Intent to Kill (27 page)

BABES WAS READY TO JUMP OUT OF HIS SKIN.

It was Friday at 10:00
A.M.
Time for his standing appointment with Dr. Fisch. It had been a week since their last session, not counting Babes’s unscheduled invasion of his office after the Modern Diner. Seven full days since they had done any real therapy. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes. Check that: ten thousand eighty-
one
minutes. There had been a time in his childhood when being one minute late would have triggered a forty-minute tantrum.

What to do, what to do, what to do?

He huddled in the corner of the abandoned railroad car, hugged his knees, and started rocking back and forth. He wasn’t crazy about his new hiding spot, an old freight car sitting on the tracks that ran beneath the Smithfield Avenue bridge, less than a quarter mile from the North Burial Ground. Ten years earlier, when he’d named his newest discovery the Sox Star Boxcar, it had been a decent hangout. Now it smelled like rotten wood and wet straw. And with the sliding door stuck in the half-open position, it would surely get chilly at night. But the pistol-wielding man at the Dawes family crypt hadn’t come knocking just to tell Babes hello, so he had to avoid going back there at all costs.

His leg tremors resumed. Babes hugged his knees tighter and rocked a little faster, trying to stop the shaking.

Medication had always been a hot-button issue in the Townsend household. There was no magic pill for Asperger’s syndrome, but anxiety was one of the comorbid conditions that could be treated. Starting as far back as elementary school, before his condition had been correctly diagnosed, Babes overheard countless knock-down, drag-out arguments between his mother and father.

I just don’t believe in drugs.

It’s not about your beliefs; it’s about what’s best for Babes.

It’s masking who he really is.

No, it’s revealing who he really is.

In the great parental compromise, Babes had been medicated only during the most stressful periods of his life. A change of schools. The death of his sister. Just about any crisis that couldn’t be worked out in weekly sessions with Dr. Fisch, the rare medical professional who could actually make talk therapy or role-playing work within Babes’s limited self-awareness, social understanding, and theory of mind.

You need Dr. Fisch.

No, you need meds.

Drugs are the easy way out.

Something as big as a cat scurried past his feet. But it wasn’t a cat.

A rat!

Babes ran to the opposite corner, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, and pulled until he screamed. He wanted to jump out the door, but he was too frightened to move. He tried the breathing exercises Dr. Fisch had taught him. Deep breath. In and out. In. Out. Being on the run was tough for anyone. For Babes, whose life revolved around the routine and the familiar, it was becoming unbearable. Maybe it was time to go home. But that would mean going to jail.

Do you like cherry red Kool-Aid on your lips, Babes?

He shrank into the dark corner and rocked back and forth again. Jail was a death sentence. But with the cops everywhere, this was the only hiding place he could think of. Some guy had once managed to live for almost two years, undetected, in a vacant space at the Providence Mall, but Babes could never have pulled that off. This stinky old freight car would have to do. He just had to stay put, rats and all.

And pray that night would never come.

Ryan was fuming by the time he reached Beacon Hill. At some point he would apologize to Tom Bales for thinking he’d had anything to do with this nightmare, but at the moment the real target was in his sights. Rather than ring the bell, he beat on the front door. To his surprise, Brandon Lomax answered.

“Connie isn’t here,” he said.

“What are you, his house sitter? I called the hospital. His secretary said he went home.”

Lomax hesitated. “He went out. To the bank.”

It was an obvious lie. Ryan climbed the short stoop and shouted through the half-opened door. “Connie, I know you’re here! I need to talk to you!”

Lomax grabbed Ryan’s arm and spoke in a coarse whisper. “For your own good. Leave.
Now.
”

The door swung open all the way, and Garrisen was suddenly standing right behind Lomax. “Come in, Ryan.”

Garrisen’s even tone forced Ryan to reel in some of his anger. Still, he threw Lomax a sharp look as he entered the old row house. Both men followed Garrisen down the narrow hallway to his study, and Garrisen invited them into the walnut-paneled room.

