Run for Your Life (22 page)

I didn’t see any choice. Luckily, things were still quiet here. I put Steve Reno in charge and headed for the door. The mayor, having a photo op in the foyer, gave me a nasty look as I walked by him. Was he pissed that the killer hadn’t shown?

Outside, the cold air and lack of headache–inducing dance music hit me like a refreshing tonic. I crossed the street to my Impala, taking deep breaths and rolling my stiff neck. I turned the engine over and squealed a right onto Eighty–fifth.

As I cut through pitch–black Central Park toward the West Side, I went back to brainstorming. Why did somebody kill Thomas Gladstone, his family, and a bunch of other seemingly random, hoity–toity New Yorkers?

Insanity? The guy was a psycho, sure, but he was organized, smart, very much in control. I didn’t believe that the killings were random, on impulse. He had a reason for what he was doing. Revenge? Maybe, but revenge for what? There was no way even to guess. Maybe both those things figured in, along with God–knew–what–else.

About all I was sure of was that he had to be somebody connected to Gladstone.

I turned down the Chevy’s police radio and turned up the real one to soothe my aching skull. Fat chance: 1010 WINS was going on about the serial shooter. So was CBS 880, so I twirled the dial over to ESPN sports talk.

But there was no escape there, either.

“Our next caller on the Giants Report is Mario from Staten Island,” the announcer said. “What’s shaking, Mario?”

“My mom, mostly,” the caller answered, in a Rocky Balboa voice. “She lives in Little Italy and she’s afraid to open her door. When are the cops going to catch dis friggin’ guy? Jeez!”

“I’m working on it, Mario,” I said, shutting off the damn noise box as Beth Peters rang my cell.

“Mike, I hope you’re sitting down. We just got word. The apartment is rented to a guy named William Meyer. Turns out this guy is a military contractor from Cobalt Partners. You know, the company that provides security to Americans in Iraq? The one that’s in super–deep shit from that recent shooting incident.”

I’d been busier making news than listening to it, but I vaguely remembered something about it. Shots had been fired at a convoy of State Department officials, and the Cobalt security people had returned fire into a large crowd. Eleven people had died, four of them children. An indictment was expected.

“This William Meyer is the main suspect. He was sup–posed to be on the Today show to defend himself but bailed. Before Cobalt, he was in the marines, Special Ops. That would definitely jibe with our guy’s military tactics and shooting skills.”

“Any idea why Gladstone was in Meyer’s apartment?” I asked.

“Absolutely none, Mike, but at least now we have a name. We’re trying to put together his picture. We’ll get him. It’s only a matter of time.”

Chapter 83

William Meyer, I thought as I went up my elevator to my apartment. The way this guy had been taking people out, he seemed more like Michael Myers, the psycho from the movie Halloween.

There were still so many unanswered questions. Had Thomas Gladstone and William Meyer been old service buddies? I would have asked one of Gladstone’s friends or relatives, but they were all dead. Shot by Meyer, if our newest theory was right. Had Gladstone pissed Meyer off or something? And what about the fact that Meyer had been ID’d as Gladstone? They even looked the same?

The scent of apples permeated the foyer outside my apartment. On the antique mail table we shared with our neighbors, a silver bowl was brimming with apples, gourds, and cute baby pumpkins. A gold–and–crimson–colored dried–leaf wreath hung on their door.

While I’d been out chasing a psychopath and staring at charred bodies, Camille Underhill, the Martha Stewart clone next door, had done up our alcove in autumnal splendor. I’d have to remember to thank her when this was all over.

Then I glimpsed my own reflection in the mirror above the table, and it stopped me cold. I was as pale as death. I had garment bags under my eyes and a thumb–sized smudge of tenement–fire soot on my chin. Worse, my face was creased by a scowl that was taking on a permanency.

It was time to start getting serious about finding a different line of work, I decided. The sooner, the better.

Inside my apartment, I started down the hall toward Jane’s room, but then spotted flickering blue TV light coming from the living room. It was late for the kids to be up, but maybe Mary Catherine had stuck the others in front of the tube so she could take care of Jane. I didn’t hear any coughing or retching sounds. Was the epidemic over?

