Hancock sighed.
Donnally heard it.
Ryvver heard it.
She looked at Hancock, then down.
Lightning flared. Then again. Almost strobing, illuminating her pale face consumed by shock and fury.
Donnally was now illuminated, confronting her like a living nightmare. As thunder vibrated the lighthouse, rain tattooed his face and eyes as he grabbed the railing to pull himself up.
Ryvver shoved Hancock. He rocked forward, against the belt tying him to the railing. He screamed. A rising wail. But it held, and he straightened up.
She shoved again.
Donnally had a leg up to the ledge, now pulling hard. He saw her hand come around Hancock’s body. When she extended her arm toward him, he knew what was coming. He ducked just before the bang and muzzle flash.
Hancock jerked back and to the side, trying to butt her with his shoulder and head.
Donnally pulled himself over the railing, then reached around Hancock, grabbed her, and threw her into the lighthouse wall.
The gun discharged a second time. Hancock grunted and slumped forward.
Donnally swung at her, but missed. Her hand came up. He blocked it with his forearm and grabbed the front of her jacket.
The gun fired again. A simultaneous flash, bang, and thunk of lead punching sheet metal behind him.
Now she was flailing, swinging at him with fist and barrel.
He heard running footfalls on the roof-Navarro and Janie-and knew he couldn’t risk another wild shot.
He threw her toward the railing, thinking she’d drop the gun and grab for a handhold. But she didn’t. The muzzle flamed upward as she fell back and over and she merged into the void.
Then there was just the sound of the wind and the rain, until she struck the floor with a thud of flesh and bone, and a rattle of gunmetal on concrete.
Chapter 58
District Attorney Hannah Goldhagen stood on the roof of Fort Point just before sunrise, gazing up at the criminal defense lawyer still tied to the railing with Donnally’s belt, his dead body doubled over. She then looked down at Ryvver splayed on the courtyard.
She glanced over at Donnally.
“Sorry,” Goldhagen said. “It never crossed my mind it might come to this kind of thing. I thought maybe it would be an angry client or sex that went bad. . something. . anything. . but not this.”
Donnally was listening to her, but was replaying in his mind the last seconds of Ryvver’s and Hancock’s lives.
He’d been surprised by the gun until he’d remembered that one had been stolen from Hamlin’s nightstand. Even back then, Ryvver must have known she’d have at least a second, maybe even a third victim.
Donnally imagined Ryvver tying Hamlin to a chair in his apartment, him thinking he could buy his life back by paying with lies, then realizing he couldn’t, and the only thing that might save him was what he had never done: Tell the truth.
But it had come too late.
Janie shivered next to him. He reached an arm around her. She had felt for Hancock’s pulse in the darkness, checked Ryvver’s body, and then tried to console the two mothers in the parking lot when the surveillance crew brought them over from Golden Gate Park.
Navarro had ordered the bodies left where they were until the crime scene crew finished their work. He wanted to make sure he got it right. His career, first tied to Hamlin’s, was now also tied to Hancock’s.
Standing there, they all already knew the future. There would be questions and press conferences and grand juries, and later, when the rolling scheme was exposed, court hearings and dismissals and reversals, and eventually dozens of crooks would walk back out through prison doors, the Assistant U.S. Attorney would be fired for conspiring with Hamlin and Hancock. .
Donnally felt his mind race ahead, riding a wave of bitterness and anger, for the thought that had framed his struggles in the last days had been true. The momentum of Hamlin’s existence, the chains of causes and effects, of things done and suffered, hadn’t ended with his death.
And he was certain Hancock’s wouldn’t end with his.
“What’s the truth?” Goldhagen asked. “Did Hancock have anything to do with Little Bud?”
“Specifically,” Donnally said, “I don’t know. But generally, yes. He was part of Hamlin’s world, what made up his world. There was nothing he could say that would’ve saved him from Ryvver. As crazy as she was, she understood everything.”
Donnally closed his eyes, remembering Ryvver going over the railing, realizing now that she hadn’t screamed as she fell, and in those empty moments he’d felt the presence of her mothers. He’d called out Janie’s name, fearing a stray bullet had found her, wrenched by guilt until her voice reached out to him from the wind and rain.
Then came the scream. Jackson’s. And her sobbing that continued even into the ambulance that had taken her away.
Donnally opened his eyes again and looked up at the bridge, at the spectators gazing down, their cell phone cameras taking pictures and videos.
This time he didn’t care what they saw, what they photographed, what they videoed.
Let the facts be known and the truth be seen.
Wasn’t that why Judge McMullin had appointed him?
And hadn’t the time now come?
Special master.
He did his job and found Hamlin’s killer, but he wasn’t sure what he’d mastered.
Helplessness sank into Donnally as he realized that all he’d discovered in the end were the steps and the path Hamlin had taken in becoming who he was, but not why he’d chosen to take them. And in his weariness, Donnally found himself fearing he’d simply run up against the limits of understanding human beings such as Hamlin and then anguishing over whether those limits were in himself or in the world.
And he sure hadn’t mastered the facts of what had happened soon enough-wasn’t sure even now he’d mastered them all-otherwise there wouldn’t be two dead bodies in front of him.
He thought of the words Goldhagen had spoken when they last stood in this spot. She’d been wrong. The shortest distance hadn’t been a straight line. It had been through a maze that took him not to the heart of the matter, but only back to where he’d started.
“Do you know why Ryvver was so determined to go after Hancock?” Goldhagen asked.
Donnally squinted against the swirling salt wind and looked up at Hancock’s inert body, his suit jacket flapping and his pant legs fluttering, the mountain climber’s rope quivering, and then he thought of Ryvver tightening the noose around Hamlin’s neck and later Hancock’s, and confronting Lange in between, drugging him and searching his files.
He realized his theory had been mistaken. She’d scattered Lange’s papers not because she was trying to destroy them in the fire, but because she’d been searching for something, maybe something she’d seen while she worked for him that had become meaningful when she’d interrogated and tortured Hamlin.
“I suspect she wanted a final confirmation Hancock was somehow responsible for Little Bud’s suicide,” Donnally said. “Either directly because it was one of his clients who rolled on Little Bud, or indirectly because he was Hamlin’s partner in the kind of evil that made Little Bud’s death inevitable.”
“But I don’t get why Hancock would come up to San Francisco,” Goldhagen said. “He must’ve suspected he might be walking into a trap.”
“My guess is something terrified him enough to make it worth the risk.”
Donnally thought of Sheldon Galen and Takiyah Jackson, the surviving links in the chains of wrongdoing, and of the Vietnamese holding a gun at his back in the parking garage, and of victims’ brothers and fathers, sisters and mothers, and of trials twisted by perjury and corrupted by manufactured evidence.