Lifeguard

Chapter 34

“I DON’T THINK he did it, George!” Ellie said into the speakerphone. “Not the murders, anyway.”

The FBI Crisis Team in Boston had just debriefed her about her ordeal. Maybe she was a little out of her league, but she told them what she saw. That this Kelly was no killer. Just someone in way over his head who panicked. That until his picture flashed unexpectedly on the TV, she was sure she was about to get him to come in.

Now, in the regional director’s conference room in Boston, she was able to report back to her boss in the Florida office. “You remember how the local police said alarms were going off all over town at the time of the theft, George? That’s what he did. He didn’t kill those people or take the art. He set off the alarms.”

“Sounds like you two got pretty cozy in your time together,” Moretti said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellie asked.

“I don’t know, just that it seems you were able to pick up so much about the guy. Heisted a car together, exchanged life stories.”

Ellie stared at the speaker box. She had just spent eight hours with a gun pointed at her, the most nerve-racking day of her life. “I did mention he had a gun, didn’t I, George?”

“You did – and not a single opportunity presented itself in all the time you were together, including two venue changes, to take it away from him? Or to get out of there, Ellie? I was only thinking, maybe another agent…”

“I guess I thought I could bring him in without anyone getting hurt. My read was that it didn’t seem like murder was in the guy’s makeup.”

Moretti sniffed. “You’ll pardon me if I just don’t buy into that, Ellie.”

“Into what?” she asked, hesitating.

“Your read. With all due respect, of course.”

“On the basis of what?” she shot back. The asshole was holding back something from her.

“On the basis that innocent guys don’t abduct federal agents,” Moretti replied.

“I did say he panicked, George.”

“And that we ran the guy’s picture around the Brazilian Court in Palm Beach. He was seen with Tess McAuliffe, Ellie. He had lunch with her. The same afternoon she was killed.”

Chapter 35

I’M PRETTY SURE that night was the longest and loneliest of my life.

It was my third night on the run. I didn’t know whom I could trust, except Dave, and I was determined not to get him involved. Everyone else I would’ve gone to, who would’ve helped me out, was dead.

The worst thing was, some of those people I couldn’t trust had the same last name as I did.

I ditched the minivan and spent the night curled up in an all-night movie theater in Cambridge, watching Lord of the Rings over and over with a bunch of overenthused college students. I was bundled up in my hooded sweatshirt, too scared to let anybody see my face. When the final showing was over, I actually felt as though I’d been reprieved.

About eight the next morning I took a cab out to Watertown, fifteen minutes away. I caught a glimpse of the morning Globe on the cabbie’s front seat. LOCAL MAN HUNTED IN FBI HOSTAGE ABDUCTION. SOUGHT IN CONNECTION WITH FLORIDA MURDERS. I sank back in the seat and pulled down my cap.

Watertown was one of those working-class suburbs of Boston, except instead of just the Irish and the Italians and the blacks, it was home to a lot of Armenians. I had the cab let me off on Palfrey, and walked back a couple of blocks to Mount Auburn. I stopped in front of an ordinary white Victorian just off the corner.

A sign hung over the front steps: WATCHES REPAIRED. JEWELRY BOUGHT AND SOLD. A wooden arrow pointed up to the second floor. I climbed the steps and made my way around to the porch. A bell tinkled as I opened the door.

A heavyset man with bushy gray hair in a jeweler’s apron looked up from behind the counter. His jowly face broke into a thin smile. “You’re taking a helluva chance coming here like this, Neddie-boy. But how the hell are you?”

Chapter 36

I FLIPPED a hand-scrawled sign to CLOSED. “I need to talk to you, Uncle George.”

George Harotunian wasn’t my real uncle. It was just that I had known him my whole life. He was my father’s trusted friend, his business partner. His fence.

When we were growing up, George was as close to a real uncle to Dave and me as we ever had. He always gave my mother money when my father was in jail. He had connections for choice Celtics seats at the Garden. Somehow he managed to steer clear of the law himself. Everyone seemed to find a way to like Uncle George. The good guys and the bad. So I was thinking, Is he Gachet?

“Congratulations, Neddie.” George shook his head. “Always thought it would be for hockey, but you certainly made the big leagues now.”

“I need to find Frank, Uncle George.”

