'What are you picking up from inside?' I asked.
Keeping his face to the dirt, he repeated flatly, ' 'What the fuck what the fuck oh Jesus God we're fucked.' '
Sirens came screaming up the hill.
A shadow at the curtain ahead. And then the dark oval of a face. It stared at me. Frozen, I stared back.
'Hang on.' Joe cleared his throat, listening. ' 'Let's do her and get the fuck out of here.' '
I had the sensation not of running but floating up the walk.
You can't begin to imagine what kind of men these are. There'll be nothing left of your wife but a bloodstain.
I banged on the door. 'Wait!' I shouted. 'It's Patrick! I have information you need!'
Silence. Locked. I banged away, kicked. 'Wait, wait! You need to talk to me!'
The door opened, and then a giant hand shot out, grabbed my shirt, and hurled me inside. I pinwheeled across the slick tile, DeWitt's face leering down at me. Verrone was at his side, and two other men with military builds shouldered to the front windows with short-barrel shotguns at the ready. One was red-faced, his knee jittering back and forth. He swung the barrel, sighted on my head. 'Let's do him and hot-ass it out of here.'
I recoiled from the dead stare of the muzzle, shouting, 'You need to know what I've got!'
The sirens, almost on top of us.
A closed door led back to a bedroom. Ariana. I had to tear my eyes away. 'Is she back there?'
No answer from the Ridgeline crew.
'Is she okay?' My voice shook.
Sweat beaded DeWitt's forehead. He said, 'What the fuck did you do? What the fuck did you do?'
I pulled a manila file from inside my jacket and threw it at him. The pages scattered across the floor. Money orders, surveillance photos, all those banking and phone records, the payments for the murders of Mikey Peralta, Deborah B. Vance, and Keith Conner.
'No,' Verrone said. He took a wobbly step back. 'How?'
'The hard drive on your copy machine.'
Verrone shot a furious glare at one of the men by the window, who said, 'You didn't tell me anything about a fucking hard drive.'
I spoke quickly. 'Those documents blaze a trail back to Festman Gruber. But they also blaze a trail forward to you.'
'Who cares?' Verrone said. 'We've got the leverage to make Festman throw their weight around on our behalf. They'll have to. Or they'll go down, too. And these aren't the types of guys to go down.'
'Right,' I said. 'Mutually assured destruction. But guess what? I'm not part of the 'mutually.' '
'What does that mean?'
'I'm holding the cards. I've got the disc, too--those illegal decibel levels. And I know what it all means to the parties involved.'
'How?'
Very slowly, I retrieved the digital recorder from my pocket. When I punched the button, Bob Reimer's voice filled the room: 'These documents make clear that Ridgeline isn't interested in upholding their agreements. But that cuts both ways. We are no longer obligated to offer them the customary protections.'
DeWitt said, 'Reimer knows? Festman fucking knows already?'
The man by the window said, 'This piece of shit brought it to them?'
The other: 'We've gotta clean up and split. Now.'
Verrone paced a tight circle, grabbing at his hair, his yellow face gone gray. He pulled out a sidearm, aimed at my face, the skin fluttering at his temple. I flinched, waiting for the crack.
'You can't manipulate Festman into doing what you want,' I said. 'Your leverage is gone. I gave it away. And they know it. You're finished. There is no move. This is checkmate.'
Bob Reimer's recorded voice continued, 'Ridgeline thinks they've built an insurance file in this, but they've done nothing more than arrange for their funerals.'
The Ridgeline men exchanged a round of glances, eyes darting frantically from face to face, reading the angles, weighing options and loyalty. I could hear the click in DeWitt's throat when he swallowed. Both men at the front windows stepped back from the curtains.
'Cops are here,' the jittery one said. 'They're gonna set up a perimeter. We can still run and gun. But it's gotta be right now.'
From behind his gun, Verrone considered. He took a step forward, placed the cool metal against my forehead, pushed until I sank to my knees. I dropped the digital recorder, but it kept playing. My back-and-forth with Reimer in that air-conditioned office seemed like a game of badminton compared to this.
'You think you're in charge?' Verrone said. 'You think you're writing the script? So you made some moves. Put us in a bind. But right now it's just us and you in a room. Why are you calling the shots?'
'Because I'm the guy with the cameras on him.'
'A couple reporters--'
'No, not a couple reporters,' I said. 'There are news helicopters in the air. Paparazzi for blocks. SWAT all over. Everyone's watching, documenting. You can't get away. You can't do anything without them watching and knowing.'
Play the hand you're dealt.
More sirens neared, then cut off. The rush of news helicopters overhead. The curtains blocked out the mayhem, but we could hear the cries and footsteps and vehicles, the photographers yelling, someone shouting orders to reposition the cars.
I said, 'You don't want to add another murder to what you're facing.'
DeWitt looming over Verrone. 'The hell we don't.'
The barrel shoved harder into my face. I steeled myself, fighting off terror, praying that I'd be alive for the next breath and the one after that, praying that my wife's heart was still beating behind that closed door.
My first word came out a yell--'Just . . . just stop. Think. What's the only play? Talk to the cops. Cooperate. Turn state's evidence against Festman Gruber. Think of the pull they have. It's your only prayer against those guys. And it starts right now. This instant.'
Reimer's voice from the recorder: 'Everything will be hung on you. And the fallout will land on Ridgeline.'
The men had moved in to surround me. My knees ached. My head throbbed. My heart was moving blood so fast I felt dizzy. They towered over me, blank-faced executioners. Verrone's arm was as steady as a statue's. His finger, curled around the trigger, was white at the creases.
I closed my eyes, alone in the dark. There was nothing in the world except the ring of steel against my forehead.
The pressure lifted.
I opened my eyes. The pistol was lowered at Verrone's side. The men parted unevenly. DeWitt's lips bunched around his teeth. It looked like he was biting down hard. One of the others abruptly sat on the floor, and the fourth went back to the window. It was as if a spell had been broken, leaving them dazed and dumb.
I came up, wobbly, to my feet. It hit me that I hadn't heard a sound issue from that back room--not a single shout or cry. 'Is my wife behind that door?'
But they all just stood there, guns lowered, stunned.
I blinked back tears. 'Is she alive?'
Verrone nodded to the man by the window, who reached over and tore the curtain from the track. Light flooded in, striking us. A bleached-out view of camera lenses and tactical goggles and windshields and gun muzzles--the whole world, perched out there, trained on the sudden spectacle. And us, staring through the glass right back at them.
Squinting into the brightness, Verrone put his hands up. DeWitt, and then the two other men, followed suit.
When DeWitt raised his arms, I noticed a streak of crimson running along the underside of his forearm. A drop snaked down, dangled from his elbow.
All at once the shouting from outside was gone, and the thrumming of the helicopters. Through the window I
