Innocence (33 page)

He looked back at her. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“What?”

“What happened. You didn’t ask me what happened to me. You didn’t ask me whether he . . .” Her words faded off. “It seemed like that was all the doctors cared about. Did he or didn’t he. I could even see the question in Finn’s eyes. But not yours. You didn’t ask. You weren’t even curious. Why not?”

He thought about it. Then he walked back to the side of her bed and sat on the side of the mattress. “I’m not good at this,” he said. “I never had any practice. If you ever want to tell me anything—if you ever want to talk about anything—I’ll always listen. I may not have any answers for you, and I may not be able to fix everything, but I can listen. I’m never going to ask you any questions about it because I don’t care. I don’t care because nothing that happened to you—nothing that could happen to you—could ever change the way I feel about you. Do you understand?” Her eyes had watered over, and she wiped them with the back of her hand. He had to get out of the room or he was going to lose it.

“I think so,” she said. She took his hand and brought it to her chest. “Thank you.”

He nodded.

“Now, you go out and get this fucker, okay?”

z

Finn waited outside the room for Kozlowski. When he came out, he was moving with purpose. He blew right by Finn without pausing.

“Koz! Hold on!” Finn shouted, breaking into a jog to keep up. Kozlowski kept moving and said nothing. “Koz! Wait!” Finn caught him from behind and put a hand on his shoulder to slow his pace. Kozlowski spun around on him, the violence bubbling visibly to the surface. “Shit, just wait a second, okay?” Finn moved back out of Kozlowski’s reach.

“What?” Kozlowski demanded. His face was twisted with rage.

Finn looked back toward Lissa’s room, then met Kozlowski’s eyes. “How long?” he asked.

The question took Kozlowski by surprise, and Finn could see that he’d guessed right. After a moment’s internal struggle, Kozlowski relented. “A week. A little less, maybe.”

Finn blew out a long breath, considering the implications. “That’s good,” he said at last. “It’s good for both of you.”

“Yeah.” Kozlowski was looking through him. “Just fucking great.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t sitting very well with you right now.”

“Good fucking guess, Carnac.”

Finn scratched his head. “So? What are you thinking of doing about it?”

“I’m going to bring these fuckers down. Every last one of them. You got a problem with that?”

Finn considered the question. “No,” he said. “Not really. You got a plan?”

Kozlowski shook his head.

“Good. Plans are overrated, anyway.”

Kozlowski continued to stare at him.

“Fine,” Finn said. “I’m in.”

Kozlowski nodded, then started moving toward the hospital exit, more slowly this time.

“I guess all those bright lines of yours are pretty much out the window, huh?” Finn asked.

“My lines are still bright,” Kozlowski said. “These people just stepped over them.”

z

It was ten o’clock before Jimmy made it back to East Boston. He’d walked the entire way, too nervous to take a cab or a bus in his condition. The bleeding from his shoulder had slowed to an intermittent ooze, but he had lost a significant amount of blood. He needed medical attention, and he wouldn’t get it without Carlos’s help.

He walked around to the back of the rectory and slipped into the basement through the open door next to the garage. Raul, one of Carlos’s confidants, was there, waiting for him. “We saw you coming up the street. I hope no one else did,” Raul said. “You should be far more careful, particularly this close to a delivery.” Something about the man’s posture put Jimmy on edge, but he assumed it was just his exhaustion feeding his natural paranoia.

“I need a doctor,” Jimmy said. He nodded toward his shoulder and realized with concern that he could no longer move his arm. “I got shot.”

“Carlos is upstairs in his church.” Raul turned and headed up the stairs. “You coming?”

“I need a doctor,” Jimmy repeated. Something inside told him to run, but he was so tired, and he didn’t know where else to go.

“Carlos is upstairs,” Raul repeated. He never broke stride, and after a moment Jimmy followed him up.

The church was connected to the rectory by a short covered walkway, and the two of them slipped across quietly, careful to remain out of sight from any passersby. Carlos was in the church, kneeling in front of the altar—nothing more than a raised dais since the archdiocese had stripped it of anything of value. Raul motioned for Jimmy to sit in the front pew, then walked back out the door, headed toward the rectory. Jimmy sat for several minutes. He thought he might pass out, and he even considered interrupting Carlos’s meditations, but he understood what a remarkably bad idea that would be. At last Carlos lifted his head, made the sign of the cross, and stood.

