The Defense: A Novel (39 page)
Harry and Coulson went ahead of me, my pace slowing as I tried Jimmy’s cell again, letting it ring as I sprinted for the barrier.
My lungs were burning, and even though we were clear of the building, I could still hear the alarm in my head, pounding away time. That relentless beat mixed with the sound of my heels hammering the ground as I ran, and my legs seemed to get slower as time sped up.
I was almost done, my breath gone, my strength gone. My head was screaming with pain. It took all I had to keep my legs moving, arms pumping—mouth open wide but unable to take in enough air.
We were close to the cordon now—fifty yards to go. I could make out some faces in the crowd through the gap in the blast barrier that had opened up to let paramedics through to help us. I searched the faces in the crowd, but I didn’t see Amy or Jimmy.
Up ahead, the Lizard dumped Kennedy onto a waiting gurney that had raced toward him.
I redialed.
I was close now.
Coulson, Harry, and the Lizard reached the barrier and ducked behind it.
I was almost there when the call connected and I heard Jimmy’s voice. “Eddie I—”
Then the world caved in.
The blast instantly deafened me. Like plunging suddenly into dense water. I had the sensation of being airborne, even though I didn’t remember my feet leaving the street. My head hit the pavement, but I didn’t register the pain, only the internal hollow sound of flesh and bony skull hitting the paving flags. I felt as though a cloud of foul gas and soil and brick had hit my throat and buried itself in my teeth.
Lying on the ground, I could see a terrifying cloud of black dust now stood where once there was a courthouse. As the building came down, a terrible roar shook the city, and although I couldn’t hear anything, I felt that ferocious pounding of tons of crumbling brick. A thick smell of burning metal and old wood choked me, and I was engulfed in dirt, stones, and smoke. Before I passed out, I thought I heard Harry calling me over the screaming and the cacophony of a billion pieces of glass churning through the air.
And I remembered no more.
I felt something warm and wet on my mouth. My lips were dry and the kiss was soothing.
With effort, I cracked open an eye and saw Christine’s face, inches above my own.
It took me a second to realize I was in a hospital bed.
My wife pulled away from me. Her eyes were tinged with red, her face dirty with tears. She covered her mouth as more tears came, her fingers trembling. As she cried, she lashed out, slapping me in the chest and arms. I raised my hands gently, and she stopped and broke down, sobbing as she stepped away from me and shook her head.
When Christine stepped away, I saw a small figure behind her, someone asleep in the visitor’s chair in my room. I’d never seen midafternoon sun as beautiful as it was that day as it played upon my daughter’s hair. I stared at her for a long time, not knowing if the light came from the sun or from my daughter. She wore her little jacket that was more pins and badges than denim, a Springsteen T-shirt underneath, green jeans, and her oversized boots.
She looked so peaceful.
“You son of a bitch,” said Christine softly, not wishing to wake our daughter. “She’s so lucky. She could’ve been killed. You put her life in danger—you and that firm.”
“I would never put her at risk. She’s the most important—”
“But you
did
. When I think about what they could’ve done to her.”
“Chrissie, I love you, and I love Amy.”
“That’s not enough, Eddie. Your life, your clients—it’s too dangerous. I won’t take that risk. It’s not fair to Amy.”
She stood silently, shaking her head.
“They weren’t my clients…”
“I don’t care. They took our little girl. And I’ll never forgive you.”
I couldn’t answer her.
“I have to go tell someone you’re awake.”
She looked at our daughter, still asleep in the chair.
“She’s exhausted. We’re both tired, Eddie. You might as well wake her up. She’s been waiting. I’ll get the nurse.”
Christine wiped away her tears with a tissue, turned, and left. I felt as though she was leaving more than just the room. She was turning her back on our marriage, permanently.
“Amy,” I called.
