Dead End (19 page)

24

Connor sat in the darkened room, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass until it spun like a whirlpool. If there ever was a time in his life when he wanted oblivion, it was now.

He’d been en route from his weeklong rest in Essaouira to his latest assignment when he’d gotten the call from John Mancini on his cell.

“Call me from a secure line. Now.”

It had taken Connor another hour to return to the Villa André and make the call. He’d spent every minute since wishing he had not.

His cousin Brendan was dead, shot by a fellow agent who’d seen Brendan with a gun pointed at Annie McCall’s back.

At first he’d been tempted to laugh out loud. How crazy was that scenario? Brendan holding a gun on Annie? Was he kidding?

Then came the bombshell.

From all the evidence, it appeared that Brendan had been the one who shot and killed Connor’s own brother Dylan.

For Connor, the world had tilted and was now spinning off its axis. None of this could be true. Brendan couldn’t have killed Dylan, Connor had told John. Brendan hadn’t even been there that night.

“Actually, he was. His presence was mentioned on a report. A report he may have killed to have kept secret.”

And then John had told him about Melissa Lowery’s report, and her disappearance, and her death . . . and her marriage to Grady.

No way would Brendan have killed the woman his brother loved, Connor had insisted. This is all insanity.

“Connor. If he killed Dylan, what would have stopped him from killing a woman he barely knew?”

“What are you doing to determine whether or not he did in fact kill Dylan?”

“We’ve confiscated the weapons from his house. We’re going to start running ballistics tests this morning.”

Then came the kicker.

“Connor,” John said, “can you think of any reason why Brendan would have wanted you dead?”

“Me? You think he was coming after me next?”

“No. The theory is that you might have been the original target.”

“That’s just crazy.”

“Think for a minute, would you? I know this is all coming as a shock, but put your emotions aside and think. Is there any reason Brendan would have wanted you dead? Anything you had over on him, or anything that you knew that could hurt him, anything questionable about his actions, anything strange that struck you as odd or out of the ordinary. Anything he seemed secretive or evasive about?”

“Santa Estela.” The words left Connor’s lips before he’d even thought of them.

“What about it?”

“A couple of years back, I was there right before the elections . . .”

“I remember.”

“On the night I was to leave, I was on my way down to the dock for the boat that was to pick me up, and I took a shortcut through an alley that ran between some abandoned warehouses. There was a deal going down; I watched from the alley. Six, seven men, a truck filled with kids. One of me. I was trying to figure out what to do when I ran into Brendan.”

“You ran into Brendan in the alley?” John had been clearly surprised.

“He walked in one end while I was at the other. Almost didn’t recognize him at first, it was dark, and let’s face it, the last person you expect to run into under those circumstances is a member of your own family.”

“What was he doing there?”

“He told me he was on the op that was just about to close down the kiddie traffic.”

“What op?”

“The operation to shut down the traffic in children coming out of Santa Estela. He told me not to worry about the kids in the truck because he was part of the team that was shutting it down that night. When I asked him about it later, he blew me off as if it wasn’t important, but an op like that could have had international repercussions and I . . .”

“Connor, there was no team in Santa Estela that had been sent in to work on the child-slave trade.”

“He must have been working for another unit then, because he told me—”

“Listen to me. He was working for me. He’s always worked for me, and only for me. There was no op. He was there to keep an eye on the rebels, to keep the political situation stable.”

“John, you’re wrong. They closed it down that night, he told me they did. There’s a whole file on this, he wrote a report—”

“Did you see it? Did he show you the report?”

“Well, no, but he told me—”

“Connor, we’re talking about the man who may have killed your brother. Why are you defending him?”

“I can’t believe any of this. The Brendan I knew—”

“Just how well did you know him?”

Connor had paused to take a deep breath.

“If any of what you’re telling me is true, I’d have to say I didn’t know him at all.”

There’d been talk after that of a memorial service to be held the following week.

“You might want to think about coming home for it, Connor.”

“I don’t have to think about it. I won’t be there.”

“I can arrange for you to come home.”

“That bastard.” Anger had started to take over. “The bastard. How could he have pulled the trigger on Dylan?”

