“What the fuck?” says Sean, turning toward me and quickly pinning my arms.
But by then my gun is tight against his side, and as he stares at me with the same shocked expression the mortician had to wipe off Feif, Walco, and Rochie, I shoot him.
I’ll say one thing. Sean doesn’t cry for his mother like those other boys did. He must think I’m his mom the way he reaches for me and says, “Tom? What are you doing, Tom?”
I fire three more times, the barrel of the gun so tight against Sean’s big chest it works like a flesh-and-blood silencer, and the sound of the muffled shots barely reaches the soggy woods. That shuts him up, but his eyes are still wide open and it feels as if they’re staring at me. I feel Sean’s eyes on me until I get a small shovel from the trunk and dig a shallow grave. Then I start throwing dirt over his face. I find another spot to bury the gun; then I get back into the car.
I love being in a parked car when the rain is tap-dancing on the roof, and for a while I just sit there and watch it wash the grime off the windshield, just like I washed Sean off of me. And you know what? I still feel redeemed.
Chapter 110. Kate
MARIE’S TINY LIVING room is so crowded it’s kind of like swimming in the ocean. You go where the waves take you. One minute I’m listening to the very good-looking George Clooney rant about the American criminal justice system, the next I’m having an emotional heart-to-heart with Tom’s brother, Jeff, who tells me he’s been worried about Sean.
“He’s not been himself since the trial started,” says Jeff. “Anxious, depressed or something. And he never said a thing to me about a girl.”
“It’s a tough age,” I say, and try to reassure him, but before I have much of a chance, I’m pulled away as if by an undertow to a spot in a corner beside Lucinda Walker, Michael Walker’s mom. It’s awful standing in such a jubilant crowd with the mother of a murdered child, but Lucinda takes my hand.
“God bless you, Miss Costello,” she says. “You kept another innocent life from being destroyed. I never believed Dante killed my son or those others. Maybe now the police will concentrate on finding the real killers.”
As Lucinda talks about Dante and Marie, the front door opens and Tom wedges himself back into the packed party, and when he smiles at me across the room, my heart flies out to him. It scares me to think how close I came to not giving him a second chance. If not for this case, I might have never talked to him again.
“I feel like a salmon fighting his way upriver to spawn,” says Tom, sweat dripping off his nose.
“Hold that thought. How’s Sean?”
“More down than I’ve ever seen him. It’s sad, but I gave him my spiel and your hug. How about you, Kate? How’s my girl?”
“I had no idea being happy could be this exhausting.”
“What do you say the two of us get lost for a little while?”
“You got a place in mind?”
“Actually, I do. But that’s the surprise I told you about before.”
He leads me across the room toward Mack and Marie, and Marie hugs me so tight I laugh.
“Look at you two,” she says, her eyes dancing with joy. “You showed everyone. E-ver-y-one! The whole world!”
“Us? How about you two?” says Tom, and clinks his beer bottle against Mack’s glass.
“To twos,” says Macklin, putting his arm around Marie.
“Well, this couple’s heading home,” says Tom. “It’s been a great day but a really long one. We can barely stand up.”
The guest of honor is in the kitchen surrounded by high school buddies who beam at him in awe. Although around the same age as Dante, they seem five years younger. Dante won’t let us leave the house until he’s introduced them all.
“This big fella,” says Dante, pointing to a heavyset kid on his left, “is Charles Hall, C-H. These are the Cutty brothers, and this is Buford, but we call him Boo. They’re my boys.”
Tom and I give Dante one more hug, and then we’re out of there. Actually, the more I think about it, I am in the mood for a surprise.
Chapter 111. Kate
OUTSIDE THE HOUSE, where it’s twenty degrees cooler, the rain feels like a warm, sweet shower. Tom puts an arm around me and leads me across the yard to my car. As I look down at the muddy tires, Tom pulls me to him hard and says, “I just have to kiss you, Kate.”
“Works for me.”
We kiss in the rain, then climb soaked into the car. Tom buckles me in and heads for home, but at Route 27, he turns west instead of east, and if you grew up out here like us, that’s not something you can do by accident no matter how hard it’s raining or how tired you are. When I look over for an explanation, Tom responds with a shit-eating grin.
“I told you I had a surprise.”
“Let me guess,” I say, almost too exhausted to care. “A weekend at the Peninsula?”
“Way better.”
“Really. You sure you can’t tell me? That way I’ll just be surprised now.”
“Kate, have we been working our butts off for like decades?” asks Tom, still smiling as he peers through the driving rain.
“Approximately.”
“Have we done well by our client?”
“You could say that.”
“And do you trust me?”
“You know I do,” I say, touching Tom’s shoulder and suddenly overcome by such warm feelings, I’m choking up for the umpteenth time today.
“Then sit back and relax. You’ve earned it, Counselor.”
Like a good girl, I do as I’m told, and after a while I even manage to doze off. When I open my eyes, Tom’s turned off 495 and is driving down a dark side road past overgrown lots and boarded-up houses. Where are we now? I’m disoriented and lost.
Then I see the sign for Kennedy Airport.
“Tom?”
Tom offers nothing but that same silly smile as he swerves into the lane for international departures and pulls up in front of the Air France terminal.
“Ever been to Paris, Kate?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
I’m feeling so many different things, but all I can say is “Who’s taking care of Wingo?”
“Macklin,” he says. “How do you think I got this?” And he hands me my passport with an e-ticket inside.
“I’m going to drop off the car,” says Tom as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll meet you at the gate.” But I can’t move or stop looking at him because it’s as though I’m seeing him for the first time.
Chapter 112. Tom
THE OVERNIGHT AIR France flight touches down at 1:00 p.m. local time, and we hustle through the chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport. With no luggage to wait for, we’re first in line at immigration and pass effortlessly through customs. I’ve never felt so free and easy in my life.
Eleven hours ago, I was driving through Queens. Now we’re in the back of a black Fiat speeding past French road signs. We leave the drab motorway for the tree-lined postcard streets of Paris proper. The cab pulls off a grand boulevard, chatters briefly over cobblestones, and stops in front of the small hotel on the Left Bank I booked online this afternoon.
Our room isn’t ready yet, so we walk two doors down to a coffeeshop. We order lattes and watch the bustling streets.
“Where are we, Tom?” asks Kate, licking the foam off her lips.
“ Paris.”
“Just checking.”
Five minutes after we pay for our coffees, we’re leaning against a stone balustrade and looking out over the muddy Seine. Elegant limestone buildings, none of which is much more than five stories tall or less than five hundred years old, line the far side of the river. The best part, though, is the light in Kate’s eyes.
We cross le Pont-Neuf and follow the concierge’s directions to the nearest department store. “I could get used to this,” says Kate.