The sign at the parking lot had indicated the fire road curved only gently, but the actual formation was more accommodating of nature: frequent switchbacks, as dictated by tree-size, or gradient.
Marshall gave the flower van a thirty-yard lead. He drove left-handed, the SIG pistol in his right hand in his lap. They rounded a bend, and the track ascended at a steeper gradient, the van ahead of him wallowing and bumping in the ruts, losing traction every now and again. He’d see it slow, and then regain pace with a scramble of tires and a spray of gravel.
He checked the phone. No response to his message. He had it replaying the Jigsaw Masters video to keep it awake, and he’d found a little button that let you turn the sound off.
They wound through a series of tight turns, the van moving out of sight on each bend, just a crimson smudge of taillights between the trees. The track was only a couple miles long, which would mean a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive at this speed. The windshield was fogging up with his breath. They came out onto higher ground, a straight section maybe two hundred yards long, and the phone in the console began to vibrate with a call, shivering face-down on its screen-glow.
Marshall checked it.
Frank Cifaretti’s number. He didn’t answer. Maybe they’d think Chris just hadn’t noticed. Which was the truth, in a sense.
The van stopped.
Marshall stopped, thirty yards behind it.
The phone in the console went quiet.
Ten seconds. Twenty.
Then Marshall heard a rattle from the glove compartment. Benny’s phone, obviously. It carried on for ten or fifteen seconds, and then Chris’s phone in the console took over.
Marshall looked around. Hard enough turning the damn car out on the road, let alone on a narrow fire track. He thought about ramming them again, but he didn’t like the idea of being swaddled in airbag, trapped behind the wheel as people shot at him.
The console phone gave a sharp double-buzz. Text message.
ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE.
It vibrated again with another call.
Frank Cifaretti’s number.
Marshall waited for it to quit, and then he set the headlights to high beam. The woods and the van lit up in a brighter, panoramic sweep. All they’d see from their end would be white glare. He took his foot off the brake and let the SUV roll forward, idle speed, one or two miles per hour. He set the button on the steering wheel for cruise control, and then he opened his door and slid out, pushed the door gently closed again behind him.
He let the SUV draw ahead of him, and then he stepped behind it, looping around the rear fender and breaking away to his right, off the track and into the trees.
Two miles per hour was about a yard per second, meaning the SUV would take half a minute to close the distance to the van. Marshall stayed abreast of it, matching its progress as he threaded through undergrowth.
Twenty yards to go. Fifteen.
Marshall stopped, shoulder to a tree, and lined up the SIG pistol on the flower van’s passenger window.
Ten yards.
He saw the door open, the little guy with his smile slip out and raise a shotgun: a fluid and practiced move, the weapon compact and pump-action, aiming for the SUV’s windshield. He was sidestepping to widen his angle, moving toward the trees, Marshall tracking him, waiting for the guy to hold still, too risky to shoot a target moving across him in poor light.
The guy’s first round blew the glass out of the SUV’s passenger window, the noise like a bomb going off, Marshall still holding, waiting for a stationary target. He watched the guy pump his second round, the gun staying shoulder-high and steady, the man still coming sideways toward the trees, and then something told him that the picture wasn’t right.
The smiley man jerked the gun around. Surely instinct more than actual vision, murder-hunch acquired through murder-habit. He was aiming for the trees now, and he dropped to the ground as he fired, buckshot and splinters ripping through foliage as Marshall moved back behind cover. Another shot, the fading roar of it like a jet fly-over, leaf- and bark-confetti coming down all around him.
Marshall glanced and saw the little guy getting to his feet, turning, running for the van as the driverless SUV crunched against its rear fender. Marshall aimed the SIG and fired, saw the little guy dip as if he’d stepped in a rabbit hole. Marshall fired again, but the guy was still up and moving, shadow a long dark stripe in the beam of the flower van’s headlights, gait an awkward limp-lurch, like some wind-up figurine. Marshall broke cover and sprinted, reached the flower van in time to see the little guy disappear into the trees on the far side of the track, pistol in one hand and the other clutched to his upper thigh. He’d ditched the shotgun. It was on the ground behind him. Frank Cifaretti was still in his seat at the wheel of the van, hands raised, eyes shut, breathing hard.
