story so he could torture the both of us with it, but I knew he was telling the truth even before the words were fully out of his mouth. And now, finally, I understood why he had gone to such elaborate means.
“Kill me,” I said, spreading my arms out. “Just leave her alone. Don’t repeat my mistake.”
Brightman aimed my. 38 as his mouth formed the word no, but I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t hear anything above the thwap thwap thwap of the helicopter blades. The downwash kicked up a storm of dirt and rocks. An intense and blinding spotlight encircled us. I shielded my eyes. There was the bark of gunfire. I spun. Barto’s head rocked back. Crimson spray danced in the light. A flash. Several flashes. Something bit hard into my ankle and burned its way into the bone. I went down. More shots. I pushed my face out of the dirt. Brightman was no longer standing. He was on his back, arms thrown out, one leg bent completely beneath him. I crawled over to Katy.
The pain in her eyes was gone, with it had gone the light. I pulled the tape off her mouth and put my lips to hers. They were still warm, but the pressure of my weight on her body forced blood out of her mouth and onto my lips. I smeared her blood across my face. I hoped my tears would never wash it away. I was wrong about my destiny. It didn’t lay in front, but behind me.
There was a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Agent Markowitz standing at my back, a mournful, pleading look on his face. He was speaking but it was all just twisted lips and a jumble of noise. He pointed at my wrecked ankle, the blood gushing out of it, mixing with the dirt, mixing with the blood of the dead. Markowitz pulled off his shirt and pressed it hard against my leg, his mouth moving the whole time. I was starting to catch words now, a few at a time. He was shouting the same thing at me over and over again. Finally, I understood.
“How do you feel?”
I didn’t answer. Brightman’s words were so loud in my head, I didn’t think I would ever hear anything else again. How does it feel? How did I feel? How would I feel?
Empty.
Empty ever after.
EPILOGUE
Sarah received the videotape about a week after we buried Katy. The tape was from Brightman, mailed by proxy-maybe his lawyer, but probably Connie Geary-shortly after his death. On the tape, he confessed to the murders of Carl Stipe, the little boy from his home town, Moira Heaton, and Patrick Farner, the other Patrick Michael Maloney impersonator. Ralph Barto, he said, had murdered John James, Fallon, Martello, and Mary White. He explained to my daughter why he had murdered her mother. It was, he said, my fault for having slowly killed his ex-wife. He took great pains to discuss the details of my involvement.
When Sarah came to me, there was little I could refute. I hadn’t left things well enough alone all those years ago. I had indeed rejected the offer of the gold shield I had so desperately wanted in order to dig and dig and dig until I found the truth out about Steven Brightman. When I found the truth, I set Brightman up to confess in front of his wife. I had wanted to punish him by using her. And in the end, I shared the truth with almost no one who was directly involved. Carl Stipe’s mother and Moira Heaton’s father went to their graves without knowing what had actually happened to their children.
Sarah hasn’t spoken to me in nearly a year. She took a leave of absence from the University of Michigan and moved into Francis Maloney’s old house on Hanover Street in Janus. To think that I lost Sarah to him not because of anything he did, but because of my own blindness is irony beyond even my ability to comprehend. Sometimes on rainy nights when I can’t sleep, I imagine I can hear him laughing at me. On those nights I pour myself a Dewar’s, look out my window at the black waters of Sheepshead Bay, and raise my glass to him. “Yes, Francis,” I say, “I do believe in ghosts.”
Pete Vandervoort keeps me updated about Sarah. She’s still dating Robby, the deputy sheriff. Pete tells me they’re pretty happy together and that Robby’s a good cop. I’ve got nothing against the kid, but I hope like hell he finds another job or Sarah finds another man. Mostly I hope that Sarah can someday forgive me and try to understand that I meant for none of this to happen and that if I could bargain with God, if there was a god to bargain with, I would gladly sacrifice myself to take back even the least of the damage. But as Brightman remarked that night, “What do intentions ever have to do with anything, especially in the face of murder?”
Brightman gave a lot of other information on the tape, stuff only of interest to me and Feeney and the Ohio and Kentucky cops. He explained how he and Barto had picked Martello as the fall guy- He hated your father maybe more than I did and he tended to act out — how they arranged for fake credit cards in Martello’s name- Ralph Barto was well acquainted with a Nigerian gang that specialized in identity theft — how they induced Mr. Fallon to do the grave desecrations- Money, and the phony deed to a nonexistent house on Galway Bay — how they got Mary White to conspire- We falsified some New York City Department of Public Health forms indicating that Patrick Maloney had been the one to infect her brother with HIV. Of course, Patrick had died years before anyone had ever heard of HIV or AIDS, but our money helped cloud Mary’s memory.
Steven Brightman didn’t deem either John James or Patrick Farner worthy of explanation. Why would he? Chess players don’t bother explaining the sacrifice of their pawns. There was also one other glaring omission in his taped confession. He hadn’t discussed how he managed to finance his revenge. I chose not to discuss it either, at least not on the record.
In October, I was thumbing through the Daily News when I saw the obituary for Thomas Geary. He had been buried in a private family ceremony days before the story was released to the press. I waited out the week before driving to Crocus Valley. When Connie saw my face on the security monitor, she said nothing, buzzing me through the front gate even before I pressed the intercom. Riding up to the house, I passed some teenagers tossing a football around on the lawn. I watched for a little while. It was easy to pick out Connie’s son, Craig Jr. He had the Geary genes. He was tall and handsome and had perfect form when throwing the football.
“Hello, Moe,” she said, relief in her voice and resignation on her face. “I’ve been expecting you for months.”
“I know you have.”
“You’re limping.”
“I’ll be limping for a long time,” I said. “The cast just recently came off.”
“Well, you better come in.”
We did what we did. Connie played and I drank scotch. No show tunes today. I didn’t question her, but just let her speak when she was ready.
“The first time I slept with Steven, I was sixteen years old. It was magical. He was nothing like the boys I’d been with at camp or at school. He took his time with me, treated me like a woman, always pleasing me first. Of course he would treat me that way. He was a man, not a boy. He taught me how to enjoy my own body. Even now, knowing all that I know about what a horrible man he was, I’m wet thinking about him. I disgust you, Moe, don’t I?”
“This is your story to tell, Connie,” I said, pouring myself more scotch.
“Of course I think my father knew almost immediately. Sixteen-year-old girls think they are very good at keeping secrets, but they’re almost transparent. You would know that. You have a girl.”
I knew more about secrets than sixteen-year-old girls. Having a child doesn’t make you an expert on children; it doesn’t even make you an expert on your own child. I didn’t say a word. Connie took that as a cue to continue.
“My father gave his tacit, if not spoken, approval to our relationship. It was a useful tool that helped him control us both. Controlling people, that was very important to my dad.”
“I know.”
“Yes, you would know. My father’s approval came to an end when he saw that Steven had an unlimited future as a politician. He made us break it off, but not by confronting me. He went to Steven.”
“I bet your dad didn’t have to threaten Brightman, did he?”
“I don’t actually know, but my father could be incredibly persuasive without ever having to resort to direct threat.”
