With a curse, he turned back to the entrance, and as he pivoted, he happened to glance down at the cracked cement of the sidewalk.
What he saw stopped him dead.
He glanced over his shoulder again. The sun was setting right behind him, the single sun—as in one light source. And there was no huge reflective surface to throw a second illumination, no car with a lot of chrome, no stage light, for God’s sake.
He looked back down at his feet. There were two shadows thrown by his body. Two separate and distinct shadows, one leading north, one leading south.
Graphic evidence of what he’d always felt—of two halves of him, cleaving apart, drawing him in opposite directions.
Look down at your feet, Thomas DelVecchio . . . and then you call me when you get scared enough.
As Jim Heron’s voice shot through his mind, he thought of Reilly. He’d been confident of protecting her from any stalker, so fucking sure he could be what she needed. But all that cock and balls did not apply to this shit on the ground. He didn’t understand it himself; how the hell could he fight it for her?
And Reilly was on the line. Otherwise she wouldn’t have spent the night before sitting up in a chair with a gun in her hand.
I’m the only one who can help you.
God knew if Heron had wanted to hurt either of them or get aggressive he could have. Instead, all the guy had done was point them in the right direction at the quarry . . . and disappear.
Decision made, Veck all but lunged for his phone. He’d saved Heron’s number in his contacts for the incident report on the guy, and as he dialed it now, he prayed that the man who left no footprints would answer . . . and tell him about what was at his own feet.
The sound of a cell phone ringing out loud behind him ripped him around.
Jim Heron was standing three feet away from him, as if the guy had been there all along—which he had been, hadn’t he.
Veck narrowed his eyes and took a careful visual picture of the man. The bastard seemed solid enough in his leather jacket and his fatigues. And as he exhaled smoke from his Marlboro, the shit floated over and tickled Veck’s craving button.
But he wasn’t real, was he.
Heart pounding in his chest, Veck hit end on his phone and the sound coming from Jim’s pocket ceased.
“Time’s growing short,” the guy said.
And this made Veck think about his father: That note in the mail. That hourglass that was draining as they got closer and closer to the execution.
Which was coming so very soon, wasn’t it.
This was it, he thought. Everything, his whole existence, had led up to this . . . whatever the fuck it was.
As Veck met the man’s eyes, he felt as though the movie of his life had been out of focus without his even being aware the shit was blurry. The cameraman, however, had finally woken up and gotten with the program with his equipment . . . and it was a new fucking world.
Especially given the fact that the fading light of day was coming from behind Jim Heron . . . and there was nothing at the guy’s feet. No shadow at all.
“What the fuck are you,” Veck demanded.
“I’m here to save your ass, that’s what I am.” The guy took a drag on his cig and exhaled slowly. “You ready to talk to me now?”
Veck stared at his own pair of outlines, both in the shape of his body. “Yeah. I am.”
Reilly was behind the wheel of her unmarked as she and Bails went over to the St. Francis Hospital complex. Beside her, the detective was quiet in her passenger seat as she navigated heavy traffic and got stuck at red lights and then hit a detour that took her in the opposite direction.
“Any more of this and I’m going to start thinking someone doesn’t want us talking to Kroner,” she muttered.
Bails didn’t even glance over. “Yeah.”
More silence. To the point where she was going to ask him to just get it all out: The last thing they needed was this kind of tension when they were in front of a killer.
Bails spoke before she did, however. “I’m sorry I’m not talking. I just don’t know what to do.”
“About what?” When it was safe to take her eyes off the road, she spared him a quick look. The guy was drumming his fingers against the door, and staring out of the windshield as if he were searching for answers in the glass.
“I know you saw my e-mail,” she said after a moment.
“If only that was the big problem.” As she shot another glance across at him, he shrugged. “You know Veck and I are tight, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“And you know that I’ve always been behind him one hundred percent. To the death. That boy is mine.”
As he pounded over his heart, she said, “Okay.”
“So, yeah, I saw the e-mail he sent you. I didn’t mean to, but it was up on your screen when I came over to you two.” He looked over. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. It was just there.”
Damn it.
That was all she had. Damn it.
“So now . . .” His fingers stilled and he shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“No offense, but why is it your business. And I don’t mean to be a bitch, but—”
“I know things about him that you don’t, and I think he’s done something illegal. And given that you’re with him, I don’t know who in Internal Affairs to go to. Good enough for you?”
As Reilly exhaled like she’d been punched in the gut, she wanted to pull over. Good thing they were finally at the hospital and she could park in the open lot in front of the emergency room.
When she turned off the engine, she faced him. “What are you talking about?”
Bails put a hand on the dashboard and ran his palm back and forth. Then he wiped the thin layer of dust he’d lifted on his thigh. “Look, I’m a cop because I want to protect people, and because I believe in the system. I don’t think a civilized society can exist without the police and courts and jails. There are people out there who just do not belong in the general population. Period.”
“You haven’t said one word about Veck. FYI.”
“Has he told you he has a record?”
As a cold shaft shot down her spine, she forced herself to remain composed. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
This guy was full of crap, she thought. “Listen, I’m sorry to doubt your sources, but there’s nothing in his personnel file—and you can’t lie about that stuff. All HR has to do—and did—is run his name.”
“Not when it’s juvie shit.”
Reilly blinked. Hard. “I beg your pardon.”
“He has a juvenile record. A serious one.”
“How do you know this?”
“I saw the thing. With my own two eyes.” Bails let his head fall back against the rest. “I first met Veck at the police academy. He was a loner who did everything right—I was the class clown. We just . . . clicked. After we got out, we stayed in touch even though we were assigned to different precincts down in Manhattan, and then I later moved up here. For all the years I’ve known him, he’s always been tight in the head. In control. Tough, but fair. Matter of fact, he’s one of the best cops I’ve ever met, and I recruited him to come to Caldie because I wanted to work with him.” Bails cursed. “In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never once thought he wasn’t fit for the job because of that shit with his dad . . . until now. It started with him nailing that paparazzi guy. Then the Kroner thing out in the woods. It’s like his wrapper’s coming off—but I wasn’t going to say anything, I really wasn’t, until—”
“Wait. Stop.” Reilly cleared her throat, thinking a dose of protocol might calm the headache she felt between her eyes. “In the interest of propriety, you should get in touch with my supervisor immediately if you have anything to say pertaining to Detective DelVecchio. You were right before you started . . . you shouldn’t tell me these things. I shouldn’t . . . be in the position I’m in now with respect to him. Matter of fact, I have an appointment with her when you and I get back from this interview so that I can properly disclose the relationship to my department.”