He said, ‘All right. Just take it easy. Please. Just take it easy.’
Like all he’d wanted was moderation. Marshall leaned in through the open passenger door to see the rear load space. Pliers, hammers. Three half-gallon bottles of bleach. Two shovels. A bag of four-inch nails.
‘Keep your hands up, Frank.’
‘OK, OK. I’m just sitting here.’ His front teeth were gone. ‘Sitting’ was ‘shitting’. He’d obviously found a dentist.
‘I didn’t … I didn’t even want to come out here, all right? Just … you don’t need to point it at me.’
The rear of the chassis had been raised up by the contact with the SUV, the back wheels almost off the ground. Marshall kept the SIG raised, sweeping the trees, moved across to his left and opened the SUV’s passenger door. He leaned in and killed the ignition, felt the vehicle settle back off the van’s rear fender as the load came off the gears. He picked up Benny’s shotgun from the footwell and turned on the flashlight on the barrel, stepped back to the front of the van and swept the trees with the light. No sign of the smiley man. Marshall opened the breech and dumped the shells on the ground. Frank was still doing as he was told, sitting there with his hands raised and breathing hard, like he thought the roof was about to cave in on him.
Marshall said, ‘Come here. This way.’
‘Look, I’m not doing anything, OK? I’m sitting here. I’m fucking sitting here.’ Chin shiny with spit.
‘Yeah, and now I’m telling you to move. Come on. Fast.’
Frank started to slide across the bench toward the passenger door, and Marshall helped him, grabbed him by the collar left-handed and dragged him out.
‘Hey, wait. Waitwaitwaitwait. Shit—’
Marshall clamped a hand on his mouth and shoved his head back against the side of the van. Two wide eyes looking back at him along his arm. Marshall held the SIG in tight by his shoulder, wanting the muzzle in the picture, too.
‘I’ve seen what you’ve got back there, so don’t tell me you were bringing me out here for a hike.’
Frank had both hands on Marshall’s wrist, but wasn’t having any luck moving it.
‘All you have to do is walk, you understand? Walk, and keep your mouth shut.’
Frank didn’t get it yet. Marshall let him go. Then he stepped away and picked up the empty shotgun and passed it to him.
‘That light goes out, I’ll shoot you. You drift, I’ll shoot you. You say anything … what do you think’s going to happen?’
Frank shook his head, mouth ajar, slack with dawning horror. ‘Come on.’
‘I don’t have much time. Hike, or a bullet. What do you want?’
He had the SIG raised again, two-handed grip and aiming at his face, but Frank was looking past it, looking Marshall in the eye, and whatever he saw in there seemed to dissuade him from protest.
He said, ‘Jesus Christ …’
Just a whisper, weak under the weight of a hard lesson: that sooner or later the world comes back at you with its equal and opposite force. Marshall grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, fired the SIG at the ground, a double-tap. Twin cracks echoing out over the terrain, fade-time long enough to count. Thunder slowly dissipating.
‘Oh, God …’
‘Walk.’
He shoved him between the shoulder blades, Frank’s head lolling back and then forward, slow-motion whiplash, the empty shotgun cradled in his arms.
‘Walk.’
He waited by the van’s fender until Frank had reached the trees on the far side of the track, and then he sprinted in a crouch, moving to within ten feet of him.
‘Walk. Hurry. Go on.’
The ground coverage was dense in places, but Marshall stayed low, arm raised to protect his face from low foliage, Frank’s light up ahead twitching at random as he moved.
A nine-mil pistol round to the thigh wouldn’t make anything easy, especially a getaway at night in near-freezing cold on sloped and forested terrain, and Marshall knew the man would be making stories out of facts: the sound of the double-tap, a kill shot, and now the flashlight drawing nearer.
As it turned out, he’d only made it three hundred yards. The woods lit up with the flash of his pistol shots, three rounds spaced and careful, and Frank Cifaretti went to his knees with a scream. The woods lit up again – a blink and then gone – as the little guy fired a fourth time. Marshall waited a beat, nurturing that mind’s-eye image of the flashes, fifteen yards away at his ten o’clock. He swung his aim in the dark, and squeezed the SIG’s trigger three times.
