He shrugged, exhaled a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”
Eli put the car back in drive and got them moving forward again. “Something tells me tonight will be full of long stories.”
John settled back in his seat. He looked at Ashley. “How are you holding up?”
Now it was her turn to shrug. “As well as to be expected under the circumstances, I guess. At least I’m still alive.”
John forced a smile. “That makes two of us. Hey, Eli?”
Eli lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “What?”
“Where are we headed now?”
“North.”
thirty-one
Zach flashed his badge at the detective standing near the police cruiser. “Agent Gibbons. How are you tonight?”
“Not so good,” the detective said. “As you can see, this has turned into one hell of a mess.”
Zach nodded thoughtfully, surveying the crime scene and the bodies-the two dead cops on this side of the street, the civilian on the other side, the civilian in the Jaguar.
“So what brings the FBI here tonight?”
“Nothing,” Zach said. “I happened to be in the area, heard what happened, decided to swing by to see if you needed any help.”
This wasn’t at all standard procedure from a Fed, but Zach was banking on the fact this Hoboken detective didn’t know any better. And if he did, so what? There wasn’t a rule against federal agents offering their assistance in a bloodbath like this, even fake federal agents like Zach.
“Appreciate the offer,” the detective said, “but we’ve got pretty much everything nailed down here as it is.”
“What happened anyway? All I heard was there were four fatalities, two of which were your own.”
The detective blew out a breath. “Like I said, it’s one big mess. Witnesses claim our guys approached the Jag. Next thing they knew, one of our guys took a shot at our other guy, then started firing off into the crowd. Killed the woman over there, wounded two others. Looks like he used his flashlight to break the driver’s nose, then a butterfly knife to stab him in the throat. The driver bled out immediately.” The detective shook his head again, this time with disgust. “Fucking insane, right? I even knew both of these guys. They were good cops. I can’t believe Boyle would do something like this.”
“Boyle the lead patrolman?”
“Yeah, he’s the one-Steve Boyle. Christ, he has a wife and two-year-old at home. Neil has a wife and two daughters. This is going to kill them.”
Zach glanced back at the cruiser. “Anyone check the dash cam?”
“Not yet.”
“So was the driver alone?”
“Doesn’t appear to be. Witnesses say the passenger fled on foot. He headed west, but nobody saw where he went.”
“Did you get a description?”
“Caucasian, late twenties to early thirties, shaved head. That’s about the extent of it. Basically bupkis.”
“Who took the shooter down?”
The detective’s expression darkened by Zach’s use of the term “shooter,” the cop no doubt dreading the twenty-four-hour news cycle and how they were going to spin this latest tasty bit of sensationalism. But the detective, either because he was a professional or because he didn’t want to deal with it right now, shook the expression off.
“Civilian, actually. Guy across the street in the pizza shop, keeps a Beretta with him wherever he goes. Has a permit and everything. Just another happy citizen expressing his Second Amendment rights.”
“Where is he now?”
“Down at the station. From what it seems, the man was justified in what he did, but still, he killed a cop. It’ll be a while before it all gets sorted out.”
Someone shouted a name, and the detective turned away from Zach. An officer was waving him over.
“Thanks for stopping by,” the detective said, “but I have to go.”
He didn’t wait for a response from Zach, and Zach didn’t offer one. He was ready to get out of there. He had come for what he needed. He wished he could somehow access the dash cam video, make it disappear. Who knows, maybe Tyson might be able to handle that on his end. The last thing they needed was a solid description of John Smith hitting the airwaves before they managed to track him down first.
He ducked under the crime scene tape as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Tyson.
“How bad is it?” Tyson asked.
Zach headed for his car-not the one he had smashed up, but a new sedan. “Pretty fucking bad. What did you tell Boyle?”
“Just gave him the description of Smith’s roommate’s car and told him to keep it in sight.”
“That’s it?”
Tyson was silent for a beat. “Also Smith’s full name and that we were tracking him to get to his father.”
Zach slipped in behind the wheel, gritting his teeth. “You stupid shit.”
“Hey, I felt the situation warranted the extra intel. What if Smith had made contact with Eli? Boyle needed to know.”
“Yeah, well, Boyle’s now dead, along with three other people, including Smith’s roommate. Any luck tracking Smith?”
“Nothing on the traffic cams.”
“Keep looking.”
“I am. Oh, by the way, we now know who the girl is.”
“And?”
Tyson said nothing.
Zach started the car, the silence on the other end unnerving. “And?” he repeated.
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Say that again?”
“I have to go.”
“Tyson-”
The call disconnected.
Zach held the phone away from his ear for a moment, wanting to smash the thing into a thousand pieces. He took a deep breath, counted to ten in his head, then went to dial Tyson again. Instead, the phone vibrated.
“Tyson, what the fuck-”
“Zach, listen carefully.”
It wasn’t Tyson.
Zach swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah?”
“You and I need to meet for coffee.”
“I’m a little busy right now.”
“Our usual place. Be there in two hours.”
Before Zach could say anything else, the line went dead.
thirty-two
Eli doesn’t take any major highways. Instead he sticks to secondary routes, constantly watching the rearview mirror. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t play the radio. It’s so quiet in the car I want to break something, but instead I just sit in the back and stare out my window at the scrolling scenery of houses and businesses and lights and think about the blood first squirting out of Duncan’s nose and then his neck.
It’s my fault. Duncan’s dead now because of me. Yes, it’s true, I didn’t kill him myself, but it was because of me that he got involved in this whole mess. If I hadn’t called him he would still be at the apartment, stationed on the couch playing a video games. Either that or watching some foreign flick on Netflix, some poorly dubbed ninja assassin thing. In a couple hours he would take a shower, style his hair, dab on cologne, get dressed in his stonewashed jeans and designer shirt and nice shoes, and then head out to some bar or club and flirt with the pretty girls and eventually hook up with one of them and either go back to her place or come back to the apartment and they would have a good time and then, in the morning, they would part ways and Duncan would crash until about noon when he would wake up and eat some junk food, picking up where he left off the previous morning.
Only Duncan will never do any of that ever again.
He’s dead-dead-and it’s all my fault.
Or no-it’s my father’s fault.
Eli, who was never around when I was growing up. Eli, who I had always known as Frank Smith. Eli, who was supposed to be dead, having shot himself in the head, only to suddenly become resurrected as a person who death follows in his wake.
Yes, it’s Eli’s fault that Duncan is now dead, Duncan and everyone else who’s died today. Even Melissa and her husband and their boys-their deaths must somehow tie back to Eli, too.
It makes sense, this line of thinking, but I also know I’m kidding myself.