“This is between you and me, Connie,” said Ryan.

“Brandon stays,” said Garrisen. “I don’t like your body language. I feel like I need a witness.”

Ryan didn’t argue. Lomax’s presence might well prevent him from doing something he’d regret.

Garrisen closed the door and offered Ryan a seat. He chose to stand. Garrisen sat behind his desk, and Lomax took the armchair off to the side.

“What’s on your mind?” Garrisen said coolly.

Ryan knew better than to confront Garrisen in this emotional state, but all the pain of Chelsea’s death was rising up within him, preventing him from holding back.

“It was all an act, wasn’t it?” said Ryan.

“What was?” said Garrisen.

“The way you pretended to be my biggest supporter in the Red Sox organization. Even the scholarship you created in Chelsea’s name so that Ainsley could attend the academy.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Ryan took a step closer. “It would have been bad enough if a total stranger had gotten drunk and killed Chelsea on the road.”

He leaned forward, planting his palms atop the desk. “And it would have been bad enough if you had gotten drunk after your extracurricular activities with a high-school girl and run Chelsea off the road. But it’s so much worse this way.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Garrisen.

“I’m talking about the fact that you could have saved Chelsea if you had called for help after the accident. The fact that you didn’t just fail to help her, but you actually took the cell phone out of her hand. The fact that you let her die—killed her—to protect your own reputation.”

“I hope you don’t plan on saying that on the radio,” said Garrisen, still nonplussed.

“It’s already been on the radio. When Babes told me to look for ‘a nicer nose ring,’ it was an anagram—for Connie Garrisen.”

Finally, Garrisen flinched. It was clear that Ryan alone had figured out Babes’s play on words, but Garrisen quickly regained his composure.

“If that’s the case,” said Garrisen, “your station had better issue a retraction immediately. Because you are about to be on the receiving end of the biggest slander suit in the history of communications law.”

“Lawyers? Shit. Now I
am
scared. Worst case, I thought you might send that hired thug to beat the crap out of me again. Or maybe the guy you hired to beat that homeless man to death.”

Garrisen glanced at Lomax. “Are you listening to this? I think he’s lost his mind.”

Ryan said, “Babes told his homeless friend everything. The guy tried to blackmail you, and you had him killed.”

Garrisen showed no reaction, but Ryan noticed that the politician in the room was visibly shaken.

“This has gotten way out of hand,” said Lomax. “I heard on my way over here that Doug Wells may have gone missing. Connie, you were standing right beside me at my fund-raiser at Marble House when Doug said he was going to help Emma get more media attention for the Chelsea James investigation.”

“Shut up!” said Garrisen. “This makes no sense. If I were such a ruthless killer, I would have eliminated Babes a long time ago.”

“Yes, you would have—if you’d known that Babes was a passenger in Chelsea’s car. But only his parents knew that. Babes was already freaked out and hiding in the woods by the time you drove up to inspect the damage you’d caused. You were like me: you didn’t know
anyone
had seen
anything
until Babes sent Emma the anonymous tip three years after the accident.”

Lomax rose and said, “I think it’s time to give it up, Connie.”

“Sit down!”

Lomax froze, but he didn’t sit. “My advice to you—”

“Just shut up, Brandon! I don’t need your advice. I’m tired of covering for you.”

“What?” said Lomax.

“Ryan, I am so sorry,” said Garrisen. “I’ve known all along, and I should have told you. I hope you can forgive me for trying to protect my friend.”

Lomax said, “That’s not going to work. Ryan, talk to Claricia. She’ll tell you that she and Connie put me in the backseat of my car and that Connie drove me home to Providence.”

Ryan glanced at Lomax, then took a long look at Garrisen. For the first time, Ryan saw serious worry, almost panic, in his expression. It was as if Ryan could hear him running through his options, thinking of everything he had to lose: his license to practice medicine, his distinguished career as chief of staff at Mass General, his possible appointment as the next U.S. surgeon general, the pending sale of his cosmetics company, his beloved PawSox, his seemingly happy marriage.

