Larue spoke. Vespa listened. Sometime in the middle of his explanation, Cram appeared with a towel and ice. He handed it to Larue. Larue thanked him. He took the towel-the ice would be too bulky-and dabbed the blood off his face. Vespa’s blows no longer hurt. Larue had dealt with much worse over the years. When you’ve had enough of beatings, you go one way or the other-you fear them so much that you will do anything to avoid them, or you just ride them out and realize that this too shall pass. Somewhere during his incarceration Larue had joined that second camp.
Carl Vespa did not say a word. He did not interrupt or ask for clarification. When Larue finished Vespa stood there, his face unchanged, waiting for more. There was nothing. Without a word Vespa turned and left. He nodded at Cram. Cram started toward him. Larue lifted his head. He would not run. He was through with running.
“Come on, let’s go,” Cram said.
Cram dropped him off in the center of Manhattan. Larue debated calling Eric Wu, but he knew that would be pointless at this stage. He started toward the Port Authority bus terminal. He was ready now for the rest of his life to begin. He was going to head to Portland, Oregon. He wasn’t sure why. He had read about Portland in prison and it seemed to fit the bill. He wanted a big city with a liberal feel. From what he’d read, Portland sounded like a hippy commune that had turned into a major metropolis. He might get a fair shake out there.
He would have to change his name. Grow a beard. Dye his hair. He didn’t think it would take that much to change him, to help him escape the past fifteen years. Naive to think it, yes, but Wade Larue still thought that an acting career was a possibility. He still had the chops. He still had the supernatural charisma. So why not give it a go? If not, he’d get a regular job. He wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. He’d be in a big city again. He’d be free.
But Wade Larue didn’t go to the Port Authority bus station.
The past still had too strong a pull. He couldn’t go quite yet. He stopped a block away. He saw the buses churning out to the viaduct. He watched for a moment and then turned to the row of pay phones.
He had to make one last phone call. He had to know one last truth.
Now, an hour later, the barrel of a gun was pressed against that soft hollow under his ear. It was funny what you thought of a moment before death. The soft hollow-that was one of Eric Wu’s favorite pressure-point spots. Wu had explained to him that knowing the location was fairly meaningless. You could not just stick your finger in there and push. That might hurt, but it would never incapacitate an opponent.
That was it. That pitiful thought, beyond pitiful, was Wade Larue’s last before the bullet entered his brain and ended his life.
chapter 51
Dellapelle led Perlmutter into the basement. There was enough light, but Dellapelle still used the flashlight. He pointed it at the floor.
“There.”
Perlmutter stared down at the concrete and felt a fresh chill.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dellapelle asked him.
“That maybe”-Perlmutter stopped, trying to figure this into the equation-“that maybe Jack Lawson wasn’t the only one being held down here.”
Dellapelle nodded. “So where is the other guy?”
Perlmutter did not say anything. He just stared at the floor. Someone had indeed been held down. Someone who found a pebble and scratched two words into the floor, all in caps. A name actually, another person from that strange photograph, a name he’d just heard from Grace Lawson:
“SHANE ALWORTH.”
• • •
Charlaine Swain stayed to help Grace back to her room. Their silence was comfortable. Grace wondered about that. She wondered about a lot of things. She wondered why Jack had run away all those years ago. She wondered why he’d never touched that trust fund, why he let his sister and father control his percentage. She wondered why he’d run away not long after the Boston Massacre. She wondered about Geri Duncan and why she ended up dead two months later. And she wondered, perhaps most of all, if meeting Jack in France that day, if falling in love with him, had been more than just a coincidence.
She no longer wondered if it was all connected. She knew that it was. When they reached Grace’s room, Charlaine helped her get back into bed. She turned to go.
“Do you want to stay a few minutes?” Grace asked.
Charlaine nodded. “I’d like that.”
They talked. They started with what they had in common-children-but it was clear neither one of them wanted to stay on the subject long. An hour passed in a moment. Grace was not sure what they’d even discussed exactly. Just that she was grateful.
At nearly two in the morning the hospital phone next to Grace rang. For a moment they both just stared at it. Then Grace reached over and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“I got your message. About Allaw and Still Night.”
She recognized the voice. It was Jimmy X.
“Where are you?”
“In the hospital. I’m downstairs. They won’t let me up.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
• • •
The hospital lobby was quiet.
Grace was not sure how to handle this. Jimmy X sat with his forearms resting against his thighs. He didn’t look up as she hobbled toward him. The receptionist read a magazine. The security guard whistled softly. Grace wondered if the guard would be able to protect her. She suddenly missed that gun.
She stopped in front of Jimmy X, stood over him, and waited. He looked up. Their eyes met and Grace knew. She didn’t know the details. She barely knew the outline. But she knew.
His voice was almost a plea. “How did you learn about Allaw?”
“My husband.”
Jimmy looked confused.
“My husband is Jack Lawson.”
His jaw dropped. “John?”
“That’s what he went by back then, I guess. He’s upstairs right now. He may very well die.”
“Oh God.” Jimmy buried his face in his hands.
Grace said, “You know what always bothered me?”
He did not reply.
“Your running away. It doesn’t happen very much-a rock star just giving up like that. There are rumors about Elvis or Jim Morrison, but that’s because they’re dead. There was that movie,
He kept his head low.
“I know about the Allaw connection. It’s just a matter of time before someone puts it together.”
She waited. He dropped his hands away from his face and rubbed them together. He looked toward the security guard. Grace almost took a step back, but she held her ground.
“Do you know why rock concerts used to always start so late?” Jimmy asked.
The question threw her. “What?”
“I said…”
“I heard what you said. No, I don’t know why.”
“It’s because we’re so wasted-drunk, stoned, whatever-that our handlers need time to get us sobered up enough to perform.”
“Your point being?”
“That night I nearly passed out from cocaine and alcohol.” His gaze drifted off then, his eyes red. “That’s why there was such a long delay. That was why the crowd got so impatient. If I had been sober, if I had taken the stage on time…” He let his voice drift off with a “who knows” shrug.
She didn’t want excuses anymore. “Tell me about Allaw.”
“I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “John Lawson is your husband? How the hell did that happen?”
She didn’t have an answer. She wondered if she ever would. The heart, she knew, was strange terrain. Could that have been part of the initial attraction, something subconscious, a knowing that they had both survived that terrible night? She flashed back to meeting Jack on that beach. Had it been fate, preordained-or planned? Did Jack want to meet the woman who had come to embody the Boston Massacre?
“Was my husband at the concert that night?” she asked.
“What, you don’t know?”
“We can play this two ways, Jimmy. One, I can pretend I know everything and just want confirmation. But I don’t. I may never know the truth, if you don’t tell me. You may be able to keep your secret. But I’ll keep looking. So will Carl Vespa and the Garrisons and the Reeds and the Weiders.”
He looked up, his face so like a child’s.
“But two-and I think this is more important-you can’t live with yourself anymore. You came to my house needing absolution. You know it’s