“Well, like I said, he might not have realized he was shooting Dylan. It was dark, you were supposed to be there with Aidan that night. I don’t think Dylan was the target.”

“You think he wanted to kill me because I’d seen him in Santa Estela? You think he was part of that, selling truckloads of children? There’s no way he would have been involved in something like that, John.”

“Think it through. Why else would he have been there? We know there was no op to shut it down, so if he wasn’t shutting it down—and we know he lied to you about that—he must have been part of it. It had to occur to him that sooner or later, you would ask about that, and there was the danger that you’d figure out what was going on.”

“You really think he was involved in the trafficking?”

“I think he had to have been. And he had to know that sooner or later, you would be asking about how that all went down.”

“I did,” Connor had said softly.

“What?”

“I did ask. A week or so ago. I left a message on his answering machine, asking him what happened.”

“Why? What made you think of it?”

“Annie was asking me about Santa Estela. She knew I’d been there, and her new guy, that detective from Pennsylvania, had a murder vic who might have had ties to Santa Estela.” He had stopped to recall exactly what Annie had said. “I think it was more than one vic, young girls, and there was a question about some tattoos.”

“Did you tell Brendan that Annie had been asking?”

Connor closed his eyes, trying to remember what he’d said on the message. “Honest to God, John, I don’t remember if I did or not.”

There was silence while each digested what had been said.

“Is there a chance that Brendan wanted to kill Annie because I told him she was asking questions? Jesus, John, I don’t know.”

Before he hung up, Connor had asked, “How’s my dad doing? Have you spoken to my uncle Frank?”

“I spoke with your brother. Maybe you should give him a call. There was some talk about who would be the pallbearers.”

“Well, they can count me out. No fucking way.” The anger resurfaced. “Son of bitch murdered my brother, I’m going to carry his casket? How could Aidan even consider it?”

“I don’t think Aidan is thinking about honoring the dead as much as he’s thinking about honoring the living.”

Connor had let that sink in. Regardless of what Brendan might have done, his father—Connor’s uncle Frank—would be devastated at the loss of his son. To lose a son under these circumstances would be humiliating for a man—a family—who had served the Bureau long and well.

“Call Aidan, Connor,” John had said. “And if you change your mind about coming home, just let me know. I’ll clear it.”

“Don’t expect to hear from me.”

Connor had hung up and had gone to the balcony to look out over the water, his eyes stinging with tears. He’d had a hell of a time processing the information he’d received. His cousin had wanted to kill him, but shot and killed his brother instead. Then he himself was shot and killed while apparently planning on killing Annie.

What the hell had happened to his world?

He thought of Brendan as a young boy, almost a decade younger than Connor. He’d been the quiet one, the one who always held to the background. There’d been a time when he and Dylan had been adversaries of sorts, but that had long since passed. No, he couldn’t believe that Brendan could have fired that shot. Brendan, who had sobbed as he’d carried Dylan’s coffin down the steps of St. Bernadette’s Church, Brendan, who had comforted Connor’s father as well as his own.

Connor had started drinking after the conversation with John, and hadn’t stopped. Unfortunately, the whiskey hadn’t made him drunk, hard as he’d tried to silence the voices in his head.

He had called Aidan and berated him for even considering bearing Brendan’s coffin.

“It’s not for him, Connor,” Aidan had said. “It’s for Uncle Frank. And for Dad. You remember how Dad leaned on Uncle Frank through Dylan’s—”

“Yeah, I remember.” Connor had cut him off. “But this is different. This is the bastard who killed Dylan. Of course he thought he was shooting me.”

“That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?” Aidan had said. “You’re feeling guilty because Dylan took the shots that may have been for you.”

Connor had tried to respond, but couldn’t get words out.

“Con, no one is ever going to blame you for not dying that night. Jesus, Con.”

When Connor still did not reply, Aidan had said, “Look, come home and be with us through this. Dad needs you, Uncle Frank needs you. Mia, Andrew . . . shit, Con, I need you.”

“Sorry, little brother. You do what you want. But I’ll have no part in it.”