When I first stepped into the darkened living room, my guess seemed right. On the TV screen, Harry and Ron were running down a corridor of Hogwarts, and kids were sitting all over the sectional and various beanbag chairs.

Then I realized that all ten kids were there, including deathly sick Jane. Stranger yet, both Mary Catherine and Seamus were with them, staring at me urgently.

“Why the heck is everybody up this late?” I said. “Did J.K. Rowling come out with another book or something? Come on, gang, it’s time to hit the sack.”

“No, it’s time to unholster your gun and kick it over to me,” said a voice behind me. The living room light flicked on.

That’s when I spotted the lamp cord that bound Seamus and Mary Catherine to the dining room chairs they were sitting on.

What!? No, not here! Oh, my God. Son of a bitch!

“I’ll say it once more. Your gun, unholster it and kick it over here,” the voice said. “I suggest you be very careful. You know exactly how well I shoot.”

I turned around to finally come face–to–face with my nightmare.

The witnesses had done a good job, I thought. Tall, athletic, with a handsome, boyish face. His hair was blond, but obviously dyed. And he did look like Thomas Gladstone. I could see why the stewardess had ID’d him. This guy looked like an older, slimmer version of the deceased pilot.

Was he Gladstone? Or Meyer? Could the dental records on the body in the tenement be wrong?

I also couldn’t help noticing how his finger was very tight on the trigger of the machine pistol he pointed steadily at my heart.

Keeping my hands visible, I drew my Glock from my belt holster, set it on the hardwood floor, and booted it over to him. He picked it up and shoved it inside his belt, revealing the butt of yet another gun. Talk about armed to the teeth. Christ, this guy was scary.

“Time for a little man talk in here, Mike,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen with his chin. “Me and you got a lot of catching up to do.”

Chapter 84

“Now, don’t do anything silly, kiddies. Just sit still,” the gunman said to my family in a peppy, condescending tone. “I’ll be listening, and if I hear something I don’t like, you’ll make me put a bullet in your daddy’s head. That’ll ruin his whole day.”

I could see the kids cringe, and little Shawna, sitting in Juliana’s lap, was crying while Juliana tried to comfort her. Christ, that was just the kind of thing they needed to hear after losing their mother less than a year ago. I’d gladly have killed the son of a bitch for it — just for being in my house.

With a gun at my back, I walked into the kitchen and sat at the island, choosing the stool closest to the block of knives by the stove. If I could get him to let down his guard, I’d grab one and go for him, I decided. I wouldn’t mind getting shot, but I needed to be sure. If I failed, we’d all be dead.

But the shooter stayed on the other side of the island, on his feet and very watchful.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he said with smug sarcasm. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”

I said a quick silent prayer of thanks for my years as a hostage negotiator. I was able to stay calm despite the adrenaline bulging my veins. Let all that training and experience take over, I told myself. Maybe I could talk my family to safety.

Maybe? What was I thinking? Maybe wasn’t an option. I had to. That was all there was to it.

“This is between me and you,” I said calmly. “As long as we keep it like that, I’m fine with whatever you want. Just take me out of here or let my kids go. I’ll tell them not to talk to anybody, and they won’t. Like you said, they don’t want to see me get hurt.”

“Actually,” he said, “this thing is between me and whoever I say it’s between. The Bennett Bunch is staying right here.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then let’s you and me leave. I’ll do whatever you say and I won’t try anything.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?” I said. “You want to get away? I can arrange it.”

He shook his head, still with his sardonic smirk, then opened my fridge and came out with a couple of cans of Bud. He popped the top off one and handed it to me before crunching one for himself.

“Budweiser? In a can? Jeez, Mike,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Where do you keep the potatoes that complete your Irish seven–course meals?”

He took a sip of his and pointed to mine.

“Go on. Tilt your elbow, Mikey. Loosen up a little. Looking around for me must have been thirsty work. Not to mention dealing with that crew of curtain climbers in the living room.”

“If you insist,” I said, and took a long hit of the cold beer. It tasted damn good.

“See? There you go. A little levity goes a long way. I knew we could be friends, that you were the guy I could explain myself to.”