He took out his eyepiece and wheeled his chair back from the counter. “I don’t think that would be wise right now, son. You want some advice? You need a lawyer. Let me hook you up with somebody good. Turn yourself in.”

“C’mon, Uncle George, you know I didn’t do anything down there.”

“I know you didn’t do anything,” George said, tossing a copy of the morning paper on the counter, “but you got a helluva novel way of showing that to everyone else. You think your father was involved? Jesus, Neddie, you don’t know him now. Whitey’s too sick to do anything these days. Except cough and complain.”

“He needs a kidney, right?”

“He needs a lot of things, kid. You think your father would trade his brother’s son, and the rest of those kids, just to pee in a tube for a couple more years? You’re judging him a bit too hard, son.”

“You know better than anyone that Mickey wouldn’t make a move without Frank,” I said. “I’m not saying he had anybody killed, but I damn well think he knows who set them up. He knows something, and I need to know it, too. My best friends are dead.”

“Christ, Ned,” George wheezed, “you think your father knows the difference between a Jackson Pollock and a fucking Etch-A-Sketch? The man’s no saint, I know, but he loves you more than you think.”

“I guess I figure he loves his life more. I need to find him, Uncle George, please…”

George came around the counter and stared at me, shaking his large, bushy head. “You must need money, kid.”

He reached under his apron and peeled off five fresh hundred-dollar bills from a large roll. I took them and stuffed them in my jeans. Accessing my ATM account would have been like a homing signal now. “I know people you could stay with, but your best bet is to come clean.”

“Tell my father I need to see him, George. Somewhere safe, if he doesn’t trust me. He should be pleased. I finally landed in the family business.”

George’s hooded eyes grew soft. He stared at me for a long time, then shook his head. “Try calling me Thursday, Neddie. I may run into him by then.”

“Thanks, Uncle George.” I smiled.

He stuck out his fleshy palm, and when I took it, he pulled me close in a hard embrace. “Everyone knows you had nothing to do with what happened down there, son. I’m sorry about Mickey and your friends. But you’re in trouble, Ned, and I don’t think Frank can get you out. My offer stands. You think it over. Most of all, you take care.”

I nodded and patted him on the back. I made my way toward the door.

“No offense, kid,” he said, stopping me, “but you mind leaving through the back?”

The stairs led to a small parking lot that hooked around to an alley. I waved back at Uncle George as he watched me go. I knew he loved me like a real nephew.

But he had made a mistake, and I caught it.

In no report I had read or seen on TV had anyone mentioned a Jackson Pollock being stolen.

Chapter 37

ELLIE WAS FUMING and, actually, she liked herself best when she got like this – feisty, combative, standing up for herself.

She’d been conned. She’d gone to bat for Ned and he’d let her down. The sonuvabitch knew, she kept telling herself over and over. He knew Tess McAuliffe. He was with her the day she was killed. She felt like a complete fool.

Ellie was still in the Boston office, but was headed back home that night. She spent the day fielding calls – a frantic one from her parents in New Jersey, one from the regional director of the FBI, going over her ordeal with the Crisis Team one more time. And then trying to dig up someone in the business who had gone by the name Gachet.

She knew the name, of course. Anyone with an art degree did.

Gachet was the subject of one of van Gogh’s last paintings. It was finished in Auvers, in June of 1890, only a few weeks before he died. The famous doctor with the achingly sad blue eyes. It was first sold from van Gogh’s estate for 300 francs, $58. In 1990 a Japanese businessman paid $82 million for it, the most ever paid for a piece of art at the time. But what the hell did any of that have to do with the theft in Florida?

She also spent some time pulling up whatever she could find on Ned Kelly. His friends’ police records. His father’s. The older brother, who’d been shot in 1997 by the police in the middle of a robbery, possibly set up by the father.

That stuff was all true.

Then she found Ned in a team picture of the 1998 BU hockey team on the university’s Web site. She checked with Stoughton Academy. He had been accused, unjustly, by a female student. And cleared a few weeks later. Just as Ned told her. He hadn’t been lying about that.

Just about the past four days?