She woke and ran to me. I held her as I had never held her before. I kissed her hair and together we cried. The pain in my back, my shoulder, didn’t stop me from getting up and checking Amy, making sure she was all right—no bruises, no cuts, no scrapes. She didn’t let me look at her for long. Her little arms grabbed my neck, and she held me as tightly as she could, enveloping me in her wonderful scent—a mixture of hair spray, pencils, denim, and bubble gum.
“I got you. I got you…” I repeated.
Eventually, she let me go, sat down on the bed beside me, and held my hand.
“Daddy, this might sound a little weird, but I want to get you a new pen,” she said.
Taking her again in my arms, I told her that the pen didn’t matter. I didn’t care what inscription she put on a pen—that I was an asshole sometimes, but that I loved her completely and I didn’t want to let her go. Ever.
I told her she didn’t need to worry anymore.
I would make sure she was safe.
* * *
That night, I slept without the usual dreams of Hanna Tublowski tied to Berkley’s bed. I was able to sleep that night without seeing her for the first time since I’d found her.
Within a week, I felt well enough to speak to Kennedy properly. He was in the room next to me, damaged and slowed way the hell down for a long time, but fixable and alive. Considering all that had happened, I’d come out of it pretty well; I had a bad concussion, four busted ribs, and some cuts and deep bruises. I told Kennedy my story but not all of it. Harry backed me up, like he always did. Kennedy apologized a lot and even helped out when the feds came from his office to interview me. Jimmy turned over the spray-coded million through his lawyer, keeping two mil for himself and one for me.
Harry came and secretly plied me with alcohol, which I drank without another thought, and we played cards in the evenings. But mostly, I had the best thing in the world.
I had my kid.
* * *
Couple of days later, Harry arrived to pick me up from New York Downtown Hospital and take me back to my apartment. He’d changed the locks and tidied the place for me. He carried my bag as I stepped carefully along the sidewalk toward his beat-up convertible. Just as Harry unlocked the car, I heard a horn. Across the street I saw a white limo. Olek Volchek stood at the passenger door, beckoning me over.
“Eddie, don’t do it,” said Harry.
My ribs sent a shot of hot pain into my body as I skipped through the traffic to the other side of the street.
“What do you want?” I said.
Volchek put his hands up and said, “I just wanted to know what you told the FBI.”
“Don’t worry. I told them Arturas planned the whole thing, that you were just as much a victim as me. You’re clean. As much as I would’ve liked to send you down, I’m not stupid. I know that if I tell the FBI everything, you’ll let them know about me arranging the hit on Severn Towers.”
He smiled—only for a second.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Don’t ever cross me again. We’re about even. I say we leave it at that. Remember, I know where your daughter lives.”
Another man, probably Russian, wearing black jeans and a black leather coat, got out of the driver’s seat, walked around the limo, and opened the passenger door for Volchek. The driver was big, ugly, with a boxer’s nose and small, black eyes. He looked at me like a Doberman looks at a burglar’s ass. This guy was clearly employed to do a hell of a lot more than drive. Volchek was rebuilding the Bratva. Having this guy open the door for him was all about displaying his newfound strength, letting me know he was still in charge.
I took one step away, stopped, spun around, and called out, “Hey, one more thing…”
Volchek had one foot in the limo, and he half turned toward me, his driver still holding the open door.
Ignoring the pain that hit me with every breath, I got my balance and kicked the driver in the shin as hard as I could, sending him onto one knee. As I brought my foot down, I adjusted my stance, locked my hip, and threw a right hook. The punch sent Volchek’s head clean through the passenger window. Grabbing the open door, I slammed it into the driver’s punch-drunk face.
The boss of what was once the Bratva lay on the wet asphalt, tiny cubes of glass covering his torso, his hands raised to protect himself.
“That was for Amy, Jack, and his sister. You don’t need to worry about the FBI. You need to worry about Jimmy the Hat. He still wants blood for his nephew. If I were you, I’d take myself and my big monkey here and get on a plane. And just so you know—we’re nowhere close to even. My daughter has more security now than the mayor. Jimmy and I made sure of that. There are people watching her constantly, so you don’t scare me anymore, asshole. If I ever see you again, or if one of your soldiers comes anywhere near me or my family, I will watch you die, slowly.”
