those terrorists. Those fuckers would have been torn asunder by the people who found them, torn to goddamn
“I don’t know about that, man.”
“Sure you do.”
“Okay, so say I do. Where are you goin’ with this?”
“A man catches someone attacking his wife. How does he react?”
“Gets pissed.”
“Yeah, he gets pissed, even if the attacker is twice his size and built like a tank, and even if he knows it will mean his death. Hell, if you were married, had kids, and found out someone was sleeping with your wife, or messing with your kids, you’d want to beat the living shit out of that guy, right?”
“Right.”
“And if those terrorists had been caught, instead of doing the kamikaze thing, the people there would have murdered them without a second thought. And why? Because they were
He was out of breath, and incensed, the blood rushing through him, warming him against the cold. A dull ache throbbed in his temple.
After a moment, Beau sat back. “Yeah,” he said.
Finch looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’d tear ’em to pieces, along with anyone who tried to stop me, probably.”
“Then why, knowing what those guys did to Danny, are you trying to keep me from doing what needs to be done?”
It took Beau a long time to reply, but when he did, he looked squarely at Finch. “Because you’re my friend.”
Despite his inebriation, Finch was surprised. Not by the sentiment, but by the fact that Beau, a characteristically stoic man, had said it out loud. It moved him, perhaps a little more than it might have because he was drunk, but nevertheless he appreciated it.
“All the more reason for you to be behind me on this then.”
“I am behind you on it. You know that. I told you—”
“I know what you told me,” Finch interrupted. “And I know what you said, but I want you behind me one- hundred percent. Not because you know I think it’s the right thing to do, but because you agree with me.”
Beau looked annoyed. “So you want me to validate what you’re doin’, is that it? You want me to tell you I think murderin’ a bunch of people and maybe gettin’ yourself killed or sent to prison for the rest of your life is a spectacular idea I can’t wait to be a part of?”
Finch smiled grimly. “Something like that, but without the sarcasm.”
“Can’t do it,” Beau told him. “And if you really believed in what you aim to do, you wouldn’t
“Yeah, well…I do.”
“Why?”
Finch smiled. “Because you’re my friend.”
“Asshole. You read those printouts I put in the folder with the other stuff?”
“Sure. Veterans suffering from PTSD.”
“And?”
“And they came home, didn’t get the help they needed and went apeshit, shot a bunch of people before killing themselves. Is there a moral there I’m missing?”
“It fucks you up. War. Chews you up and spits you out. It’s one of the few places where you’re given free reign to act like a psychopath and then one day you’re standin’ on your lawn, maybe pickin’ up the mornin’ paper and suddenly you find yourself back there, lookin’ at the world through crosshairs. And you either run screamin’ for help you probably won’t get because there’s a mighty long queue, or go get your gun so you can keep fightin’.”
“Jesus… you need your own talk show, man. Seriously.”
Beau ran his palms over his bald head and sighed heavily. “I’ll go, all right? That’s as good as I’m givin’ you. I got your back. Whatever you need. But I’m not holdin’ your hand down there and I’m not going to be your goddamn cheerleader.”
Finch pursed his lips and nodded. “Too bad. You’d look good in the outfit.”
Beau rose. “No wonder half my brothers are on crack. Bet it makes it easier to listen to crazy white guys.”
There was silence then, but for the late night sound of slow traffic sizzling through the wet streets, water running down a drain, distant laughter as revelers headed home, the far-off drone of a plane delivering bodies eager for a night of sleep without turbulence. Beau stood there staring at the mouth of the alley, as if trying to decide whether or not it was time to leave. Instead, he turned, looked at Finch, and folded his arms.
“How are you goin’ to do it?”
“We need guns,” Finch said flatly.
“Covered. My uncle Leroy has a gun shop over in Powell. He’ll give us whatever we need, as long as we don’t tell him we’re goin’ on a huntin’ trip and then ask for a bazooka, and as long as we got the money. He ain’t big on family discounts.”
“Katy Kaplan’s father is going to cover the expenses.”
“Nice, how d’you swing that?”
“He offered. I’m guessing he’s the kind of guy who approves of my idea but prefers to stay well clear of the war zone.”
“So he’s a politician?”
Finch smiled. “We’re gonna need maps. And we’re going to need to know everything that happened from the moment the kids stepped foot in Elkwood until the time Claire was found. We need to talk to the Sheriff down there.”
“The Sheriff? Why? You think he’s goin’ to help?”
“We’re not going to give him a choice. Someone down there did a good job covering things up so the trail would lead away from the killers and right to Wellman’s door. Tell me how a Sheriff can live a few miles from a bunch of murdering lunatics for years and not know anything about it.”
Beau thought about this. “Maybe they threatened him.”
“Yeah, probably. But if you’re living in fear for your life in a town with a bunch of maniacs, you don’t stick around. You move, and then you tell people all you know.”
“So you think this guy’s a rotten apple.”
“That, or a coward. But we need him. And Claire. I want to know all she knows. The more information we have about who, or what we’re going up against, the better prepared we can be.”
“What makes you think she’ll tell you anythin’? You know what it’s like to walk through Hell. It isn’t somethin’ you enjoy talkin’ about, right?”
“Like I said, when someone you love has been killed, there’s a whole lot of rage. And she loved Danny. She’ll want justice as much as I do.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Worst case scenario, we work with what the Sheriff gives us.”
“Assuming he’ll talk.”
Finch gave him a dark look. “Beau, you’re not hearing me. I said we’re not going to give him a choice.”
Beau began to pace. “So when we leavin’?”
“Friday night.”