The guy had never been in any real trouble in his life; now he was wanted for two sets of grisly murders? No matter what the evidence said, Ellie still felt sure: he was no killer. A liar, maybe. Someone in totally over his head. A womanizer, possibly. But a cold-blooded killer? Shit, he didn’t even know how to use a gun.

She pushed herself away from the desk. Maybe Moretti was right. Stick to the art. Sure, it was fun playing with the A team for a while, but her days of chasing murderers were through.

“Shurtleff?” One of the Boston agents stuck his head in her cubicle.

Ellie nodded.

“Someone for you on line two.”

“Who is it?” she asked. The story was all over the media. She’d been dodging calls from the press all day.

“Celebrity call,” the agent said with a shrug. “Someone named Steve McQueen.”

Chapter 38

THIS TIME she was determined to handle it right. By the book. Not like the day before. Though the crack about Steve McQueen was making her suppress a smile. Ellie pressed a button to record the call. She cupped her hand over the receiver and whispered to the agent, Trace this call.

“You miss me, Ellie?” Ned Kelly said when she came on the line.

“This isn’t a game, Ned,” Ellie said. “People here think you’re guilty as shit. I told you we had one chance to help you, but that chance is fading fast. Tell me where you are. Let me come get you. Give yourself up.”

“Guess that’s a no,” Ned sighed, as if disappointed.

“You want to know what I miss?” Ellie said, feeling herself getting angry. “I miss not taking that gun from you and putting you in cuffs when I had the chance. I trusted you, Ned. I went way out on a limb for you. And you didn’t tell me the truth.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, caught by surprise.

“About the Brazilian Court, Ned. About Tess McAuliffe. About the part that puts you with her that very afternoon. Or was that just something you forgot to slip in when you were going through your life story?”

“Oh.” Ned cleared his throat. There was silence on the line. He was probably running through what he could say to save his charade. “If I told you about that, Ellie, would you have believed anything else I said?”

“Whatever would give you that idea? At two murder scenes within just a few hours. Busy day, huh, Ned?”

“I didn’t do it, Ellie.”

“Is that your answer to everything, Ned? Or only for homicides and interstate trafficking of stolen goods? Oh, yeah, the sexual harassment of minors, too.” A low blow, Ellie told herself as soon as it left her mouth. She wished she could take it back. She knew it wasn’t true.

“I guess I deserved that,” Ned said, “but I figure by now you already checked with Stoughton, so you know I was telling you the truth. Are you tracing this, Ellie?”

“No,” she quickly replied, though she knew it sounded more like Of course I’m taping this, you dope. I’m with the FBI.

“Great.” Ned blew out an exasperated breath. “Guess there’s not a whole lot more I have to lose. Okay, I was with her, Ellie. But I didn’t kill Tess. You don’t understand…”

“Here’s one thing I understand perfectly, Ned. You say you’re innocent – then prove it. Turn yourself in! I give you my word I’ll make sure every part of your story gets fully checked out. You never threatened me yesterday. That was good. That can work for you. But, please, I’m trying to help you, Ned. This is the only way.”

There was a deep, extended pause. For a while she wasn’ sure if she had lost him. Finally Ned sighed, “I think I should go.”

“What are you going to do?” Ellie heard the emotion in her own voice. “Get yourself killed?”

He hesitated a moment. “You find Gachet?”

She glanced at her watch. She was sure they had had enough time to establish some kind of whereabouts for him. He was probably in a phone booth anyway, and in a minute he’d be gone. “No,” she replied, “we haven’t found him yet.”

“Then keep looking, Ellie, please. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong about Tess. I would never have killed her, Ellie.”

“Another lifelong friend?” Ellie said, angry, blowing out a frustrated breath.

“No,” Ned said softly. “Nothing like that. You ever felt yourself falling in love, Ellie?”

Chapter 39

DENNIS STRATTON was fuming.

He had a copy of USA Today on the desk in front of him – and a Boston Globe.

This total fucking amateur was screwing up everything in a major way.

As Stratton read about the botched FBI arrest up in Boston, the lining in his stomach began to tighten. He had told them to get professionals, and who had they sent? That bitch from the Art Theft Department down here. Now they had blown it. This Ned Kelly character could be anywhere.

And the son of a bitch had something very precious that belonged to him.

