Billy spent the night and most of the day in Fairmount Park. By the time he made his way back to the motel room, it was just after three o’clock in the afternoon.
A pair of PPD sector cars were parked about a block away in either direction.
It mattered little. Billy had everything he needed in his knapsack. One change of clothes, a hundred rounds for his weapon, over fifteen thousand dollars.
He lifted his collar, walked back down the street, toward the river.
Billy sat at the end of the bar, his right shoulder to the wall. There were only a few patrons at this hour. The televisions above the bar showed the Phillies game.
He finished his beer, ordered another. Before it arrived, he grabbed the bills from the bar, pocketed them, entered the men’s room.
He drew some paper towels from the dispenser, wetted them and washed his face, his neck, his hands. He ran his hands through his hair, dried them.
He stepped back, looked into the mirror.
It was empty.
When he returned to his seat, there were a few more patrons. He looked at the bartender as the man brought over a fresh beer.
Blue T-shirt, red hair, small ears.
Billy dropped a five on the bar. The barman took it.
The television now had a news break-in. It showed the photograph of a man.
‘Police have identified the subject as Michael Anthony Farren of Schuylkill,’ the newscaster said. ‘He is wanted in connection to multiple counts of aggravated murder. In an unprecedented move, police have released a plea from the suspect’s father, Daniel Farren, himself awaiting trial for the firebombing death of a Philadelphia woman.’
The conversations in the bar all but ceased, a few dozen eyes glued to the four TV monitors. The image switched to an older man in an orange jumpsuit. He looked right at the camera. Right at Billy.
‘Mickey, you have to turn yourself in. I talked to the police. They told me if you walk into any police station, put your weapon on the floor and your hands in the air, no harm will come to you. I believe them. You have to do this.’
A few seconds later the screen image returned to the local anchor, with a still photograph of a man superimposed on the right side of the screen.
‘If you see Michael Farren, do not attempt to apprehend him. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Call the police.’
Underneath it all they put the phone number.
As the TV returned to the game, the conversations in the bar slowly picked back up. Billy could not discern the topics, but he didn’t need to. They had nothing to do with him.
He glanced to his left, saw a man in his twenties.
Black hoodie, ripped jeans, full beard.
Next to him, another man in his twenties.
Yellow T-shirt, curly blond hair, bandage on his left wrist.
Billy turned back to his beer, finished it. He collected his change and walked out the door.
Since he had been in the tavern, a thick bank of gray clouds had settled over the city. At first Billy was a bit disoriented, thinking it was early morning, or much later in the day.
It was only rain clouds.
He put on his watch cap and sunglasses, began to make his way to the tracks. He would follow them until Ellsworth Street, and make his way across the Pocket on foot.
‘Hey, stud.’
Billy turned to the sound of the voice. There stood two men.
‘You’re a TV star.’
Black hoodie, ripped jeans, full beard.
Billy said nothing.
The other man, the shorter of the two, said, ‘They say you’re some kind of desperado. Killed an old man and a woman. Somebody’s mother. That true?’
Yellow T-shirt, curly blond hair, bandage on his left wrist.
Billy watched the tall man’s hands. They were at his sides, but his light hoodie was unzipped. He held a beer bottle in his right hand; his left hand was empty.
‘I don’t know you,’ Billy said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The shorter man took a step forward, as did his comrade. The tall one chucked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the tavern. ‘Just saw you on the TV, stud. Michael Farren. Or do they call you Mike?’
Billy felt the ground tremble slightly. A train was coming.
‘Michael Farren is dead,’ he said. ‘Whoever, whatever you saw isn’t me.’
‘Maybe I’ll just call the police right now, see what they have to say about it.’
Billy put his hand in his coat pocket – through the hole in his pocket – and eased it onto the grip of the Makarov. ‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you what you should or should not do.’
The taller one looked at his friend, pulled a face, as if to say that Billy was mocking them. Like many young men, they felt no fear.
They each took a few more steps forward.
‘You got a smart mouth, motherfucker,’ the tall one said.
Billy remained silent.
‘What, nothing to say to that?’ the other one asked.
Billy dropped his knapsack, squared himself in front of the two men.
At this, the taller one swung his beer bottle against a lamp post. It did not break on the first attempt. It did on the second.
The sound of the approaching train grew to a roar. The conductor gave two blasts of his horn as it approached the crossing.
The shorter man drew a knife from his waistband.
In an instant, Billy had the Makarov out and aimed. The two men froze.
‘Throw the knife to the other side of the tracks,’ Billy yelled.
The man did what he was told. The other man dropped his broken bottle.
Billy tried to place the two men. The rumble of the train made it difficult to think.
He remembered. They were the men from the bar.
Black hoodie, ripped jeans, full beard.
Yellow T-shirt, curly blond hair, bandage on his left wrist.
