Kyle shook his head for a bit, listened some more to make sure the line was actually dead, and then tossed the handset back to Bubba Jr.

“Who was that?” said Bubba Jr.

“That,” said Kyle, with a smile both broad and dangerous, “was a cold-blooded killer. And I am next on her list.”

CHAPTER 48

EVEN WITH HIS BLACK BAG on the passenger seat beside him, Bobby Spangler felt under-armed.

Parked in the alley he’d found that faced Bubba’s almost head-on, he had the uncontrollable urge to ram his car straight through the bar’s front door. And he was ready to do it, too, because just then he had that potent combination of aggrieved self-righteousness and sexual frustration that was detonating murderous explosions all over the globe. If only he had a swill of fertilizer and nitromethane in his trunk, or a huge sack of hand grenades. If only he had something devastatingly powerful that would crater that bar and obliterate everyone inside, including Kyle Byrne, who had dismissed his help, and Senator Francis Truscott IV, who had been the bane of Robert’s existence for pretty much his entire life.

He wondered what they were talking about in there, Kyle and Francis. Of course there was the file to discuss. Kyle had found it, that clever boy, and Francis wanted it, and an agreement would be made, because that was the way Francis worked: give them everything they wanted so long as Francis got more. It was what the O’Malley file was all about in the first place: take a girl against her will and buy off the rape charge, the whole time maintaining the loving support of the mother who provided him everything.

But they were taking too long a time. This had gone beyond “How much do you want?” and “We have a deal.” Maybe they were laughing together, telling jokes. Maybe they were laughing about him.

He wanted a bomb, he needed a bomb. Bobby slapped the steering wheel in frustration. One bomb and he’d destroy the Truscotts’ fondest hopes once and for all, obliterate Kyle Byrne, and end his own torment at the same time. A bundle of dynamite, tied tight like a fasces, or an empty fifth of vodka filled with nitroglycerin, or a half ton of Semtex sculpted into a ten-foot phallus. He closed his eyes and imagined the sensation of the car engine coming to life, revving higher and higher until he punched it into gear and plunged it into the bar’s cheap doorway, shattering brick and wood as he rammed through. And then being lifted by the fire and force, by the sheer power of his unleashed anger, rising ecstatically through the flame and blood as his will consumed everything about him until he felt himself all-powerful, all-knowing, the creator.

But he had no bomb, no grand instrument of destruction. He wondered what would happen if he set his car on fire and then, with flames shooting out the rear, barreled into the heart of that bar. Would they all be exploded into the sky, or would only he flame out, screaming horribly as he burned, while they laughed at him once again? No, he couldn’t allow that. He had to stick with his plan.

The door of the bar opened, and he spied once more the chief antagonist of his life, Francis Truscott IV. Francis was dressed down, jeans and leather and a silly ball cap, but it was still the same old prig who looked around guiltily and then made his way down the street. Bobby fought the urge to pick up the shotgun right then and there. Francis had gotten everything from her, while Robert had gotten nothing. Francis had been groomed for greatness by her, while Robert had been forced lower and lower until there was nothing left of him but the lowing beast inside. And what was the difference between the two in her eyes? Simple. Francis was half a Truscott, while Robert was all Spangler. But she underestimated her birth family. She thought she could outrun it and create something new, but there was no running from blood. He would prove that soon enough. First, though, there was business.

“He just left,” said Bobby into his cell.

“Thank you, dear. I might need you tonight.”

“I’m busy.”

“Not too busy for this.”

“What kind of job is it this time?”

“Your specialty, you naughty boy. If things in that bar went as

I expected, and go as I expect, young Byrne will be coming to the house tonight at nine. I want him to come but not leave, do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“You don’t sound enthused.”

“I’m tired of taking your orders.”

“It’s not an order, it’s an offer. Anything he has on him is yours.

And there will be plenty, trust me. One more job, Bobby, and then it’s over and my promises will finally be fulfilled.”

“Liar.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Yes, we will see, thought Bobby as he hung up his phone. They’d both see when he showed up at nine with the file and a gun and had his sweet way with her. And then, when it was all over, he’d give that young thing from the police department a call. She seemed interested enough in a Spangler. Maybe all along his problem was shooting too high. She was just low enough to be in his range. He’d wow her with his charm like he wowed her before. She wouldn’t know what hit her as he took her from behind. Yee-haw. But now it was just a matter of waiting until Kyle Byrne slipped out from the bar like the insect he was and then, shotgun at the ready, following the son of a bitch to his death.

The door opened, and there he was, Kyle Byrne, in a suit, with some fat little tattooed spark plug by his side. Bobby turned on the car engine and prepared to follow when something stopped him.

Who was that approaching Byrne? With that walk. It was her, the pretty detective, that Ramirez. She was grabbing Kyle Byrne’s arm, hard, like she knew him. She was grabbing his arm, like she knew him, like they were great friends, and she was looking around, and she was pulling him back into the bar.

What the hell? What was her connection with Byrne? Bobby thought it through, quickly, let the possibilities fall like dominoes one after the other in his consciousness. Maybe she was in on it all. Maybe they were a team. Maybe they were lovers. That two-timing bitch. Or wait. Something else, something far more disturbing.

Maybe he hadn’t played the scene in his apartment as well as he had thought. Maybe her suspicions hadn’t been quelled but instead ratcheted higher. Maybe her romantic interest was feigned. Maybe she had followed Bobby to the bar. Maybe she herself was waiting to see who came out. Which meant she saw Truscott. And then saw Byrne. And now was escorting that Kyle Byrne to safety. As if something were about to happen on the street. Which meant she wasn’t alone. Which meant—

He didn’t wait to figure out the rest. He grabbed the black bag, leaped out of the car, ran as fast as he could down the alley and away from the bar. He tripped as he heard the police cars slam to a halt in front of the alley, rose back to his feet amid shouts from behind him and sirens in the distance.

He cut through one alleyway and another, stopped, searched for refuge like a hunted animal, spied a Dumpster out behind a restaurant. He dashed to it, threw the bag in, pulled himself up and over, buried himself in a week’s worth of garbage—pizza boxes, newspapers, rotted vegetables, maggoty knuckles of meat, excrement leaking from those little blue doggie bags—buried himself until he was completely covered.