The FBI had bungled things. Damn it, he had warned them. Now he couldn’t take any more chances. Kelly needed to be found. He didn’t give a shit what happened to him. As far as he was concerned, Kelly should have ended up in that house in Lake Worth with the rest of them. Stratton straightened the newspaper and read. FBI sources said they had no direct leads on the suspect’s whereabouts. This was becoming a very public nightmare for him.

Stratton took out a cell phone and punched in a private number. After three beeps, a familiar voice answered. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

Stratton waited impatiently, checking the morning faxes. He had nurtured this particular relationship for a long time. Now it was time to call in the chits. He’d been paying for the guy’s godforsaken kids in private school. For bonefishing trips to his house in the Keys. And right now, Stratton needed to collect on his investment.

The voice came back a few seconds later. “You’ve seen the morning papers, huh?”

“I’ve seen them,” Stratton spat into the phone, “and I’m not liking what I read. The FBI has made a mess of things. Kelly has something very important that belongs to me. Don’t be fooled – he has the goods. You said you were handling things. So far, I don’t see any evidence that the situation is ‘handled.’ It’s only getting worse.”

“It’ll be taken care of,” the man said, trying to sound calm. “I have a man in the area already. He assures me we have a lead on Mr. Kelly.”

“I want what’s mine. I don’t have to make that any clearer, do I? Whatever else happens is of no concern to me. This is just business.”

“I think I get the picture, Mr. Stratton. Relax,” the man said. “I know you’re a busy man. Play some golf. Get yourself a massage. I should be hearing from my man anytime. You can count on him. Like I told you a hundred times, Mr. Stratton” – the man laughed – “what’s the point of having friends -”

Stratton punched off the line. He placed the cell in his jacket and stood up and straightened his Thomas Pink shirt. This is the way he should’ve handled it from the start, with a real professional.

His wife came into the room. She was wearing black running tights with an orange cashmere sweatshirt wrapped around her waist. “Going out for a run, dear?”

“I should be back in half an hour,” Liz Stratton said, going over to the desk. “I was just looking for my keys. I thought I left them here.”

“I’ll alert the boys.” Stratton reached for the phone.

“Don’t bother, Dennis.” She picked up her keys on the desk. “I’m only going down along the lake.”

Stratton grabbed Liz by the wrist and jerked her to a stop as she went by. “No bother at all,” he said, squeezing.

“Get your hands off me, Dennis. Please.”

“I’m surprised at you, darling. You know the rules.” He had that look of pretend caring in his eyes that was nothing but ego, control. They stood for a second, eye to eye. She tried to pull away from him. Then she backed down. “Call your goons.”

“That’s better,” Stratton said, relaxing his grip and revealing a large red mark on her wrist. “I’m sorry, darling. But we can never be too safe, can we?”

“Don’t be sorry, Dennis.” Liz tried to rub the pain out of her wrist. “You squeeze everybody, dear. That’s your style. It’s what’s so charming about you.”

Chapter 40

I PUSHED THROUGH the metal turnstiles, blending in with the crowd, and headed up the ramp to the sign that said FIELD LEVEL BOXES down the left-field line.

That familiar rush of adrenaline raced through me as soon as I saw the field: the old-time placard scoreboard. The closeness of the Green Monster, where in 1978 Bucky Dent had ended our dreams yet again.

Fenway Park.

It was a gorgeous spring afternoon. The Yankees were in town. I only wished for a goddamn minute that they were why I was there.

I walked down toward the field to Box 60C. Then I stood for a second behind the thin, narrow-shouldered man in a white open-collar shirt facing the field.

Finally, I sat down next to him. He barely turned. “Hello, Neddie.”

I was shocked at how frail and weak my father looked. His cheeks were sharp-boned and sunken; his hair, which had always been white, had thinned to a few feathery wisps. His skin was parchment gray. My father’s hands, which had always been tough, workmanlike hands, looked more like skin-covered bones. He had a scorecard rolled up in them.

“I heard you wanted to see me.”

“Gee, Pop, I’m all choked up,” I said, staring at him for a second. “They actually the Yankees down there, or some more undercover guys from the FBI?”

“You think I had something to do with what went on at the house?” My father shook his head. “You think, Ned, if I wanted to sell you out, I’d do it in front of your mother? But to your question,” he said, grinning, “see number thirty-eight, I’m not so sure he could hit my fastball.”

