Game of Death (44 page)

Ma takes a sip of my drink. ‘Is there anything Cormack can do?’

I shake my head. ‘Josh has got someone watching me. If I bring anyone into this, he’ll kill her. After what happened to Kendra, and everything she told me about Josh, I don’t
doubt it.’

‘So, what are you going to do?’

I take the drink back and gulp down a healthy swallow. ‘He says that if I show up at his place, he’ll swap her out for me; let her go.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘No. But I have to take the chance.’

She nods. ‘You’re a good man, Nick. Better than any I’ve ever come across; even the ones I’ve loved. Your father would be proud of you.’

‘What would he do if he found himself in this situation?’

She shrugs. ‘I honestly don’t know. He’d surely kill someone, but that would be as much out of anger and pride as anything else. I don’t know whether he’d have your
courage – to walk in there and give himself up for someone else?’ She shakes her head. ‘In the spirit of Christian charity for the dead, I’d like to think that he would. But
in reality, I don’t know.’

‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’

‘Do you love her?’

‘Yeah, Ma. I do.’

‘Then there’s no question about it. She’d be lucky to have you. And I feel lucky to have been your mother. Take my gun, okay? I’ll leave the light on in front. Make it
easier to get in when you get home.’

It’s still warm out, even at eleven o’clock, when I walk back out to my car. A light mist is trying to decide whether it’s rain or fog, slipping back and
forth between the two. As I reach for the handle on the car door, a figure emerges from the mist at the end of the driveway. I can see only the outline of his body, but there is no question that
he’s moving toward me. I start to reach for my gun, but I see he has his drawn before I can even get my hand in my pocket.

‘Tests came back,’ he says. ‘Looks like I get to arrest you a second time.’ Paul Killkenny’s face materializes in the place of the silhouette that is moving closer.
‘Hands on the hood of the car, Nick.’

‘You can’t do this,’ I say, not moving.

‘I have to do this.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘DNA says otherwise.’

‘DNA doesn’t say shit. All that says is that I was with her. I never denied that.’

‘And then she was found dead. Coincidence?’

I shake my head. ‘You’re a cop. You don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘That’s right, I don’t.’

‘And this wasn’t a coincidence; I was set up. Don’t you see? He followed me there. He planned this all along.’

‘Who did?’

‘Josh Pinkerton. He knew about François’ LifeScenes. He knew about me and Kendra. He’d never gotten over her, so he used me. He followed me and saw that I’d stayed
the night, and then when I left, he went in and he killed her. He set it up to look like I was the one who did it. It all makes sense.’

I can see that I’ve caught Killkenny’s attention. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘And you’ve got a hell of a lawyer working for you now, so he may just be able to get a
jury to buy into all that. To be honest, there’s a part of me that hopes you do beat this. But I’ve still got to take you in. Hands on the car.’

‘I can’t do it. Not right now.’

Killkenny laughs. ‘You don’t have a choice.’

‘He’ll kill her,’ I say.

Killkenny frowns at me. ‘He’ll kill who?’

‘Yvette. He’s got her. He’s offered a swap: her for me. I’m going.’ He stares at me, his gun still drawn, and I can tell that he’s debating whether or not he
believes me. ‘You’ve known me for a long time, Paul,’ I say. ‘You know where I’m from and what I’m made of. Do you believe I killed Kendra like that?’

‘I don’t know anyone well enough to know what they’re capable of doing.’

‘That’s bullshit, and both of us know it. You know I didn’t do it. You know it, and you’re going to stop me from preventing him killing Yvette. Is that really what
you’re willing to do? I’ll come right to the police station when this is over. I’ll turn myself in, and we can let the justice system take it from there.’

He’s still thinking it over, trying to find the right thing to do. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do,’ he says. ‘I’ll go with you. If you’re
telling the truth, then I’ll know it and I can help you.’

I shake my head. ‘He said he has someone watching me. If you leave here with me, he’ll kill her. Just by standing here with me, for all I know it’s already made him decide to
go ahead and kill her. I’m leaving. Just me. If you follow me, you’ll be signing Yvette’s death warrant. Understand?’

‘This is a joke, right? You expect me to let you walk, just like that?’