“If you change your mind—”

“I won’t change my mind. Give everyone my love, though.”

And with that, Connor had hung up.

There were lights from the boats that still came and went in the small harbor, even at this late hour. Connor stood by the rail, watching, wishing he was on one of them.

Maybe tomorrow, he told himself. Maybe tomorrow he’d take a boat out. Maybe he’d just keep it going until it ran out of gas. And then, maybe he’d just slide overboard and let the water take him where it would.

He went back into his room, picked up the phone, and called downstairs for another bottle.

25

“How about if I just meet you at the cemetery?” Evan rolled down the window of the rental car he’d picked up at the airport and cursed himself for not checking the air-conditioning before he’d gotten onto I-95. Now he was stuck in a massive traffic jam, the temperature had risen into the high eighties already, and the fan was blowing warm.

“That’s fine, Evan,” Annie told him. “The church is going to be packed to capacity, if the number of cars already in the lot is an indication.”

“I’m surprised that so many people came out for him, a disgraced FBI agent.”

“It’s for his family. His dad has ties that go back fifty years. He and Dylan’s dad were very highly regarded in the law enforcement community. Yes, there’s certainly a lot of embarrassment, but at the same time, there’s been a lot of support. I’m really not surprised that so many people are here to pay their respects to Frank. And to Andrew, and Mia. And the others.”

“Are Connor and Aidan there?”

“Aidan was at the viewing last night. Connor apparently is having a real hard time of it, according to Mara. She said Aidan was just devastated by what’s happened, and the fact that Connor refuses to come home and support the family is really bothering him.”

“She’s been there all week?”

“Of course. She’s Aidan’s wife. She’ll stand by them.”

“Even though Brendan was going to kill you?”

“In spite of it.”

“I think you’re pretty remarkable, to go to the viewing and the funeral of the man who tried to take your life. Not to mention the fact that he murdered Dylan.”

“I’m too close to the family to not go, Evan. We talked about this. If you don’t want to come to the services, you shouldn’t feel you have to.”

“I want to be there with you.” He craned his neck to look out the window at the traffic that still hadn’t moved. “However, at this rate, I’ll be lucky if I’m out of here by noon.”

“Well, since the service here is going to start in about ten minutes, why not just plan on meeting me at the cemetery.” She was walking now. Evan could hear the click of her heels, the change in her breathing. “You have the directions?”

“Yeah. Assuming I ever get off 95 to use them. I’ll catch up with you at the cemetery.”

“Okay. Look, I’m going into the church. I’ll see you later.”

Evan ended the call and tossed the phone onto the front seat, then leaned heavily against the door. The car in front of him moved forward by about a foot, and all the other cars inched up behind one another hopefully.

There was nothing worse than a traffic jam on a major highway on a hot, steamy, humid August morning. Evan felt along the floor for the water bottle that had earlier rolled from the passenger seat and took a long drink once he’d successfully snagged it. The cars began to move, slowly at first, then a little steadier. With all the car windows down, there was a slight bit of breeze. He was debating whether to get off at the next exit and try to find the church, or simply go ahead to the cemetery, as he and Annie had discussed, when the car in front of him came to a halt, and the others stopped behind it. Traffic stalled once again, making the decision for him. He turned up the radio and searched for last night’s baseball scores.

Luther stood alongside his car and watched the faithful flock to the tent that had been erected next to the gaping hole in the earth that would serve as Brendan Shields’s last earthly home. Luther hadn’t gone to the church with the others from his unit that morning—he felt that would have been too much for the family; his presence would have been more noticeable there. But here, under the open sky, where all of the family and those closest to the dearly departed had gathered together under the tent, he could hug the back of the crowd and disappear into it. He wasn’t sure how anyone would feel about having the man who was responsible for the gathering mingling among the mourners, and thought his best bet would be to stay out of sight as much as possible.

But that was fine, as far as Luther was concerned. He’d rather be in a position where he could observe the goings-on. Once everyone arrived and the coffin was in place and the preliminaries dealt with, he’d stroll through the headstones off to his left and find an inconspicuous place for himself amid the crowd that spilled from the rear of the tent.

