Forced Out (33 page)

While he was passed out on his couch this afternoon, the weather had turned awful. The bright, beautiful sunshine of this morning had given way to a steady downpour, which was making driving dangerous as the last gray rays of daylight faded into darkness. To make matters worse, he had to drive one-handed. He'd jerry-rigged a sling out of a pillowcase to help ease the shooting pains in his shoulder, but he still couldn't move his fingers on that hand. He'd almost passed out several times on the Jersey Turnpike--like he almost had on the way back to his apartment after shooting Strazza--but he'd been able to catch himself in the nick of time by shaking his head violently or pinching his thigh hard. He'd done it so many times his leg was black and blue in a couple of places. He reminded himself to climb out of the car slowly as he pulled into a narrow parking space and to walk deliberately to the door. He had to stay conscious. Had to. After cutting the engine, Johnny stayed in the car for a few minutes, gulping bourbon from a rotgut bottle he'd picked up on his way out of the city. As he took another long gulp, he stared at the number on the motel door. Room 147. It was as far from the office as you could get--which was no coincidence. He took another deep breath and passed his palm slowly across his forehead. He was still sweating profusely, still fighting the fever. Which was a bad sign. He needed to stay levelheaded, needed to think clearly, needed to stay in control. His mind was his only advantage at this point, and if it wasn't sharp, this whole thing would turn into a disaster. An even bigger one than it already was. Like Treviso, Johnny had his own psycho switch. It had flipped on only a couple of times in his life, but when it had, no one was safe. Including himself. He pressed his right arm against his side, making certain the pistol was deep in the shoulder holster, then checked his rearview and side mirrors. Marconi must know by now that Strazza was dead, but Johnny hadn't seen any signs of a replacement yet. No crazy zigzagging behind him on the turnpike as he'd raced down here. Still, you never knew. Marconi would be very careful this time, might even call in someone from the outside. Maybe a lot of people.

Johnny looked up through the windshield, hoping the rain had slowed a little. It hadn't. In fact, it seemed to be coming down even harder. He reached across his body with his right hand, unlatched the door, and pushed it open with his knee. Raw, damp air hit him as he rose up out of the car with a groan, then leaned back against it for a moment. His head started spinning, and he felt himself beginning to shiver. He'd worn a heavy raincoat on the drive down. Even with the heater in the car turned way up, he'd worn it. Suddenly, outside, he was freezing.

"Jesus," he muttered, "got to get inside." He slammed the car door shut with his foot, then staggered beneath the building-long overhang toward room 147, not bothering to lock the car. Something he
always
did. But these were desperate times. Routines went out the window now.

He fell against the room door, making certain his right shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Even so, painful shock waves coursed through him. The bourbon was counteracting the agony a little--but not enough. He knocked on the door several times, biting his lower lip hard and shutting his eyes tightly, pinching his thigh.

"Who is it?"

"Johnny."

The door opened, and Johnny all but fell inside the small, plain room. He staggered to the queen-size bed and collapsed onto it, taking several deep breaths before he could finally sit up and gaze at the woman. "Hello, Helen."

Helen McLean stared back at Johnny in horror. "What happened?" she whispered, grabbing his left shoulder. She couldn't see the sling beneath the raincoat.

"Holy shit!"
he shouted, tumbling to the cheap carpet, lightning bolts of pain tearing through his shoulder.
"Oooh, Geeeoood!"

"What, what?"
Helen screamed, hands clasped over her mouth. "What's the matter?" Holy Christ, she'd pressed right down on the bullet hole. Suddenly he was seeing nothing but yellow and green stars flashing in the purple darkness ahead of his eyes that were shut so tightly they could have formed diamonds from coal. It reminded him of the time he'd suffered a bad concussion in eighth grade when he'd fallen off the back of the motorcycle his uncle was driving. The intermittent flashes were bursting like fireworks in his head, like they had after he'd glanced off that telephone pole. "Holy Mother of Mary," he said with a hiss when the pain finally eased a little. Helen knelt down next to him, sobbing. "What happened, Johnny? Please tell me."

"Help me up," he said, moaning. "But don't touch my left arm."