I couldn’t help smiling. Frank lit up, too. For a second I saw the old, familiar sparkle in his eyes, the Boston Irish con heating up.

“You’re looking good, Ned. You’re quite the celebrity now, too.”

“You look…” I wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t so easy to see my father looking like that.

“You don’t have to say it.” He tapped the program on my knee. “I look like a ghost who doesn’t knows he’s fucking dead.”

“I was gonna say, better than I’d heard.” I smiled.

The game was already in the third inning. The Sox were at bat, down 3-1. A chant rippled through the crowd, pushing for a rally. My father shook his head. “In a million years, I never thought I’d have to tip my hat to you, Neddie-boy. I spent my whole life slowly sliding down the pole of life’s opportunities. And look at you! You knock it out of the park on your very first try.”

“Guess I was always holding back a bit.” I shrugged. “Always knew I had greatness in me.”

“Well, it breaks my heart, Neddie.” Frank curled a wistful smile. “Wasn’t it that Senator Moynihan who called it the plight of the Irish to have our hearts continually broken by life?”

“I think he was talking about the Kennedys, Pop. Or the Sox.”

“Well, it breaks an old man’s heart anyway,” my old man said. “Whatever’s left of it.”

I looked into his light blue, almost transparent eyes. Not at the wasting old man I hadn’t seen for four years. But at the lifelong con man, who I knew was conning me again. “It breaks mine, too, Pop. Who’s Gachet?”

My father kept his gaze trained on the field. “Who’s who?”

“Come off it, Pop. You lived your life how you wanted, but now I’m caught up in it. I need you to get me out. Who’s Gachet?”

“I have no idea who or what you’re talking about, son. I swear to God, Ned.”

It always amazed me how my father could take a bald-faced lie and feed it back just like the truth. “Georgie slipped up,” I said.

“Yeah?” My father shrugged. “How is that?”

“He mentioned a Jackson Pollock that was stolen. I don’t think that’s ever come out.”

Frank smiled. He tapped me on the shoulder with the program. “You missed your calling, Ned. You should’ve been a detective, not a lifeguard.”

I ignored the dig. “Please, Pop, who’s Gachet? Don’t play me. We both know Mickey would never have made a move without running it by you.”

I heard the crack of the bat. The crowd rose and gasped with expectation. A line-drive double off the wall by Nomar, two runs home. Neither of us was really paying attention.

“I’m gonna die, Ned,” my father said. “I don’t have the strength, or the time.”

“Not if you get yourself a kidney.”

“Kidney?” For the first time he turned to me, anger flaring in his pupils. “You think I could live with setting up those kids, Neddie?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t think you’d set up your own son to take a murder rap, and you manage to live with that. You already lost one son, Pop. He was doing a job for you, right? Right?”

Frank took a short breath, then coughed. I couldn’t tell what was going on inside his head. Remorse; more likely, denial. He just sat there, his eyes following the game. He pointed to the Wall. “You know, they got seats up there now.”

“Pop,” I said, turning to him. “Please… cut the shit! I’m wanted for murder.”

Frank gritted his teeth, as though he were the one suffering. He squeezed the program firmly in his spidery hands. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” he finally said. “That’s all I have to say.”

“But people did, Pop. Mickey. Bobby. Barney. Dee. They’re all dead. You know how it makes me feel, that the only person I can come to for help is you. Help me find their killers, Pop. Help me avenge my friends.”

He turned to me. For a second I thought he was going to break down. “Georgie gave you good advice, Ned. Get yourself a good lawyer. Then turn yourself in. Anyone with a head on their shoulders knows you didn’t kill those kids. I don’t know any more.”

“You don’t know any more?” I said, my eyes growing hot with tears.

“Get yourself out of this, Neddie.” Frank turned and glared at me.

I don’t think I ever felt any lower than at that moment, knowing my old man was going to let me get up and walk out, without doing a thing to help. My blood was boiling. I stood up and stared him down.

“I’m gonna find him, Pop. And when I do, I’m gonna find out about you, too. Isn’t that right?”

A couple of Yanks had reached base. The Sox had made a pitching change. Suddenly, A-Rod unloaded a shot over the left-field wall.

