The Reunion (23 page)

41

The scanner came alive the instant Franklin turned the ignition. The knot tightened in Dunlevy's stomach as he locked in on the police band. It seemed as if police, fire, and rescue crews were all trying to talk at once. “All units, accident with multiple injuries at 111 Beach Street, River Bend Cemetery. E-M-S in route.”

Dunlevy and Franklin were less than five minutes away.

The blue lights from at least three squad cars lit up an otherwise black accident scene. The agents pulled up just as the ambulance arrived. The paramedics jumped out at the first vehicle they came to, but Dunlevy could see the mangled Taurus on its side further down the cemetery road. He leapt from the car, already brandishing his badge.

“Dunlevy, FBI,” he shouted, holding his identification high. “There's a Taurus thirty yards into the cemetery. Them first. Got it?”

The two men nodded and trotted off in the direction of the car. The ambulance driver stayed at the wheel, slowly following, its wheels crunching along the gravel road.

He turned to his protégé. “Franklin, you too.”

A second ambulance and a fire truck came blaring into the cemetery from different directions, and Dunlevy could hear the faint wail of more sirens in the distance. Without thinking, his thumb drifted to his holster and flipped the snap.

Further into the graveyard, Franklin did a quick assessment of the vehicle. The mangled rental car was on its side, the driver's door pushed down into the dirt. The young agent grabbed hold of the passenger's side wheel and lifted himself up onto the car. He could see them both. Carolyn was out cold at the wheel; the baby was still strapped in his seat, but not moving. Franklin jiggled the door handle.
Damn. Locked.
His first instinct was to smash the glass, but he quickly realized that tiny, razor-sharp fragments would end up raining down on the occupants of the car. The rear window was partially open. He squeezed his hand in and found the handle, cranking it as far as it would go. He then lowered himself through. Once inside, the car made an abrupt shift, startling him for an instant. The paramedics were now also climbing onto the car.

“Easy!” Franklin shouted. “You'll tip us!”

“Are they alive?” someone yelled back.

“The baby's breathing but not moving. He's still in his car seat. Should I move him?”

“No! Can you unlatch the car seat?” the faceless voice asked.

“I think so.”

The paramedic was now standing above him, straddling the window he had crawled through. “Try to unlatch it and hand him up to me still in the seat.”

As Franklin attempted to unhook the seatbelt from the plastic carrier, the baby started to squirm. “It's okay, buddy. You and mommy are gonna be just fine,” he said soothingly. The lock wouldn't give. He angrily tugged a few times before pulling out his pocketknife to saw through the heavy nylon strap. The baby's eyes were open now, but his stare was vacant. His silence frightened the agent. Once he cut through the seatbelt, he gingerly lifted the child, still in his carrier, up through the window. “You got him?”

“Yeah. Keep him coming. Nice and easy.”

Still atop his perch, the paramedic handed the child down to his partner to take to the ambulance. “Okay, listen to me now,” he said, commanding Franklin's full attention. “I want you to reach up and roll down the passenger's side front window. Can you do that?”

Franklin had to stretch to reach the handle, but had no trouble with the manual crank. “Okay, what next?”

With the window open, the paramedic reached in and unlocked the door. He opened it wide, going as far as kicking it back on its hinges to keep it from accidentally slamming shut.

He knelt down, his voice now calm and deliberate. “She might have back or neck injuries, so I'm going to hand you down a board. You're going to strap her to it, and together we're going to lift her, feet first, out through this door. Got it?”

Franklin hesitated. “You're better at this than me. Let's switch places. I'll help lift her out.”

“No. If we start rocking around we might tip the car. She doesn't need any more sudden jolts. I'll walk you through this,” he said, already lowering the plank down through the door. A cool cloth was also dropped into Franklin's lap. He immediately placed it on her forehead, and was startled when her fingers intertwined with his.

“Kenny. Where's my Kenny?” she slurred, her eyes still shut.

“He's okay. I just handed him up to the paramedic,” he whispered.

Her grip tightened. “Tell me the truth,” she demanded, her voice weak.

“I swear. He was awake. Eyes open. I didn't notice any cuts or bruises. He's shaken up, is all. Kids are like rubber. He'll be fine.”

There was a pained sigh of relief. “Thank God.” She slowly released her grip and tried to open her eyes. It took a moment to focus. Next, she wiggled her fingers and toes and was relieved that they still worked. “I don't think anything's broken. What about him?”

“Who?” he asked.

“The son-of-a-bitch who just tried to kill me.”

He shook his head. “I'm not holding back. I honestly don't know. I came down here to check on you first.”