From his vantage point, he watched the procession of long black limos slowly approach, watched the bereaved family—a huge mass of black hats and black suits—walk together across the grassy expanse. The pallbearers gathered at the back of the hearse to carry the coffin, which the priest followed in the company of Frank Shields and his brother, Thomas, and their children.

Luther knew each of them by name, had worked with several of them over the years. He felt nothing for any of them, not even the beautiful Mia, who, once upon a time, had been the focus of many of Luther’s fondest dreams.

Other cars eased along the drive, looking for places to park and hoping to find a spot under a tree where there might be some bit of shade. It took a full twenty-five minutes for all the cars to empty and the mourners to make their way to the gathering place. From a slight rise back near a line of trees, a lone bagpiper began to play “Amazing Grace,” and even Luther was touched by the poignancy of the moment.

A fitting tribute to one who had fallen from grace, Luther was thinking as he closed the car door and started across the grass, well behind the tent and the overflow of friends and family. Once he reached his destination, he was careful to pick a spot at the very back, where no one he knew stood.

At least, he thought he had.

Then the woman in front of him turned around, and he was face-to-face with Anne Marie McCall.

She smiled, her big blue eyes brimming with tears, and patted his arm, a gesture meant to comfort him, he assumed, to show that she understood why he felt he had to be here. He smiled gently in return, as if silently communicating his thanks.

As if I would have missed this. As if I’d be anywhere else today. Brendan Shields had been a stone around his neck—had been for the past year or so—and had brought all this on himself. He’d screwed up just about everything he’d been asked to do.

It was beyond Luther to understand why any of these people mourned his loss.

Connor scanned the crowd, searching for his father and brother under the tent, but was having a hard time placing them. Finally, he located his dad in the middle of the first row of seats, between his cousin Mia and his brother Aidan. He’d catch up with them later. He knew they’d be happy to see him.

He regretted that he hadn’t arrived early enough to be there with them now, that he hadn’t been there for the past week to share the pain and the grief—and yes, the shame—with the family, especially his uncle Frank. It embarrassed him every time he realized it had taken him way too long to understand the importance of his presence here, both to himself and to his family. He hoped they would forgive him for his shortsightedness.

The crowd was huge, much larger than he would have expected, and he was wondering if the others in the family had been equally surprised at the numbers. He made his way to the back of the tent, where friends and coworkers spilled onto the grass twenty or thirty deep, and was moved by the show of support for his uncle and his cousins. He took a place in the very last row.

He nodded a silent greeting to several people from the Bureau as the priest began to pray, his words echoing through the small speakers on either side of the tent. Connor stood with his hands together, his head bowed, a sign of reverence he’d learned as a small boy in a large Catholic family. The priest finished the prayer, and the piper began to play again, a tune Connor didn’t recognize. He gazed around the mourners in the crowd in front of him and thought he recognized Annie, though in that hat, he couldn’t be certain it was her. She turned and saw him, then smiled and winked. As she turned back toward the front, a man behind her glanced back at him. Connor caught his gaze, and held it.

A shock went through him as he realized where he’d seen that face before.

In the headlights of a truck, in the shadow of abandoned warehouses, in Santa Estela . . .

The man continued to stare at Connor, at first almost quizzically, then, as if in recognition. He smiled broadly, stepped forward, and whispered something in Annie’s ear before moving to the far side of the crowd with her, one hand on her arm, the other hidden inside his jacket.

Connor moved along with them, keeping thirty feet behind, as they stepped from under the tent and made their way around the headstones and monuments. He heard footfalls behind him and spun around, his gun drawn.

Evan Crosby was moving fast to catch up. They greeted each other silently, and Evan motioned that he’d be following from the tree line. Connor nodded in agreement, and both men took off across the gently rolling terrain in pursuit of Annie and her abductor, the identity of whom was a mystery to both Connor and Evan.

The cemetery ended at a high black iron fence capped with tall spikes. It was too high to vault over, and impossible to climb. Connor approached cautiously, his gun in plain sight, slowing his step.

“So. We meet,” the man holding Annie called to him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Connor Shields.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Connor replied. “I know
what
you are, but not
who
you are.”

