Authors: Tom Piccirilli
What was one more mistake? It might already be too late.
Jessie Gray said his name and it didn’t mean enough to stop him from wanting to roar out of there full throttle.
He turned to her, slowly, with some real affection. He understood she would eventually smooth out her burrs and quit frightening off the men she might care for and who might care for her. She was young. She had a reason. He was old and didn’t. He thought, So here it is, where our personal journeys diverge again, for the last time. It’s not so bad.
He told her the thing that mattered most to both of them now.
“Just write the end of the story,” he said.
Flynn walked out into the snow, out into the parking lot and checked around, opening doors of the police cars until he saw the evidence bag with his .38 in it. He grabbed it and stuck it in his coat pocket, got into the Charger and got out of there.
The water had nearly gotten him again this time. He’d be back soon enough.
TWENTY-SIX
The note had been right. It really was all his fault.
The answer had been in front of him the entire time, but he had a head full of film noir. He set up his own red herrings. Too much Spencer Tracy in
Fury
and Dana Andrews in
Fallen Angel.
Bogie always on his mind.
He forgot clues. He couldn’t do simple arithmetic. He thought of Danny too much and denied the world at hand. He let young women spook him and wasted energy on self-pity.
A row of three police cars came rallying toward Robert Moses, and Flynn swung past them on the bridge, needing to punch the gas pedal but waiting for his chance. His second chances had gone to waste. He took the Sagtikos up to the LIE and headed east, fighting the traffic and the storm every inch.
The sun had already begun to set, but the snow kept the sky and the streets bright with the burning white. It felt like he’d never be in complete darkness again. He’d shut his eyes and there would always be that glow seeping under his lids.
Pileups, wipeouts, and fender-benders peppered the Expressway. People were pulled over trying to wait the blizzard out. Clearing their windshields and side windows and kicking snow out from around their tires so they wouldn’t be totally buried. Groups of folks stood together on the shoulder and parked on the sides of entrance ramps trying to get their bearings. A couple of flares sputtered meaninglessly in the distance.
He pulled up in front of the house and knew he was too late. The windows were lit but empty of passing shadows.
He drew the .38 and tried the front door. It was locked. He went around back past all the children’s toys, fighting down bile, trying to blank his mind of the ugly pictures that kept coming up.
He had to at least try to end this himself. It was purely selfish. If he didn’t make the effort, he might never allow himself to live, to truly find love.
The back door was unlocked. He opened it in a crouch and slipped inside. A fan of snow followed him and broke against his back.
A groan whispered from the living room.
Sierra lay on the floor in a puddle of blood, battered worse than he’d ever seen anyone beaten. She’d been bludgeoned with a wooden baseball bat. It lay a couple feet away, almost completely red.
The only reason she was still alive was because of all the plastic work she’d had. Her wig was affixed to the far wall, stuck there by some drying fluid and tissue. It had probably been swept off her head at the first blow. Someone had come up behind her while she bent to pick up a scattering of toys. It looked like there was at least one plate in her skull. She wasn’t going to get a chance for an other.
The door here always opening and shutting, opening and shutting. Kids running in and out all day long. She wouldn’t have even looked up when someone walked in behind her.
Flynn’s breath stuck in his chest and he moved to her. She was trying to rise. She didn’t yet realize that both her legs were broken. He checked the halls to see if anybody was around. No one.
He put his arms around her and tried to ease her back to the throw rug, but she was still all muscle and willful intent. He pulled a pillow from the couch and carefully pressed it to her head. She reached out and grabbed him by the shirt. He said, “It’s me.”
“Flynn?”
“Lie still, you’re going to be okay.”
“The children.”
He didn’t know what to say. It annoyed him to lie but he had no choice. He’d check in a minute. “They’re okay.”
“Don’t let them…see me like this…”
“They won’t.”
He attempted to shrug free so he could get to the phone and call 911 but she wouldn’t let him go. Okay, he thought, willing himself away from the moment, Okay, I’ll get a fucking cell phone. It could come in handy at times like these. She shoved against him again, the agony making her flail.
One fist locked on his wrist. The bones there ground together and he hissed but didn’t yank away.
“It’s all right,” he said. He needed to know how much she knew. “Who did this to you?”
“Didn’t see him. From behind. Your friend…I guess.”
“You’re the only friend I have.”
“Soon you’ll have…no one.”
“Shhh, help is coming.”
“No one is coming.” She was panting, her body twisting beneath his hands, but somehow it didn’t affect her voice at all. He couldn’t believe she was still talking. “But here we are together. This mean I’m the love interest?”
“Sure.”
“Oh fuck, now I know it’s bad.” She smiled and blood pulsed over her bottom lip. “The hero always comes to the love interest’s rescue. You’re late.”
“Sorry about that. I got a little hung up.”
“I can’t…I can’t see anything.”
“Relax.”
“Tell me…”
“You’re missing your left eye.”
“Oh…God…”
“You’re going to be all right.”
“Don’t…bullshit me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He already knew the answer. He didn’t have to ask the question. It was a waste of time and there was no time left. But the words refused to settle back and he was already saying them aloud, hating himself for not spending these seconds in prayer, speaking of love, eternity, salvation, the children, the children who might be dead in their rooms, not spending these seconds giving Sierra a little advice on what to expect on the midnight road.
“Your old clunker, what kind of car is it?”
“What?”
