big. We’ll want all interested agencies cooperating as soon as possible. We’ll be nexus, but you’ll have access to all that information, of course.”
Castle nodded. He hadn’t heard anything about the Chechens over the last few months, but then, since he’d been Otto Krieg for virtually every day of the last few months, that wasn’t so surprising.
A phone rang. Jenkins reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellular.
“Excuse me,” he said, turning away from Frank and beginning to talk.
So this was what being on a desk was going to be like, Frank thought. Studying paperwork, making decisions, talking them through, and then going home every night to his wife and son.
He couldn’t wait.
He looked at his watch—his brand-new Rolex. They were two hours behind schedule now—not that anyone was meeting him at the airport, he’d given an approximate date and time for his arrival, but Maria knew better than to wait on anything for him, even moving day. Though Castle was still hoping to make it back in time to get the kitchen packed up himself. When they’d moved back east from California, the movers had managed to smash half the bowls in their wedding china, which had caused Maria to forbid anyone but herself from packing fragile items. She’d probably been up half the night getting ready, he thought, picturing her in his mind.
Funny thing was, when he thought of Maria, he always thought of her not as she was now, but as she’d been that first summer after they were married. The way she’d looked as they were saying good-bye, as he was getting shipped off to the Middle East for the first time.
Her bangs longer than they were now, hanging down over her forehead, her eyes misting over with tears, the way they had every time since then when he’d gone off on a mission. Gone off to leave her for months at a time, first alone and then with their son, Will. Castle thought of him now, too—the boy was getting so big, and the hell of it was, he’d missed almost everything so far in his son’s life. The first word, the first step, the first day at school. The parent-teacher conferences, the class plays, the Little League games . . .
But not anymore. He’d sworn it to Maria, to his own father (who had quit the service rather than miss out on Frank’s own childhood), and to himself. Castle had never been able to set aside the needs of the job before, the needs of the world out there; there was so much pain and suffering . . . but he knew now no one person could solve those problems. They were too big. He had to focus on the things closest to him, the things he could take care of. His family. His friends.
Thinking that, he looked down at the Rolex again and remembered Jimmy.
Weeks was somebody else he had to watch out for, take care of, Castle thought, before the man got himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t climb out of it.
SIX
Families were funny, Howard Saint thought.
Consider, for instance, the Dukas. There was little Micky, cowering on the floor in front of him, and then there was Micky’s dad, Mike. Who had been Howard Saint’s in with the Trafficante family, way back when, when Saint first came down from Gainesville looking to make a name for himself. Who had gone on to become a big man in the Saint organization, until that day five years ago when he’d stepped in between Saint and Big Joe Galliano, stopping a bullet from Galliano’s .45 in the process.
Mike and Micky. That was a contrast.
And then there was his own family. Himself, Livia, and the boys. John and Bobby. Who themselves had been a study in contrasts. The key phrase there being “had been.”
Which brought him right back around to Micky Duka.
“Mr. Saint, I’m so sorry, I wanted you to know—”
Saint shook his head imperceptibly from side to side.
“No words, Micky. They don’t matter. What will bring me comfort is watching the slow death of the man who was supposed to be taking care of my son. Keeping him out of trouble.”
Saint saw Micky blink away tears. Quivering, sniveling idiot. Saint should kill him here and now, put the wretch out of his misery. Spare some other family the pain his was going through.
“What would your father say if he saw you here, Micky? He died for me. Your father was a man, and he died for me. What would he say about this?”
“I didn’t know it was going to happen like this, please.”
“Ignorance is no excuse.”
Saint sensed his own men gathering behind him, waiting for his next move. Quentin and John, at his back. Dante and Spoon, on his left, and T.J. on his right.
Saint held his hand out for a gun. His right hand.
T.J. obliged by pulling out his weapon and giving it to Saint, who in turned aimed the gun at Duka’s face.
The little man just froze.
“The person responsible has to die, Micky,” Saint said.
Whereupon he turned around and shot T.J. in the shoulder.
Someone—Duka probably—let out a gasp of surprise. Saint kept his eyes focused on T.J., though. The man was slow to get it. He looked from his shoulder, up at Saint, and then back down again at his wound before speaking.
“No.” He shook his head. “Mr. Saint . . . Bobby told me to stay! Ask John? John . . . tell him, come on.” T.J.’s eyes focused over Saint’s shoulder, looking to John for help. There was no reply. Not that it would have mattered. He’d brought Red Archeletta’s eldest boy—slow and unsophisticated as he was—down from Alachua for one specific purpose. Keep Bobby Saint out of trouble. The man had failed at that simple task. Therefore, the man had to die.
Howard Saint took aim again and shot him in the knee.
T.J. howled in agony and crumpled to the floor.
Howard Saint smiled thinly.
“It was Bobby’s idea,” T.J. gasped. “He wanted to do a deal on his own to . . . to impress you.”
“Thank you for that explanation,” Saint replied, and shot out T.J.’s other knee.
The man screamed. Saint was aware of Spoon, behind him, turning away from the sight. He made note of that. There was no room for weak stomachs in his organization. He’d made that clear on several occasions.
T.J. continued to moan, trying to drag himself away from Saint as he did so. All at once, despite the obvious pain the man was suffering, Saint had had enough.
He stood over T.J. and fired point-blank into his heart.
The man shuddered once, and stopped moaning.
“My son didn’t need to impress me,” Howard Saint said, and dropped the gun on the dead man’s chest.
An hour later, Saint was at the city morgue, having sent Quentin and John home to watch over Livia, who, despite the drugs coursing through her system, was still unable to sleep. Dr. Bernini was on his way to the house, with instructions to keep her calm.
Dante and Spoon were out in the car, waiting for him. Both men were still obviously on edge, shaken up by what had happened to T.J., nervous about what might happen to them. Dante in particular had been close to Archeletta—under normal circumstances Saint would have had a word with him, stress how T.J. had been a basically good man (which was the truth, after all) who had made a single, unfortunate mistake, for which he had paid dearly. End of story.
Howard Saint, though, was not in an explaining mood.
Sergeant Kuipers and a patrolman Saint didn’t know (Carillo, his name tag read) met him at the door of the morgue and offered heartfelt expressions of sympathy as they led Saint into the bowels of the building. He accepted their words as graciously as he could, and asked about their families in return: Kuipers, he knew, had just had a son, his first child. Saint had sent along a savings bond for the boy’s education.
“He’s fine, Mr. Saint. Thank you for asking.”
Saint nodded, put a hand on Kuipers’s shoulder. “You watch out for him, Sergeant. You watch out for your boy.”
“You know I will sir. Thank you.”
Kuipers’s voice caught in his throat; Saint looked over at the sergeant and saw him blink away a tear.
Good man, Kuipers, he thought. Most people were, if you treated them right. It was just like the Bible said,
