closed.
“We need to get you ready, son,” said the older guard. “Just go on and make it easier on yourself, you need to lie down on the table.”
Charlie looked through the curtain, his lower lip quivering, his jaw line popping. “I don’t want people to watch me die. It’s not right.”
“State law,” said the warden. “The department has nothing to with it. There has to be witnesses in case somebody tried to say we did something wrong.”
“You’re doing something worse; you’re killin’ the wrong man!”
The warden motioned with his head, three guards surrounded Charlie Williams and led him to the gurney.”
Charlie said, “I can’t just hop up there like I’m crawlin’ in bed to be killed.”
The warden said, “Put him up and strap him down.”
“Noooooo!” Charlie screamed as urine trickled from his full bladder, a wet spot growing on his pants in the shape of a leaf. “Don’t let them see me pissin’ in my pants! Please! God, don’t let them! Don’t open that curtain! I didn’t kill Alex!”
“Hold on, son,” said the older guard in a soft voice.
When they finished the last leg strap, they readied the first chemicals, the needles, and then opened the curtain. Charlie Williams turned his head and looked at the glass. He thought he saw the head movements of people sitting, like seeing a school of fish beneath the water in his grandfather’s pond. He saw his reflection in the glass. He didn’t recognize his own frightened face. And he couldn’t hold back the tears.
NINETY-SIX
O’Brien began digging, holding the small flashlight in his mouth as he dug. Quick movements of the shovel in the wet earth. The wind whipped through the trees, the rustling sounds of leaves and of gnarled oak branches slapping each other, the creak and groans of wood against wood in the night.
Then there was the sound of metal hitting plastic.
O’Brien dug with his hands, furious, wet dirt flying. He brushed the dirt off the top and sides, carefully lifting the Tupperware box out of the hole.
He sat it down at the foot of the statue and opened the lid. O’Brien lifted the plastic bag. It held an eight-inch kitchen knife and, in one corner, the bag still contained the ruddy creosote deposit of blood.
Thunder rumbled. There was the feel of cold steel on his neck under his left ear.
“Stand up!”
O’Brien stood and in a flash of lightning saw pure evil, the face of Christian Manerou. The eyes bore through the night like heat lightning behind pockets in a cloud. He wore a dark raincoat, the hood over his head, the pistol aimed directly at O’Brien’s heart.
“They know you’re here, Manerou. The smart thing to do would be to give up, cop an insanity plea, and live the rest of your sick life in a padded room on Thorzien.”
“Is that the ‘smart’ thing to do, O’Brien? You’re nothing but a burnt-out homicide detective, a puny little man who couldn’t solve Alexandria’s death eleven years ago and nothing has changed. I’ll destroy the evidence in your hand, bury you in this cemetery, and it’ll be the end of a weak man’s life. A cop who couldn’t cut it against an esteemed federal agent. You picked an interesting place do die, in front of an angel.”
O’Brien’s mind flashed back to his dream-he’d touched the Bosch painting, the paint wet and sticky on the tips of his fingers. “Why did you kill Alexandria?”
“Why? I would not expect you to understand. She was extraordinary, the epitome of what a woman should be-a goddess, the embodiment of the most exquisite in the form of flesh.”
“Then why kill her?”
“Because she fought me! She dissented. Alexandria did not understand how we were destined to become one. And if I couldn’t have her…then no one would.”
“Is that why you kept her flying high on heroin?”
“So you discovered that, O’Brien? Regardless, people called her a supermodel, but inside she was an artist, Alexandria loved to work with her hands and heart…the heroin helped her self-actualize.”
“The heroin was your only way of controlling a woman who was far beyond your capabilities-”
“Shut up! You know nothing, O’Brien.”
“Now I know that Jonathan Russo was the ultimate pimp.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You cut a deal with him, didn’t you? In working the Russo coke investigation, you became infatuated with Alexandria Cole. You found the kilos of heroin along with the cocaine and decided to cut Russo a little deal. When Todd Jefferies and his DEA agents weren’t paying close attention, you stole the heroin. This ensured Russo’s charges would be cut to almost nothing, meaning his jail time would be very little. And all you wanted in return was to take Alexandria’s body and own her soul. You wanted a trophy and Russo was willing to hand the ultimate one over to you for a steep price-he bartered her off to you in exchange for the deal. And you kept some heroin to use on people like Alexandria, and then you managed to sell the rest. That’s how you paid cash to Sam Spelling after he blackmailed you. And you knew the cash couldn’t be traced-”
“Shut up!” Manerou raised the pistol toward O’Brien’s head.
“You knew it would be easy to frame Charlie Williams in the death of his former girlfriend. All you had to do was watch, wait and strike. And you knew if you could put enough degrees of separation between you and Alexandria, you might never be caught. That’s why you pointed me toward Oz and your pimp, Jonathan Russo. You believed either I’d kill Russo, silencing him, or he’d kill me, stopping the reopened investigation into Alexandria’s murder. And all of this started when Sam Spelling started thinking about how he’d make money after he was released. He contacted you. Your plan almost worked, Christian. You almost killed him on the courthouse steps. If you’d succeeded, your dark secret would have been buried with Spelling, and Charlie Williams would be executed for your original crime.”
Manerou grinned and said, “Impressive, O’Brien. But none of that detective work matters now because I have the gun pointed at you. I’m in control and you’re standing there helpless while they prep Charlie Williams for the needle. It’s been nice knowing you, Detective.”
O’Brien glanced at his watch. 5:51 a.m. Nine minutes left.
Manerou mocked a grin, his face shining and wet from blowing rain, villainous eyes inflamed with hate. He said, “Too late for Charlie Williams! Like it’s too late for that dumb guard and his wife! Then there was greedy Sam Spelling. He accepted death without much more than a hiccup. Then there was the priest. You, O’Brien! You made me kill these people. It was your meddling after all these years. Now it’s your turn to die. I’ll make it quick and painless for you.”
Manerou pointed the gun at O’Brien’s forehead as headlights swept over the statue and tree line. Manerou looked away for an instant. It was enough time for O’Brien to grab Manerou’s gun hand and slam it against the statue. The pistol dropped and Manerou pulled a knife from his belt. He lunged at O’Brien, the tip of the blade cutting his shoulder. O’Brien hit Manerou solid in the mouth. The blow knocked him to the ground. He got up and moved the knife to his right hand.
“Do you really think you can defeat me?” He jabbed at O’Brien, the knife coming inches from his stomach. O’Brien dropped quickly. He picked up two fistfuls of wet dirt and threw it into Manerou’s wild, mocking eyes. “Throw dirt little man!”
O’Brien grabbed Manerou’s wrist and held the knife hand, pushing Manerou to the statue. O’Brien head butted him, causing Manerou’s head to crash against the statue.
O’Brien maneuvered the knife closer to Manerou’s neck. The arms of both men shook as they pushed, muscle and bone, the rain pelting their faces. O’Brien turned the tip of the blade toward Manerou’s throat.
“Sean! Don’t! Don’t kill him! Let the state do it!” Detective Dan Grant screamed. Grant and two deputies pointed guns and flashlights at Manerou’s face. Grant pushed a pistol barrel inches from Manerou’s forehead and said, “Drop the knife!”