The light of each shot formed a microsecond still-frame, and he saw the little guy first crumpled at the waist, and then falling, and then prone.
Then dark again. Quiet.
Marshall waited, crouching. Ragged breathing up ahead and his heartbeat thumping in his ears. Acrid gun smoke. He eased his way forward and picked up the empty shotgun from where Frank had dropped it, aimed the flashlight at the man now lying face-up on the ground. Marshall picked his way over to him through the undergrowth. The man’s gaze holding on Marshall’s, eyes rolling to stay with him. Marshall crouched. The guy’s mouth seemed to have a natural upward curl, the effect heightened by raw skin around his lips, as if reddened by licking.
‘You going to tell me how all this happened?’
No answer. The guy lay there just breathing quietly. Blood on his teeth and in the spittle that flecked his chin. He had a chest and a stomach wound to add to his leg problem.
Marshall said, ‘You tell me what’s been happening, we can get you some help. Otherwise you can just lie here, take your chances.’
No answer. His eyes moved from Marshall’s now, looking up at the sky, as if ready for whatever came next.
‘You going to tell me anything? I figure you got about fifteen minutes to try and make some good in the world.’
The man’s eyes slid back to him, and for a second Marshall thought he’d provoked some kind of epiphany, some kind of change of moral direction in the last moments of his life. But he just lay there looking up at him, the smile on his face starting to grow, and Marshall wasn’t sure if he’d lost all comprehension, or was instead more firmly wedded to whatever rule had got him here. Too late in the game to change, maybe. Or just clinging on to whatever wreckage was available, flawed principle or not.
It only took another minute, and then he stopped breathing. Dead with that same strange expression. The smile and a distant, hopeful look. Maybe even curiosity. Like he’d always known dying had another angle, and here it was.
Frank Cifaretti was obviously worried about joining him. Marshall put the flashlight on him, saw Frank struggling to his feet, panting and swearing. Face bright with sweat, sinew and tendon about to pop through his skin.
‘Get me … I gotta get out of here. I can’t die in here …’
Marshall held him by the upper arm and walked him back out to the track. Frank limping and groaning, bent almost double. Marshall set him down by the flower van, propped up against the front wheel. Frank tipped his head back, eyes shut, mouth open.
Marshall sat down beside him. ‘You going to tell me anything, or are we going to sit here in silence, contemplating?’
‘I didn’t …’ He shut his mouth and swallowed, breathed carefully through his nose while he composed something in his mind. He looked down at what was happening under his hand – blood oozing through his fingers – and then looked at the sky. He said, ‘I didn’t want to bring you out here.’
Marshall said, ‘So why are we both out here?’
Frank shook his head. ‘You gotta do so much. You gotta do so much to … to make them know that you’re serious.’
Marshall wasn’t quite sure what he meant.
Frank looked at his hand again. ‘Shit. This is … I think this is bad.’
‘You want me to call?’
Frank shook his head, looked down at his hand. ‘I got about five minutes.’ He sighed through his teeth. ‘I said to Gaby as I left, when they called me, I said … I said, Why am I doing this shit? You know. Go out, take the trouble to … to make something worse. And you know what she said?’
Marshall shook his head.
‘She’s reading a book, she looks at me over the top of the book, she goes, “Yeah. What’s the point?” I didn’t have anything to say and I don’t know why it didn’t stop me.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?’
Frank sat there panting, getting his breath back from his little speech. ‘What?’
‘I asked you last night about your little smiley friend.’
‘Marco.’
‘That his name? Marco?’
‘Little Marco.’
‘Right. You told me maybe he’s one of Mikey Langello’s guys. And now I think you know him pretty well. Given you drove out here with him.’
‘He called me up.’
‘Who did?’
‘Mikey the L. Langello. He told me this guy Vialoux … he said he was turning into a problem, and he was sending a guy down to sort it out. To take care of things.’
‘To kill him.’
‘I don’t know what he meant. He just said to me, he told me he was sending a guy down, and I needed to let him do his thing. He said whatever he needed, I had to …’ He shook his head: exhausted, frustrated. ‘What’s the fucking word?’