He turned and looked at Jimmy. There was no question that he had been aware of Jimmy’s presence. “You have returned,” he said.

“I got shot. I need a doctor,” Jimmy said.

“You may need more than that,” Carlos said icily. “I understand that the lawyer is still alive.”

Panic ripped through Jimmy’s chest, and in his weakened condition, the flood of adrenaline made him shake violently. “He is,” Jimmy said. “He got away, but he’s no longer a problem.”

“No longer a problem? He is still alive, but he is no longer a problem? That is impressive. Most impressive. Particularly since I made clear to you that the lawyer would remain a problem as long as he was still alive. Are you telling me that I was wrong?”

Jimmy knew that he had to pick his way very carefully through the minefield of Carlos’s questioning. If Jimmy said Carlos had been wrong, it would constitute a direct challenge. If he said Carlos had been right, it would constitute an admission that he had failed. Like everything with the Padre, this was a test, and no matter how tired he was, Jimmy had to stay sharp in order to pass. “I found another way,” he said.

“Another way?” Carlos considered this. “How creative of you. What was this ‘other way’?”

“I sent him a message. Using one of his employees—a woman.”

“You sent him a message?”

“A very clear message. We won’t have any more problems with the lawyer.”

“You know this? You know exactly how the lawyer will react to this message?”

“I think so, yes.” Jimmy wanted to rest. His head throbbed, and his arm was completely numb.

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Which is it?”

Jimmy said nothing.

“In business, as in war, there is nothing more dangerous than uncertainty. You were sent to resolve this situation once and for all.”

“I believe I did.” Jimmy knew the conversation was getting away from him. He was failing. It occurred to him again to run, but he knew it was useless. He no longer had the strength.

Carlos walked over and sat down in the pew next to Jimmy. “I had high hopes for you. You know that?”

“Yes, Padre,” Jimmy said. He realized he was crying. “I’m sorry.”

“Very high hopes for you. You are not Salvadoran, but I thought you were strong. In some ways, I saw more of myself in you than I have in anyone else. In some ways, I thought of you as a son. I had a son once, did you know that?”

Jimmy shook his head, the tears wagging as they flowed down his cheeks.

“He’s gone now, but you reminded me of him.”

“Padre, I’m so sor—”

Carlos patted Jimmy’s knee, cutting him off. “Not to worry. We are all in God’s hands in the end.” He looked up at the stained-glass window rising up from behind the altar. The morning light was streaming through it, casting a multicolored glow over Carlos’s heavily tattooed face. The effect was kaleidoscopic, and Jimmy felt dizzy as he looked at the older man.

“Were you raised in the Church, Jimmy?”

“No. My mother was . . . She wasn’t religious. My father was American.”

Carlos nodded in understanding. “Do you know the story of Abraham?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Abraham was God’s chosen. He was God’s favorite. He was the man God loved above all others. But God still knew Abraham needed to be tested. He needed to prove his trust and devotion to God. So God sent Abraham up into the mountains. He told him to bring his oldest son.” Carlos stood and took Jimmy by the hand, leading him up to the altar. “God had Abraham build a great altar. Then He told Abraham to have his son lie down on the altar.” Carlos gently pushed Jimmy down onto his knees. “And then God told Abraham to take his blade and kill his own son as a sign of his obedience to God.”

Carlos reached behind him and picked up a machete that was leaning against the wall. He brought it up over his head. “Abraham raised his sword, ready to kill his own flesh and blood in the name of God. God, seeing that Abraham was worthy of His trust, took mercy on him. And as Abraham began to swing his sword, the hand of God came down and stopped the blade, sparing his son.”

Jimmy was on his knees, looking up through his tears at Carlos as the light streamed in from the stained-glass window. He looked divine to Jimmy.

“So you see, Jimmy, there is really only one question for the two of us here today.”

“What?” Jimmy sobbed.

