding in the darkness. Even from that steep angle, he could see the long grass growing from the earthen ramparts on the top of the fort. He breathed heavily twice, taking in the heavy sea air and enjoying it as if it were his last.
It’s been a damned good run, Tigh
, he said to himself. Then he pushed the door open a little wider so he could slide his huge frame in.
It was pitch-black inside, or so it seemed at first. The only windows in the Castle were the raised wedge-shaped openings on the water side, designed to allow the soldiers to fire on any enemy vessels that might approach Boston from the sea. There were no openings near the giant door, and it took a long moment for Tigh’s eyes to adjust. Even after they had, it was so dark he could barely make out the outline of the wide corridor running off the entryway, down the interior side of the fort. Still, Tigh knew where he was headed. He was ashamed at the number of times he’d been to the Castle before, and he felt a sharp stab of guilt at the pain he’d inflicted within the stone labyrinth. It helped somewhat to remind himself that he’d had few choices in his life, and that most, if not all, of the men he’d tortured were people who’d joined the game freely. Since civilians caught in the web of organized crime almost always caved in to the threat of violence long before a trip to the Castle was necessary, this particular spot was generally reserved for rival gang members or those of their own crew who were suspected of treachery.
These were rationalizations, Tigh knew, though, and they ultimately provided only shallow relief from the sins of his past.
He worked his way along the dark corridor, walking softly and following the stone walls around the first two corners. When he came to the third corner, he could see a faint light filtering down the stone hallway, and he heard low voices coming from an anteroom off to the left.
He crept close, hugging the wall as he stole to within feet of the doorway, listening until he was sure he heard Finn’s voice mixing in with others coming from the room. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least Finn was alive. Now Tigh just needed to figure out how to get him out of there.