Dunlevy held his weapon high as he moved cautiously along the rock wall. The van was wheels up. Smoke still billowed up from under the hood, but the cab was empty. The front windshield had apparently crumbled on impact. It also appeared that DeMichael's head had struck it. There was a short blood trail immediately in front of the vehicle, ending about ten yards away. DeMichael was definitely bleeding and probably disoriented. Dunlevy was sure he wouldn't get far.

Assuming the driver had been thrown clear of the vehicle, two teams of paramedics prepared their gear and started off into the cemetery in search of a victim, but the agent wouldn't have it.

“Stay back!” Dunlevy shouted.

No one questioned his orders. He clicked off the safety and now gripped the pistol with both hands. He stayed low, using the granite headstones as cover as he penetrated deeper into the graveyard. About thirty yards straight ahead movement caught his eye. It wasn't cunning or clandestine, but awkward and pained. Dunlevy smiled. This would be the last dance in the predator-prey relationship.

Joey sat upright against a tombstone. His badly lacerated hands braced his knees. Blood from unseen scalp wounds dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. His left eye appeared to be swollen shut.

Dunlevy immediately observed the .38 tucked in the waist of Joey's white painter's pants.

“I want you to clasp your hands together and place them on top of your head!” Dunlevy commanded, his service revolver pointed directly at Joey's heart.

“Fuck you!” he spat back.

Dunlevy's knees were weak but his hands were steady. “Do it, shithead, or I'll fire!”

Joey winced as he leaned forward in what appeared to be an attempt to stand. His grunts were louder now.

“Don't fucking move! I won't tell you again!”

“Kiss my ass,” he bellowed. Joey's attempt at a laugh came out more like a cough as he continued his gradual climb to get back on his feet.

Dunlevy took three steps closer, and was now in point-blank range. “If you don't think I'll off you right here and now, you are one stupid son-of-a-bitch!”

Joey placed his hand on the revolver in the waist of his pants and lurched forward again. His mouth was open, seemingly to spew more profanity, but the words never came. A single shot pierced the center of his chest, quieting him forever.

42

Dunlevy huddled in the corner of the lobby, his cell phone stuck to his ear, as he watched the cluster of television cameras jam the main entrance to the Westerly hospital. Newspaper reporters and television correspondents clutching microphones had formed a semi-circle around the front door, hoping for a sound bite. Most had been waiting since dawn.
Screw them,
he thought.
They can wait a little longer.

The agent inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, and then slowly let the air escape his lips. The seriousness of his situation was just now setting in. Dunlevy's pager buzzed three times in a row. All of the calls were from assistant director Bob Harris, and each had been tagged with the bureau's most urgent code. He called back immediately but was now on hold.

“Harris, FBI.”

“Bob, it's Marty.”

“Yeah, Marty. I think I've found a way to pull your ass out of the fire on this one, if you're willing to play along.”

Dunlevy rolled his eyes. “I'm listening.”

“Here's how we'll play this. Your perp is dead, and in a week the case will be officially closed. If we end it here, the heat's off.” Harris nervously cleared his throat. “You'll get an official pat on the back, and we'll both wash our hands of this mess. We have a deal?”

Dunlevy winced and shook his head in disgust. “I just don't understand where all this heat is coming from.”

There was a long moment of silence. “You know, buddy, you just don't know who your friends are,” said Harris placidly. “I went to bat for you, but I've done all I can do.”

“What does that mean?” he shot back, tired of being intimidated.

More silence. “Look, because of the shooting, policy dictates you be placed on paid leave pending an internal investigation. But, Marty, you've also been the front man from the start on this one. So, I'm going to give you the opportunity to have a full day to wrap it up. Be smart about this,” advised Harris. “The paid leave starts twenty-four hours from now.”

Harris hung up without waiting for a reply. Dunlevy tucked his cell phone into its leather holster on his belt and looked apprehensively through the tinted lobby windows at the growing mob of newsmen that awaited. “One shit-storm down, one to go,” he mumbled.

Dealing with the press was the worst part of the job. He was tired and still wore the same soiled, wrinkled clothes from the previous night. He had spent the last twelve hours alternating between his cell phone and laptop, filling out all the required paperwork that accompanied the killing of one of the bureau's most-wanted fugitives.

The still photographers started clicking away, and several microphones were thrust into his face the instant he stepped out the door. He couldn't understand any of their questions; the reporters were all shouting at once.

He raised his hand to quiet them and looked down at his prepared statement. “At approximately eight fifteen last night, we were alerted to an accident scene at 111 Beach Street in the town of Westerly. There, a stolen vehicle, a 1977 Dodge van, had flipped after crashing into a stone fence. The suspect, Joseph Anthony DeMichael, was found about thirty yards from the vehicle. He refused repeated requests to throw down his weapon, a .38 caliber revolver. He was shot and killed by a single bullet wound to the chest.”

