dron, bony stalks tearing at his flesh and filthy clothes, grabbing at the bag, which more than once he had to yank free. It was almost nine, he was almost late. He needed to be in position for when the boy showed up.

It had been no simple task getting here, with his car being watched and his whole body covered in filth. When he climbed out of the Dumpster, he knew he had to hurry, but he couldn’t just hail a cab. That Puerto Rican slut had probably called in his description to all the taxis in the area, hoping he’d turn up in the street with his hand raised as if volunteering for the electric chair. So instead he decided to move. Out of the area. North would send him through Center City, east was the waterfront, so he chose south, into South Philadelphia, stepping through the narrow streets with cars lined on either side. It would have been easy just to break open a window and steal one, except he didn’t know how to steal a car.

So he kept moving, ignoring the reactions to his filth-streaked clothes and the way he smelled, always moving, slipping into doorways and alleys when police cars cruised by and then moving again, ever south. He figured if he could just keep moving, he would come up with a plan. And then he spied the instrument of his salvation, under one of the spans of the highway, a sweet little angel with a baby and a Buick. As she leaned into the backseat to pull her baby from the car seat, Bobby pulled his pistol from the black bag.

He had parked the Buick behind a hedge beneath a wide sycamore about half a mile from the Truscott estate. He hadn’t killed the mother and child—some remnant of Robert had stilled his hand— and by now the police would have the model and license plate in their computer. But he needed the car to start off his journey after he took care of business here, so he had made sure it was well hidden before he walked the rest of the way to the mansion. At the black iron fence, he had thrown his bag over and then climbed after it. Now he was batting fat-fingered rhododendron leaves away from his face as he maneuvered himself into position to have a view of the mansion’s front door.

His plan was simple. He’d stay out here until the Byrne boy came and went. Bobby imagined that Byrne would have a file in his hand on the way in and a briefcase full of money on his way out. It was this briefcase that she had promised to Bobby as payment for all his services, as if he were a mere handyman who’d been patiently waiting all this time for a cash payment. Well, he’d take the payment all right, killing the boy in the process, but that wouldn’t be the end of it, that would be just the start. And irony of ironies, it would be her hush money that would finance all the rest. He’d trade in the Buick for a Maserati, he’d slip hundred-dollar tips to strippers, he’d tour the country killing Truscotts, starting with a broken-down old whore. Just the thought of it sent a shiver through his veins.

A final yank of the bag and he was through, to the wide front lawn

342 WILLIAM LASHNER

that led to the great house with its majestic pillars, the house that had been the repository of all his fondest hopes for decades now. He knew its lines and curves, the texture of its skin, knew it as intimately as a lover. Every perfect piece of stone, every lovely blemish in its mortar. He adored the house, its shape, its scent, the movement through its rooms. Maybe when this was all over, he’d come back and blow it into splinters.

The driveway itself was flanked with gardens framed by low walls of boxwood. Bobby looked left, looked right, and then, like an infantryman advancing on Omaha Beach, ran toward the garden in a zigzag pattern, bent low at the waist with the bag clutched to his chest. When he reached the closest of the gardens, he jumped over the boxwood and rolled toward the house, knocking down pink-tipped Cleome like he was a scythe.

He peeked over the evergreen hedge just in time to see the great gate at the front of the property open. A car slowly made its way up the drive, its tires grinding at the gravel, its headlights painting the stone white before the car entered the circle and the headlights suddenly veered to the left, pointing straight at his garden. He ducked down and listened. A door opening and closing, a few words from a voice he recognized. The headlights washed by him as the car turned out of the circle and back up the drive.

He raised his head again to see the tall, lanky figure of Senator Francis Truscott IV entering the house.

Bobby dropped to the ground, spun around, took a deep breath. What the hell was Francis doing here? He was supposed to be at some sort of fund-raiser. Bobby panicked for a moment at the unexpected development before he pulled himself together. This was good. This was great. This made everything easier. Of course the senator would be here at the exchange. It was his crime they were covering up, after all. And now Bobby wouldn’t have to go hunting for Francis. He’d be right here, in Bobby’s sights. Perfect.

Bobby checked his watch. It was after nine. He turned around and lifted his head over the hedge and looked down the drive. It was just a matter now of waiting, waiting like a hyena for his prey, fighting not to laugh out loud.

CHAPTER 53

I FEEL LIKE THERE ARE ANTS crawling across my chest,” said Kyle as he drove along a dark, private street.

“It’s just the tape,” said his father. “You’ll get used to it. I put it on tight so the thing won’t come loose in the middle of it all and give away the game.”

“I think they’ll figure out I’m wearing a transmitter when they see me scratching like an idiot.”

“Then don’t scratch. Show some control.”

“We should just tell the cops everything and let them deal with it.”

“That won’t do it. They’ll get away with what they’ve done, the two of them, if it’s only your words against theirs. In this world theirs count more. I should have known that the mother was involved. She might have been responsible for the killings without her son knowing. That would be quite politic of the old crone. Plausible deniability. Nixon still haunts the sordid edge of politics, I suppose. Will we never be free of that ghost?”

“What was so bad about Nixon anyway?”

“Ah, the sad ignorance of youth. But you’re a swift one, you’ll get her to admit everything, and I’ll have it right here on tape. Except don’t you dare forget, boyo, it only works if you bring out the money.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I told you, yes. That’s the key to everything. Tapes can be disputed, but the money is proof of their guilt. You bring back the money, and we’ll take it, along with the tape, to that police detective you go on about so much. That will jolt her career. She’ll be grateful, you can bet, and she’ll show it, too.”

“You sound like a pimp.”

Liam Byrne laughed. “Life is sweet, boyo, and you shouldn’t be denying yourself all of its pleasures. But reward or no, it’s a grand thing we’re doing here. Father and son, working together to right ancient wrongs. In all my days, I never thought I’d see it. I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited.”

Kyle turned and looked at his father in the glow from the dashboard. His face was ruddy and beaming. One hand was shaking with excitement, the other was clutching the file on his lap. This was a moment Kyle would always remember, father and son on a bold mission of justice, bonded at last. No matter how it ended.