The Evil That Men Do (23 page)

Donne took the gun out of the shoe box and checked to make sure it was properly cleaned and oiled. It was an old, unbreakable habit. Donne cleaned the gun weekly. He tucked it, loaded, into his jeans and headed back out the door. He locked it, unsure if he’d see the inside of the apartment again.

Donne spent most of the drive to the nursing home thinking about the last time he had planned an ambush. He’d had an advantage then. He knew the layout of the land. He had a long-range weapon, cover, and backup on the way in the shape of his ex-partner.

And he still ended up beaten to shit.

This time he had no backup, no idea what the outlook was, just sheer determination. He didn’t like his odds.

His mother was awake, but little else seemed to have improved. She lay motionless. The nurse in the hallway assured Donne that was normal and to take nothing from it, good or bad. Deep down, however, Donne knew his mother was going to be dead soon.

He wondered if the shock of his sister’s screaming fit had jarred her spirits as well. As much as his sister had been through, as much as Franklin and he had been through, his mother had been through it too. The fact that she had little memory of it didn’t make it right. It somehow made it worse.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

She didn’t speak. She looked at him and her mouth curved. It may have been a smile, but was it recognition? Donne couldn’t be sure.

The other day, he believed her soul was still inside her, that she knew what was going on, but that feeling went back and forth in his gut.

Donne took her hand in his and squeezed it. She didn’t squeeze back. “Mom, I don’t know what you know. But some bad things have been going on in our family. People are probably going to die. Franklin has been kidnapped by Bryan Hackett. Do you remember Bryan, Mom? Your brother and sister-in-law adopted him. He’s pissed, and I’m not sure why.”

“Daddy,” she whispered. “Daddy saved me.”

That didn’t make any sense, but he didn’t expect it to.

Donne squeezed her hand again, almost as if he were keeping tempo, using it as a rest while he collected his thoughts.

“I’m going to go get Franklin back, Mom. I have to.”

Maybe he expected a reaction then, but still he got nothing. She gazed off into the distance, as if something was buried deep underneath the floral wallpaper that lined her room and she had to find it.

“I don’t know why I have to keep doing this, Mom. But I feel like it all falls on me. Remember when Hackett pushed Susan? I’ve always had to protect her.”

The words seemed to fade into the air. Maybe he was being overdramatic, but it had to be said. Donne needed to say it for himself. Like therapy almost, and better than a drink.

“I might die today, Mom. A lot of us might.” He let the words sink in. Sweat had formed on his palm as he continued to hold her hand. “And I need you to know I love you. And I hope you still love me.”

Taking a deep breath, he sat listening to the beep of a medical machine somewhere down the hall. Elsewhere a television showed the morning news.

After a few minutes, he let go of her hand and left the room.

Like always, Jackson had run off. He said he was going to visit Mom, but Susan was sure he was running away from their problems again.

She had just finished writing the letter on Franklin’s behalf when the phone rang. She practiced Franklin’s signature one last time before answering. This version of the signature would fool the tellers for sure. When she lined the signatures up, they were exact.

“Do you have the money?” Bryan Hackett said after she picked up the phone.

Jason Marshall and Sam Draxton were in the living room still, while she sat in the kitchen. She glanced down the hallway. Both detectives were stirring in their seats, as if they were deciding whether or not to make their way to listen.

“I can access it.”

“Good. You need to put the cash in a bank account.”

“What do you mean?”

“After all the bullshit, I’m guessing you had to borrow cash from your friends? Put it in one of your bank accounts. When you do that, call this number: 973-555-6777. Don’t try to trace it, it’s a pay phone.”

“The money’s already in a bank account. We had that much in the restaurant account.” She liked that the words dripped from her mouth condescendingly.

“You guys are very well off, aren’t you?” Hackett laughed. “Ah, not for much longer.”

“I just want Franklin back.”

“You’ll get him. Though I have to warn you, he’s a little worse for wear.”

“What did you do to him?”

