91

HE WAS DRESSED like one of the extras they had seen at the train station—red monk’s robe, black mask.

The monk had struck him from behind, taken his service Glock. Byrne had fallen to his knees, dizzied but not out. He closed his eyes, waiting for the thunder of the gunshot, the white infinity of his death. But it didn’t come. Not yet.

Byrne now knelt in the center of the room, his hands behind his head, his fingers interlaced. He faced the camera on the tripod in front of him. Colleen was behind him. He wanted to turn around, to see her face, to tell her it was going to be all right. He couldn’t risk it.

When the man in the monk’s robe touched him, Byrne’s mind reeled with the images. The visions pulsed. He felt queasy, light-headed.

Colleen.

Angelika.

Stephanie.

Erin.

A field of torn flesh. An ocean of blood.

“You didn’t take care of her,” the man said.

Was he talking about Angelika? Colleen?

“She was a great actress,” he continued. He was behind him now. Byrne tried to calculate his position. “She would have been a star. And I don’t mean just a star. I mean one of those rare supernova stars who captures the attention of not only the public, but also the critics. Ingrid Bergman. Jeanne Moreau. Greta Garbo.”

Byrne tried to trace his steps into the bowels of this building. How many turns had he taken? How close was he to the street?

“When she died, they just moved on,” he continued. “You just moved on.”

Byrne tried to organize his thoughts. Never easy when there may be a gun pointed at you. “You … have to understand,” he began. “When the medical examiner rules a death accidental, there’s nothing the Homicide Unit can do about it. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. The ME rules, the city records it. That’s how it’s done.”

“Do you know why she spelled her name that way? With a k? Her given name was spelled with a c. She changed it.”

He wasn’t listening to a word Byrne was saying. “No.”

“Angelika is the name of a famous art house theater in New York.”

“Let my daughter go,” Byrne said. “You have me.”

“I don’t think you understand the play.”

The man in the monk’s robe walked around in front of Byrne. In his hand was a leather mask. It was the same mask worn by Julian Matisse in Philadelphia Skin. “Do you know Stanislavksy, Detective Byrne?”

Byrne knew he had to keep the man talking. “No.”

“He was a Russian actor and teacher. He founded the Moscow Theater in 1898. He more or less invented method acting.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Byrne said. “Let my daughter go. We can end this without any more bloodshed.”

The monk put Byrne’s Glock under his arm for a moment. He began to unlace the leather mask. “Stanislavsky once said: ‘Never come into the theatre with mud on your feet. Leave your dust and dirt outside. Check your little worries, squabbles, petty difficulties with your outside clothing—all the things that ruin your life and draw your attention away from your art—at the door.’

“Please put your hands behind your back for me,” he added.

Byrne complied. His legs were crossed behind him. He felt the weight on his right ankle. He began to lift the cuff of his pants.

“Have you left your petty difficulties at the door, Detective? Are you ready for my play?”

Byrne lifted the hem another inch. His fingers touched the steel as the monk dropped the mask onto the floor in front of him.

“In a moment, I will ask you to put on this mask,” the monk said. “And then we will begin.”

Byrne knew he could not take the chance of a shootout in here, not with Colleen in the room. She was behind him, strapped to the bed. Crossfire would be deadly.

“The curtain is up.” The monk stepped to the wall, flipped a switch.

A single bright spotlight filled the universe.

It was time. He had no choice.

In one smooth motion Byrne drew the SIG-Sauer from his ankle holster, leapt to his feet, turned toward the light, and fired.

92

THE GUNSHOTS WERE close, but Jessica couldn’t tell where they came from. Was it this building? Next door? Upstairs? Had the detectives outside heard it?

She spun around in the darkness, Glock leveled. She could no longer see the door through which she had entered. It was too dark. She had lost her bearings. She had traversed a series of small rooms, and she had forgotten how to get back.