"Why not? What's wrong with it?"

"I fell," he explained, making it to his feet. Then easing back down on the bed. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

"Well, it doesn't look like nothing. It looks like--"

"Shut up," he said with a growl, suddenly sick of her high-pitched, whiny voice.
"Just
shut up!"

She put her hands over her ears and started rocking back and forth. "Johnny, please don't talk to me like that. What's happened, what's happened?
O God, what's happened?
" With a herculean effort he lurched to the door, then turned and leaned back against it. God, he could barely focus. He was seeing three of her. Well, there wasn't going to be any waterboarding this time. It was going to be quick. Total intimidation and a fast answer--or death. He needed a bargaining chip, and he needed it fast. He didn't have time to take Helen to a seafood warehouse and interrogate her. Marconi was closing in. He could feel the old man making moves out there. That eerie premonition of peril still working for him despite the mind-numbing pain in his shoulder. His code of honor might be headed out the window: if Helen wouldn't give him the information he wanted, she would die. And if he really was going to commit to Karen, if he really was going to take her away from Treviso and have her for his own, it would be all but impossible to hold on to his code, anyway. He'd need Marconi's permission to kill Treviso so he wouldn't have to worry about the little prick trying to get revenge. To get that permission, he'd have to kill Kyle McLean. Whether the guy deserved it or not. He wanted Karen. She was his code of honor now. The most important thing in his life. And he'd do anything to have her.

Johnny pulled his pistol out and aimed it at the older woman, directly at the chest of the middle image. He hated himself for this, but there wasn't any choice. Not if he wanted happiness. The hell with the code of honor. The hell with everything except Karen. He'd tried, damn it, he'd tried. He'd gotten to Helen just ahead of Marconi's goons. Whisked her out of the little brick house in the nick of time and sent her to Newark. Then gone back later and made another, more obvious visit to the house--when he'd fed the cat. All for the benefit of the men he was sure Marconi had watching the house by then. So they'd go back and tell Marconi that he was on the level. He gritted his teeth. He'd tried so hard to do the right thing. But it wasn't going to happen. Helen clasped her hands tightly out in front of her, so tightly her already pale hands went ashen. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she slowly crawled toward him, begging for her life over and over. He knew she didn't understand what was going on. How could she?

He wasn't sure if he did.

"Don't come any closer," he said with a snarl, shocking himself with the callousness of his tone. It was as if someone he didn't know was talking, like he'd lost control of himself. "Or I'll kill you."

"Why, Johnny, why?" She sobbed uncontrollably, still slowly crawling across the floor toward him. "I don't understand. You said you'd take care of me. You said there were men who were trying to hurt me, but that you would keep me safe. Now you're hurting me. Why?"

"I lied. It's a damn awful world sometimes, you know? At least I got you this far. At least I bought you some time."

"Johnny, no. Don't do this to me. Please, ple--" Her last syllable was sucked into a horrific sob.

He moved two steps forward to where she was kneeling, adrenaline suddenly surging through him as his killer instinct kicked in despite the pain. "Sorry, Helen, but this is how it hasta be." He hadn't realized how sickeningly lost he was until just now. How
horribly
lonely he'd been for so long. Lonely enough to destroy the entire way he'd lived his life the past fifteen years. He wanted Treviso's wife, suddenly wanted Karen so badly. Wanted to feel her body against his every night, wanted her to share his life, wanted to give her everything he could, was even willing to accept her child--Treviso's child--as his own. And he was willing to turn his back on what had sustained him, everything he'd believed in for so long, to have Karen and the companionship he realized he so desperately craved now that he was allowing the walls to tumble down. "I need to know where your son is," he said, pressing the gun barrel to her forehead, surprised when she didn't shy away from the feeling of cold steel against her skin. Most people did. "I need to know where Kyle is.
Exactly
where he is. You have five seconds to tell me...or I pull the trigger."

* * *

Treviso stole quietly into the bedroom, then into the closet. Karen was in the kitchen with her sister and the baby. He'd have plenty of privacy. He needed to make a few entries in his diary to stay current, and this was a good time to do it. He moved to the box in the corner and opened it, then peered inside. The diary had been moved; no doubt about it. He always put it back in a certain, exact way--with the spine of the book against the far wall. But now the spine was opposite the wall, now it was toward him.