“You believe that?” my father spat. “Just like I said, a god-damn curse.”

“I believe it, Pop.” I gave him just long enough to change his mind, but he never even looked at me. I pulled my cap down over my eyes and left the ballpark. And my father.

Chapter 41

IT DIDN’T TAKE me much farther than the lower ramp of the stadium to realize I was kidding myself. All that big bravado talk about finding Gachet…All I had was the few hundred bucks Uncle George had stuffed in my hand. My face was all over the news. Any second the police could rush out and surround me.

I didn’t even know what my next move was.

I stood outside the park on Yawkey Way, and for the first time I had no idea where to turn. I knew the Tess McAuliffe thing looked bad. I knew my DNA was probably all over the room, my fingerprints. But the truth was, I hadn’t done anything other than set off a few crummy alarms. Maybe Ellie was right. Maybe there was only one choice. Turn myself in. And I was blowing it every second I stayed out there.

I found a pay phone a few blocks over in Kenmore Square. I needed someone to talk to, and only one name came to mind: Dave. Just dialing his cell, I felt as if the weight of the world had been eased off my shoulders.

“Ned!” Dave exclaimed in a hushed tone when he heard my voice. “Jesus, Neddie, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I’m thinking about a lot of stuff. I didn’t quite resolve the situation quite as I planned.”

He lowered his voice. “You saw Pop.”

“Yeah, I saw him. He basically wished me luck and told me to drop him a line from jail. Got to see the Sox play, though. That was a plus. Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking. About what you said. I have to talk to you, Dave.”

“I need to talk to you too, Neddie.” He sounded excited. “I’ve got something to show you, too. About this Gachet… But, Ned, the police have been to see me. They’re all over this, guy. I talked to a few people… Everyone knows you didn’t kill Mickey and the guys down there. It turns out there’s something called agitated capacity. Basically, it means when you resisted arrest, you weren’t in your right mind.”

“That’s my defense? That I’m a whack job?”

“Not wacko, Ned. That you were pressured into doing something you wouldn’t have if you were clearheaded. If it helps you to get a pass on some of this, why not? But you’ve got to stop digging yourself deeper. You need a lawyer.”

“You putting up a shingle, Counselor?”

“What I’m trying to do, you jerk, is save your life.”

I closed my eyes. It’s over now, isn’t it? I had to do the right thing. “Where can we meet, bro? I can’t risk coming by the bar.”

Dave thought it over for a few seconds. “You remember X-man?”

Philly Morisani. We used to watch the tube in his basement, on Hillside, in the same neighborhood where we grew up. It was like our private club. He was so into the X-Files, we called him X-man. I heard he was working for Verizon now. “Sure, I remember.”

“He’s away on business, and I’ve sort of been watching his place. The basement key’s where it’s always been. I’m at school right now. I need to finish up a few things here. How’s six? If I get there first, I’ll leave the door open for you.”

“I’ll use the time to practice putting my hands behind my back. For the cuffs.”

“We’re gonna get you out of this, Ned. I never told you, guy, I got an A in writs and statutes.”

“Jeez, everything’s coming up roses now! More to the point, how’d you do in litigation?”

“Litigation?” Dave groaned. “Nah, flunked that.”

We started to laugh. Just hearing the sound of my own laughter, feeling that someone was on my side, sent a little bolstering warmth through my blood.

“We’re gonna get you out of this,” Dave said again. “Stay out of sight. I’ll see you at six.”

Chapter 42

I HAD A COUPLE of hours to kill, so I walked around Kenmore Square. I had a beer in an empty Irish bar and sort of watched the end of the game. The Sox actually came back with three in the ninth off Rivera to win. Maybe I should believe in miracles after all.

I sucked down the last of my beer – I figured it would be my last for a long, long time. Life as I knew it was about to end. I was definitely going to prison. I flipped down a ten for the bartender. Agitated capacity… Swell, Ned, your life’s been reduced to the hope that you were acting while completely out of your mind.

It was a little after five, and I found a cabbie who for forty bucks took me down to Brockton. I had him let me off on Edson and I cut over behind the elementary school to Hillside, where Dave was going to meet me.

The house was the third one down the block, a weatherbeaten gray Cape with a short, steep driveway. I felt a wave of relief. My brother’s black WRX was parked on the street.