It was too much to give up.

Garrisen pulled a gun from his desk drawer and pointed it at Ryan.

Lomax teetered back on his heels.

“Don’t move,” said Garrisen. “Either one of you.”

He picked up the phone and punched three buttons. Ryan could only presume that Garrisen was dialing 911, but that realization only confused him further. Lomax looked equally perplexed.

Garrisen’s expression changed abruptly as he spoke in a phony voice of urgency. “This is Dr. Connie Garrisen, owner of the PawSox. We need an ambulance right away! One of my former ballplayers, Ryan James, barged into my house saying wild things about my friend Brandon Lomax, accusing him of killing his wife three years ago. He came at us and”—he paused as if swallowing the lump of disbelief in his throat—“I had to shoot him. Please hurry!”

Garrisen hung up and kept the gun trained on Ryan. Moments later, sirens blared in the neighborhood. The cops and the ambulance were already on their way.

“Don’t do this,” said Ryan.

“Brandon, are you with me?” said Garrisen.

“It’s over, Connie,” Lomax said, as he stepped in front of Ryan. “Unless you’re willing to shoot me first.”

The crack of a single gunshot filled the room, and Lomax fell to the floor. Ryan instinctively dove behind the armchair. He could hear the front door burst open and what sounded like an army charging down the hallway.

“Police, freeze!”

Garrisen dropped the gun. Two cops rushed in and cuffed him. Two others went to Lomax.

“Damn,” said Lomax, “I didn’t think he’d actually shoot.”

Ryan saw no blood, just a bullet mark on Lomax’s suit coat.

“You’re wearing a vest?” said Ryan, not quite understanding.

“Emma insisted,” said Lomax, grimacing.

“Emma?” said Ryan. “This was a setup?”

“She and I cooked this up after I spoke to your housekeeper. That’s why I told you to scram when you got here.”

“I bet you’re wired, too, you bastard,” said Garrisen.

“No, I preferred not to arm my political opponents with a taped conversation about my drunken night in South Boston. But thanks to the vest, I’m still alive and well enough to testify against you.”

The police read Garrisen his rights and were about to take him from the room.

“Connie,” said Ryan, and the police escort stopped. Garrisen turned and looked at him.

Something was boiling up inside Ryan, but it wasn’t words. It was the familiar and painful awareness that no matter what he did, no matter what he said—even to the man who’d killed her—it wouldn’t bring Chelsea back.

Garrisen filled the silence. “For what it’s worth, I always liked you, Ryan. You and Chelsea both.”

On some level, Ryan didn’t doubt it. Deep down, however, he knew that all the kindness and generosity the PawSox owner had shown him since Chelsea’s death was out of guilt. Or maybe staying close to Ryan was Garrisen’s way of staying off the list of suspects.

Ryan looked away as the police took Garrisen from the room. The paramedics rushed in. Ryan helped them get Lomax to his feet.

“What’s this made of, Kevlar?” said one of the paramedics as they started to remove Lomax’s vest.

“Level two-A polyethylene,” said Emma, as she entered the room. “It’s thinner and easier to conceal.”

Lomax groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair. “It still feels like I got kicked by a mule.”

Emma went to him and hugged him tightly, despite his bruised ribs. “You were really brave,” she said.

Then she turned to Ryan and, after a slight hesitation, gave him a hug as well. At first it was the kind of hug she might have shared with any member of a victim’s family. This embrace, however, lasted for an ambiguously long time. Finally, she pulled away.

Ryan said, “Now it’s time to bring home the bravest one of all.”

“You mean Babes,” she said.

“I mean fast,” said Ryan.

THE CHECKER HAD UNFINISHED BUSINESS.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and lit a cigarette. It was a habit he’d picked up at the age of twelve, back in the days of Soviet cigarettes that self-extinguished if they weren’t puffed constantly. Now he could afford cigarettes that didn’t have him drawing like a baby on a bottle, but he rarely smoked anymore. In fact, the hotel room was nonsmoking, as he had requested at check-in. Lighting up was a sure sign that he was upset.