‘You do what you want, but if you want to stop me from leaving, you’ll have to kill me.’ I open the car door.

He raises his gun so that it’s pointed at my head. ‘Don’t!’

‘Do it,’ I say. ‘Because if you’re not going to let me do what I need to do, you’re as good as killing me anyway.’

I hear the action pulled back on Killkenny’s gun as I slide into the driver’s seat. I don’t turn around; if he’s going to shoot me, I want it to be in the back of the
head – let him try to explain that.

‘I said, don’t!’

I fire up the Corolla’s engine, thankful for a dependable car, even if it’s starting to smell of mildew and doesn’t have windows in the back, and put it into reverse to back
out of the driveway. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can be. Don’t follow me. I’m serious about that.’

I pull away and only look back when I’m halfway down the street. In my rearview mirror I can see Killkenny still standing there, pointing his gun at my car as it gets further and further
away, probably still debating whether to pull the trigger.

Marblehead is a point of rocky terrain sticking into Salem Harbor, where the shores fall violently into the churning water. Originally settled as a plantation that was a part
of Salem, it split off from the main town early in American history. Over time, it became known for its maritime skill and wealth. It was the birthplace of the American Navy, and of American naval
aviation. The small town is still known as a mecca of yachting, rivaling places like Newport and Watch Hill to the south.

Today, Marblehead is also one of the wealthiest towns in Massachusetts. Starter homes cost more than a million dollars, and mansions along the water can run well into eight figures. Josh
Pinkerton’s home there is one of the most expensive. Two years ago, when it was clear how successful NextLife was going to become, he purchased an old colonial on the top of the cliffs at the
end of Ocean Drive, in a spot with six acres of trees and enough privacy for any recluse. It took him just over a year to tear the house down and erect a huge stone mansion designed to rise from
the shoreline rocks like some Bavarian mountain retreat. Turrets and stone balconies along the shore side reinforce the impression he wanted to convey of unceasing power. The local Brahmins shake
their heads at the influence of ‘new money’ in the old New England town, but there’s little they could do.

I make my way up Route 1A, through the working-class towns of Revere and Lynn just north of Boston, then peel off onto the local shoreline drives. As I make my way north, I worry that whoever
was watching me – assuming Josh was telling the truth – has already gotten word to him that I talked to the police. Certainly my conversation with Killkenny could have been seen as a
breach of Pinkerton’s conditions, and it’s possible that he’s made good on his threat.

I pull into the private driveway at eleven-forty. I turn off the lights and the car crawls slowly through the trees toward the mansion at the edge of the water. There are no other cars that I
can see, and no lights on in the house. The driveway ends in a semicircle, with an offshoot leading to the five-car garage that is designed to look like the castle’s stables, with
three-bedroom guest quarters above. I turn off the engine and sit in my car for a few minutes, not sure what I’m waiting for. I guess I expected someone to come out and greet me. What that
greeting would consist of, I have no idea. I feel as though the rules of physical reality no longer apply, much less the formal conventions of etiquette.

After five minutes I decide that there’s no point in waiting anymore. I open the car door and step out onto the driveway, which consists of crushed white seashells. They crunch beneath my
feet as I make my way toward the front door, looking in every direction, expecting an attack of some sort at any moment.

I reach the steps to the front door without incident and start up. The steps are rough-cut stone, to blend both with the dwelling’s rock walls and with the outcroppings of ledge that jut
their way up through the lawn like reminders of nature’s supremacy. The steps wind their way in a curve that mimics the broad arc of the central turret into which the front door is
carved.

I am about to ring the bell when I notice that the front door is ajar – just enough for me to peer in through the crack. The lights are off, though, in the entryway, and I can see very
little. ‘Josh?’ I call out hesitantly. ‘It’s Nick. I’m here.’

There’s no answer and I push the door open a little more.

The fog is thicker here than it was down in Charlestown, and any light from the moon and stars is completely blocked, so even with the door opened wider, I can see very little. I step inside the
house, waiting to be hit with a baseball bat, or tackled, or Tasered. Anything is possible at this point, and I realize that I’m really ready for none of it, but I have no choice. I
can’t leave Yvette to this monster.