They started yelling out more questions. Dunlevy pointed to one of the reporters he recognized from a Providence station.

“This was a two-car crash, correct?” she asked.

“Yes. We have reason to believe DeMichael crashed trying to run another motorist off the road.”

“Who?” she shot back.

“A material witness in the case.”

“The name please?”

His eyes fluttered as he wracked his brain for an excuse not to release their identities, but couldn't think of one. “Carolyn Baker and her son Kenneth, a toddler.” Dunlevy anticipated the next question. “Both sustained minor injuries. They're here at the hospital now, but we expect them to be discharged later today or tomorrow.”

Sally, with NBC, waited patiently for her turn. “Early on in this case, you seem convinced DeMichael had not acted alone. Does his death close the case?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, carefully choosing his words. “It very well could be the end of this case, but not necessarily. We will pursue all leads.”

“Can you elaborate?” she followed up.

He shook his head. “Not at this time.”

The reporters clamored for more, but Dunlevy waved them off. “That's all for now. We'll keep you posted should events warrant,” he promised as made his escape back into the hospital.

***

Carolyn's face was crimson. “The case is closed?” she spat from her hospital bed.

Dunlevy cringed, then forced a smile. “Honey, forget about that now. Let's worry about getting you better.”

Carolyn ignored him as she waved the remote around in her hand. “All the TV stations took your little briefing live. Don't you know that old bitch tried to have me and my baby killed?”

“How the hell do you know that?” he snarled. “Did you call the psychic friends network or something?” Dunlevy rubbed both hands against his weary eyes as he dropped into the chair by her bed. “You know what?” he said in a calm voice. “You could be right. But let's look at this logically. The perp is dead. I've got no paper trail, no physical evidence of any kind that points to Mary Vocatura. What am I supposed to do?”

Carolyn could feel the tears forming. “I swear to God, I will get up out of this bed and kill that old bitch myself. So help me, I will. If you want to let her get away with it, fine. But I won't!”

He stood, the vein in his neck bulging. “Stop it right now!” His nose almost touched hers. “You're just talking crazy.”

“What if the old man in the Caribbean recognizes her?”

“What if he does? You think I should bring the statement of a senile and crippled German war veteran to the U.S. Attorney and say, ‘hey, I've got this old guy who thinks Mary Vocatura may have been a spy during the Second World War.' You think he's going to charge the grandmother of this state's next United States senator? Get a fuckin' grip!”

The tears flowed. “Leave! Get out of my room now!”

Dunlevy took a deep breath. “Give me your password and let me check your e-mail,” he said calmly. “If nothing comes back, it's over. If he recognizes her, we'll take it from there. Deal?”

She turned her head toward the wall and mumbled, “Deal.”

“I went and saw Kenny a few minutes ago.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. “And?” she asked with obvious worry.

His face softened. “No, everything's fine. Just what the doctor told you last night, a mild concussion. They want to keep him one more night for observation. What about you?”

“Same thing. One more night.”

He pressed his lips to hers, but she didn't kiss back. “I'll check back later tonight.”

Dunlevy left the room, but Carolyn didn't say goodbye.

***

Manny Vocatura positioned himself at one of the busiest intersections in Providence. He cornered an elderly woman pushing a small shopping cart. She probably hadn't seen the inside of a voting booth since Kennedy was president, but the candidate didn't care.

“Manny Vocatura,” he said, shaking her hand. “I need your vote today.”

The woman smiled and patted his hand. “You seem like a nice young man. Good luck to you,” she said as she continued on her way down the street.

Vinny's Grand Cherokee was parked at the curb. He sat in the passenger seat with his feet dangling out the door, the tips of his cordovan dress shoes just barely hitting the sidewalk. As always, a cell phone was at his ear. Manny continued to smile and wave as pedestrians filed by. A good number took the time to stop and shake hands or offer a kind word.

Vinny jumped from the seat to the curb. “Good news! It's over!” he said excitedly.

“No it's not,” Manny replied. “The polls just opened two hours ago.” The elder Vocatura continued to wave to constituents.

Vinny was exasperated. His brother could be thick at times. “Could you stop glad-handing a minute and come over here?”

Manny leaned his head into the car. “What is it?” He was obviously annoyed.

“That FBI guy just had a news conference in Westerly. He confirmed what we already knew. DeMichael is dead.”

Manny was startled. “What does that mean for us?”

“He says the investigation is probably over, which means he's off our ass.”

The candidate rested his hand on Vinny's shoulder. He felt bad for snapping. “Little brother, let's hope it's not too little too late.”