I took another drink. The way my nerves were jangling, I could have gone through a twelve–pack. I set the Bud on the counter and stared at him with as much concern and understanding as I could muster. Oprah would have been proud.

“Explain away,” I said. “I’m more than happy to hear what you have to say, William. That’s your name? William Meyer, right?”

“Sort of,” he said. “My name used to be Gladstone. But my parents got divorced and our family split up. I went with my mom, and my stepfather adopted me and changed my name to Meyer.”

So that’s why we didn’t get a hit on any relatives for Gladstone, I thought, shaking my head.

“That’s what this was all about in a way,” the killer said. “My turning my back on my name and on my brother.”

Much as I wanted to see this psychopathic, cop–killing, walking infection on an autopsy table, the hostage negotiator in me won the day. Meyer wanted to tell his story, and the longer I could keep him talking, the more time I bought and the more likely he was to relax.

“Can I call you Billy?” I said in a voice that would make any therapist proud. “I’ve worked a million cases, but I’ve never heard anything like this. Will you tell me about it?”

Yeah. Tell me all about how much smarter you are than the rest of the world, you evil prick.

Chapter 85

Just as I’d figured, Billy Meyer didn’t need any prodding.

“Like I said, when I was ten, my parents got divorced, and my mom got remarried to a very rich financier. I went with her, but my little brother, Tommy, stayed with my dad. Pop was a nice guy, but a drunk. He worked cleaning trains for the Transit Authority, and that was the height of his ambition. As long as it kept him in booze.”

He took a slug of his beer. Good, keep drinking, I thought. Maybe I could get him to let me bust out the Jameson’s, and we could do shots. He’d get drunk and pass out. Or better yet, I could brain him with the bottle. I was all for that.

“My life completely changed,” he went on. “I went to snobby Collegiate and on to even more elitist Princeton. But after I graduated, instead of heading off to Wall Street like my stepdad wanted, I rebelled and joined the marines instead. I started out as a grunt and ended up in Special Ops. I trained as a pilot, like my brother.”

At the top of his class, no doubt, I thought, remembering his efficiency with a pistol.

“When I got out of the service, I joined up with the multinational corporate security firm Cobalt. It was great. Iraq was just starting up. It was just like Special Ops only better. All the action I wanted. It was great while it lasted. Cobalt’s the firm that’s been catching some heat lately. You follow current events, Mike?”

“I do what I can,” I said.

“Well, the FBI is actually going to try to charge me with murder. Of course I killed those people. You let off shots in the direction of my men, crowd or no crowd, you’re getting them back and then some. The Feds want to indict us for staying the fuck alive? Screw that. I came back to fight that nonsense. Point out the little fact that we were in a war zone. Cobalt hired a PR group to rep us. We were going to go on the morning shows and talk circuit. It was all set up.”

He paused to take another sip.

“Didn’t work out?” I tried.

“Well, that was before I came home to my apartment here in the city to drop off my bags and found my brother.”

The psychopath suddenly looked down at the floor. A pinched, sad expression clouded his face. I wouldn’t have believed he had that kind of feeling in him.

“My brother blew his brains out, Mike. They were on the coffee table all over my rug. There was a three–page suicide note on the table. Turns out things had totally turned to shit for him while I was away. He’d had an affair with a stewardess, and his wife, Erica, found out and filed for divorce. The big money, the fancy house — all that stuff was hers, so he was out in the cold. Then came the final blow. He got busted for tossing back a few before a London–to–New York run, and bingo, he lost his job.”

This time, I took a sip of my Bud, trying to mask my confusion.

“At the very end of my brother’s note was a list. It was a list of people who had wronged him, the ones who ‘made him do it,’ as he said.”

Billy Meyer let out a deep breath and made a “there you have it” gesture with his gun–free hand, looking at me as if he’d just explained everything.

I nodded back slowly, trying my best to look as if it all made sense now.

“Standing over my poor brother’s body, I had an epiphany. I’d abandoned him when we were little. I never called him, never wrote, always blew him off. I was a self–centered prick. The more and more I thought about it, the more I realized I’d fucking killed him as sure as if I’d pulled the trigger myself. My first reaction actually was lifting the gun. I wanted to kill myself, too. That’s how messed up I was.”