“I’ve brought you nothing but trouble. Why . . .” He shook his head. “Why were you ready to die for me?”
“You helped Joan,” Dave said. “You stood up for me.”
God help him, the man tried to smile then.
“You’re one of us, Mr. Castle. You’re family.”
Family.
Castle closed his eyes.
He saw his mother fall. Saw Frank Sr. shotgunned from behind, saw Donal McCarey cut down trying to start his cycle, saw Dom Castiglione executed running down the beach . . .
Maria and Will lying still, on the pier.
Family.
“Take him to a hospital,” he said, and looked at his watch.
Six forty-five. Time to go.
He moved to the footlocker, unlocked it, and began to pack. Soapdish charges. Remote detonators—all of them. Antipersonnel mines. The last of the Claymores . . .
“Are you going to die tonight?”
Joan stood over him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Take Dave to the hospital, I said.”
“Stanley took him. You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to die tonight, Frank?”
He filled the first duffel and took out a second.
Extra rounds for the shotguns, extra clips for the Colts . . . Ah.
The Kevlar vest. He set that aside to wear. The fireplug. The voice distorter.
Joan was still talking.
“Is that what you want? Damn it, Frank, talk to me.”
“All I want is for it to be over.”
He moved past her, unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, and took out the pictures. Glass and his barber, Livia on her way to the movies . . .
“If you don’t let go of the past,” Joan said, “it’ll never end. Believe me, I know. I know how you feel, Frank. You think you’re the only one that ever lost family? The only one that ever—”
“My whole family,” he said. “Everyone. Everything. My wife. My son.”
“My son,” she yelled. “I lost my son, too!”
Castle stopped in his tracks. That wasn’t what his file—
“Stevie,” Joan said, and even though she was still crying, maybe even harder than before, her voice was steady, calm, and full of a barely suppressed rage that went beyond any emotion Castle had ever seen from her before. “My boy. My husband, Earl, that sonuvabitch. I went off to work one day, and when I got back, they were gone. I haven’t seen or heard a word from either of them since. Five years, Frank. I keep hoping, I had someone working on it for a while, but . . .”
She sighed, and Castle saw the anger go out of her like air from a balloon. “Every day, I live with it. I live with it, though—you understand? You can live with it, too, Frank. You don’t have to die.”
She sighed again, and slumped back down on the couch. “You don’t have to die.”
He stood there a moment, in the wreckage of the loft, and considered her words. He considered her.
She was a beautiful woman. He’d seen that before. What he hadn’t seen: she was strong. Smart. Brave as all hell.
But the watch said six fifty-two.
He had to go.
He turned his back on Joan, reached into the drawer one final time, and pulled out the journal.
He pulled out a chair.
He began to write.
Behind him, he heard footsteps run to the door. It swung open; then, a second later, it slammed shut.
12 OCT 1856
I leave these declarations of intent so no one will be confused.
First declaration: Sic vis pacem, para bellum. It’s Latin. The boot camp sergeant made us recite it like a prayer. Sic vis pacem, para bellum.
If you want peace, prepare for war.
FORTY
Seven-twelve. He’d hot-wired a Honda off the street and put it in the garage the night before. The little car had no pickup; a tractor trailer almost ran him off the interstate as he merged into traffic. The driver gave him the finger.
Castle was tempted, but he kept the Colt in his waistband.
Seven forty-two. He was running late: he parked the Honda a block away from the Centurion, squeezing it into an illegal space between two cars with state plates. Risky, but he wouldn’t be gone long.
Seven fifty-one. Livia Saint appeared, running late, too. She unlocked the Jag, dropped her gym bag, and strode off quickly toward the theater.
Seven fifty-six. He placed the fireplug and jimmied the car open. Then he took her perfume and an earring.
He clicked the voice distorter onto the car phone and dialed.
“Quentin Glass.”
“Quentin? Those photos of you? I changed my mind. The number is now ten thousand dollars. Be at Banana Republic in Westshore Plaza at nine P.M., or they’ll have their own website.”
Glass was breathing hard.
“You listen to me, you son of a—”
Castle hung up. He dialed another number.
“Micky Duka speaking.”
“You’re on.”
“Okay. I’m ready. Don’t worry about me. Everything here is—”
Castle clicked off.
Eight-oh-one. He dropped the Jag in gear and roared off.
Geez. You’d think the guy could be a little more personable. After what Micky was doing for him, what he’d done for him already . . . gonna have to give Mr. Castle a little etiquette lesson next time we talk, Duka thought.
On the other hand . . .
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to remind old Frank about the past, and his particular role in it.
He steeled himself and knocked on Howard Saint’s bedroom door.
“Who is it?”
“Duka, sir.”
“Come on in.”
Duka pushed the door open. Saint was just coming out of the closet, shrugging on a dinner jacket. He was wearing his gun tonight: Saint rarely wore his gun when he went to the club.
So Castle had been right about that. Tonight was the night.
“What is it?” Saint snapped.
Micky held out his hand.
“Mr. Saint? How do you want me to pay for this?”
“Pay for what?”
“I was detailing Mrs. Saint’s car before, and found this ticket.”
That was half true anyway: he had been detailing Mrs. Saint’s car tonight, about an hour ago, in fact. Just before she’d left. Just before she’d cursed him out, as she did every time she saw him.