Carlos stared evenly at Jimmy. “Whether God will have mercy on us.” With that, he swung the machete in a swift, even arch toward Jimmy’s head. Jimmy saw it coming and flinched backward a half foot in an effort to avoid the blade. His reaction saved him, but not by much. The machete sank cleanly into the meat of his left arm, just below the gunshot wound. It cut through the muscle and severed the bone, and Jimmy’s arm fell onto the altar in front of him.

“No!” Jimmy screamed. He reached out with his remaining hand and grabbed his disembodied arm. All rational thought deserted him. “No!” he screamed again, and tried to make his way off the altar and toward the church door. His entire mental process was reduced to a single word:
Run!

Unfortunately for him, the altar was now slick with the blood pouring from the stump below his shoulder. His balance was gone, and he slipped and went back down on his knees, dropping his severed arm and letting it slide across the floor.

Carlos stalked him from behind. He came up alongside Jimmy, stretched out at his feet. He held the machete in both hands, like a baseball bat. Jimmy looked up at him.

“Please! No!” Jimmy begged.

Carlos took a step and swung the machete in a low, strong uppercut, catching Jimmy below the rib cage, splitting open his belly. Jimmy looked down and saw ribbons of intestines spilling out of him onto the floor. The stench was awful. He tried to crawl, but the top and bottom halves of his body were no longer able to function together with any semblance of coordination, and he was able to do little more than squirm on the floor in a pool of his own innards.

Carlos looked down at him. “I’m sorry, Jimmy,” he said. “God has no more mercy left.” He brought the machete up again, and Jimmy watched helplessly as the blade swung hard toward his neck. There was nothing he could do, and the blow caught him cleanly in the throat, severing his head from his shoulders.

Perhaps God had some mercy left after all; Jimmy no longer felt a thing.

Chapter Thirty-tw
o

Outside the hospital, Finn climbed into his car and started the engine. It had taken a few moments for them to find the tiny MG, as the plows had pushed piles of snow up against the convertible in uneven clumps.

“Where to first?” Finn asked. “Talk to Macintyre? He’s got to be at the heart of this, right?”

“Probably,” Kozlowski agreed. “But he’s not going to be easy to shake; he’s been around for too long, and he knows how the game is played. He’s not going to show us his cards unless we can put a bigger pot on the table in front of him. Right now we have nothing to bet with.”

“Fornier, then? He’s a sleazy weasel. A little bit of pressure, and I bet he’ll topple over.”

“Maybe,” Kozlowski said. “But he’s our second visit. There’s someone else we need to talk to first.”

“Who?” Finn was pulling out of the parking space, craning his neck around the mountains of snow to avoid being sideswiped by oncoming traffic.

“Madeline Steele,” Kozlowski said.

“Steele? I thought you said she wouldn’t talk. You thought she’d shoot me instead.”

“She may still shoot you. But I can get her to talk.”

Finn cast a sideways glance at the private detective, who was inscrutable. “You wanna tell me what she’s going to say before we get there?”

Kozlowski shook his head. “Better that you hear it from her.”

z

Finn and Kozlowski headed to police headquarters in Roxbury to talk to Steele, but they were told that she was taking a few days off for the holidays. From there, they headed out to the South Boston neighborhood where Steele had grown up and where she still lived.

The small clapboard house where she rented an apartment was easy to spot from the street. The residences in Southie were packed tightly together and sat flush to the sidewalks, leaving little room for pedestrians. The dearth of space was even more acute in front of Steele’s house, as a long iron-railed cement ramp sidled its way up to the front door.

Kozlowski rang the doorbell, and they waited patiently on the front steps.

Two minutes later, the door swung open, and Madeline Steele looked up at them from her wheelchair. She looked far less intimidating than she had at police headquarters. She was dressed in a pink sweatshirt and leggings that showed the atrophy in her lower extremities. In this setting, she seemed to Finn more like a helpless little girl than a formidable police officer.

“What the fuck do you want?” she shot at them.
So much for the helpless little girl.
Finn thought he detected something underneath her demeanor, though. It felt a little like fear.

“We want to talk to you about Vincente Salazar,” Finn said.

“I told you, I’m through talking,” Steele replied, going to slam the door.

Finn stuck out his foot to keep the door from closing. It was made from heavy oak and built to withstand whatever the city could throw at it. For a moment Finn thought he’d lost his foot. He jumped back, howling in pain. “Shit! That hurt!”