Jessica sidled up to a narrow archway. A musty curtain hung over the opening. She peered through. Ahead, another dark room. She stepped through the opening, her weapon out front, her Maglite over the top. To the right, a small Pullman kitchen. It smelled of old grease. She ran her Maglite along the floor, the walls, the sink. The kitchen had not been used in years.

Not for cooking, that is.

There was blood on the side of the refrigerator, a wide fresh swath of scarlet. The blood streaked toward the floor in thin rivulets. Blood splatter from a gunshot.

Beyond the kitchen was yet another room. From where Jessica stood it looked like an old stockroom, lined with broken shelves. She continued forward, and nearly tripped over the body. She knelt down. It was a man. The right side of his head had been almost taken off.

She shone her Maglite on the figure. The man’s face was destroyed, a wet mass of tissue and shredded bone. Brain matter slithered onto the dusty floor. The man was wearing jeans and running shoes. She moved her Maglite up the body.

And saw the PPD logo on the dark blue T-shirt.

Bile rose in her throat, thick and sour. Her heart kicked hard in her chest, rattling her arms, her hands. She tried to calm herself as the horrors piled up. She had to get out of this building. She had to breathe. But she had to find Kevin first.

She raised her weapon out front rolled to her left, her heart hammering in her chest. The air was so thick it felt like liquid entering her lungs. Sweat poured down her face, salting her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of one hand.

She summoned her courage, slowly glanced around the corner, down the wide hallway. Too many shadows, too many places to hide. The grip of her weapon now felt slick in her hand. She changed hands, wiped her palm on her jeans.

She glanced back over her shoulder. The far door led to the hallway, the stairs, the street, safety. Ahead of her lay the unknown. She stepped forward, slid into an alcove. Eyes scanning the interior horizon. More shelves, more cases, more display counters. No movement, no sound. Just the clock-hum of silence.

Staying low, she moved down the hall. At the far end was a door, perhaps leading to what was once a stockroom or employee lounge. She edged forward. The doorjamb was battered, chipped. She slowly turned the knob. Unlocked. She threw open the door, scanned the room. The scene was surreal, sickening:

A big room, twenty by twenty … impossible to clear from the entrance … bed to the right … a single overhead bulb … Colleen Byrne tied to the four posts … Kevin Byrne standing in the middle of the room … kneeling in front of Byrne is the monk in the red robe … Byrne has a gun to the man’s head …

Jessica glanced into the corner. The camera was smashed to bits. No one back at the Roundhouse, or anywhere else, was watching this.

She reached deep inside herself, to a place unknown to her, and stepped fully into the room. She knew that this moment, this brutal aria, would score the rest of her life.

“Hey, partner,” Jessica said, softly. There were two doors to the left. To the right, a huge window, painted black. She was so disoriented that she had no idea onto what street the window faced. She had to turn her back on those doors. It was dangerous, but there was no choice.

“Hey,” Byrne replied. He sounded calm. His eyes were cold emerald stones in his face. The monk in the red robe was motionless, kneeling in front of him. Byrne had the barrel of a weapon to the base of the man’s skull. Byrne’s hand was firm and steady. Jessica she could see that it was a SIG-Sauer semi-auto. It was not Byrne’s service weapon.

Don’t Kevin.

Don’t.

“You okay?” Jessica asked.

“Yes.”

His answer was too fast, too clipped. He was operating on some untamed energy, not reason. Jessica was about ten feet away. She needed to close the distance. He needed to see her face. He needed to see her eyes. “So, what are we going to do?” Jessica tried to sound as conversational as possible. Nonjudgmental. For a moment, she wondered if he had heard her. He had.

“I’m going to put an end to all this,” Byrne said. “This all has to stop.”

Jessica nodded. She pointed her gun at the floor. But she didn’t holster it. She knew the move was not lost on Kevin Byrne. “I agree. It’s over, Kevin. We’ve got him.” She took a step closer. Eight feet away, now. “Good work.”

