“No. But I love him, and you should, too.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s your father, Kyle. That’s just the way it is. And without him I wouldn’t have you.”
“Does he love us?” Kyle asked.
“In his way.”
“And what way is that, Mom?”
“The only way he can. And, Kyle, that’s all you’ll ever get from
anyone.”
Kyle didn’t understand then what she had meant, didn’t understand it still, but he remembered how he felt when his father’s car would pull up to the front of the house and his mother would tell him, “Go to him. Go to your father,” and off he’d run, down the steps to the car. And when the stranger stepped out, Kyle would hug his legs and the old man would pat him on the head and Kyle would smell the braided scents of old cigarette smoke, of Brylcreem and Aqua Velva, and the fear and the love both would overwhelm him.
But things were different now. Kyle was no longer a child with all a child’s pathetic needs, and his mother was dead, and all kinds of truths about his father had been branded into his soul. The way his father had used privileged information to extort money from a congressional candidate. The way his father had returned from the dead only to extort more money from the same candidate, and to rope his son into the scheme. The way his father had lied to and betrayed him all the years of his life. It would be different now, absolutely. He wouldn’t run to him and hug his legs, absolutely. All he felt now was anger, a seething anger that strained for release.
“So, boyo,” said the old man in the doorway of that New Jersey motel after Kyle had made his way back. The old man’s eyes were lit with greed, his smile yellow, his hands reached out with expectation. “How did it go? Are we in business?”
Kyle stared at his father for a long moment and felt the tectonic plates shift within him, before he lunged. And grabbed his father close. And buried his face in his father’s grizzled neck.
“I love you, Dad,” he said as his tears rubbed off on his father’s skin.
Fourteen years after Liam Byrne’s funeral, Kyle was finally crying for his father. And Kyle wasn’t lying. He did, truly, love his father. Despite all he knew, despite the anger that remained inside, despite the past and despite himself, he loved his father. Unqualifiedly. As had Kyle’s mother before him. Kyle didn’t trust his father, or admire him, or particularly like him. But a part of Kyle lived forever beyond the realm of reason, and that part had taken control. “I love you,” he said again.
“I know you do, boyo,” said Liam Byrne, patting his son’s head as he had all those years before, drawing out thick tears. “I know you do. Now, come inside. You have much to tell, and we have much to plan.”
CHAPTER 52
BOBBY DRAGGED THE BLACK SATCHEL through the rhododen
dron, bony stalks tearing at his flesh and filthy clothes, grabbing at the bag, which more than once he had to yank free. It was almost nine, he was almost late. He needed to be in position for when the boy showed up.
It had been no simple task getting here, with his car being watched and his whole body covered in filth. When he climbed out of the Dumpster, he knew he had to hurry, but he couldn’t just hail a cab. That Puerto Rican slut had probably called in his description to all the taxis in the area, hoping he’d turn up in the street with his hand raised as if volunteering for the electric chair. So instead he decided to move. Out of the area. North would send him through Center City, east was the waterfront, so he chose south, into South Philadelphia, stepping through the narrow streets with cars lined on either side. It would have been easy just to break open a window and steal one, except he didn’t know how to steal a car.
So he kept moving, ignoring the reactions to his filth-streaked clothes and the way he smelled, always moving, slipping into doorways and alleys when police cars cruised by and then moving again, ever south. He figured if he could just keep moving, he would come up with a plan. And then he spied the instrument of his salvation, under one of the spans of the highway, a sweet little angel with a baby and a Buick. As she leaned into the backseat to pull her baby from the car seat, Bobby pulled his pistol from the black bag.
He had parked the Buick behind a hedge beneath a wide sycamore about half a mile from the Truscott estate. He hadn’t killed the mother and child—some remnant of Robert had stilled his hand— and by now the police would have the model and license plate in their computer. But he needed the car to start off his journey after he took care of business here, so he had made sure it was well hidden before he walked the rest of the way to the mansion. At the black iron fence, he had thrown his bag over and then climbed after it. Now he was batting fat-fingered rhododendron leaves away from his face as he maneuvered himself into position to have a view of the mansion’s front door.
His plan was simple. He’d stay out here until the Byrne boy came and went. Bobby imagined that Byrne would have a file in his hand on the way in and a briefcase full of money on his way out. It was this briefcase that she had promised to Bobby as payment for all his services, as if he were a mere handyman who’d been patiently waiting all this time for a cash payment. Well, he’d take the payment all right, killing the boy in the process, but that wouldn’t be the end of it, that would be just the start. And irony of ironies, it would be her hush money that would finance all the rest. He’d trade in the Buick for a Maserati, he’d slip hundred-dollar tips to strippers, he’d tour the country killing Truscotts, starting with a broken-down old whore. Just the thought of it sent a shiver through his veins.
A final yank of the bag and he was through, to the wide front lawn
342 WILLIAM LASHNER
that led to the great house with its majestic pillars, the house that had been the repository of all his fondest hopes for decades now. He knew its lines and curves, the texture of its skin, knew it as intimately as a lover. Every perfect piece of stone, every lovely blemish in its mortar. He adored the house, its shape, its scent, the movement through its rooms. Maybe when this was all over, he’d come back and blow it into splinters.
The driveway itself was flanked with gardens framed by low walls of boxwood. Bobby looked left, looked right, and then, like an infantryman advancing on Omaha Beach, ran toward the garden in a zigzag pattern, bent low at the waist with the bag clutched to his chest. When he reached the closest of the gardens, he jumped over the boxwood and rolled toward the house, knocking down pink-tipped Cleome like he was a scythe.
He peeked over the evergreen hedge just in time to see the great gate at the front of the property open. A car slowly made its way up the drive, its tires grinding at the gravel, its headlights painting the stone white before the car entered the circle and the headlights suddenly veered to the left, pointing straight at his garden. He ducked down and listened. A door opening and closing, a few words from a voice he recognized. The headlights washed by him as the car turned out of the circle and back up the drive.
He raised his head again to see the tall, lanky figure of Senator Francis Truscott IV entering the house.
Bobby dropped to the ground, spun around, took a deep breath. What the hell was Francis doing here? He was supposed to be at some sort of fund-raiser. Bobby panicked for a moment at the unexpected development before he pulled himself together. This was good. This was great. This made everything easier. Of course the senator would be here at the exchange. It was his crime they were covering up, after all. And now Bobby wouldn’t have to go hunting for Francis. He’d be right here, in Bobby’s sights. Perfect.