Chapter 26

Conley called the number on the card and jotted down the address of the Paladin. Thompson set her Mercedes’ GPS and they headed toward Boston. They crossed the Mystic River Bridge and drove toward the lighted skyline that blazed in a muted winter glow. They negotiated the narrow streets of the North End and financial district until they were at warehouses on the shorefront. Cars lined every available street parking space, and it took them fifteen minutes to find an open spot. Thompson parked and Conley phoned in their position. They walked the dark waterfront in silence, footsteps echoing, until they stopped.

Three curved steps extended from a windowless building like an open hand, a building that matched Sage’s sketch. A dull aluminum rail split the stairway and led to a door covered with riveted metal plates. The front of the place was a sheer wall, a red-brick cliff. No street number on the door. No sign. Just a curved coil of green tubing over the entrance that led to a plain fixture with a stingy bulb.

The alley was quiet, a dead-end valley surrounded by man-made mountains of mortar and clay. Conley stepped on the first stair and the building seemed to hum a slow rush, a dull heartbeat.

“You sure this is the Paladin?” Thompson asked.

“Looks like it.” It has to be. “Ready?” He clasped the frigid rail.

She gave him an arch look and walked past him to the door. Determined. Fearless.

“Wait,” he said, and pulled a wad of paper from his pocket, unfolded it on his open hand, and smoothed it with the other. “Take a last look at Carrie.”

She stood next to him, shoulders touching, and they studied the drawing. Carrie’s chin tilted down and her lifeless hair framed a frightened face. Eyes peered from under furrowed brows. Her name was written at the bottom of the page in flowing letters. Funny how a name under a picture gave it soul.

“We talk to Carrie and no one else,” he said. “Sage says to trust her.”

He stared at the portrait and kept smoothing the page even after it was flat. When he saw Carrie, he’d know, and not just from high cheekbones and a delicate chin. Sage had captured abject hopelessness in the woman’s eyes.

He looked up. The hum grew loud. Music blared.

Thompson had opened the door and was stepping inside with one long-legged stride, one stilettoed step.

He pocketed the drawing, climbed the steps, grasped the round knob, held the door.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter.

****

The Paladin door closed with a bang. A huge, warehouse-size room stretched in front of him, a room of towering metal girders and concrete walls. Tiny spotlights glowed in the tall ceiling, lights that appeared as distant as stars and lit the perimeter of the room like a halo.

People danced in the center—shifting shapes that billowed like black clouds in the dusk. Thompson was already far ahead, halfway around the room, making sure she was seen. He let her go. She’d more than proven her ability to take care of herself these past few nights.

The song ended. Dancers left the floor and blocked Conley’s way. He studied them, searching for Carrie. Odd task, trying to compare flesh, blood, and hair with Sage’s pencil sketches. He recognized one couple, but couldn’t remember the names Sage had written under their portraits.

A young brunette next—Mary? Marie?

Marcie, that was it. And Peter, thin face and smiling lips, was right behind.

One by one, Sage’s pencil people came alive and blossomed into three dimensions.

Toni stepped away from the crowd, dancing a slow grind with someone who was not her husband Dan.

Linda drank wine from a fluted glass. When it was finished, she turned and scooped a new one from a tray.

Artie’s eyes darted around the floor, inspecting female bodies as if they were cattle.

Conley walked past, through a mix of perfume, cologne, and booze so pungent it seemed to wet the air, and he saw Carrie. She looked as tired as her picture, eyes narrowed to slits, hair tousled as if she’d just woken. He trapped her in a corner. She tried to pass.

“Carrie,” he said. “Sage sent me.”

Sage’s picture of her was spot on. The upturned face spoke resignation and failure. Pupils were dilated and words slurred.

“Yeah?” she said dreamily, tilting her head. “Sage?”

“She said you’d help me find Victor’s killer.”

“Victor’s dead? Bummer. You a cop?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then why do you care?”

“He owed me money.”

That, she understood.