The tension in her voice was enough to get the detectives moving. Draxton came through the door first, Marshall close behind. Both were silent, and when they made eye contact, it seemed like they communicated something to each other. Something Susan couldn’t understand.

“I didn’t do much to him. But you see, he tried to escape and ended up falling down the stairs. I think his arm is broken. And it will probably get infected. So let’s get this over with, okay?”

“You bastard. I can’t believe—”

“Cut the shit, Susan. This is your family’s fault. And frankly, you’re getting off easy. No one’s going to die. And you certainly might take a hit in the wallet, but you won’t be so poor you have to leave the country. That’s what happened to my family, you bitch, and I want retribution.”

Like he was some sort of remainder of a slave family. None of this could be changed, as much as she would have liked to, and now she was paying for it. If she had just kept her mouth shut years ago. If Franklin’s grandfather wasn’t involved with his family. And if only her family…

And suddenly she remembered the story of her grandfather Joe Tenant. Her mother had told it to her when she was young. Susan realized her family had as much to do with this as Franklin’s and Hackett’s. Three families intertwined by time.

All she could do now was pay up and pray it was over.

“What do I need to do?”

“I’m going to give you a bank account number. I want you to transfer the hundred grand into that account. Once the money is in my account, I’ll call you and tell you where to pick up your husband.”

“I have your word?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then: “You do. Here’s the number.”

Susan Carter took a deep breath and wrote the number down. It was almost over.

The line went dead.

“What did he say?” Marshall asked.

She told him.

“You don’t have to get the money in cash?”

Susan shook her head behind her hands. She repeated the instructions word for word.

Marshall put his hands on his hips. “He’s smarter than I thought. For sure, we expected him to go the old-fashioned route of cash in a dark parking lot.”

Draxton didn’t say anything. It appeared to Susan he was thinking, letting the situation play out in front of him.

Finally, he said, “This might help us. We can track the money a lot easier.”

“No, this fucks everything up,” Marshall said. “He might not access it until long after he’s gone.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Susan said. “I’m transferring the money like he said. Then I’m getting my husband back.”

Draxton nodded. He seemed pleased by this information. Marshall, however, looked tight and uncomfortable, sweat forming along his bald head.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you transfer that money.”

“What are you talking about?” Draxton turned toward Marshall.

The tall state trooper pulled a gun from his holster and shot Special Agent Sam Draxton. Draxton fell backward, spilling over a kitchen chair and splaying out against the wall. Dark red blood streamed from his chest.

Marshall trained the gun on Susan.

“I need you to get the cash. And you’re not giving it to Bryan Hackett.”

1938

Joe Tenant had contacts down on the docks. Most of the guys he worked with had some sort of connection to organized crime through the unions. Tenant had even had to ask for a favor once or twice, only to repay it in the weeks ahead by looking the other way when some questionable items were off-loaded from ships.

He made a few phone calls and talked to a few friends. Three of his friends knew of Willy Hackett, and the fourth knew he lived in a small apartment in North Bergen.

The next day, as the newspapers ran the story, Tenant stood outside the apartment building, hands shaking, ready to end this ordeal. Crossing the street was easy, walking through the front door of the building was easy, but pressing the button to call the elevator, that was hard. Stepping through the double doors, he thought about the step he was taking. He wanted to know why, but after that he wanted this over.

Even if it meant taking a step no man should ever have to take.

The elevator dinged on the fourth floor and Joe Tenant stepped into the carpeted hallway. Willy Hackett’s apartment was the fifth door on the left. Banging his fist on the door, he hoped the man was actually home.

“Who the hell is it?” The familiar Irish voice came from inside.

“Open the door.”

“Who the—”

The door swung open and Willy Hackett stood in front of Joe Tenant. Tenant thought about taking the approach he’d taken with Connor O’Neill, but something different now coursed through Tenant’s veins.

Fear.

“You son of a bitch. I thought you fell off the face of the earth. Finally, I might add, my boy.”