“You said Trevor and Nuddin would stay up at all hours, playing videos, on the computer, and out in the garage fixing up an old clunker. What kind?”
Her remaining eye, gazing into the distance, but puzzled, wondering why the hell he would ask such a thing now. He chewed his tongue, begging forgiveness.
She said, “One of my exes…it doesn’t run.”
He put his hand to the side of her wet face and rubbed, the way he had touched his mother in the hospital bed, where there was almost no flesh left to touch at all. “What kind?”
“An old…GTO.”
The Goat. He’d seen Trevor and Nuddin working on it that day he’d stopped by, looking through the garage window. He’d only seen the hood, but it had made its impression. Everything sticking in his mind too far down to do any good until it was too late.
“What was your gun nut ex’s name? The one who robbed banks. Was it Leo Coleman?”
“The fuck do you know…Leo? Why?”
“I’m sorry, Sierra, I’m so sorry.”
And of course, that brought a smile to her lips. The plaintive whimper, the apology in the dark.
Her body shook and the broken bones clattered together. “Noir films always end badly.”
“Yeah, but not for the woman. It’s always the guy who winds up getting it in the neck.”
“That’s right, I forgot. I feel better now,” she said, and with a sudden knowledge that filled her eye with absolute terror, she convulsed for twenty seconds and died. A small piece of Flynn’s small heart broke off and tagged along with her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A shadow thrown against a corpse.
Flynn spun and held the .38 out before him, trained on the boy Trevor, who stood there trembling. Flynn could see the kid was about to vomit and grabbed him by the collar and led him into the kitchen, where he threw up in the sink. The boy began to pass out and Flynn ran the water and woke him up with cold splashes. He holstered the .38 and carried the boy back into the living room and sat him on the couch close enough to the wall that the bloody wig almost touched the side of his face.
He went to the nearest room and threw the door open to find a black girl of about ten sleeping heavily, her eyes half-open. He tried to wake her. She groaned and licked her lips but didn’t rouse from her stupor. He felt her neck and found her pulse to be strong and regular. He went from room to room, checking all the children. There were five of them. They were drugged but seemed to be fine. Kelly wasn’t among them. Sierra had been a saint to handle so much, and he’d never once helped her out.
The boy sat there shivering in a warped calm. He would never get over it, not even when he finally understood what he’d done and sought penance for it.
Flynn looked at the nearest bedroom door.
“What did he use on the kids?”
“Pills.”
“What pills?”
“He wanted me to put them in the dinner tonight, before she got home. But there were so many. I only put in about a third. I didn’t—I didn’t want—”
“You knew he was going to kill them all.”
“No!”
“Where’s the rest of the medication?”
“I flushed it.”
“Do you have the bottles?”
“There were no bottles, he had them in baggies. Little white pills.”
Compliments of Petersen, the pudgy Tabasco-stinking god who sometimes saved people and sometimes didn’t, just because he could.
Flynn grabbed the phone and dialed 911, barked the address and said all that he knew about the state of the children, told the excessively monotone but condescending voice on the other end that his friend was dead on the floor.
The emergency operator buffeted him, devoid of any empathy, “Sir? Sir. Are you sure, sir? Sir? Sir.” Flynn hung up.
“What happened, Trevor?”
“I don’t know.”
Flynn slapped the kid hard. “Tell me.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you!”
“Talk to me.”
“Who the hell do you think you are? Oh my God. Goddamn it, goddamn it, Jesus.”
So it was going to be like that. Flynn couldn’t put up with it. He gripped the boy by the back of the neck and faced him toward Sierra, still on the floor, unheralded.
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t do this!”
“Why were you helping Petersen? How do you even know him?”
“I don’t!”
“Stop lying.”
“I’m not!”
Abruptly, Flynn felt an incredible wash of pity for the boy, realizing Trevor really was only a stupid kid trying to make his way through an increasingly complex, intense, awful world. He took the boy in his arms and hugged him for a moment, doing a poor job of it. But requiring contact, hoping to give solace, to himself or the kid, or just by putting out a moment’s goodwill in the midst of death. Then it was enough. Things were on track.
Flynn backed up and slapped Trevor, then backhanded him. Then did it again until the kid hit his knees and started sobbing.
“Talk. What’s your secret, Trevor?”
His eyes swirling, Trevor tightened his legs as if he might make a run for it. Flynn went to the front door, opened it, let more of the ice in. He said, “You want to go out there? Go ahead. How far are you going to get?”
Trevor’s bottom lip sagged and trembled. He was trying desperately not to cry. He still couldn’t fully comprehend the magnitude of what had gone on here, not even with Sierra laid out in front of them like this.
“What’s your secret?” Flynn asked.
“I won’t tell you.”
“Your foster mother was my best friend, maybe my only friend.”
“You don’t look so sad to me,” Trevor said.
“Judge your own heart, kid. You helped to murder her and two other people.”
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“I know that. You’re just a teenager, Trevor. Teens need help in the best of times, much less trapped in a situation like you’ve been. So out with it!”
The kid sucked air hard, the edges of his mouth quivering violently. He hissed and spit bubbled, but he couldn’t get the words out. He’d be blocked by various forms of trauma for decades to come, no different than Flynn. Not much anyway.
His face darkened and two fat tears squirted from his eyes and still the boy couldn’t quite cry and couldn’t say the thing that had led to Sierra’s murder.
“Does it have something to do with your parents?” Flynn asked.