eyes, and—
A hand touched her shoulder.
She didn’t panic, she didn’t scream, she just turned, reaching for the mace, wondering how in the hell the bastard had snuck up so close without her hearing a thing.
But it was Stanley.
Dressed in his big puffy slippers, sweatpants, and an I LOVE LUCY T-shirt.
“Hi, Joan.”
“Hi, Stanley.” She sighed. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled. “How was work?”
“Work was fine.” She didn’t have the strength to get into it with Bumpo right now; all she wanted to do was sleep.
He was still smiling.
“What?”
“We had some excitement here last night,” Stanley said, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially. “The new neighbor.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was watching TV—”
No shit, Joan thought.
“—when there was screaming. Really loud screaming.”
“Mr. Badass was screaming?”
“No, not him,” Bumpo said. “Another man.”
Joan’s stomach turned.
Christ, she thought. Carlos has rented out the loft to a serial killer.
“Why was the other man screaming, Stanley?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t go see.”
“We?”
“Me and Dave.”
“Dave heard it, too.”
“Oh, you couldn’t miss it. It was really loud.”
“Stanley, did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The man reddened. “Well . . . No, I mean. We didn’t want to—”
“Oh, Christ.” Joan turned back to her door and opened it. “I’ll call. When was this?”
“Last night, you know. Late. Very late. But, Joan—it’s okay. We don’t need to call.”
“We don’t need to call.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Stanley, for all you know this other guy is dead.”
“No, he’s not. He’s fine.”
“But—”
“I saw him walk out, an hour or so after the screaming. Walked right out the front door, in a little red uniform. Whistling, big smile on his face . . .”
Joan made a noise of disgust. Mr. Badass, in those sunglasses and leather coat; another man in a little red uniform screaming . . . Most definitely, she did not want to know what had been happening in that apartment last night.
One thing was certain, though; her idea about inviting the new neighbor to dinner . . .
That was out the window for sure.
TWENTY-FOUR
There. Finally.
Frank Castle watched the first truck drive past, then glanced at his watch.
Seven twenty-five A.M. Ten minutes behind schedule. It was the rain. It was only a drizzle, but the driver was undoubtedly under orders to take no chances. So the second truck would be late as well. The only question was how late. Much past eight o’clock, and Castle would have to abort: the traffic would be too heavy.
And if he aborted this morning, he would have to put everything else on hold as well for at least another week. Which would mean another week that Howard Saint and his family got to live their debauched, corrupt lives in front of his face while his wife and son rotted in the ground.
Unacceptable.
He had to take some kind of action. John Saint. Castle saw no conceivable way to use him in the plan. He served no purpose at all. Spent his days lying around the family pool and his nights throwing his father’s money around and fucking anything that moved. Killing him would be a pleasure. Kidnap him, take him back to the loft,
Except he couldn’t. Just getting at John Saint would require going through several bodyguards. He did that, and Howard Saint’s antenna would go up and the whole plan would be threatened. No. If he aborted today, he would just have to wait. Patience. Patience was the key.
Frank Castle leaned back in the seat of the GTO. He was parked in the Channelside parking lot off Cumberland, looking north to downtown. From the lot, Castle had a perfect view of both the Saint Tower, some half-dozen blocks in the distance, and Meridian Street, on which the first truck had just driven past.
Seven twenty-six now. Even if the second truck, by some miracle, was on schedule, he had nineteen minutes to wait.
He would allot ten to review his plan.
There was a manila envelope on the seat next to him. Castle opened it and slid out a photo. Howard Saint, hitting from the tee at the eleventh hole of the Tampa Country Club. Time of picture: eight-fifty A.M., last Wednesday. The eleventh was a long hole, a par-five dogleg: the green was hidden from the tee. The green, in fact, was hidden from virtually everywhere and—conveniently enough—backed up onto the abandoned Parsons Chemical factory and the fence that separated the two. That had made the eleventh perfect for Castle’s purposes. Its isolated location would also allow him to abort the second phase of this morning’s operation should that become necessary.
He slid the photo of Saint back in the envelope and took out another.
This picture was of Livia Saint, coming from a spa, on her way to a movie. Taken at seven fifty-seven P.M., last Thursday. The photo was unrelated to today’s events, but Castle had selected it to review for its place in his larger scheme. Livia’s regular Thursday evening routine was the only part of her schedule that was predictable. He intended to use that predictability against her; two nights ago, it had suddenly occurred to him how.
Quentin Glass. Who’d provided Castle with his only surprise during the entire week of surveillance.
Castle reached into the envelope again, intending to pull out the photo of Glass that had helped crystallize his plan, but instead he came up with a shot of John Saint, parked in front of the Tampa 2001 Odyssey Strip Club, one- eighteen A.M., Sunday night, kissing two strippers good-bye, two more in the car waiting for him.
Castle dropped that picture to the floor and found the one he was looking for.
Quentin Glass, Howard Saint’s right-hand man, using his own right hand on a young boy in a way that—if Castle wasn’t mistaken—was now illegal in the state of Florida. Time of picture: three-fifteen P.M., Saturday afternoon.
He sat and thought then, reviewing details in his mind, refining lines, movements, motivations. It was a complex plan—because it depended so much on the actions and reactions of others, he couldn’t be exactly sure how it would all fall out. But of one thing, he was fairly certain.
At the end of the day, he would have his vengeance.
Seven thirty-nine. He put the pictures away.
Seven forty-seven. The second truck appeared on Meridian. Only two minutes late—this driver, obviously, was not as concerned about the rain. Castle was pleased.
He dropped the GTO in gear and followed.
“Hurry it up, sweetheart.”