“Why?” Joe asked. “I just want to know why.”

Before Joe could say anything else, Willy Hackett had him in a headlock and was dragging him into the apartment. The smell of fried fish struck Joe’s nose. His eyes watered as he struggled against Hackett’s grip. His heels slipped against a wood-tiled floor. His hands slipped off the fabric of Hackett’s shirt. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled out on the floor.

“You want to know why?” Hackett bellowed. The Irish brogue was thick in his voice, phlegmy.

Hackett lifted his boot and pressed it into Tenant’s throat. Struggling for air, Joe pawed at the boot, then tugged at Hackett’s pants leg. The apartment seemed to tumble in front of Joe’s eyes. The room was barren, one couch, a bookshelf, and an uncurtained window.

“You ruined me! Bayonne could have been mine. Carter was out of the way. But then you had to see it all, didn’t you? You brought this on yourself.”

Hackett pressed his heel down harder. Tenant was sure his windpipe was going to burst.

“I warned you to stay quiet. I warned you, and you sent that Carter bitch to the newspapers anyway. Now you’re a dead man.”

Tenant pressed his hands against the boot, and then he remembered the knife in his pocket. The Swiss Army knife Sops had given him.

“I’m going to kill you! My family! You’re destroying my family! My wife is bleeding what little money we have left. My kids barely have food on the dinner table. Buying this land was the last hope. And with Carter out of the way — I can’t take it anymore.”

The world started to go black before his eyes. But his hand fumbled the knife and he was able to flick it open with his thumb. Running on adrenaline and instinct, Tenant thrust the blade into Hackett’s calf.

The Irishman screamed in pain and released his grip. Tenant rolled over into a seated position, massaging his neck and gasping for air. He coughed, but his boxing training helped him through it. Relax and the air will come. He saw Caroline, imagined her smile. And he realized he hadn’t seen his daughter in weeks.

Joe Tenant would see both of them again.

He got to his knees, the air coming a little easier now. The coughing slowing. Hackett was still writhing on the floor. Tenant crawled across the apartment. He stopped only to lean over Hackett.

He wheezed, “I don’t scare easily.”

He wrapped his fist around the handle of the knife and yanked it loose. Hackett screamed again, blood pouring all over the floor. Tenant pressed the blade against Hackett’s jugular.

“Do you remember the night I found the body? When you pressed a knife into my throat? You warned me off? No, all you did was piss me off. And then you tried to kill my child.”

Hackett’s eyes were closed and he wasn’t struggling anymore.

“No one fucks with my family.”

Joe Tenant pressed the knife into Hackett’s skin, slashed open the jugular. Hackett didn’t make another sound.

Tenant backed away as blood geysered out of Hackett’s neck. It splattered against the wall and window. At first Hackett’s body twisted and slipped against the hardwood floor. His hands pressed at the wound, but as time went on, he stopped fighting. Tenant watched the Irishman’s chest rise and fall, slower every second. And when it all stopped, Joe Tenant knew he was finally safe.

That his family would be safe forever.

SEVEN HOURS

Bayonne is a shithole,
Donne thought.
It smells, it’s dirty, and their traffic lights all change at the same time.
A relative of Donne’s used to say Bayonne was a town you could get to only by helicopter. There was only one way in off the Turnpike and one way out into Staten Island. But he figured that was an advantage.

If Bryan Hackett had really taken Franklin here, there weren’t many places to hide.

The area Jason Marshall and Donne had speculated about was close to the Staten Island side. He drove along Broadway, hitting every red light. It was nearly one in the afternoon now, and a few kids straggled along the streets. They window-shopped and enjoyed the hot temperature and clear skies. Deep inside, he wished he had summer break.

Even more, Donne wished he was drunk.

He cleared Broadway and swung around down to Avenue A. It curved to the left, and he saw a grassy marsh area spread out toward the bridge. In the distance, a freight train meandered along on tracks. The bridge stood, a beacon over the marsh. He smelled trash and methane gas.