Her tone was somber. Ominous. Both of us thinking of Ranger.
Mo went down to his knees, his face chalk white, his hand holding his side where a dark stain had begun to spread on his gray coat. A drop of blood hit dry leaves.
“He must have caught one in the house,” Lula said.
I tried to hoist Mo back to his feet. “You can make it,” I said. “It’s not that much farther.”
Sirens sounded on the road, and I saw the red flash of police light bars flicker through the trees to my left.
Mo made an effort to stand and collapsed altogether, facedown on the forest floor.
“Run to the road and get help,” I told Lula. “I’ll stay here.”
“You got a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“It loaded?”
“Yes. Go!”
She hesitated. “I don’t like leaving you.”
“Go!”
She swiped at her eyes. “Shit. I’m scared.”
She turned and ran. Looked back once and disappeared from view.
I dragged Mo behind a tree, putting the tree trunk between us and the house. I drew my gun and hunkered down.
I really needed to find another job.
It was dark when Lula dropped me off in my parking lot.
“Good thing Morelli and a bunch of cops were following that Freedom Church van,” Lula said. “We would have been toast.”
“The cops were following the Freedom van. Morelli was following me.”
“Lucky you,” Lula said.
Mickey’s hands were pointing to seven o’clock, but it felt much later. I was tired to the bone, and I had the beginnings of a headache. I shuffled to the elevator and leaned on the button. Thank goodness for elevators, I thought. I’d sleep in the lobby before I’d be able to muster the energy to walk up the stairs.
Lula, Ranger and I had answered questions at police headquarters for what seemed like hours.
Dickie had popped in while I was talking to yet another detective and offered to represent me. I told him I wasn’t being charged with anything, but thanks anyway. He seemed disappointed. Probably was hoping he could plea-bargain me into the license plate factory. Keep me away from Mallory. Or maybe he was hoping I’d done something heinous. I could see the headlines: EX-WIFE OF PROMINENT TRENTON ATTORNEY COMMITS HEINOUS CRIME. ATTORNEY SAYS HE ISN’T SURPRISED.
Just before I left the station word came down that Mo was out of surgery and looked pretty good. There’d been a lot of blood lost, but the bullet had entered and exited clean, missing all vital organs. The news had brought a sense of relief and closure. I’d been psyched to that point, hyped on adrenaline. When I finally signed my name to the printed statement of the day’s events and realized Mo would make it, the last dregs of energy dribbled out of me.
Rex and I checked out the feast on the coffee table. Rex from his cage. Me from the couch. Bucket of extra- spicy fried chicken, tray of biscuits, container of cole slaw, baked beans. Plus half a chocolate cake, left over from Saturday dinner with my parents.
The Rangers were playing Boston at the Garden, which meant I was wearing my home team white jersey. It was the end of the first period and the Rangers were ahead by a goal.
“This is the life,” I said to Rex. “Doesn’t get much better than this.”
I reached for a piece of chicken and was startled by a knock on my door.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Rex. “It’s probably just Mrs. Bestler.”
But I knew it wasn’t Mrs. Bestler. Mrs. Bestler never knocked on my door this late at night. No one knocked on my door this late at night. No one who wasn’t trouble. It had been a couple weeks since the two masked men had pushed their way into my apartment, but the experience had left me cautious. I’d enrolled in a self-defense class and was careful not to get so tired that my guard was down. Not that the men in the masks were still threatening.
Reverend Bill and the death squad were living rent free, courtesy of the federal government. And that didn’t include Mickey Maglio. There’d been cops involved, but he hadn’t been one of them. The man who’d burned me had been Reverend Bill’s brother-in-law, imported from Jersey City. At least I’d been right about the accent.
Undoubtedly there were some closet vigilantes still at large, but they were keeping a low profile. Some of the wind had gone out of the movement’s sails when Mo’s secret life was made public information. And whatever vigilante momentum had been left had died a natural death without Reverend Bill acting as catalyst.
I quietly walked to the door and looked out through my peephole. Joe Morelli looked back at me. I should have guessed.
I opened the door to him. “You must have smelled the chicken.”
Morelli grinned and rocked back on his heels. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Yeah, right. I got him a beer from the fridge. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
