that it was Danny Palmer waking him, as the little shit of a reporter was one of his least favorite people in the world.
He liked it even less that Palmer was waking him with news that Morris and his department should have, by rights, known first. Their bad luck; the
Morris was up in his chopper now, and he saw that the news Palmer had relayed was at least accurate: Saint Motors was on fire. So was Saint’s club, right next to it.
Morris turned to Sergeant Kuipers, riding in the seat behind him.
“Get Howard Saint on the phone!” he yelled.
“Been trying to!” Kuipers shouted back. “No answer.”
“Keep trying!”
Kuipers nodded. Morris turned back around.
That was odd, the chief thought. Two of Howard Saint’s businesses on fire, and the man wasn’t answering his phone? Hell, it wasn’t just odd, it was disturbing. What if Saint had been at the club and had been trapped in the fire? What if he was dead?
At that second, his cell rang, and Morris sighed in relief. Saint. Had to be.
Then he looked down at the number on the display and frowned.
“Palmer, I’m busy. What do you want?”
“I want you to see something.”
“Can’t it wait? I’m coming up on the scene now.”
“I know. I can see you.”
“What?” Morris frowned. “Where are you?”
“Couple blocks north, couple hundred feet above you.”
Morris looked. Sure enough, there was the
“So what is it you want me to see?”
“The pattern. You should be in range now.”
“A pattern? What in hell’s name are you talking about? What kind of pattern?”
“The cars in the lot are burning in a pattern. Have your pilot pull up. You’ll see it.”
“I don’t have time for games, Palmer.”
“I don’t think it’s a game, Chief. Go on. Take a look.”
Morris sighed and gave the order.
They didn’t have to go far. A couple hundred feet, just like Palmer had said, before the arrangement took shape.
“Christ on a bicycle,” Morris said, shaking his head. “You don’t see that every day.”
The chief, in fact, had never seen anything like it before. Palmer was right: the burning cars did indeed make a pattern. A disturbing pattern, as disturbing in its own way as the fact that he couldn’t raise Howard Saint on the phone.
The pattern was a skull.
A weird, creepy skull.
Two-forty. He parked in front of 2411 North Cedar, and collected what remained of his gear.
Two forty-one. He entered his apartment, and sat, numb with exhaustion, and pain, and relief. Spent, body and soul. A dead man, inside and out, as were the Castles, the Castigliones, and the McCareys alike.
Now, at last, it was time to join them.
He picked up his father’s Colt and chambered a round. With his left hand, he reached for the picture.
Maria. Will.
He kissed them, then set the photo down on the desk.
He pressed the barrel of the gun to his chin, just as he’d been taught. Just as Weeks had done. He pictured his friend, then, and wondered if there really was a heaven or a hell. Maria thought so. He hoped she was right.
He pictured her, then, the way he always did, 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 Kuwait for Desert Storm, her long bangs hanging down over her forehead, her eyes misting over with tears.
“You’re my hero, Frank Castle,” she’d told him; and Castle smiled at the memory, because maybe now it was true. Maybe, at last, he really was her hero, because this last mission had been for her, for the family.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
And then he remembered the conversation they’d had that day; the whole thing, not just the part where she’d called him a hero, but what had come before, as well.
He’d been blocking it out for a long, long time, he realized.
“Kuwait?” she’d asked as they said their good-byes. “I don’t even know where that is.”
“A long way from here,” he’d replied. “A long way from you.”
She’d grabbed his hand then, and squeezed it between hers. “Frank. You take care. If anything happens to you—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
But there was no silencing her.
“If anything happens to you, I’ll kill myself.”
He’d shaken his head then, as forcefully as he could.
“Never say that. Never. If I die, you go on and have a great life. You promise?”
“I couldn’t.” She started crying then. “I couldn’t forget you.”
“Don’t. Never forget me. But live. You promise? Live.”
She smiled. “Okay. On one condition.”
“No conditions.”
“One condition,” she said again. “You promise the same.”
“Okay. I promise.”
Castle blinked, and suddenly he was back in the loft. The gun was still in his hand, the picture was right where he’d left it on the table. . . .
And his family—all of them—were still dead.
But he was alive. And he’d made a promise.
The gun slipped from his fingers.
At that second, someone knocked at the door.
“Frank? Are you there?”
Joan. She knocked again.
“Frank?”
He sighed, and rose to his feet. “Yes,” he called back. “Yes, I’m here.”
14 October 0624
Breakfast in Alabama. Joe’s Country Kitchen. Two eggs sunny-side up, two strips of bacon, hash, and toast. Coffee. I’m on my third cup as I write this.
Called Joan at the diner; Dave is fine. They’re all fine, more so now that they found what I left for them. Saint’s money: about time someone put it to good use.
She’s a good person, Joan. Made a bad turn, finding her way back now. The way she felt about me . . . someone’ll feel that way about her soon, and then she’ll be all the way back. She’ll be home. As for me . . . I have no home. Not now.
There was a message from Sandoval in the paper this morning. USA Today, the Personals section. Same code the bureau’s been using for the last two months; you’d think that after I popped up again, after my first few days in Tampa, they would have thought to change it. You’d be wrong.
Message is simple. Direct orders from Sandoval to all bureau operatives, covert or otherwise: Find Frank Castle and bring him in. Dead or alive.
Guess they don’t appreciate my help. Not that I give a flying fuck. I have work to do. In avenging my family, I’ve found new purpose.