“I mean all of it. It all has to stop.”

“Okay. Let me help.”

Byrne shook his head. He knew she was trying to work him. “Walk away, Jess. Just turn around, go back through that door, and tell them you couldn’t find me.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Walk away.”

“No. You are my partner. Would you do that to me?”

She had come close with that, but she hadn’t reached him. Byrne didn’t look up, didn’t take his eyes of the monk’s head. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I do. I swear to God, I do.” Seven feet. “You can’t—” she began. Wrong word. Wrong word. “You … don’t want to go out like this.”

Byrne finally looked at her. She had never seen a man so committed to an action. His jaw was set, his brow narrowed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does. Of course it does.”

“I’ve seen more than you have, Jess. A lot more.”

She took another step closer. “I’ve seen my share.”

“I know. It’s just that you still have a chance. You can get out before it takes you down. Walk away.”

One more step. She was five feet away now. “Just hear me out. Hear me out, and if you still want me to walk, I will. Okay?”

Byrne’s eyes shifted toward her, back. “Okay.”

“You put the gun away, no one has to know,” she said. “Me? Hell, I didn’t see a thing. In fact, when I walked in the room here, you were putting him in cuffs.” She reached behind her, dangled a pair of cuffs on an index finger. Byrne didn’t respond. She tossed the cuffs onto the floor at his feet. “Let’s bring him in.”

“No.” The figure in the monk’s robe began to shake.

Here it comes. You’ve lost him.

She reached. “Your daughter loves you, Kevin.”

A flicker. She’d gotten to him. She stepped closer. Three feet, now. “I was there with her every day when you were in the hospital,” she said. “Every day. You are loved. Don’t throw it away.”

Byrne hesitated, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “I …”

“Your daughter’s watching.” Outside, Jessica heard sirens, the roar of big engines, the screech of tires. It was the SWAT team. They’d heard the gunfire after all. “SWAT’s here, partner. You know what that means. Ponderosa time.”

Another step forward. Arm’s length. She heard footsteps approach the building. She was losing him. It was going to be too late.

“Kevin. You have something to do.”

Byrne’s face was laced with sweat. It looked like tears. “What? What do I have to do?”

“You have a picture to take. At the Eden Roc.”

Byrne half-smiled, and there was a world of heartache in it.

Jessica glanced at his weapon. Something was wrong. There was no magazine. It wasn’t loaded.

She then saw movement in the corner of the room. She looked at Colleen. Her eyes. Terrified. Angelika’s eyes. Eyes that were trying to tell her something.

But what?

Then she looked at the girl’s hands.

And knew as—

—time jogged, slowed, crawled, as—

Jessica spun, weapon raised, two hands. Another monk in a blood-red robe was nearly upon her, his steel weapon high, pointed at her face. She heard the click of the hammer. Saw the turn of the cylinder.

No time to bargain. No time to deal. Just the shiny black mask in that tornado of red silk.

I haven’t seen a friendly face in weeks …

Detective Jessica Balzano fired.

And fired.

93

THERE IS A MOMENT, after the taking of a life, a time when the human soul weeps, when the heart takes harsh inventory.

The smell of cordite hung thick in the air.

The coppery scent of fresh blood filled the world.

Jessica looked at Byrne. They would be forever linked by this moment, by the events that had occurred in this dank and ugly place.

Jessica found that she was still holding her weapon out, a two-handed death grip. Smoke seeped from the barrel. She felt the tears dam up behind her eyes. She fought them, lost. Time passed. Minutes? Seconds?

Kevin Byrne gently took her hands in his, and eased the gun out.

94

BYRNE KNEW THAT Jessica had saved him. He would never forget. He would never be able to pay her in full.

