Mongoose tightened his stare on me and said, “There’s no one here worth dying for, Patrick. Your father is a traitor to the U.S. government.”
“You’re reaching,” I said.
“Your father cut a deal with terrorists.”
“Right. And yo’ mama eats worms. Now, put down the gun, asshole!”
“You think this is a joke?” he said, pressing the pistol even harder against Dr. Kern’s head.
It had been a knee-jerk effort to show Mongoose that he wasn’t in control, that I wasn’t afraid to shoot him. But the doctor’s terrified expression made me regret my words. “Not a joke,” I said, backpedaling. “Let’s put away the weapons and talk.”
“Just shut up and listen! I heard the truth last night from Manu Robledo. If not for your old man, Manu Robledo never would have seen the quant’s analysis showing that Cushman was a Ponzi scheme.”
I held my aim. Mongoose kept talking.
“Your father wanted to get someone riled up enough to kill Gerry Collins, and he didn’t care who else Robledo took out along the way. Didn’t care if he took me out.”
The anger in his voice was palpable. He seemed to hold as much animosity toward my father as he did toward Robledo-and, by extension, toward me.
Mongoose continued his rant. “For three years I was convinced that the government had forced your father to confess as part of Operation BAQ. Nobody forced him. Your father took the rap so that Robledo could stay out of jail and find the money that Collins had stashed away. We’re talking billions of dollars from terrorist financers who would have killed Robledo unless he got it back. Your father confessed for a cut of that money-money that he would leave to you and your sister.”
I had actually been with him right up till then-until the part about a cut of terrorist seed money. “You’re making this up.”
“Robledo spilled his guts last night.”
“I doubt that Robledo has ever told the truth in his life.”
“Trust me, he was in no position to be less than truthful.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I just spoke with Joe Barber. Even he can’t figure out who started this fiction about a government-forced confession.”
“Oh, now, there’s an honest politician.”
“I know a traitor when I see one. Your father is a traitor, Patrick.”
“You’re lying.”
“He is lying,” my dad said.
It happened in a split second. The Demerol wasn’t enough to force sleep through a gunfight, and the sound of my father’s voice had startled Mongoose more than me. I was standing in the marksman’s pose, holding a Glock that was identical to the one that Scully had taught me how to use in Connie’s apartment, the sights lined up, my finger on the trigger. Dr. Kern dived for safety, and I squeezed the trigger. The shot erupted like thunder, and in a crimson explosion, Mongoose’s head jerked back. His gun dropped to his feet as his body collapsed in a heap. Dr. Kern raced into the arms of the first officer to burst through the door.
I dropped the gun, fell on the bed, and squeezed my father so hard that I could barely breathe. Fifteen years of emotional confusion collided with a week of stress, anxiety, and my own near-death experiences to create a long, cathartic embrace. “I’m fine, it’s over,” I said. “Mongoose is gone.”
He laid his arm across my back, not really holding me, but doing the best he could with the strength that remained.
“ ‘Yo’ mama eats worms’? ” he said.
His muted chuckle was little more than a tremble, and I broke our embrace long enough to see a hint of a smile crease his lips. I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath. It was beyond comic relief. It brought a moment of humanity to years of sorrow and separation.
And then it faded.
“Dad?”
I didn’t want to lose him. Holding on tight seemed like the only option.
“Go get your sister,” he whispered into my ear.
I took a breath and released him. I knew what he was telling me. “I’ll be right back,” I said, catching one last glimpse of Mongoose in a puddle of blood as I hurried out of the room.
61
I ran to the elevator. Andie followed. I had no cell phone but she was able to dial Connie’s number on hers.
No answer.
I didn’t know how much time my father had left, hours or minutes, but standing around waiting for my sister to pick up her cell was not an option. The lockdown had triggered additional security, but Andie cleared us through it, and the express elevator took us to the main lobby. I went straight to the spot where Connie had been sitting. The television was still playing in the corner, but the lobby was deserted, no sign of Connie. The gunfire had clearly triggered an evacuation.
“Come with me,” said Andie.
She led me outside to the parking lot, where a group of people was waiting for the all clear to come back inside. It was a cold night, and falling snow flickered in the cones of yellow-white glow beneath the lampposts. People in the crowd were shifting their weight from one foot to the other, arms folded or hands in pockets, trying to stay warm.
“Connie!”
A few heads turned in response to my call, but no one responded. I went from person to person, searching. My sister was nowhere.
“Has anyone here seen a woman named Connie Ryan?” I asked in a loud voice.
A few people shook their heads. Most glanced in the other direction, ignoring me. Finally, a high school kid dressed in a hoodie and smoking a cigarette came forward.
“White chick?” he asked. “Blue coat?”
“Yeah.”
He took a drag from his cigarette. “Me and her was watching the Celtics game on the TV. She left with some dude about a half hour ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. They was arguing, like she didn’t want to go. I was gonna say something, but I guess they worked it out. Better not to get involved, you know?”
“What did the guy look like?” I asked.
The kid shrugged. “Big guy, kind of old for her. Fifties, I guess. An asshole, if you ask me.”
I looked at Andie, and she read my mind. “Scully,” we said to each other.
62
A pair of headlights pierced the night as the white SUV rental headed down the highway toward Providence. Connie rode in the passenger seat, her hands tied behind her back. Scully drove. The dashboard rattled with the tinny sound of an overworked defroster struggling to clear the windshield. The whump-whump of the wipers pushed the falling snow from one side to the other.
“We trusted you, Scully,” Connie said.
His eyes narrowed. Some idiot driver in an approaching car had his high beams on, nearly blinding him. Scully flashed him back.
“Dad trusted you,” she said.
“Shut your trap, Connie. Your father was no Boy Scout.”
“He changed.”
“No, he didn’t. Your father lost everything in a Ponzi scheme, so he asked me for the name of another victim who would take Collins for a one-way car ride if they knew he was a fraud. I gave him Robledo’s name.”
“It wasn’t a crime for Dad to give Evan Hunt’s report to Robledo.”
“Robledo wasn’t given anything. I sold it to him.”
“My father wouldn’t have taken money from a man like Robledo. Not after everything he gave up.”
“You’re right. All your old man cared about was getting even with Collins for stealing his nest egg. But that report gave Robledo something that no one else in the world got. Robledo got a heads-up on Cushman’s fraud, and the chance to recover his money. Why shouldn’t I get a cut?”