I waited a few minutes by a lamppost, watching the street. No cops. No one had followed. Time to get this done…

I jogged around to the side of the house. As Dave had said, the storm door to the basement was open. Just like old times. We used to hang out there, watch some ball games, occasionally smoke a little weed.

I rapped on the glass. “Dave!”

No one answered.

I pushed open the door, and the musty mothball smell brought back a lot of good memories. Philly hadn’t exactly redecorated the place since I left. The same plaid, basket-weave couch and chewed-up recliner. A pool table with a couple of Miller Lite lanterns over it, a cheap barnwood bar.

“Hey, Dave!” I yelled.

I noticed a book opened on the couch. An art book. I turned it over: The Paintings of van Gogh. Unless Philly had somehow elevated his reading material since I’d been away, I figured Dave had brought it. There was a stamp on the inside flap from the Boston College library. He had said he had something to show me on Gachet.

“Davey, where the hell are you, man?”

I plopped down on the couch and flipped the book open to a page that had been marked by a yellow Post-it sticker.

There was a portrait of an old man leaning on his fist, wearing a white cap, with a melancholy look, piercing blue eyes. Those identifiable van Gogh swirls brilliant in the background.

My eyes focused on the text.

Portrait of Dr. Gachet.

I stared closer, my eyes magnetized to the small print.

Portrait of Dr. Gachet. 1890.

I felt a surge of excitement. The painting was done over a hundred years ago. Anyone could be using the name. But suddenly I had hope. Gachet was real! Maybe Ellie Shurtleff would know.

“Dave!” I called, louder. I looked up the stairs to the main floor.

Then I noticed the light in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar.

“Jesus, Dave, you in there?” I went over and rapped on the door. The force of my knock edged it open.

All I remember for the next sixty seconds or so was standing there as if I’d been slammed in the midsection by a sledgehammer.

Oh, Dave…oh Dave.

My brother was propped up on the toilet seat in his hooded BC sweatshirt. His head was cocked slightly to the side. Blood was everywhere, leaking out of his abdomen, onto his jeans, the floor. He wasn’t moving. Dave was just staring at me with this placid expression, like, Where the hell were you, Ned?

“Oh my God, Dave, no!”

I rushed over to him, feeling for a pulse I knew wasn’t there, trying to shake Dave back to life somehow. There was a large puncture wound through the sweatshirt on the left side over his ribs. I pulled the sweatshirt up, and it was as if the left side of Dave’s abdomen fell into my hands.

I stumbled backward, my legs buckling. I punched the bathroom wall and sort of slid, helpless to the linoleum floor.

Suddenly, the sweats started to rush over my body again. I couldn’t just sit there, staring at Dave any longer. I had to get out. I staggered to my feet, leaving the bathroom. I needed some air.

That was when I felt the arm wrap around my neck. Tight, incredibly tight. A voice hissed in my ear, “You’ve got a few things that belong to us, Mr. Kelly.”

Chapter 43

I COULDN’T BREATHE. My neck and head were jerked back by a very strong man. The edge of a sharp blade dug into my rib cage.

“The art, Mr. Kelly,” the voice said again, “and unless I start hearing about the paintings in the next five seconds, that’s about all the time you have left in this world.”

Just to make his point, the guy let me feel the edge of the blade again.

“Last chance, Mr. Kelly. See your brother over there? Sorry about the mess, but he just didn’t know anything about you coming here. It’s just not gonna go so easy for you.” He stretched my head farther back and pressed the tip of the blade under my chin. “No one fucks the people I work for.”

“I don’t have any paintings! You think I’d lie about it – now?”

He scraped the serrated edge of the blade against my neck. “You think I’m a complete imbecile, Mr. Kelly? You have something that belongs to us. About sixty million dollars’ worth. I want to start hearing about the art. Now.”

What was I supposed to tell him? What could I tell him? I didn’t know a thing about the missing art.

“Gachet!” I shouted, twisting my head. “Gachet has it. Find Gachet!”

“Sorry, Mr. Kelly, I’m afraid I don’t know any Gachet. I gave you to five and now it’s one.” He squeezed tighter. “Say hi to your brother, asshole…”

“No!”

