11th hour

Chapter 96

Will Randall sat on the side of his bed and sent a text message to Jimmy Lesko. He used a disposable phone and identified himself as Buck Barry, one of Lesko’s private customers, a cautious man with an impressive drug habit.

The confirmation from Lesko came rocketing back, and the meeting was set for eleven that night; a transfer of cash for coke on a dodgy street in the Lower Haight.

It wouldn’t be the transfer Jimmy Lesko was expecting.

Will closed the phone, leaned over, and kissed Becky. He whispered that he loved her, left an envelope on the night table describing Chaz Smith’s double-dealing drug operation and how Smith had profited from being a cop. Then Will turned off the light.

He went to Link’s room and stood over the bed watching his son’s jerking, restless sleep.

His sweet boy.

Link should have been at Notre Dame now, on a scholarship. Should have been going out with girls. Should have been a lot of things he wasn’t and would never be, in a world of things he would never do.

Will kissed Link’s forehead, then went downstairs to the main floor and opened the door to the girls’ room. There were handmade quilts on the beds and a mural of a pastoral countryside painted on the cream-colored walls.

He picked stuffed animals off the floor, tucked them into Mandy’s bed, kissed her, then kissed her twin, Sara. Sara stirred and opened her eyes.

“I was flying, Daddy.”

“Like a bird? Or like a plane?”

“Like a rock-et.”

“Was it fun?”

“So fun. I’m going to go back now…”

Will covered Sara’s shoulders with her quilt, said, “Have a safe flight, sweetheart,” then went to the boys’ room across the hall.

The hamster was running on the endless track of his wheel. The two goldfish stared at him, almost motionless in the stream of bubbles coming up from the little ceramic diver at the bottom of the bowl.

Willie was asleep on his stomach, but Sam was awake and he grabbed Will’s hand and wouldn’t let go.

Will smiled at his boy, sat down on the bed beside him. “What, son? What can I do for you?”

“Are you going out?”

“Yeah, the car’s gas tank is empty and I don’t want to stop tomorrow when I’m on the way to work. Rush hour, you know?”

“Will you get me something?”

“If I can.”

“A motorcycle. A Harley. Black one.”

“No problem.”

“Really?”

“What about a peanut butter granola bar instead?”

“Sure,” said Sam. “That’ll be okay.”

The kid was a born negotiator.

“Go to sleep now,” Will said to his boy. “It’s late.”

Will kissed his youngest son, went down the hallway, and stopped to speak with Charlie, who was in his La-Z-Boy watching the news.

“Is that you, Hiram?”

“It’s Will, Charlie. Becky’s husband. I want to give you something.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“You need a good shake.”

“Ahhh-hah-hah.” Charlie laughed as Will leaned in and grabbed his father-in-law by both shoulders and shook him gently. Will said, “You’re a good man, Charlie Bean. I’ll see you later.”

“That’s fine, Hiram. I’ll wait up for you.”

Taking the stairs down to the garage, Will thought about what was coming that night. He took his jacket off the hook, put it on, then got the gun out of a toolbox near the pyramid of paint cans. He wrapped the gun in a plastic bag, stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and left the house by the back door.

Will knew cops would be watching Becky’s car on Golden Gate Avenue so he stayed on the deeply shadowed side of the street. There was an unmarked car at the corner of Scott, two guys in the front seat.

Will kept his head down and walked past it, kept going south another couple of blocks until he saw the silver Chevy Impala, probably a 2006 model.

The door was unlocked and Will got in, shutting off the dome light. It took him about five minutes by flashlight to remove the ignition plate and hot-wire the car, but the engine started right up and there was fuel in the tank.

The risk was building. But Will had already passed the point of no return.

Tonight was the night he’d been working toward for the last three months, the night when he would take his most personal revenge. He pulled the Impala out onto the street and headed for the Lower Haight.