William Meyer, I thought as I went up my elevator to my apartment. The way this guy had been taking people out, he seemed more like Michael Myers, the psycho from the movie Halloween.
There were still so many unanswered questions. Had Thomas Gladstone and William Meyer been old service buddies? I would have asked one of Gladstone’s friends or relatives, but they were all dead. Shot by Meyer, if our newest theory was right. Had Gladstone pissed Meyer off or something? And what about the fact that Meyer had been ID’d as Gladstone? They even looked the same?
The scent of apples permeated the foyer outside my apartment. On the antique mail table we shared with our neighbors, a silver bowl was brimming with apples, gourds, and cute baby pumpkins. A gold-and-crimson-colored dried-leaf wreath hung on their door.
While I’d been out chasing a psychopath and staring at charred bodies, Camille Underhill, the Martha Stewart clone next door, had done up our alcove in autumnal splendor. I’d have to remember to thank her when this was all over.
Then I glimpsed my own reflection in the mirror above the table, and it stopped me cold. I was as pale as death. I had garment bags under my eyes and a thumb-sized smudge of tenement-fire soot on my chin. Worse, my face was creased by a scowl that was taking on a permanency.
It was time to start getting serious about finding a different line of work, I decided. The sooner, the better.
Inside my apartment, I started down the hall toward Jane’s room, but then spotted flickering blue TV light coming from the living room. It was late for the kids to be up, but maybe Mary Catherine had stuck the others in front of the tube so she could take care of Jane. I didn’t hear any coughing or retching sounds. Was the epidemic over?
When I first stepped into the darkened living room, my guess seemed right. On the TV screen, Harry and Ron were running down a corridor of Hogwarts, and kids were sitting all over the sectional and various beanbag chairs.
Then I realized that all ten kids were there, including deathly sick Jane. Stranger yet, both Mary Catherine and Seamus were with them, staring at me urgently.
“Why the heck is everybody up this late?” I said. “Did J.K. Rowling come out with another book or something? Come on, gang, it’s time to hit the sack.”
“No, it’s time to unholster your gun and kick it over to me,” said a voice behind me. The living room light flicked on.
That’s when I spotted the lamp cord that bound Seamus and Mary Catherine to the dining room chairs they were sitting on.
What!? No, not here! Oh, my God. Son of a bitch!
“I’ll say it once more. Your gun, unholster it and kick it over here,” the voice said. “I suggest you be very careful. You know exactly how well I shoot.”
I turned around to finally come face-to-face with my nightmare.
The witnesses had done a good job, I thought. Tall, athletic, with a handsome, boyish face. His hair was blond, but obviously dyed. And he did look like Thomas Gladstone. I could see why the stewardess had ID’d him. This guy looked like an older, slimmer version of the deceased pilot.
Was he Gladstone? Or Meyer? Could the dental records on the body in the tenement be wrong?
I also couldn’t help noticing how his finger was very tight on the trigger of the machine pistol he pointed steadily at my heart.
Keeping my hands visible, I drew my Glock from my belt holster, set it on the hardwood floor, and booted it over to him. He picked it up and shoved it inside his belt, revealing the butt of yet another gun. Talk about armed to the teeth. Christ, this guy was scary.
“Time for a little man talk in here, Mike,” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen with his chin. “Me and you got a lot of catching up to do.”
Chapter 84
“Now, don’t do anything silly, kiddies. Just sit still,” the gunman said to my family in a peppy, condescending tone. “I’ll be listening, and if I hear something I don’t like, you’ll make me put a bullet in your daddy’s head. That’ll ruin his whole day.”
I could see the kids cringe, and little Shawna, sitting in Juliana’s lap, was crying while Juliana tried to comfort her. Christ, that was just the kind of thing they needed to hear after losing their mother less than a year ago. I’d gladly have killed the son of a bitch for it – just for being in my house.
With a gun at my back, I walked into the kitchen and sat at the island, choosing the stool closest to the block of knives by the stove. If I could get him to let down his guard, I’d grab one and go for him, I decided. I wouldn’t mind getting shot, but I needed to be sure. If I failed, we’d all be dead.
But the shooter stayed on the other side of the island, on his feet and very watchful.
“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he said with smug sarcasm. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”
I said a quick silent prayer of thanks for my years as a hostage negotiator. I was able to stay calm despite the adrenaline bulging my veins. Let all that training and experience take over, I told myself. Maybe I could talk my family to safety.
Maybe? What was I thinking? Maybe wasn’t an option. I had to. That was all there was to it.
“This is between me and you,” I said calmly. “As long as we keep it like that, I’m fine with whatever you want. Just take me out of here or let my kids go. I’ll tell them not to talk to anybody, and they won’t. Like you said, they don’t want to see me get hurt.”
“Actually,” he said, “this thing is between me and whoever I say it’s between. The Bennett Bunch is staying right here.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then let’s you and me leave. I’ll do whatever you say and I won’t try anything.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?” I said. “You want to get away? I can arrange it.”
He shook his head, still with his sardonic smirk, then opened my fridge and came out with a couple of cans of Bud. He popped the top off one and handed it to me before crunching one for himself.
“Budweiser? In a can? Jeez, Mike,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Where do you keep the potatoes that complete your Irish seven-course meals?”
He took a sip of his and pointed to mine.
“Go on. Tilt your elbow, Mikey. Loosen up a little. Looking around for me must have been thirsty work. Not to mention dealing with that crew of curtain climbers in the living room.”
“If you insist,” I said, and took a long hit of the cold beer. It tasted damn good.
“See? There you go. A little levity goes a long way. I knew we could be friends, that you were the guy I could explain myself to.”
I took another drink. The way my nerves were jangling, I could have gone through a twelve-pack. I set the Bud on the counter and stared at him with as much concern and understanding as I could muster. Oprah would have been proud.
“Explain away,” I said. “I’m more than happy to hear what you have to say, William. That’s your name? William Meyer, right?”
“Sort of,” he said. “My name used to be Gladstone. But my parents got divorced and our family split up. I went with my mom, and my stepfather adopted me and changed my name to Meyer.”
So that’s why we didn’t get a hit on any relatives for Gladstone, I thought, shaking my head.
“That’s what this was all about in a way,” the killer said. “My turning my back on my name and on my brother.”
Much as I wanted to see this psychopathic, cop-killing, walking infection on an autopsy table, the hostage negotiator in me won the day. Meyer wanted to tell his story, and the longer I could keep him talking, the more time I bought and the more likely he was to relax.