‘Do as he said?’
‘No. No, I want to say like housing.’
‘Accommodate.’
‘Yeah.’ Relief in his voice. ‘We had to … we had to accommodate him.’
‘What was his problem?’
‘Huh?’
‘What was his problem with Vialoux?’
‘I don’t know …’ Shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. You just … when the man calls up, you say yes. You tell him no problem.’
‘And who was helping him?’
‘What?’
‘Who was helping Little Marco?’
Frank was out of breath again. He sat with his eyes shut, panting.
Marshall said, ‘He killed a woman across the street from Vialoux. Did he tell you that? A witness said there were two guys.’
Frank was shaking his head. ‘I knew he was set up there, across the street. He was … he was in there a couple days. He sends me this text, he says, “Bring me some drinking straws.” I’m thinking, What the fuck? But whatever. I buy him some straws, I show up there, Jesus Christ, I thought it was an empty house. But the woman, she’s basically dead.’ Still shaking his head. ‘There wasn’t anything … I’m sorry. It was all out of my hands.’
That wasn’t true. He could have stopped everything right there. But it was useless to make the point now.
Marshall said, ‘Do you know D’Anton Lewis?’
‘D’Anton? Yeah, yeah … D’Anton.’
‘Do you know his wife, Renee?’
‘Huh?’
‘Do you know Renee Lewis? D’Anton’s wife?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Get me the … in the van. In the van there’s a box. Gaby always does … there’s a box in the glove compartment …’
It was tempting to tell him to forget it. But he wanted to keep Frank on-side, keep him talking. Marshall looked as directed, found a Glock 9 and a Tupperware container of lettuce salad. He went and sat down next to Frank again and passed him the container.
‘Get the … take the lid off for me.’
Marshall removed the lid. The salad looked pretty good. Bits of tomato and cucumber and little cubes of cheese that might’ve been feta. Maybe a Greek salad, although he wasn’t sure if you were allowed lettuce in a Greek. There was a fork in there for him, too.
‘She always makes me this healthy stuff. I didn’t think … she worries about me. She worries I only eat bagels.’
‘Do you?’
Frank said, ‘Yeah. I been hitting them pretty hard.’
He had his right hand on the wound and the other on the fork in the container. ‘Jesus … arm’s not working … get something on the fork for me. Load me up.’
Marshall speared some tomato and cucumber, passed him back the fork. Frank grabbed it shakily.
‘How do I find Mike Langello?’
‘Mikey L. Mikey the L.’ He put the forkful in his mouth.
‘Yeah. How do I find him?’
‘He’s not well. Guys say he’s not well.’
‘Not well how?’
‘I don’t know. Getting like the shakes, and shit. Some kind of attacks.’
‘But where is he?’
‘He’s up in Boston.’
‘Boston. Where in Boston?’
‘I don’t know. Oh, man.’ He was shivering now. ‘Here, load me up again. I can’t … I can’t make this thing work.’
Marshall built him another forkful of salad. Frank took it shakily.
‘How do I find Mikey Langello?’
Nothing.
‘Frank?’
Frank didn’t answer. He sat and chewed his salad, eyes closed and face tilted skyward, as if tanning himself by the dim light of the moon. He stabbed vaguely for the container. ‘Give me one more. There’s time for one more. Are you still there?’
‘Yeah. I’m still here.’
‘That’s good. I didn’t … I didn’t think it would go like this.’
Marshall put some feta cheese and tomato on the fork. ‘Yeah. Me either.’
‘You gonna stay here a minute?’
He paused before replying, and he thought about asking if they’d afforded Lydia any semblance of decency or kindness in her final hours. But there was no point in a lesson at this stage in his life. Lessons needed hindsight, and Frank would be dead soon.
Marshall said, ‘Yeah. I’ll stay here for a minute.’
He used the light on the shotgun and picked his way through the woods to Little Marco. Nothing in his pockets other than cash. Made sense. He wouldn’t want to be picked up on suspicion of murder and have his driver’s license in his pocket. Marshall counted the bills by the light of the torch. One hundred fifty-three dollars. Six twenties, three tens, three singles. Good bill-diversity. Marshall put them in value-order, applied a transverse fold, and then pocketed the money and walked back out to the track. He got into the SUV and reversed it twenty yards or so, set the brake and got out with the engine still running and the high beams lighting up the scene.