He shook his head, and his thin lips curled into a wry grin.

37

J
ACK REACHED FOR the knob--just as the front door swung open. He pulled back, expecting the same angry daughter from this morning. But the rage was gone, replaced by sadness and compassion. He could see the emotions etched into every nook of her expression. She knew him like the back of her hand, all right, but he knew her, too. Just as well.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Daddy. Sorry about this morning," she said after a split-second delay.

"Me, too." He just wondered who she was feeling that sadness and compassion for. But this wasn't the time to talk about it. "I shouldn't have--"

"Where's Rosario?"

Jack broke into a wide smile and gestured over his shoulder. "Right there." A tall, well-built young man was striding up the cracked path carrying Rosario in his big arms, the baby's diaper bag slung over his shoulder. As he moved into the glow of the porch light, she brought her hands to her mouth. "O my God, Daddy. Is this--"

"It sure is," Jack confirmed, beaming. "Cheryl, meet the Kid. Kid, this is my daughter, Cheryl."

McLean cradled the baby in his left arm, waved with his right. "Ma'am."

"Hi, Mikey," she said hesitantly.

"His name's not really Mikey Clemant," Jack explained, his grin fading. "It's Kyle. Kyle McLean."

She took the Kid's hand for a moment, then reached for the baby. "Oh?" Kyle slipped Rosario carefully into Cheryl's arms. "Yeah, well, I've been in kind of...

well, for the past couple years--"

"Let's go inside," Jack suggested, grabbing the diaper bag off Kyle's shoulder. "Come on, Kid."

"I need to talk to you, Daddy," Cheryl murmured, catching Jack's arm as he followed Kyle into the house. "It'll only take a second."

He could tell right away that this was important. Maybe it had something to do with that sad expression she'd greeted him with. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head subtly.

She was telling him that Kyle was still too close. That she didn't want the Kid to hear.

"Go on in the living room, Kid." Kyle had hesitated a few steps away. "I'll be right there." He turned back to Cheryl when the Kid headed off. "What is it, Princess? What's the matter?"

"Some guy named Biff called here a few minutes ago," she explained worriedly. "He says you need to get back to him right away. His number's on the pad by the kitchen phone. He said it was important. He was pushing really hard, Daddy. It was weird." Jack grimaced. Then wished he hadn't. His reaction had only heightened her anxiety. He could see it right away.

"What's going on, Daddy? Who's Biff?"

"Don't worry about it, honey."

"Daddy."

He took her hands in his. "Look, I gotta go out for a while. Just keep Kyle company." He could see she wasn't buying in. That there was still some bitterness left over from this morning. Still some need to let him know she was in charge of her own life. "I really need you to do this for me, okay?"

She pulled her hands from his and put them on her hips. "I was on my way over to see Bobby. I was hoping you'd watch the baby for me."

"Please, Princess," Jack begged. "This is so important. I don't want Kyle sitting around here by himself. He might get cold feet and take off. I'm so close.
We're
so close."

"Close to what?"

"I'll explain later.
Please
, just hang out here with him. Turns out he's a real nice guy. You'll like talking to him." He could see she was frustrated. "Please." Cheryl crossed her arms tightly and stared at the ceiling for a few moments. "Oh, all right."

"Thanks, Princess." He gave her a quick hug. "You don't know what this means to me. To
us
. I promise I'll make it up to you." They spoke for a few moments more, then Jack gave her another hug and headed back out. "See you in a little while." She watched him head back down the path until he disappeared into the darkness. "I sure hope so," she said under her breath.

* * *

After he'd started the Citation's engine, Jack adjusted the rearview mirror so he could look himself in the eyes. He didn't like what he saw.

* * *

"So you're from New York?" Cheryl asked, still carrying Rosario as she made her way into the living room. It was a throwaway question, just something to get the conversation started. Something Daddy had told her at the door. She sat down, then laid the baby on the couch beside her. The little girl was almost asleep. It was way past her bedtime.