“Did he say why?”
“Not really. Just that he didn’t think it was a good time.”
“Not a good time?” Saint shook his head. That was a crock of shit, and he knew it. Chadwick was postponing for one reason, and one reason alone.
He was running scared. All the bad publicity, first the thing with Bobby, and now the incident at the Saint Tower, which Palmer was still playing up in his column, a week later . . .
Castle. It all came down to Castle. He couldn’t wait to dance on the man’s grave.
His other line beeped.
“Hang on a second, Rebecca.” Saint clicked in the second caller. “Howard Saint.”
“Pop.”
“John.” Saint sat up in his chair. “Tell me something good.”
Silence.
Fuck, Howard Saint thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Castle’s alive,” his son said. “The Russian’s dead.”
“Hold on.” Saint clicked over to Rebecca. “I’ll have to call you later,” he said, and disconnected her.
He sat for a moment in silence then, in his darkened office, and thought.
Outside the mansion, the sun had just set. The front lights were on; he could see Livia’s azaleas all lit up along the walkway to the tennis court.
His Bentley was in the driveway. His invitation to Senator Woodling’s Christmas party was on his desk. His beautiful wife was in the upstairs bedroom of his beautiful house. His humidor was full of Cubans. And his cook, Mrs. Caprese, was making him steak tartare tonight.
He was Howard Fucking Saint, and anybody who thought he could cross Saint for even a second was sadly mistaken.
He clicked John back in.
“Where’s Quentin?”
“Home. Getting cleaned up.”
“Where are you?”
“At the club.”
“Okay. Tonight we’re closed for business. Make the calls.”
“Closed? Ah, Pop, we got that DJ coming down from New York tonight. Can’t we—”
“Closed, John. You hear me?”
His son sighed. “Yes, Pop. I hear you.”
“Good. You make the calls. I want every warm body there, no excuses. Arrange food and drinks. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“What do I tell everyone?”
“You tell them we’re going hunting.”
He hung up.
On the desk was a picture of Bobby. Saint picked it up and smiled.
Tonight, son. Tonight we finish the job.
“Howard? Darling? Did you hear me?”
He looked up. Livia walked into the room, wearing her workout clothes.
“Sorry. What?”
“I said I’ll be back after ten.”
He frowned.
“It’s Thursday.”
“Oh, right.” Her girl film. “Thursday. Of course. Have a great time.”
“I will.” She leaned over the desk and kissed him. “You have a good night, too.”
He looked up at her and smiled.
“Oh, yes. I think I’m gonna do just that.”
Castle opened his eyes. He was lying in the old freight elevator. Joan was leaning against him, her eyes red and rimmed with tears. How had he gotten here? He remembered the Russian, the knife wound, the stitches, passing out. . . .
He sat up with a jolt and looked at his watch.
Six twenty-five. There was still time.
Castle remembered something else now, the sound of cars pulling up in the front of the building, and he grasped the situation in a heartbeat. His neighbors had dragged him in here, to keep him safe.
Joan looked at him, realized he was awake, and started to sob.
“Frank,” she said. “Frank, they—”
He put a finger to his lips. No talking. Not till they made sure Saint’s men were gone. He became aware that, though his wound still throbbed, the worst of the pain had passed. His head was clear now.
He activated the hydraulics—the elevator rose up through the floor and clanked to a stop. The doors opened. Castle rolled out first, helped Joan, and then got to his feet.
Outside, it was dark and starting to rain. Drops pattered down on the skylight. Lightning flashed.
Bumpo sat on the couch before them, chest heaving. Joan went to him.
Footsteps came from the hall, and a shadow fell across the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. A second later, a man’s shoes followed. A big man’s shoes.
Joan tiptoed up beside him, a question in her eyes. He shook his head—wait here—and stepped carefully through the wreckage of his apartment, searching for something to use as a weapon.
His eyes fell on a piece of office equipment left by whoever had rented the loft before him. A paper cutter. A moment later, he had what he needed.
He waited until the man and the shoes had gone past again, heading back toward the staircase, before stepping quietly out into the hall.
It was one of them. Even though the man had his back to him, Castle recognized him instantly, from that day at the compound.
Rising on the balls of his feet, walking as close to the edges of the floorboards as he could to avoid any telltale creaks, Castle raised his makeshift weapon and approached.
Halfway down the hall, the man—prompted by instinct, perhaps, or the creak of a floorboard—turned. His eyes widened, and he went for his gun.
The blade of the paper cutter flashed.
The man’s body tumbled down the stairs.
The head remained on the landing, eyes wide in disbelief.
Castle went back to the loft. Joan and Bumpo had gone to the corner of the room, and they were leaning over someone slumped in a chair. He could see only shadows, but he recognized the figure nonetheless.
Dave. They’d killed him.
Then the man moaned and turned his head, just enough that the light coming down from above touched his face.
Joan gasped and started crying all over again.
“Oh no . . .”
“Dave,” Bumpo said. “Oh, Dave. Look what they did to you.”
Castle was looking. Not just at the awful mess that had been made of Grayson’s face, but at the table beside him, where every single one of his facial piercings now lay, bits of skin and hair and coagulated blood dangling off them. They’d been arranged very neatly on the table. As Castle stepped closer, he saw they spelled something: HI FRANK.
His blood boiled.
“Who did this?”
“Quentin,” Bumpo offered. “That’s what they called him.”
“They tried to make me talk,” Dave croaked. “I gave ’em nothing.”
Castle didn’t understand. “You don’t know me,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Bumpo was crying now, too, right along with Joan.