He opened the rear door of the flower van. There was a duffel bag in there too, with a towel and a change of clothes. Torture must be hot work. He unloaded the bleach containers and poured some on the corner of the towel, used it to wipe down the guns he’d handled. Fingerprints were his main concern, but the bleach would degrade any DNA he might’ve left. He cleaned the SIG pistol, and then Benny’s shotgun. Fumes prickling his whole airway. Frank’s salad container and fork got the same treatment, and then the areas of the flower van he’d touched: passenger door, glove compartment, rear door handle.
He fetched Chris’s phone from the SUV and cleaned it for prints, and then used one of the hammers from the flower van to smash it to pieces, poured bleach on it for good measure. Nothing of interest in the guy’s wallet. Wipe, discard, bleach. The handcuffs got the same treatment. He stood there quietly for a minute, long-shadowed in the glare of the SUV’s headlights, thinking about what he may have missed. His boots would have to go. He must have left about ten thousand viable impressions. The crime-scene techs could take their pick. He gave the van door a final wipe, and then transferred the bleach containers and the towel to the SUV, climbed in and reversed slowly down the fire track toward the highway.
Four thirty a.m. and no traffic. The bleach towel made a sharp odor, and he drove with his window down to keep the air breathable. He retraced his route, past where he’d left Chris and Benny on the shoulder, and fifteen minutes later he was coming into Franklin Lakes. Marshall stayed south on Route 208, and turned off when the exit sign announced Paterson, New Jersey.
He’d never been to Paterson, but he sensed it was big enough for his requirements. He headed directly south. The town center was off to his right, a few blocks away. Low rise and brick. The Passaic River was somewhere over there, too. Probably responsible for the whole place, the way rivers often were. He drove across a highway and then a rail overpass, into an area of tired-looking clapboard housing. Sixties vintage, maybe. Weeds, some vacant lots, the odd broken window. He turned off the main road and parked at the curb and sat listening to the radio for a while. Six am, lights started coming on behind windows. Marshall bleach-wiped the center console, the steering wheel, the dashboard, and then the inside of the door. He got out and wiped down the outside handle, and then went around to the other side of the vehicle and poured bleach in the footwell where he’d released his theatrical vomit. He wiped down the bleach containers, and left the car with its windows down and the bleach-wiped key in the center console. A nice acquisition for somebody, even if it did smell like a hospital ward.
Five blocks north was a commercial stretch that was just starting to come awake. He saw a gas station, and a hardware store, and a diner called Sam’s. It had a fried egg for a logo, and Marshall gathered they knew how to cook a breakfast. There were a few people in there already, but he thought he’d give it thirty minutes. Let the clientele build up, make him less memorable. He wandered along the street to kill time, found a pawnshop a couple of blocks away with a few jigsaw puzzles in the front window. Definitely worth coming back later for a more thorough review.
It was seven o’clock by the time he’d made it back to the diner, and there were half a dozen patrons now. Marshall took a window seat, sat there for a moment with his eyes closed. Something heavenly about being safe, headache notwithstanding.
‘Get you something to drink?’
He opened his eyes. A waitress standing there in the aisle.
‘Cup of coffee would make my day.’
‘Hard night?’
He looked at her, realized that by talking he was probably undermining any hope of being forgotten. But something about having just killed three people and seen a fourth catch the train as well, he thought an idle conversation would be nice.
He said, ‘How do you know I didn’t just roll out of bed?’
She smiled. ‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you go. I get you anything to eat? Or you still thinking?’
Marshall turned the menu over, perused it for a moment, and told her he’d have pancakes. He reached in his pocket for the recently procured money, laid out one of the twenties: loose on the table for now, but he’d position it somewhere meaningful, in terms of the available geometry. Maybe open under his cutlery, with the longitudinal axes in logical correspondence. Or folded in a square, a makeshift coaster for his mug with the side-length matched to the diameter of the mug-base. He’d think about it. The main thing was, even if this was as far as he got with the whole thing, at least Little Marco was paying for his meal.