Kill the Messenger

49

Jace didn’t recognize the person coming toward them, coming from behind Eddie. From a distance, the light was too poor. And as the person drew nearer, Jace caught only an on-again, off-again glimpse over Davis’s shoulder.

“This guy had better have the money,” he said.

Davis glanced over his shoulder. Jace kept the .22 trained on him, but pulled it back and held it in front of himself at waist height.

Davis opened his stance, turning a half step so he could see his benefactor and still see Jace from the corner of his eye.

The other person spoke. “Where are the negatives?”

“Where’s the money?” Jace asked, allowing himself only a second to register the fact that the third person in their group turned out to be a woman.

She looked at Davis. “Who’s he?”

“Middleman,” Davis said.

“Can’t you do anything right?”

“I did okay killing Tricia Cole for you.”

“And I paid you for that. And that’s all I’ve done since,” she said. Her voice was tense and trembling and angry. “Pay and pay and pay.”

“Hey,” Davis said. “You want to run with the dogs, that’s how it goes, honey. It’s not like calling a flunky to kill a snake in your yard. You had someone whacked. There’s consequences.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, choking back tears. “It has to stop. I want it to stop. I never meant for all this to happen. I just wanted him to pay. But when do I stop paying?”

“Now,” Davis said. “This is it. Jesus Christ, knock off the waterworks. The kid has the negatives. You pay him his five grand, you pay me my finder’s fee, and that’s the end of it. Cole goes to trial next week. You did your part making sure he doesn’t have an alibi. Giradello can’t wait to hang him.”

“Where’s the money?” Jace asked again, impatient and jittery.

The woman held a black nylon gym bag in her left hand. She swung it out to the side and let go of the handle. The bag hit the ground maybe four feet away.

Jace looked over at it. He nodded to Davis and motioned with the gun. “See what’s in it.”

Davis went to the bag, squatted, and unzipped it. “Here it is, kid. See for yourself.”

Jace took a step to the side and tried to see inside the bag without bending over.

It happened so fast, he barely had time to register the flash of light on the blade as Davis came at him and rammed the knife into his belly.

Parker screamed into the mike, “Go, go, go!” Throwing the binoculars aside, he bolted out of cover and ran.

Even as he shouted, “Police!” Diane Nicholson pulled a gun and shot Eddie Davis in the head.

Dan Metheny rolled off the park bench, weapon in hand, shouting, “Freeze, motherfucker!”

But Diane was already running, and kept running as Metheny fired off five quick shots.

Parker screamed at him, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

He pointed at the ground as he ran past and shouted at Metheny, “Keep him alive!”

He sprinted after Diane as hard as his legs would pump, shouting her name over and over.

She had twenty yards on him, and was athletic and fast. She was going to make it to her car.

She skidded around her Lexus, yanked open the door, and got in.

The engine fired as Parker drew close, then the car was coming at him.

Parker went up on the hood, losing his gun, grabbing on with both hands as Diane spun the wheel. The turn was lurching and awkward, and threw Parker off the side like a bull in a rodeo.

He hit the ground and skidded and rolled, coming up on his feet.

But the Lexus didn’t make it a hundred yards. Jimmy Chewalski’s black-and-white came screaming from the other direction and skidded to a stop, blocking her escape.

Parker reached the back of the car, panting, as Diane flung herself out of it. She stumbled, went down on her knees, scrambled back up, and turned to face him. A gun was in her hand.

“Diane,” Parker said. “Jesus Christ, drop the gun.”

Chewalski and his partner both had their weapons out, and were yelling.

Standoff.

Diane looked at them, looked at Parker. Her expression was one of anguish, and a kind of pain Parker had never imagined until now. He thought that her face was mirroring the emotions tearing through him.

“God, Diane, please,” he begged. “Drop the gun.”

Diane felt as if she were standing outside of her body, watching this happen to someone else.

She was holding a gun. Cops were pointing their guns at her.

She had shot a man in the head.

She had paid a man to kill her former lover’s wife.

She had no idea who this person was, this person inside of her who could do those things.

Her need for his love had turned her into something she hated. She had told him more than once she would do anything for him—lie for him, die for him, subjugate her pride, give up all she had. The idea made her sick.

“Diane, please,” Parker said, holding out a hand to her. The emotions on his face broke her heart. “Put the gun down.”

How could I have done this? she asked herself. How could I have come to this?

It was too late for answers. It was too late to change any of it. It was too late. . . .