‘Josh,’ I call a little louder. ‘You can come out! Let her go! That was the deal.’

There is no sound in the house and, with the fog outside, even the natural rhythm of the shoreline, which is normally ever-present, is muffled. The air feels heavy, like it is pressing in on me,
and I start to sweat a little.

I move slowly through the place, with its spectacular artwork and furniture, all seemingly designed to bridge the interior-design gap between a twelfth-century fortress and an eighteenth-century
sea captain’s mansion. It’s a yawning chasm from a design standpoint, but I give credit to those who worked on the place – they’ve made an admirable effort, and on the whole
the pieces they’ve chosen complement rather than compete.

The foyer opens into a huge living room with three sitting areas looking out on the water. I move into that part of the house, staying in the center of the room, so that I may be able to detect
any motion coming at me. The house is still, though. Not just still – dead. That’s what it feels like. It feels like any life the place might once have held has been sucked out of it. I
worry again as I stand there in silence that my worst fear may have been realized. Josh may have caught word that I spoke to the police, and he may have fled with Yvette.

I’m starting to move into one of the galleries that lead off the main living room when I finally hear something. Well, not
hear
. It’s more like I feel something, underneath
my feet. It’s faint and barely perceptible, but it feels like the heart of the house is somehow beating below me. It makes no sense, and I wonder whether I am imagining it, but that’s
the way it feels. I’m reminded of the old Edgar Allan Poe story, ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’, and it crosses my mind that perhaps the guilt of putting Yvette in danger has driven me
insane.

I think back to the tours Josh gave at his parties, and recall the ‘man-cave’ he had built into the rock-cliff foundation. The stairs down were located off the kitchen, which is on
the east side of the house, so I head in that direction. The swinging door to the kitchen is closed, and I put my ear up to it, but hear nothing, so I push it open slowly. ‘Josh?’ My
voice is quiet, and I have to force myself to take each step.

Ma’s gun is heavy in my waistband, digging into my skin, so I take it out. I wasn’t planning to show it until I absolutely had to – I was planning on trying to talk my way out
of whatever Josh had in store for me, as stupid as that sounds – but I’m so freaked out now that I figure having the gun handy isn’t a bad idea.

No one is in the kitchen, at least no one I can see. Instinctively I raise the gun and point it into the corners of the cavernous room, which is outfitted with more professional appliances than
most restaurants. Nothing is moving, and there is still no sound – only the intuition of sound, tormenting me.

Satisfied that I’m still alone, I move toward the door that I recall leads to the downward staircase. It’s there, and I pull it open.

As I stand at the top of the staircase I strain to hear some sound – any sound. There is nothing, though. And then, just as I am getting ready to start down, I hear it. It’s a
rhythmic beat that’s low and steady, like quiet rumblings at the very bottom edge of the auditory spectrum perceptible to the human ear. I hold my breath to make out more, but there’s
nothing. There’s a part of me that wants to flee – to turn and run, find the nearest police station and bring them back here. That’s no option, though, I know. Not only would it
put Yvette’s life in greater jeopardy, but no cop would listen to me now. There’s a warrant out for my arrest for murder, so any conversation I have with the police will be brief and
pointless.

I feel the weight of the gun in my hand, take a deep breath and start down the stairs.

It takes me a few moments to make it to the bottom of the stairs. Josh’s recreational center is in a basement, carved out of the natural bedrock. There are no windows, so
the place is almost pitch-black. I have to feel my way along the curved, rock-walled stairway. I remember what the room looked like the last time I was down here. It’s an open space with a
pool table and seating for a dozen before a theater-sized television screen, outfitted with an HD projection system with access to both television and Blu-ray movies. A bar runs along the back
wall, fully stocked with every imaginable top-shelf alcohol.

As I stand at the bottom of the stairs, I can just make out the outlines of the furniture that I remember. It’s all in place – nothing has been moved. The place is empty. I swing the
gun around, desperate for a target, desperate for something to happen –
anything
. The stillness is far worse than any violence I can imagine. I search for a light switch and find a
set of three against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, but when I flip the switch, nothing happens. Either the circuit breaker has been flipped or the power has been cut to the entire
house.