The light flickering in the depths of the botanica was all the proof anyone could need. Pale and guilty, it could only be a flashlight.
But Clare never noticed the flashlight. Clare was staring raptly at the clutter in the shop’s window. She had never actually been in a botanica, had only eyed the candles and beads and polychrome statues from the sidewalk like a teenaged boy sidling past a pornography store. Her mother would have been appalled; her father would examine the items in the window with the bewildered incomprehension of a man trying to understand sex toys. And as for Father Gregory—well, even if a hubris-driven angelophany junkie did lurk behind the college president’s serene façade, she was fairly certain this display would defy even his Jesuitical logic. Beyond the bullet-proof glass, the Infant of Prague ascended in cheerful, plump clouds, the Virgin mourned in all her incarnations from Black Madonnas to Mater Dolorosas, and pietas and crucifixes all dripped gore.
“How did you know Trey would be here?” Marie asked her brother, as the three of them clustered in the shelter of a nearby doorway.
“I suppose I could tell you that St. Lazarus was back there at the crossroads, pointing the way, but honestly, all you need to do is think it through. Trey tried to set up the Lazaritos for torching this place. Why arson in particular, unless he really wanted this place burned down? And why would he want that? The most likely explanation was that he really did want some evidence destroyed along with the Lazaritos. And probably still does. Unfortunately, his hired thugs are a little out of commission right now—as well as probably feeling more than a little pissed off. People setting you up to die in a gas explosion tends to have that effect on you. But since the gangsters never died and the explosion never occurred, it stands to reason that the evidence is still here.” Sean shrugged at his sister, offering her a faint grin. “Nothing but common sense. No Magic 8 ball required.”
“But why not just leave it alone? No one can touch him right now.”
“Partly because he’s a vindictive prick. But mostly because he’s running scared.”
“I’m not sure Trey knows the meaning of the word scared.”
“Oh, he’s scared all right. Scared to death that someone is going to actually listen to those kids. He wasn’t worried when it was just a bunch of gangbangers and a radical nun howling that they’ve been set up. No one was going to listen to them. But people tend to listen to lawyers. And if a respected doctor is willing to stand up and be counted as well ...”
“Lukas.”
“Makes me twitch when you say it in that tone of voice, but yes, Lukas.” Sean’s eyes slid speculatively to the light bobbling inside the building. “He’s scared shitless. And that’s making him stupid. So stupid, he can’t see that what he’s doing is the worst possible choice he could make. And to tell you the truth, I’m half-tempted to just let him go ahead and find out for himself. So we’d better get moving, and save the man from himself, before I change my mind.”
Without waiting for anyone to second the idea, he pushed open the shop door.
Trey whirled at the sound, and his flashlight glanced off the enormous statue of St. Lazarus that stood on the shelf above him, filling almost the entire shop with the shadow of the crooked saint on his crutches, dogs licking his sores.
Then Trey snorted in disgust. “Get out,” he snarled. “Go home. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Well, actually, it does,” Sean said. He nodded toward the case full of vials and needles that lay open behind Trey. “I’ve been told Lukas Croswell is scheduled to give a press conference tomorrow. Would I be correct in assuming it has something to do with that?”
“I don’t have time for this. Get out of here before I decide to shoot you just for the fun of it.”
“Well, now, I doubt you’re going to do that,” Sean said. “Mostly, because I doubt you have a gun. Bringing a weapon along in the commission of a felony will buy you five extra years at the very least. Now, the Lazaritos might be too stupid to think of things like that, but you’re a prosecutor. Or has the need to crucify Lukas Croswell really made you that stupid?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Then you’re not armed.” Sean settled against the wall, folding his arms as he completed the syllogism. “And that’s a good thing. Because shooting me would be a very stupid thing to do. Just like your plans to remove the evidence are really very stupid. But relax, Trey. We’re your friends. We’re here to save you from yourself.”
“You’re not my friends.”