Thompson had made it to the other side of the dance floor. He signaled her.

“Someone in the Paladin threatened Victor. Do you know who?”

Carrie closed her eyes and knit her brow. “I remember. It wasn’t us. Victor came with a friend—Richard—and they argued. He threatened to kill Victor, not us. They had a big blowout, Liam was pissed.”

Liam. Sage had thought him important enough to bring his picture to Conley’s boat, and her voice had quavered when she spoke his name. He gets what he wants, doesn’t take no for an answer. He’s rough with the girls sometimes—the willing and the unwilling.

Carrie whispered conspiratorially. “Then this Richard dude fucked up. He said his last name, like he thought he was somebody important, or better than us. Said we better remember that name. Drewits. Like screw it, only with an s at the end.ˮ She gave a drug-induced giggle. “Only he was the one screwing up. We don’t use last names in the Paladin. That’s the number one rule.”

Suddenly Conley spotted Liam at the other end of the hall, no mistaking him—strong jaw and feral eyes, just like the sketch. He was stalking Thompson, approaching her like prey. When he caught up to her he slid his thick arm around her shoulder and all but forced her through a red door.

Conley started toward them, but Carrie held his wrist. “Where you going, handsome? We just met.”

“Iʼll be back.ˮ

Conley shouldered his way through the crowd. They’d become an amorphous shape, a single, human obstacle of flesh and bone. He fought past and followed through the red door. Small points of light flickered in a hallway ceiling like fireflies. Doors on both sides stretched ahead endlessly. He opened the first. Empty—except for mattresses on the floor, covered in silk sheets. He stopped and listened. The music from the dance room was muffled, but its percussion beat an eerie warning—like war drums. A woman’s laughter erupted behind one door, long, deep moans rose from another. He threw one open.

Naked bodies writhed like a nest of snakes. Bodies—white, brown, and black—slithered on mattresses as if oiled. Sighs rose from the tangle, throaty laughs, labored breaths. A girl caressed his leg and he pulled away.

Back to the hallway. Too much time had passed. He called Thompson’s name, and a door rattled ahead and an unmistakable voice rang out.

“Matt!”

He yanked the door open and stepped inside. She and Liam stood alone, facing each other like boxers. Her arms sported finger bruises and blood ran from the corner of her red lips. Liam was shirtless, covered in muscle and bulging blue veins—blue rivers—that crisscrossed his torso like chainmail over hard plates of flesh. His hands hung at his sides and his thick fingers looked strong as grappling hooks.

“Letʼs go,ˮ Conley told Thompson.

Liam’s eyes narrowed as his jaw stiffened. “She’s mine. Wait your turn.”

“The lady came with me.ˮ

Liamʼs fist shot forward like a battering ram and smashed Conley in the nose. A split second later heʼd pinned Conley to the wall with a forearm. Eyes as cold as death he leaned forward and spoke again, his inhuman breath warm as steam.”I said fuck off.ˮ

Conley threw a few roundhouse punches into a steel-barreled chest. Thompson jumped the bastard from behind and went for the choke hold but he slipped out of it and threw her off. A kick between his legs brought only a grunt and a hiss. Still, when Conley hooked his ankle around Liamʼs calf and pushed off the wall as hard as he could, all three of them collapsed on the mattress, limbs motoring, breath heaving.

Thompson wriggled free, found the wall switch, and flicked the lights off. Conley rolled away and Liam searched for him in the dark, roaring curses.

“Now!ˮ Conley shouted, slipping out of his jacket when Liam’s strong paws caught a sleeve. Thompson yanked open the door and they darted into the big hall, into the din, louder now, walls beating faster, into the mob of dancers. They fought through arms, legs, and bodies, eager to exit the front door they’d searched so long to find. Outside, Conley saw Thompson had shucked her shoes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she only shook her head and waved him off, then bolted off the doorstep and into a sprint through the valley of buildings. Conley followed, running as fast as he could, until behind them the insistent, infernal drumbeat became silent.