No one has to know …

Byrne had held his gun to the back of Ian Whitestone’s head, mistakenly believing he was the Actor. When he had shot the lights out, there had been noises in the darkness. Crashes. Stumbling. Byrne had been disoriented. He couldn’t risk firing again. When he lashed out with the butt of the pistol he had connected with flesh and bone. When he turned the overhead light on, the monk was on the floor in the center of the room.

The images he had gotten were from Whitestone’s own blackened life—what he had done to Angelika Butler, what he had done to all the women on the tapes they had found in Seth Goldman’s hotel room. Whitestone had been bound and gagged beneath his mask and robe. He had tried to tell Byrne who he was. Byrne’s gun had been empty, but a full magazine was in his pocket. If Jessica had not come through that door …

He would never know.

At that moment a battering ram crashed through the painted picture window. Dazzlingly bright daylight flooded the room. Within seconds a dozen very nervous detectives spilled in after, weapons drawn, adrenaline raging.

“Clear!” Jessica yelled, holding her badge high. “We’re clear!”

Eric Chavez and Nick Palladino stormed through the opening, got between Jessica and the mass of divisional detectives and FBI agents who looked a little too eager to cowboy up this detail. The two men held up their hands, stood protectively on either side of Byrne and Jessica and the now prostrate, sobbing Ian Whitestone.

The blue womb. They were sheltered. No harm could come to them now.

It really was over.

         

TEN MINUTES LATER, as the machine that was a crime scene investigation began to rev up around them, as the yellow tape unspooled and the CSU officers began their solemn ritual, Byrne caught Jessica’s eye, the one question he needed to ask on his lips. They huddled in a corner, at the foot of the bed. “How did you know Butler was behind you?”

Jessica glanced around the room. Now, in the bright sunlight, it was obvious. The interior was covered in a silken dust, the walls patchworked with cheaply framed photographs of a long-faded past. Half a dozen padded stools lay on their sides. And then there were the signs. WATER ICE. FOUNTAIN DRINKS. ICE CREAM. CANDY.

“It isn’t Butler,” Jessica said.

The seed had been planted in her mind when she read the report of the break-in at Edwina Matisse’s house, when she had seen the name of the responding officers. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. She had all but known the moment she had talked to the old woman next to the former candy store. Mrs. V. Talman.

Van! the old woman had yelled. It wasn’t her husband she was yelling for. It was her grandson.

Van. Short for Vandemark.

I came close once.

He had taken the battery from her two-way radio. The dead body in the other room was Nigel Butler.

Jessica walked over, peeled back the mask on the dead man in the monk’s robe. Although they would wait for the ME’s ruling, there was no doubt in Jessica’s mind, or anyone else’s for that matter.

Officer Mark Underwood was dead.

95

BYRNE HELD HIS daughter. Someone had mercifully cut the rope from her hands and feet and put a suit coat over her shoulders. She shivered in his arms. Byrne thought of the time she had defied him when they had gone to Atlantic City one unseasonably warm April. She had been about six or seven. He had told her that, just because the air temperature was seventy-five, it didn’t mean the water was warm. She had run into the ocean anyway.

When she’d come out, just a few minutes later, she had been a pastel blue. She had quivered and quaked in his embrace for almost an hour, teeth chattering, signing I’m sorry, Dad, over and over again. He had held her then. He vowed to never stop.

Jessica knelt down next to them.

Colleen and Jessica had become close after Byrne had been shot that spring. They had spent many an afternoon waiting out his coma. Colleen had taught Jessica a number of handshapes, including the basic alphabet.

Byrne looked between them, and sensed their secret.

Jessica raised her hands, spelled the words in three clumsy handshapes:

He’s behind you.

With tears in his eyes, Byrne thought about Gracie Devlin. He thought about her life force. He thought about her breath still inside him. He glanced at the body of the man who had brought this latest evil to his city. He glimpsed his own future.

Kevin Byrne knew he was ready.

He exhaled.

He drew his daughter even closer. And it was in this way they comforted each other, and would for a long time to come.

In silence.

Like the language of film.