Cars and taxis skidded to a halt as I crossed the street to Harry’s car. The judge rubbed his head and looked at me disdainfully, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and leaden with disappointment.
“That was stupid,” said Harry.
And like most things he said, he was right.
I’d been out of the hospital a month. Amy was beginning to readjust. She was still fearful and wouldn’t go out on her own, but she was slowly coming around. Hopefully, she would go back to school soon. Jimmy’s guys still watched over her and Christine, and no one had heard anything from Volchek since I’d laid him out on William Street. Amy and I talked on the phone every night at eight, but Christine refused to speak to me. I couldn’t blame her. She also refused to let Amy out of her sight, so I got fewer visits—one every two weeks, for two hours, in my former family home.
Parking my secondhand Mustang on the corner, I got out and removed the leather duffel from the passenger seat.
The little house in front of me was a run-down two-story in a particularly poor part of the Bronx. The windowsills had all but rotted away, and even from the outside, I could smell the damp of the interior. I’d driven past that house many times. On each occasion, I’d lacked the courage to stop the car.
Not today.
Five past seven in the morning. The street was quiet.
I put the duffel down on the front step and rang the doorbell.
Footsteps in the hall.
I heard the rattle of door locks and security chains behind me as I opened the door of my Mustang and got in. I drove off as Hanna Tublowski opened her front door. She picked up the duffel and the letter that I’d placed on top of it.
I didn’t want forgiveness. I didn’t want her to tell me that it wasn’t my fault.
I knew what I had done; I knew that I would never make that mistake again; I knew that there were bad people in this world and that as long as I played my part in the justice game and I remembered who I really was, those people wouldn’t get a second chance to harm anyone else.
In my rearview mirror, I saw Hanna Tublowski drop the letter and open the bag, spilling some of her nine hundred thousand dollars onto the pavement. She looked up at my car as I turned the corner.
I put the Mustang in third and hit the gas.
Without the passion, knowledge, and skill of my agent, Euan Thorneycroft of AM Heath, this book would not exist. He has been an editor, a mentor, and a friend. I would like to thank everyone at AM Heath for working so tirelessly to turn me into a published author. In particular, my thanks go to Jennifer, Helene, Pippa, and Vickie.
My thanks go to my criminally talented editor at Orion Books, Jemima Forrester, for all her hard work, keen insights, and abundant enthusiasm. Orion has been a joy to work with and my thanks and praise go to Graeme Williams, Angela McMahon, and the whole Orion team. Very special thanks go to Jon Wood, who is something of a hustler himself, at least on the pool table.
I would also like to thank Christine Kopprasch and Amy Einhorn, for giving Eddie Flynn a home in the U.S., for their skill and vision, and for their passionate advocacy for this book. Eddie could learn a thing or two from Christine and Amy. And a huge thank-you to everyone at Flatiron Books for their dedication and hard work. My thanks also go to George Lucas of Inkwell Management.
I’m very lucky to be represented and published by such good people.
To all my family, friends, fellow writers, and beta readers, especially Simon Thompson, Ace, McKee and John “the debacle” Mackell, thank you for your encouragement—it really meant a lot to me.
My biggest thank-you has to go to my amazing wife, Tracy, for putting up with me, believing in me, and for every little thing that she does for me and the kids, every single day.
Steve Cavanagh
is a leading civil rights lawyer from Belfast, Northern Ireland.
The Defense,
his debut novel, was nominated for the British Crime Writers’ Association Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for Thriller of the Year. In 2010, Steve represented a factory worker who suffered racial discrimination in the workplace and won the largest award of damages in Northern Ireland’s legal history. Steve continues to write and practice law. He is married and has two young children.