“Allow me. Luther Blue.” He pronounced the name defiantly.

“Luther Blue? But you’re the one who . . .” Confusion crossed Connor’s face for just a second.

“The one who shot Brendan, yes. Yes, I am.”

“I was going to say, the one who saved Annie.” He kept his eyes on Luther, willing himself not to glance at Evan, who approached Luther slowly from behind, as quiet and deliberate as a cat stalking a mouse.

Luther Blue laughed. “So the story goes.”

“What do you mean, so the story goes?”
Keep him talking,
Connor told himself.
Give Evan time to get himself into position.

Luther grinned.

“Brendan didn’t have his gun drawn, did he?”

“Well, he drew on me.”

“But not on Annie.” Connor met her eyes, and silently begged her to be silent, to be still, not to give Luther any reason to react. But she was a pro. She’d know what to do.

“It’s immaterial.” Luther shrugged. “He was planning on killing her, not there and then, but yes, it had already been decided. However, after that was set up, it occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone—you’re going to have to forgive that lousy pun—and still come off looking like a hero. You have to give me credit, it was pretty damned slick.”

“About as slick as the back of your head is going to be if you so much as blink.” Evan stood behind Luther, the barrel of his gun flush against Luther’s skull.

“I can still take her out with one shot,” Luther said calmly, as if they were discussing where to have lunch.

“You’ll be dead before your finger twitches.”

“Shall we see?” Luther remained cocky, even as he began to pale.

Evan pushed the barrel into Luther’s head.

“What do you think, Shields? Who’s your money going on?” Evan asked.

Luther’s eyes shifted back to Connor, who had not moved from his spot twenty feet away.

“My money’s always been on you, pal,” Connor said.

“Nice.” Luther smiled, careful not to move his head. “I think you two must be best buds.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Evan said. “I think you have two choices here. I think you drop the gun and take your chances with a jury, or I put a bullet through your brain right now.”

“What do you think, Agent Blue?” Connor spoke softly, evenly. “A minute ago, you were bragging about how slick you are. Think you’re slick enough to outwit a jury? Slick enough to make a deal? I’ll bet you know plenty about the kiddie slave trade, plenty the government would love to hear. Who knows, you could trade a little of this for a little of that.”

“Or,” Evan repeated, “I could put a bullet through your brain right now.”

The air was thick and the sun almost directly overhead. The four stood stock-still for a full minute. Three were holding their breaths; the fourth was weighing his options.

Finally—
clunk.

The Glock hit the ground, and Luther released his hold on Annie, who stepped away from him and into Connor’s arms. Connor knew she must be aching to go to Evan, but the scene had yet to play out.

Luther held up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Crosby, you’ve got cuffs?” Connor asked as he walked toward them.

“No.” Evan shook his head. “You’re going to have to take him in, anyway. I don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“Now he tells me,” Luther muttered.

Connor stood in front of Luther, the gun in his hand pointed straight at Luther’s chest.

“I want to know one thing. Did you kill my brother?”

“Saint Dylan?” Luther asked. “No. No, that was Brendan.”

“Do you know why?” Connor stepped closer.

“Because he thought Dylan was you.” Luther smiled and pointed in the direction of the road. “Shall we go?”

“Why did he want to kill me?”

“Because of what you’d seen in Santa Estela. He was afraid you’d ask too many questions.”

“What about Santa Estela?” Evan frowned.

“Our friend here was running a kiddie shuttle out of the country, sold them off to—where, Luther?” Connor asked.

“To whoever offered the most money, of course.”

Evan stopped and stared at Luther’s back. The man continued to walk as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Who did you sell to in Pennsylvania?” Evan asked. He called to Connor, “Stop for a minute.”

He caught up with Connor and Luther and grabbed Luther by the lapels. “Who did you sell to on the East Coast?”

“I didn’t do the selling, Agent . . .” Luther paused. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Who did the selling, Blue? Who did you give the kids to?” Evan persisted.

“They were brought to me by a contact in Santa Estela. I moved them out of the country. Where they went to once they left Santa Estela, I have no idea.”