Running of the bulls

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

9:38 p.m.

While Carmen was busy putting stitches into Spocatti’s arm and preparing to kill Ted Yates, Maggie Cain was preparing to talk to a dead man.

Marty handed her his cell, but kept his thumb pressed against the receiver so he couldn’t be heard. “I don’t know what’s going on here or if this person is who he says he is, but I need you to play it cool. Either he’s for real or we’re being set up. I’ve never heard his voice before. You should know immediately whether it’s him.”

She shook her head at him. “What are you talking about?”

He put a finger to his lips and lifted his thumb from the receiver. Maggie took the phone. “Hello?” she said.

“Maggie, it’s Mark.”

A chill went through her-it couldn’t be him. She looked up at Marty in denial, but in spite of the poor connection, she was almost certain it was Mark’s voice.

“I need your help.”

There was a crackling on the line, a buzz of interference. She put a hand over her free ear and tried to focus on his voice in spite of the sudden racing of her heart. She watched Marty grab a napkin and start to write on it. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Her world was drawing in on itself and then, in a flash, there was only the truth standing in front of her. She stared at it for a moment and then walked into it.

“How can this be you?” she said. “I went to your funeral. I was with your parents when your body arrived from Spain. I saw them lower your coffin into the ground and bury you.”

“But you never saw me, Maggie.”

That stopped her. He was right-she hadn’t seen him. He arrived in a body bag. Only his parents were allowed to physically see him. “But your parents saw you,” she said. “Your parents would have told me if it wasn’t you.”

Marty pushed the napkin in front of her. She looked down and read: “Get him to reveal something only the two of you would know.”

“My parents know what’s happening. They’ve known from the beginning. Wolfhagen is killing everyone who testified against him. When I was running in Pamplona, I was stabbed by an American. He was dark. Maybe of Italian or Spanish descent. Before he stabbed me, he told me that Wolfhagen wanted to thank me for ruining his life.”

Something was wrong. His voice wasn’t right. It sounded like him-but there was something off about it. Something raw. “This isn’t you. This isn’t Mark’s voice.”

“I’ve had several operations, one on my larynx. I’m still healing, Maggie. I’m in rough shape.”

“Answer a question for me.”

“Anything.”

“What’s my cat’s name?”

“Baby Jane.”

Anyone could know that. The real test was if he answered her next question correctly. If he did, there would be no doubt in her mind that this was Mark because it was their private joke. “But what do you call her?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Blanche,” he said. “She’s always been Blanche to me.”

She put a hand to her mouth.

“She’s never been as tough as you think she is. She’s a wimp. She’s always been a wimp. You got it wrong. You should have named her Blanche.”

How many times had he said just that to her? She looked up at Marty and nodded. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s him.”

“Find out where he is.”

Her whole body started to shake. “Where are you?”

“I was in a Spanish hospital for a week before I was able to reach the FBI and tell them what happened. I’ve been under their protection since. Their doctors have been treating me for the past several weeks.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be alright. But right now I’m shit-I’m filled with steel rods. I’ve got new knees. They had to rebuild my nose. I’ve got a long road ahead of me, Maggie.”

She was fighting back tears. “When can I see you.”

“Tonight,” he said. “But only briefly. The FBI knows you’re working with Marty Spellman on this. They want you both to come in and talk, tell them what you know. Can you do that? I need you to do that.”

She told Marty, who nodded.

“Where are you?”

He gave her directions, but the directions didn’t make sense.

“Why are you there?” she asked. “Why aren’t you in a hospital?”

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “I’m supposed to be dead. If they put me in a hospital, the media would be all over it and my cover would be blown. The FBI has safe houses all over New York. I was put in one of them. It’s critical that I appear dead. It’s critical that no one sees me until this is over.”

It made sense.

“When can you be here?”

She asked Marty.

“An hour,” he said.

She looked confused. They were only twenty minutes away. She was about to speak when he held up a hand. “An hour,” he said firmly.

“We’ll be there in an hour.”

“Why so long?”

Marty moved a hand across his throat, signaling that he wanted her to cut the conversation short. But Maggie didn’t want to. She wanted to keep talking to him, but she’d made a deal this evening to trust Marty and to do as he said, and so she did.

“Peter Schwartz was murdered,” she said. “We found him in his living room and now we need to make sure we have a safe exit before we leave. Give us an hour. We’ll do our best to be there by then.”

“I love you,” he said.

Her throat closed at the sound of those words. Never did she think she’d hear them from him again. Never did she think she’d talk to him again. It was wonderful and it was surreal. She’d been fighting all this time to find answers, to somehow bring down Wolfhagen for what he’d done. The fact that he hadn’t succeeded in killing Mark filled her with an elation that was impossible to describe. “I love you, too. You don’t know what it’s been like. You don’t know how hard it’s been.”

“It’s almost over,” he said.

“I need to believe that.”

“It ends tonight.”

“Can you promise me that?”

“Whatever information you and Spellman have culled is important. The feds are ready to act, but they need to know what you know. You need to tell them everything. And then you need to stay here with me and be safe. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Before she could reply, the line went dead. She held the phone in her hand for a moment and then clicked it shut. She looked up at Marty, who was staring at her intently. “He’s alive,” she said.

“You’re certain that was him?”

“Only one person would know what he called my cat and that’s me. It was our thing. It was our joke.”

“Calling her Blanche was nothing he said in front of your friends?”

“No.” She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t know. How could I know that?”

“You couldn’t,” he said. “That’s the point.”

“Why are we waiting an hour? Why not go now?”

“Because I have to call people. I need to cover our asses. We don’t know if that was him. We’re not going alone.”

He looked across the room, where Roberta was cleaning glasses at the bar. She was looking straight at him. Concern was a mask that covered her face. She took each glass, gave it a thorough wipe and clinked it above her on the rack. She was standing there but she wasn’t there. She was reading him. He knew that face, knew when she slipped away. Wipe, wipe. Clink, clink. Her eyes boring into his. He motioned her over. She stopped beside the table.

“I’m going to say a name to you,” he said.

“Is this the name of the person she was just on the phone with?”

“It is.”

“Then give me the phone.”

He gave it to Roberta, who turned it over in her hands and then lifted it to her breast.

“What’s the name?” she asked.

“Mark Andrews.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them, defeat had settled in. “You’re going to ask me what I saw, Marty, but it’s the same thing. Nothing’s changed. It’s the same thing I saw when you were here last. It’s the same thing I saw when I touched her hand earlier. It’s so overwhelming, I can’t tell you a thing about Mark Andrews. All I see is your death. Over and over, that’s what I see. I’m too close to you to see anything else. I wait on customers and watch you disappear. I clean glasses and see you vanish. While you’ve been sitting in this booth, I’ve watched your spirit leave you. I’ve watched someone murder you.”

She turned to Maggie. “It’s her.”