Billy approached them, his weapon out front, his finger inside the trigger guard.
‘Get down on your knees.’
The two men slowly sank to their knees. Billy was now less than five feet away. The train rolled the earth beneath his feet. He glanced at the man on the right, aimed the Makarov at the one on the left.
‘Beg me for his life,’ he shouted.
The taller man opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.
Billy pulled the trigger. Twice. The shorter man’s skull imploded.
Yellow T-shirt, curly blond hair, bandage on his left wrist.
The other man began to cry. Billy stood over him.
Black hoodie, ripped jeans, full beard.
‘Just one question,’ Billy yelled.
The man looked up, but fear had taken his words.
Billy asked, ‘Have we met?’
The sound of the next two shots was swallowed by the thunder of the passing train.
The duty room at the homicide unit was on full alert. Six hundred photocopies of Michael Farren’s last mug shot were being printed and readied to go out to the district headquarters and disseminated to patrol officers. Detectives from all divisions were arriving every minute.
In the background, the local news channels were showing Michael Farren’s face, and his father’s appeal, on an almost constant loop.
At five o’clock, a desk phone rang. Josh Bontrager punched a button, listened. He turned to Jessica and Byrne.
‘We’ve got two bodies in Grays Ferry, down by the tracks. White males, twenties. Collecting IDs now.’
‘Any witnesses?’ Byrne asked.
‘Dave Sipari from South said a man matching Michael Farren’s description was in a bar on Dickinson Street when the news break-in happened. He said these two guys might have followed Farren out.’
Jessica glanced at Byrne. It would be his call on how many people to get down to that area.
‘How long ago did Farren leave the bar?’ Byrne asked.
Bontrager put the phone to his ear, asked the question. ‘Less than half an hour.’
There were two undercover cars on The Stone, and it was a good bet that Farren knew it. He wouldn’t be going back there.
‘Josh, check with dispatch. See if anybody has reported a stolen car or a carjacking in a five-block radius of that tavern in the past half-hour.’
‘You got it.’
While Bontrager got on the phone to dispatch, Byrne huddled with Captain John Ross. Detectives from the fugitive squad were gearing up to hit the streets, pulling on Kevlar, checking their weapons.
Jessica’s phone rang. It was Amy Smith.
‘What’s up, Amy?’
‘That search you wanted is done.’
Amy was talking about a cross-reference search Jessica had requested earlier in the day.
‘I’m at the Roundhouse. Can you fax it over?’
‘Sending it now.’
Jessica crossed the duty room, stood by the fax machine. She berated herself for not having Amy scan the documents and send them to her iPhone as a PDF. If there was a more ancient technology than the standalone fax machine still employed by law enforcement, Jessica did not know what it was.
She was just about to call Amy back when the fax machine rattled to life. It was only three pages, including the cover sheet. It seemed like a full minute until the machine rolled them out.
Jessica tore off the sheets, found an empty desk, began to read.
Within seconds she saw it.
‘Oh my God.’ She was on her feet before she knew it. She found Byrne across the room. He walked over. ‘Look.’
Byrne looked at the fax. Suddenly everything – from the moment investigators had stepped into the Rousseau household – snapped into place.
‘We cross-referenced the names of the victims with the Farrens, referenced them through court documents going back to 1943,’ Jessica said.
‘Liam Farren went on trial in 1960, and was convicted of first-degree battery. The prime witness was Edwin D. Channing.
‘Patrick Farren went on trial in 1987 for attempting to lure an underage girl into his car on South Taney Street. Her name was Danielle Spencer.
‘Sean Farren went to prison in 2006 for menacing. The primary witness was Laura Rousseau.
‘Michael Farren went to juvenile detention in 1994 for assault. His accuser was a lawyer doing pro bono work for a community center in Point Breeze. His name was Robert Kilgore.’
‘And now Danny Farren,’ Byrne said. ‘There’s only one eyewitness to the pipe bombing, the fifth name. It would complete the square.
Sator. Opera. Tenet. Arepo. Rotas.
Killing the last accuser would lift the curse.’
Jessica got on the phone, called her office. In a few seconds she had the name and address of the sole witness to the pipe bombing.
She checked the action on her Beretta, holstered it.
‘What are you doing?’ Byrne asked.
‘She’s my witness, Kevin. I’m going.’
Billy sat in the red car at the curb. He knew that the police must certainly have a report of the vehicle he’d taken from the woman. She was at that moment bound and gagged in the trunk, but otherwise unharmed.
When he’d stopped at the florist shop, he’d taken a magic marker and tried to camouflage two of the letters on the rear license plate. He knew it would not get him far, but he had a full magazine in his Makarov, and a hundred rounds in his knapsack.
The last thing he wanted was to bring some fresh-faced, trigger-happy rookie cop into his curse, but he would not hesitate to do so.
