The Ringer turned to leave. Then Michael spoke.
“I meant to ask you,” DiForio said, the faintest glimmer of a smile on his lips. “How’s your wife?”
Blanket gasped. A hush fell over the room.
The Ringer stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly the killer’s head dipped into shadow. When he turned around, even in the darkly lit hallway, Blanket could see that his eyes were burning fire, hatred he never knew a mortal man was capable of.
Swiftly the Ringer stepped back into the meeting room. He whipped a pistol from his coat and pressed it to the base of Charlie’s neck. He took a moment to look at DiForio, then squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet into Charlie’s skull. The blast thundered around the small room as hands leapt to cover shattered eardrums. Charlie’s eyes flickered, his brain and skull sprayed against the wall like a bloody Rorschach.
“Charlie!” Blanket yelled as his friend’s lifeless body slumped to the floor. He looked at the Ringer with murder in his eyes. The man returned the glare, icy cold, and Blanket looked away. The Ringer turned his gaze to DiForio, the smoking pistol tracing a straight line to the powerful man’s heart.
“This entire room can die before you open your mouth again,” the Ringer said. “Now if you open your mouth and I don’t like what I hear, not only will this package disappear but I’ll hang the head of every miserable scum in this room from the tallest building in the city, and I’ll watch the sun roast your ugly faces every single day until all that’s left are your rotted, hollow skulls.”
DiForio barely seemed to notice either this or the dead man slumped against the wall. Instead he smiled and tented his hands in front of him.
“One million it is,” Michael said. “For that I want my package and Henry Parker. The package I want delivered without a scratch. Parker…his condition is entirely up to you.”
The Ringer nodded slowly and stepped outside.
14
The Ringer slipped into his black Ford and closed the door. He could feel the warm sun on his face. He sank deep into the leather seat, closed his eyes and began the process.
His hand moved absently to his chest, stopping at the slim bulge in his shirt pocket. His fingers felt what lay beneath, pressed on it gently, making sure not to leave a mark or a dent. After so many years the photo was worn, faded around the edges, but the colors were still strong and vibrant. Just like his memory of Anne. The only woman he’d ever love in this lifetime.
In his mind’s eye he could see her face, her stunning blue eyes. He could almost touch her, feeling the silky strands of her hair as she gazed at him with a happiness he never knew existed. Anne had accepted the life he’d chosen. A selfish life, but one he would have abandoned in a heartbeat if he knew its consequences.
Breathing in, he could smell a hint of her favorite perfume, the acrid scent of sweat as they made love. Her soft moans and touches on his back, fingers tickling his senses, knowing just how to make him shiver. She was his first and his last. His only.
Anne.
Then agony ripped across his face as he saw blood splashed over his hands. Her eyes contorted into shock and then glazed over as she fell, dead, into his arms. His wails shook the walls as flames began to lick the ceiling. Cries that God himself must have heard. Cries that made the devil smile.
He saw his wife’s killer in the darkness, the knitted hood obscuring his features. Hands pale, skin soft. A young man. Only his eyes and mouth were visible. Eyes the Ringer would never forget.
His retribution was almost complete. There was only one man left.
The Ringer opened his eyes and picked up the newspaper. He looked at the photo of Henry Parker. Just twenty-four. Already a killer. Just like him.
In his mind’s eye the images slowly merged and became one, Henry’s face transposed as Anne’s killer. When he was finished, the shrouded face of the man who’d killed his wife was replaced by Henry Parker.
And now Parker was responsible for Anne’s death. A death waiting to be avenged. Hatred for this young man boiled up inside the Ringer. The tendons in his fingers tensed as he gripped the steering wheel, blood pounding in his temples.
The Ringer started the car and pulled onto Seventh Avenue, away from the old church where he’d been summoned, whose recesses currently housed some of the most remorseless men ever to walk the earth.
He cracked the window, let the breeze in.
Removing a cell phone from his pocket, the Ringer dialed the first number on his list. He had lots of calls to make.
He had a killer to find.
15
I rode the subway like a man about to go in for surgery: eyes wide open, fear coursing through my veins, waiting for someone to burst through the door bringing pain and suffering. Palms flat on my seat, I was ready to shove off and run at the first sign of a uniform. Paranoia was a trait I hadn’t been exposed to often-aside from an ill-advised pot binge my sophomore year-and it seemed to enjoy taking over my body. My leg stung like hell, but the blood flow seemed to have stopped.
After a grueling sixteen-minute ride, I got off at the Union Square station and walked outside. The slight May breeze swirled around me. Demonstrators were chanting on bullhorns and holding well-made picket signs and L.L. Bean knapsacks, protesting corporate greed in style.
Ordinarily I’d stop and watch for a few minutes, but I was more concerned with the other people watching them. The cops. Standing by, hands on their hips, observing the docile demonstration. Making sure the crowd of neo-hippies didn’t start tossing hemp bricks at the Virgin megastore.
Keeping my eyes fixed on a small contingent of officers by a coffee shop, I edged along the low brick wall surrounding Union Square Park, walked south and headed down Third Avenue.
Ironic, I thought. After living in New York for a month I’d finally started to feel like I belonged. I’d come here hoping to be embraced, but now I was being expelled like a diseased organ. Chasing a story, doing my job, led me into this nightmare.
The decision was obvious. I had to leave the city. I had to find out why that cop nearly killed me. My options were dwindling. I still had the reporter’s notebook in my backpack, an unfriendly reminder of why I went to the Guzmans’ apartment in the first place.
The cops had gotten to Mya, and I was no longer safe uptown. Was she cooperating with the authorities? No matter what happened, when this was over, Mya would no longer be part of my life. That was for certain. Three years disappearing as though they’d never happened. A road of memories that led straight off a cliff.
It was too much to process. I had to look at it objectively. What I needed to do, and how to do it.
I picked up a pay phone on East 12th Street and dialed the operator. Two rings and an automated voice answered.
“What city and state?”
“New York, New York. Manhattan.”
“One moment while I connect you to an operator.”
The phone rang, and I heard the typing of keys and a cheery male voice.
“Directory assistance, this is Lucas, how may I assist you?”
“I’d like the main directory listing for New York University.”
“Thank you, sir, one moment.”
The seconds ticked by, each moment agonizing. Then Lucas came back on. “Sir, I have two listings. One is an automated directory, and the other is for the campus switchboard.”
“Is the switchboard manned by an actual human being?”
