CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Maggie came to me, though, and that was something. While Robert soothed Ethan, and Denise, free of her bindings, surveyed the chaos I had brought into her home, my daughter came to me. She wrapped her arms around my neck as tightly as she had when she was a little girl, only this time she didn’t have to stretch. She tried to form words, asking me to make sense of everything that had happened, but her brain and her mouth weren’t on the same page, so she settled for squeezing me even tighter, trying to draw strength from what little I had. I hugged her back and was relieved that it felt so wonderfully natural. There was a van where the front door used to be, bullet holes in the ceiling, blood all around and two dead bodies on the floor, but with my eyes shut and my arms wrapped around my little girl, I could pretend none of it was real.
“Rick, the police will be here soon,” Erica said, obliterating the illusion.
I opened my eyes.
“We need to move,” I said, letting go of Maggie, which took more willpower than most things I’ve done in my life. Erica nodded and handed me back the gun Joey had taken.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Robert said. He came around the wall between the front room and the kitchen. Ethan was still in his arms, and he looked almost like himself again, except for the stain on his pants and the lingering stink of urine. Robert set him down and he turned to Denise, who was ready and waiting to lead him away so we could talk. She caught my eye, only for a second, but long enough to let me know the words Maggie couldn’t form would come much easier to her, and without anything as gentle as a hug to accompany them. For the moment, however, she was content to just be a mother, while Robert and I spoke.
Robert’s lip was split open and blood trickled from his nose, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear after his scuffle with Joey. Impressive, considering Joey probably outweighed him by about thirty pounds. I was pretty sure the blood staining the back of his jacket wasn’t his, remnants of Erica’s handiwork.
“Robert, listen to me,” I said, lowering my voice so Maggie wouldn’t hear. She sensed the tension, however, and went over to be with her mom and brother. “This isn’t over. If we stick around here, none of us will make it to the end of the week.”
“Enough with the drama. You’ll be in a cell surrounded by cops and the four of us will be under twenty-four-hour protective surveillance.”
“Oh yeah? How did that work out tonight?”
The punch came quick and landed square on my chin. I took a step back to keep from falling over and a fresh wave of pain shot out from the hole in my leg. I reached down and felt my pants squelch, like wringing out a damp paper towel.
That was going to need tending to. Soon.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” I said, sliding my jaw back and forth to make sure it still worked. “But these people won’t stop until we’re dead. And not just the two of us, either.” I nodded toward Denise and the kids, huddled together on the couch by the window. “The entire Philly police force couldn’t stop them, not when they can just keep sending one hitter after another, after another, after another. Until the job’s done. And that’s assuming you can trust everyone around you.” I saw his arm cock back and stepped back preemptively. My leg screamed at me again, but I kept my hands held up next to my shoulders to show I didn’t want to fight.
“I know for a fact Interpol is compromised,” I explained, “and when I first met with the woman who hired me, she implied that she had people in other agencies as well. How big of a leap is it to assume that she has people in the Philly PD, too?”
“Rick,” Erica said. She had retrieved her duffel bag from the van and was anxious to get moving. We’d need another getaway car, though. Steam poured from beneath the hood of the van, which had crumpled up like a beer can on a frat boy’s forehead when it struck the banister. The windshield was spiderwebbed and useless, and judging by the way it demolished the railing and porch steps on its way to the door, the undercarriage had to be at least partially damaged.
The only remaining choice was Denise’s Chevy Traverse, with its third row of seating. Perfect for taxiing gaggles of kids to practice, the movies, and back from late-night parties. Normal family stuff. It should never be used to flee a crime scene under cover of darkness, but that’s where we were.
I needed to convince Robert, though. Otherwise Erica and I would be taking my car, just the two of us. Getting to it might not be easy, either, depending on how badly Robert insisted I stay.
I held my hand up to Erica and gave her a quick glance. She frowned and squeezed between the van and the jagged ruin of the wall to stand watch on the front porch, listening for the first faint wail of sirens. A crowd had already started to form across the street. Neighbors in pajamas and sweat clothes, gathering together to observe the wreckage at the Williams house.
Or maybe it was the Leap house now, if Denise had gone back to her maiden name. It wouldn’t be Baglioni. Not yet, anyway.
Nobody approached yet for a closer look, but I did hear a man’s voice shout out, “Is everybody okay in there?”
“Sorry,” Erica yelled back, in a more than passable American accent. “I swerved to miss a cat and just lost control.”
While doing 70 and forgetting how to use the brake, apparently.
“Did you call the police?” the man yelled back.
“Yeah, they’re on their way now.”
Maybe nobody had called the police yet, but I doubted it. A car crashes through your neighbor’s house, you dial 911. The police station wasn’t far away either, but it was almost 8:00 and in a small town like this, response time depended entirely on where the two or three patrol cars on duty were in relation to the scene. Still, best-case scenario we had five minutes. Probably less.
“Robert,” I said, amping up the diplomacy to 10. “I’m not saying anybody in your department is dirty. But even if they are clean, our odds are still better on the run. You can call your captain from the road and explain everything. Call your contact at the FBI, too. But we all stand a better chance as moving targets than as stationary ones.”
He bit the inside of his lower lip and turned away from me, but he didn’t say no. I was close to closing the deal. Just needed to seal it.
“Blame me,” I said, going for the Hail Mary. “Tell them I took you all at gunpoint, I don’t care. When this is over, I’ll turn myself in.”
We’d cross that bridge when we came to it.
He turned back. “And when will this all be over, Ben? Or Rick, or whatever the fuck your real name is. How many more dead bodies will it take?”
“I don’t know. But if we stay, there will be at least six new ones. I promise you that.”
“You can’t promise that. You don’t know that.”
“You really want to bet their lives on it?” I said, nodding toward the couch again. My leg was on fire. I was pretty sure Ghost had missed any major arteries, otherwise I’d be unconscious on the floor by now, but the bleeding hadn’t stopped and the wound would definitely require stitches. The crowd outside was getting antsier and, beneath the swelling rumble of gossip and cul-de-sac chatter, the inevitable sound of approaching sirens grew louder.
But I didn’t move. If I was leaving with more than just Erica, it needed to be Robert’s decision. Erica poked her head back in and, for the first time since I’d known her, she looked anxious. Robert considered her, then walked over to Denise and the kids.
“We gotta go, guys,” he said, ushering them up gently. I allowed myself to exhale. Denise covered the distance between us before I could take another breath.
The slap came hard. Followed by another. Then they came rapid fire, Denise’s manicured nails peeling skin off my face like carrot shavings.
“You son of a bitch!” she screamed as she hit. “These people knew you! They almost killed us because of you! Your children, Ben! They tried to kill your children!”
Maggie stood watching with Ethan attached to her side. Just an hour earlier she had probably been lying on her bed, talking on the phone with her friends. Or FaceTiming. Or maybe even texting with a boy. Things any other seventeen-year-old girl would be doing on a Tuesday night. Maybe Ethan was playing video games or watching the Sixers on TV while Denise cleaned up dinner. Their life was fine and boring and happy. Then it all got thrown into a blender. Because of me. I deserved everything she gave and I took it all.
“Mom!” Maggie said, trying to pull her away. Denise resisted at first so Maggie grabbed her shoulder again and tugged harder. “MOM!”
The second time worked and the assault ended. In the dim light, I didn’t even recognize the woman I’d fallen in love with back when we were two young, dumb college kids. Gone was the face I fantasized about via old pictures on my phone. In its place was the hardened look I’d seen on countless killers over the years.