He looked up, at the second floor, at the room over the front of The Stone. He saw his mother sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette. She always thought that no one knew she smoked because she did it by the window.
But it wasn’t The Stone. It wasn’t his mother.
It was Emily’s apartment.
Billy saw a light come on inside. He wondered what Emily knew of all this. He wondered if she believed the stories the TV stations were telling about him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, thought about standing in the museum in France, about describing the painting to Emily.
He knew now that would never happen. He knew what would replace the dream in his last moments: Emily sleeping in the embrace of every rose in the world.
‘Remember Tully’s?’
Billy did. He and his brother had many times crawled Tully’s sandwich shop, not for money or goods, but rather for food.
‘I do, Móraí.’
‘Remember the rings of black pudding and Martin Tully’s whiskey sausages? Such a treat, they were.’
Billy could taste them still. ‘I do.’
‘The attic touches up to the house, it does.’
Billy remembered the attic at Tully’s. From there, he and Sean would slip into the row houses on either side.
Who are you?
I am Billy the Wolf.
Why did God make it so you can’t see people’s faces?
So I can see their souls.
The house was next to the corner unit on Bainbridge and South Taney Street. By the time Jessica and Byrne arrived, a half-dozen sector cars were on the scene, parked a half-block from the house.
While four officers deployed behind the target house, Byrne and two others approached, tapped on the door, listened.
Her weapon in hand, Jessica stood to the right side of the door.
Byrne knocked a second time.
The woman who opened the door was in her sixties. Jessica’s first impression was that she was not in danger.
‘Good evening,’ Byrne said.
In one hand he held his badge and ID. In his other hand he held up a note that read:
If you are in any danger, I want you to blink three times, but say nothing.
Jessica watched the woman carefully as she read the note. She did not blink three times. She did not react in any way. Jessica looked at the crack between the door and the jamb, on the hinge side. She did not see a shadow. There was no one behind the door. She looked at the floor, saw no shadows cast by footwear.
‘Is there anyone else here, ma’am?’ Byrne asked softly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand. What’s happening?’
‘May I come inside?’
She hesitated, looking over Byrne’s shoulder. She seemed to snap out of it. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Please come in.’
Byrne keyed his two-way radio, bringing John Shepherd from around the corner.
‘With your permission, we’d like to take a quick look around your house.’
The woman said nothing.
‘Ma’am,’ Byrne began, ‘I’ll explain everything in a moment, but we need to look around, and we’d like to have your permission to do so.’
‘Yes,’ she said, a little shakily. ‘I mean, yes, you have my permission.’
Byrne opened the screen door. He introduced Jessica. ‘This lady is from the DA’s office. She’s going to stay with you while we look around.’
The row house was red brick with white trim, and had only a partial basement. Byrne and Shepherd were able to clear it in just a few minutes.
When Byrne returned to the front room, Jessica and the woman were seated next to each other on the couch.
‘I’d first like to thank you for your cooperation, ma’am,’ Byrne said.
The woman just stared.
‘You are Mrs Leary, am I correct?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘I am Anjelica Leary.’
As the PPD set up a secure perimeter around the house, Jessica and Byrne spoke with Anjelica Leary.
‘We need to protect you, Mrs Leary,’ Jessica said. ‘We have a safe house in the city, known only to a few people. You’ll be comfortable and secure there.’
‘For how long?’ she asked.
Jessica had known the woman would ask this. She did not have an easy answer. ‘I can’t say for sure. Until the trial is over. Danny Farren’s murder trial, that is. When the charges were arson and aggravated assault it was one thing. A murder trial is a bit more complicated.’
‘I’m not going to leave my home.’
‘Mrs Leary, it’s just that —’
‘I won’t,’ she repeated. ‘Certainly not for the likes of Danny Farren.’
Jessica regrouped. ‘Danny’s in jail. He can’t hurt you.’ As soon as the words left her lips, she realized how inadequate and stupid they sounded. If Danny Farren was not the source of the threat, what was she doing here?
‘Who, then?’
Jessica was getting in deeper. But this woman had the right to know.
‘It’s his son. Michael.’
Anjelica Leary turned to her. ‘Little Michael Farren? The boy who was hit by the car?’
‘Yes,’ Jessica said. ‘He’s not little anymore. He’s a very violent and dangerous man.’
Anjelica rose, walked to the window.
‘I thought I was doing the right thing,’ she said. ‘The
decent
thing.’
‘You did do the right thing. A lot of people would’ve said they didn’t see anything. You stepped up. It’s important.’
Anjelica Leary was silent for a few long moments. At last she turned to Jessica, a look of defiance on her face.
‘I’m not leaving my home. I’m not abandoning my patients, or passing them off to people who don’t care about them the way I do. I won’t do it.’
Jessica had half expected this, but it was clear she had lost the woman.
She caught Byrne’s eye. He nodded.
He would take over.