One to Go (9 page)

“Gino, I think it would be helpful for you to write a note to Angie. You know, something she can keep with her always.”

“Probably should. Maybe tomorrow—”

“You could do it tomorrow, but why not now? I'll give it to her tonight. Think it'll make her feel better.”

“Guess you're right.” He nodded at a cabinet drawer. “Rosie keeps a pad and pen in there.”

Tom walked to the cabinet, which fortunately was behind Gino. He pulled a pair of transparent latex gloves from his coat pocket and tried to slip them on, but his hands were shaking so badly it took twice as long.

“I know my life's over, Tom. Rosie's gone. And I'm going away for a long time. Got a nice insurance policy. Was thinking—”

“Probably feel the same way in your shoes.”
Jesus, did he really just say that?

Tom retrieved the pad and paper, then pivoted and quickly set both items down on the table. Gino was so lost in thought that he never noticed Tom's hands.

The big man stared at the blank tablet. “Don't know what to say.”

“It doesn't have to be long, just say what you feel. How sorry you are, ask for forgiveness, you know, that kind of stuff.”

Gino picked up the pen and began to write. Tom watched over his shoulder.

Dear Angie, I'm so sorry for what I did. I loved your mommy very much. My heart breaks for you. Please forgive me
.

“Guess I should say I'll see her tomorrow.”

Tom pulled the Ruger from his jacket pocket.

Gino looked up, startled. “What's goin' on? That looks like my gun.”

Tom had rehearsed in his mind what he would say, and the words rushed out. “You're right. You're going to spend the rest of your life in prison. You're going to die there. You want Angie to see you like that? Remember you like that?”

Tom looked at the clock.
Four minutes
.

“She's going to need money for college and a wedding. I know you want her to have a nice wedding someday. Gayle and I will do what we can, but college is so expensive. You said you have a life insurance policy.”

Three minutes
.

Gino stared at the gun. Tears poured from his eyes. He whispered, “You think I'll go to heaven?”

How was he supposed to answer that one?
Sorry, Charlie, but you're headin' south
. In the great scheme of things, lying seemed so inconsequential.

“God knows you didn't mean to kill Rosie. I'm sure He will forgive you and allow you to enter His kingdom.” He could barely get the words out. The acid in his stomach had refluxed up into his esophagus, setting it on fire. He needed to stop this nonsense.

Another glance at the clock.
Two minutes
.

Tom turned off the safety and, using both hands to steady the gun, handed it to Gino.

Gino wrapped his large right hand, a tough construction worker's hand, around the grip. He stared at the gun, but his eyes appeared distant. He put his finger on the trigger and took a deep breath. “Don't know if I got the guts to do it.”

One minute
.

Tom kept telling himself the man sitting in front of him beat an innocent woman to death with his bare hands. A life for a life.

He gulped, his words just above a whisper. “You want me to help?”

“You'd do that for me?”

Of course, I'd be pleased as punch to assist you. No, no, don't mention it. Least I could do
.

Thirty seconds
.

Tom wrapped his hand around Gino's trembling wrist as the man lifted the gun, pointing the shaking barrel at his temple. Tom wedged his index finger inside the trigger guard on top of Gino's thick finger.

Twenty seconds
.

Gino looked up to him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. “Tom, I just want to say—”

Don't you understand? There's no time to hear what you JUST WANT TO SAY!

Ten seconds
.

He felt Gino's finger tighten, but not fast enough. Tom closed his eyes and squeezed.

The sound of the gun, amplified by the kitchen tile, reverberated through every cell in Tom's body. Gino's head crashed to the table. Tom jerked his hand away, and the gun fell to the floor. Tom couldn't move. His entire body shook.

Gino Battaglia was dead, his brains splattered across the tile floor. His sightless eyes stared up at Tom.

He glanced up at the clock. Time of death: 11:59 p.m.

Tom couldn't stop screaming.

Tom was beyond exhaustion. The DC forensic team was finishing up; Gino's body had been photographed in situ, then taken away. Tom had just finished telling the detective his story for the third time.

The cop's name was Percy Castro. Late fifties, overweight. If Tom had to describe the detective in one word, it would be “rumpled.” His clothing was rumpled, his thinning hair rumpled, and even his face appeared rumpled. Broad shoulders, huge hands, he was several inches shorter than Tom. His blue eyes, shrouded by heavy lids, signaled intelligence: this wasn't Castro's first rodeo.

After calling 911, Tom had telephoned Gayle, and she'd come and taken the girls back to Arlington. Tom had made sure neither girl entered the house, but Angie sensed something was wrong. When she asked if her daddy was okay, Tom didn't have the strength to lie, so he said that her daddy had decided to go see her mommy in heaven. When she burst into tears, he'd held the child tightly, not letting go until Gayle arrived which, fortunately, was five minutes before the cops.

Tom knew there was no way he could eliminate microscopic traces of blood, so after pocketing his gloves, he actually smeared more blood on his clothes, and made a point of picking up the gun and setting it on the table. The gloves were not to cover fingerprints, but powder blowback—thank you,
CSI
.

Castro gestured Tom toward the couch in the living room. As soon as Tom sat, he sunk so deep into the plush cushion his knees were almost at chin level. The cop took the straight-back chair opposite
him, creating a line of sight downward to Tom, and exaggerating Castro's role as top dog.

“So, tell me what happened,” said Castro. The cop's deep, ragged voice suggested he was or had been a heavy smoker.

Tom had been smart enough to prepare and rehearse his story in his head on the drive over. He'd figured if he actually went through with the plan, he'd be too shaken up to concoct a cogent explanation on the spot.