“No. I guess we’re not,” Sean allowed. “But we are here to save you from making a very bad mistake.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing’s going to change the fact that there’s been a change of agenda for tomorrow’s press conference. Lukas is about to find himself upstaged by Grinnell’s lawyers making the happy announcement that I have been found alive, if somewhat down at the heels, with a copy of my father’s will in hand—a will that leaves me controlling interest in Grinnell. Of course, it may take years before I’m able to step up and assume that control. In the meantime, the estate’s conservatorship will be replaced by a transition team headed by Lukas Croswell and Father Dominic Gregory, whose first major task will be to investigate compensating the victims of a badly mismanaged vaccine. Samples of which might be found in the case you’re holding.” Sean waved a hand to cut off Trey’s protest. “There’s no question that much will happen. The only question is, what you’re going to do about it. Now, sure, you can stall and fight and contest the will and tie things up in court for years. Just like you can stall and fight and try to hide the evidence that you were using those kids. But both of those would be very stupid things to do. Because both of those are very bad strategies. Fights that sooner or later you won’t win. And when you lose, you will find yourself without my sister’s money. Without a job. Without a Golden Parachute. And without a license to practice law. And why should you do that when you have a much better option?”
“Which is?”
“You can be the one to announce my joyous resurrection. Take your place on the transition team, and expedite the probate before you step down to pursue other interests and quietly divorce my sister.”
“You’re bluffing,” Trey snorted.
“No, I’m not. I play chess, not poker, remember? And there’s no bluffing in chess.” Sean shook his head. “No, what I’m doing is offering you a fork. A forced choice. You’ve got two moves in front of you, one that will utterly annihilate you, and one that will let you live to fight another day. Now, I know which one a smart man would pick, but what I really don’t know is whether you’re a smart man.”
Trey stared at him a moment, before pushing the case away. “This isn’t over,” he warned.
“No,” Sean agreed. “Not even close. This is just one little skirmish in a hundred years’ war. Because the fact of the matter is, you’re going to fuck up again. You’re going to lie or cheat or screw someone else sooner or later. You can’t help it. You’re hardwired. It’s in your genes. Just like it’s hardwired in my genes that I’m going to come after you when you do. In fact, I could see it becoming a sort of lifelong hobby. Oh, sure, they’re telling me I’m a changed man. Love of a good woman and all that. And maybe even, it’s true. But the simple fact remains, I’ve always had a nasty reputation for playing with my food.”
Clare felt the blur of motion before she glimpsed it in her peripheral vision, and an arm snaked around her neck, pulling her jaw up hard, so she could feel the unmistakable pinprick of a hypodermic needle under her chin.
“Looks like you just blew round one,” Trey’s voice sounded somewhere distantly behind her. “Now, get away from the door and no one gets hurt. Maybe.”
“You do not want to do that. How stupid can you be?” Sean’s bantering tone vanished abruptly, and his face darkened with concern. “Look out!”
“Oh, come on. That game may work with a bunch of gangbangers—”
“Trey. Move. Now,” Sean spat, just as his sister snarled, “Come on, Trey! What kind of husband are you? Wouldn’t you rather hold me close instead?”
She lunged for Trey, but one of her heels caught and sent her crashing into the shelves instead. Beads, herbs, and candles tumbled to the floor—and the enormous statue of St. Lazarus dropped straight onto Trey, driving him face first into the open case of drugs. Suddenly free of Trey’s grip, Clare lurched backward—and was caught by another pair of arms that pulled her tight.
“That was very stupid,” Sean hissed at Trey, his face white with fury. “And you are about to find out exactly how stupid—”
“I ... I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Marie cut him off in a very small voice.
And they all fell back, watching almost reverently as Trey pushed himself away from the case of drugs, struggling to stand upright while staring at his blood-soaked sleeves. Broken vials seemed to have punctured him everywhere. Slowly, he raised his hands to his face, feeling for a hypodermic that had plunged through his cheek. Pulling it out, he stared down at it dumbly, as he ran his tongue across his wet lips, tasting the drugs. Then he spread his arms in silent anguish, rolling his eyes to the heavens like a latter-day St. Sebastian.
“Okay, okay,” Sean said. “I think we’d better call you an ambulance.” But Trey spun with a cry, kicking aside the fallen statue of St. Lazarus before plunging out the door and disappearing into the night.