Professional failure was the one thing that upset him most.

Connie Garrisen was a tier-one client. Garrisen and his team of managers traveled extensively on business, building international markets and trying to secure the requisite foreign-government approvals for his company’s line of skin and beauty products. Kidnapping for ransom was a legitimate concern for businessmen in emerging markets, and the smart ones hired bodyguards who knew how the criminal mind worked. Vladimir, however, had never been called upon to do “take-out” for Garrisen before. Supplying him with a pirated iPhone so that he could e-mail Emma Carlisle about Lomax and trick Babes into showing up at the Modern Diner—all untraceable—was more typical work. But the Checker provided “full-service” corporate security, and if that meant a first-class ass kicking for a bigmouthed radio host like Ryan James or a suck on the business end of a Beretta for his weird-ass brother-in-law, so be it.

He’d even thrown in the disposal of Doug Wells’s body for free. And a job well done it was: as far as he could tell, no one had even reported Wells missing yet.

Vladimir took another peek inside the big envelope that was beside him on the bed. It contained five thousand dollars in cash—President Ulysses S. Grant, one hundred times over—paid in advance.

The bathroom door opened. A tall, naked redhead sauntered across the room. She had a hairy brown bush and hardly a freckle on her olive skin, so the big, flaming vintage-1980 hairdo was obviously a dye job. She went to the bureau and removed a brush from her purse. Vladimir watched in the mirror as she worked through the tangles in her long, wet hair. He had to smile. Even after a long shower, her ass was still red from where he’d spanked that naughty bitch. He grabbed her clothes from the foot of the bed and threw them at her.

“Get lost,” he said.

She sorted through her clothing and pulled on her panties. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He selected a crisp fifty-dollar bill from the envelope and held it up lengthwise between his middle and index fingers. “Come and get it.”

She pulled her dress on over her head and fastened her stiletto heels. “Sorry, pal. That mess you made in my hair doubled the price.”

Vladimir didn’t argue. It was money well spent. He took another fifty from the envelope. “Now, beat it.”

She crossed the room with attitude, snatched the cash from his hand, and started toward the door. Vladimir rolled across the bed and beat her to it. She seemed surprised that he would open the door for her, but that surprise turned to concern when he leaned his shoulder against it to prevent her from leaving.

She smiled nervously. “You want to go again?”

He shook his head.

“Well, if you have any friends who—”

“I don’t have any friends.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay. But if you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

He grabbed her jaw tightly and forced her to look at him directly. “That’s exactly right,” he said, his expression deadly serious. “I know how to reach you. I know where to reach you. I know when to reach you. So forget you ever met me.”

He released the viselike grip on her jaw.

“Okay,” she said, barely able to talk. “Whatever you say.”

Vladimir unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. She left with the haste of a freed hostage, and just as soon as she was gone, Vladimir secured the door with both the chain and deadbolt.

It was time to get back to business.

He went to his leather bag, removed his .22 caliber with silencer, and laid the tools of the trade on the bed. The gun was a familiar model to him, but this one was brand new—stolen from a gun shop in New York. It would be used once and then discarded, preferably in deep water. It was his weapon of choice for execution-style killings: barrel in the mouth or to the back of the head, the low-caliber bullet entering the cranium and ricocheting off the inside of the skull, no exit wound, turning the brain to scrambled eggs. Just in case things went wrong, he also packed a 9 mm Glock with two ammunition clips.

Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing where his prey might be. Vladimir couldn’t search every corner of Pawtucket and Providence. But a guy like Babes wasn’t too savvy. All Vladimir had to do was pick a spot—a logical place that Babes would run to—and wait.

The Checker crushed out his cigarette, leaned back on the bed, and drew a mental map of his return to the North Burial Ground and the Dawes family crypt.