“I took Angie over to see Gino. When I was about to leave, Gino called me back to the kitchen and offered me a beer. He had in front of him a pad of paper with writing on it.”

“Didn't it look like a suicide note?” asked Castro.

“I was in a hurry to leave and get the girls home. I glanced at it and the writing appeared to be the beginning of a letter to his daughter. Gino hugged me, which was strange, and made me promise to take care of Angie when he was gone. I assumed he meant when he was in jail.”

“Where were you when he pulled the trigger?”

“Just as I reached the door, I heard the shot and rushed back to the kitchen. Gino was slumped over the kitchen table. At first, I couldn't tell for sure whether he was dead, then I saw the wound. I retrieved the gun from the floor, put it on the table. I figured Gino must have either had the gun in his pocket or it had been in a drawer. I called 911 and Gayle, my ex-wife.”

“Why did you disturb the gun on the floor?”

“Didn't see it at first, then accidentally kicked it when I checked on Gino. I picked it up to get it off the floor.”

Tom had designed his story to explain why he had blood on him and why he may have had fingerprints on the gun—he didn't trust himself that he could've wiped his prints perfectly clean. The note was powerful evidence: Gino had a perfect motive to take his own life and obviously there was no reason for Tom, a member of one of the most respected firms in Washington, to tell anything but the truth. Best Tom could tell, Castro bought every word.

“It's been a long night. Mind if I go home now?” asked Tom, the weariness in his voice the only authentic element of his performance.

“Sorry to keep you,” said Castro. “Thanks for your time.”

They shook hands and Tom left. As soon as he was out the door, he gasped for breath. His heart pounded and he began to tremble.
Stop it
. He had to hold it together.

He saw the paramedics loading the black body bag into the back of the ambulance.
He did that. He was respon
—

Wait, the bag moved. That's impossible. The body sat up and the bag unzipped. Gino Battaglia, now with a hole through his head, smiled, except his white teeth were gone, supplanted by blackened stubs. A white worm slithered through the stubs and dropped into the grass. He winked, and when he spoke, it wasn't Gino's voice. Instead, the sound was more a high-pitched squeak:
Thanks, Tommy. Keep 'em comin'
.

Tom pressed his fist to his mouth to stifle the scream, then looked again; the body bag was as it had been, now fully loaded into the ambulance.

A hallucination
.

The minute he got into his car, he checked his cell phone, hoping for a message from Chad releasing his daughter in exchange for the soul of Gino Battaglia.

Nothing.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Three stiff shots of Jack hadn't helped. He could equivocate about Gino, having bludgeoned an innocent woman to death, deciding to take his own life rather than face life behind bars. All Tom had done was hasten the man's suicide by a few seconds. But the truth was, Thomas Michael Booker, middle class, above-average intelligence, well educated, generally a nice guy, had murdered Gino Battaglia.

For the hundredth time, he checked his cell phone.
Where the hell were the demon twins?
He wanted badly to call Gayle to check on Janie, but both girls needed sleep right now. Besides, what explanation would he offer?

His mind rushed over the details of the past hours.
What was he missing? What clue did he leave? Would the next knock at the door be Castro with a pair of handcuffs? After leaving Gino's, he'd pulled over behind an abandoned strip mall and burned his bloody latex gloves. He knew he didn't think of everything, but—
damn!
The gloves had Gino's blood on them, and he'd put the gloves in his pockets, which meant his pockets had traces of Gino's blood. He had to get rid of the jacket; no, that would look suspicious. Castro had seen him in the jacket. Dry-clean. Would dry-cleaning remove the blood? Probably. He'd take it to the dry-cleaners in the morning.

But wait, even if traces of blood remained, he'd made no attempt to hide the blood on his body, and had, in fact, made sure there was blood on his hands, or Castro would've wondered why there was blood on other parts of his clothing, but not on his hands. And if it was okay for him to have the victim's blood on his hands, it would make sense there would be blood in his jacket pockets. So he would dry-clean the jacket, but do so along with his shirts and suits on his normal day. Normal, that was the key.

Satisfied, he finally drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of Gino, sitting at the kitchen table, looking up at him with that plaintive expression: “
You killed me Tom, but that's not the worst of it. I'm in hell now, for all eternity. I didn't deserve that, Tom. You should be here instead of me. I took a life, but it was against my will. You willfully murdered me. You should burn
—”

No!

Thanks, Tommy. Keep 'em comin'
.

Tom woke in a sweat. His phone buzzed. He grabbed it from the night table. On the screen he saw a video of a familiar freckle-faced, seven-year-old wearing a green Frog shirt, kicking a soccer ball in her backyard. A text appeared across the video.

Angie saved. Thanks for Gino
.

Still owe three
.

Tom slept until one p.m., then spent the rest of the day in his under-shorts and t-shirt, staring blankly at the TV. Sunday meant football, and the 'Skins were playing the Eagles at home. Ignoring breakfast, he popped open a bag of Cheetos, found a six-pack of beer, and parked himself in his old, red leather recliner. Over the next six hours, the phone rang four times—two calls from Zig and two from Gayle. He ignored them.

By eight, he'd watched the 'Skins lose and the Ravens win. He'd finished two family-size bags of Cheetos. His fingers, face, hair, undershorts, and the arms of his chair were covered in orange gunk. The six-pack had barely lasted until a last-second Eagles field goal had doomed the 'Skins, and he'd required the assistance of his friend, Mr. Daniel's, to help him make it through the Ravens' thrashing of the Packers.

He was into the second quarter of the Sunday night game—he had no idea who was playing, but could make out that one team wore red and the other team white—when Jess called. Through the blur, he knew enough to avoid talking to any human being in his condition, and elected not to answer.