I yelled, expecting to feel the blade dig into my neck, and then my legs lifted off the ground. Maybe he was giving me a last chance to talk. I knew whatever I told him, I wasn’t leaving there alive.

I slammed my elbow with everything I had into the guy’s rib cage, heard a deep exhalation of air. His grip loosened enough for my feet to hit the ground, and his other arm dropped for just a second. Then I rolled forward, lifting him across my back. He flailed with the blade and I felt a slash against my arm. I slammed him as hard as I could against the wall.

Suddenly the guy was on the floor.

He looked about forty, bushy dark hair, wearing a nylon jacket, built like a brick, a bodybuilder. No way I could take him. He still had the knife and spun quickly into a crouch. I had about one second to find a way to save my life.

I reached around for whatever I could find. There was an aluminum baseball bat against the wall. I swung it with all my might. The goddamn bat shattered the beer lights over the pool table.

The guy stepped back in a shower of splintering glass. He was laughing at me.

“I don’t have the art!” I screamed.

“Sorry, Mr. Kelly.” He started to wave the knife again. “I don’t fucking care.”

He came at me, and the blade slashed against my forearm. Incredible pain shot up my arm, probably because I saw the cut happen. “That’s only the beginning,” he said, smiling.

I swung the bat across his arm and managed to nail him. He grunted. The knife dropped and clattered to the floor.

He barreled into me. I hit the wall and saw stars and bright colors. I tried to ward him off with the bat, but he was in too close. And too strong.

He started to press the bat into my chest, increasing the pressure against my ribs, my lungs. Slowly he elevated it higher. Until it was on my windpipe.

I started to gasp. I mean I was strong, but I couldn’t budge him. I had no air.

I felt the veins in my face bulge. With the last of my strength, I jerked my knee upward and caught him the groin. I threw myself into him. We rolled across the room, crashing into shelves behind the pool table – toppling games, pool sticks, the VCR.

I heard the guy groan. Jesus, maybe he hit his head. I spotted his knife across the floor. I scurried over and was back before his eyes cleared.

I wrenched the guy’s head back and jammed his own knife under his chin. “Who sent you?” This bastard had killed my brother. It wouldn’t have taken much for me to drive the blade into his throat.

“Who sent you? Who?”

His eyes rolled back, all the way to the whites.

“What the hell?”

I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket as if I were trying to lift him into a boat, and the guy just toppled forward into my arms.

The blade of a hockey skate was wedged in his back. I pushed him forward and he rolled over, dead.

I was drained and exhausted. I could barely move. I just sat there, breathing hard, looking at him. Then reality hit me. You just killed a man.

I couldn’t’ think about it – not now. I went back to my brother and knelt next to him a last time. Tears stung my eyes. I ran my hand across Davey’s cheek. “Oh, Dave, what did I do?”

I pulled myself up and stumbled back to the art book on the couch. I ripped out the page with Portrait of Dr. Gachet.

Then I slipped out of the basement, back into the night. My arm was bleeding, so I wrapped my sweatshirt around it like a bandage. Then I did something I was becoming very good at lately.

I ran.

Chapter 44

THE CELL PHONE jolted him out of bed. Dennis Stratton hadn’t been sleeping anyway. He’d been waiting up, watching the overseas news on CNBC. He jumped up in his shorts and caught the phone on the second ring. Liz was curled up, sleeping. He checked the lit-up number. Private caller.

He felt excited. The situation had been resolved.

“Do we have it?” Stratton said under his breath. He wanted to wrap up this thing now. It was making him nervous. And he didn’t like feeling nervous. Dennis Stratton was a man who liked feeling in control.

“Almost,” the caller said, hesitating. Stratton felt something change between them. “We’re going to need a little more time.”

“More time…” Stratton’s lips were dry. He wrapped his robe around him and headed out to the balcony. He looked back at Liz. He thought he heard her stir in their black-lacquer chinoiserie bed.

“There is no ‘little more time’ on this one. You said we had him. You assured me we had professionals.”

“We do,” the caller said. “It’s just that…”

“Just that what?” Stratton snapped. He stood there in his robe, staring out at the ocean, the breeze brushing back the little hairs on the side of his balding head. He was used to results. Not excuses. That’s why he paid people.

“There’s been a glitch.”