Suddenly Dan raised his knee into Travis’s chest. The impact was not that hard, but it struck Travis exactly where he had been pounded by Kramer. The numbing pain returned, worse than ever. If his rib wasn’t broken before, it certainly was now. Travis gasped, and in that moment Dan rolled away from him.
Travis grabbed at Dan’s arm. He didn’t stop him, but he did knock the revolver out of his hand. It skidded across the floor and under the desk. Dan ran for the front door.
Travis hauled himself to his feet. Every movement increased his pain a thousandfold. He forced himself to block it out, ignore it. Staci’s life depended on him. Gritting his teeth, he lumbered across the room after Dan.
When he was almost through the room, Dan stumbled over the weapon Travis had left on the floor. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. Travis grabbed Dan by the collar and slung him forcefully down on the floor.
Travis grabbed his gun and pointed it at Dan’s chest. “Don’t move.”
Perspiration dripped from Dan’s face. He attempted a grotesque, unconvincing smile. “Travis, you—you wouldn’t shoot me, would you?”
“Why not? You were going to kill me.”
“Kill you? Oh, no—you misunderstood. I just wanted to delay you—”
“Save it, Dan. It’s over.”
“Over?” The smile faded from Dan’s face and was replaced by something else, something far worse. “Over? My life over? Just because some stupid fat policeman is holding a gun on me?” He began to laugh, a thin, nasty laugh. “You’re pathetic. This is Dan, remember? I know everything about you. And I know you don’t have the balls to fire that gun.”
Travis’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. He could feel the pounding of his heart, the aching of his chest. This was the man who had ruined his life, who had manipulated him from the start. The man who had lied to him, who had tried to kill him. The man who had terrified and threatened Staci.
This was the man who was truly responsible for Angela’s death.
Travis’s hands clenched the gun tightly. If ever he was going to recover his life, this was the time.
He wrapped his finger around the trigger and fired.
Henderson and Cavanaugh burst through the front door of Dan’s house barely a second after Travis’s gun sounded.
“What the hell …?” Henderson scanned the foyer, then led the charge into the library. He saw the door standing open and entered, Cavanaugh close at his heels.
“Travis!” Cavanaugh ran to him. He was leaning at a tilt, clutching his chest. His gun hung limply from his right hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” he said, oddly quiet. “Take care of Staci.”
Cavanaugh saw the young girl tied to the chair. Taking Travis’s pocketknife, she carefully cut the ropes that bound Staci to the chair and cut the gag off her mouth.
She planned to ask the girl how she was, but she never had a chance. Before she could speak, Staci leaped out of her chair and ran to Travis. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged tightly.
“He’s hurt,” Staci said.
“Travis,” Cavanaugh said, “no more excuses. You’re going directly to the hospital. Do not pass Go. Do not—”
She froze when she noticed Dan’s body lying motionless on the floor.
She approached slowly, dearly afraid of what she might find. “You … shot him.”
“Believe me, he deserved it,” Travis replied. “I’ll explain everything later.”
“But—you shot him. I mean—you pulled the trigger.”
The corners of Travis’s lips tugged upward. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.” He threw one arm around Staci and the other around Cavanaugh. “Come on. Let’s go to Denny’s or something. I’d like the two of you to get to know one another. We’ll let Henderson buy, as soon as he finishes cleaning up here.”
Cavanaugh went along with him, but her eyes jack-knifed to the body on the floor. Dan’s body was splattered with red.
Red paint.
TUESDAY
May 14
76
4:30 P.M.
“AND SO, LADIES AND gentlemen of the jury, despite what you may think of my client Alberto Moroconi, despite the desperate flight that interrupted this trial, and despite the great sympathy you and I share for Mary Ann McKenzie, the fact remains that the prosecution has not proven his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Travis leaned against the jury rail. “The prosecution has failed to come forward with any positive identification linking Mr. Moroconi to this crime. They have not even proven he was in the neighborhood, much less that he was one of the vile perpetrators who tortured and abused Mary Ann McKenzie. With as little proof as that, can you sentence this man to a lifetime behind bars?
“No doubt about it—a cruel crime has been committed. An injustice. But let us not in our rush for vengeance compound the injustice. That will not help anyone. Indeed, that would only serve to make us as bad as the men who committed this foul deed.”
Travis paused, clasped his hands together, and gazed out at the jurors. “There is an old story about a young student and his elderly Oriental master. The master was very old and wise, and it was said that he could answer any question. But the student was young and brash, and he decided that he would trick the master. He captured a small bird and enclosed it in his two hands.”
Travis cupped his hands together in demonstration. “The student’s plan was this—he would ask the master if the bird was alive or dead. If the master said the bird was dead, he would open his hands and let the creature fly away.” Travis opened his hands and spread them across the expanse of the jury box. “But if the master said the bird was alive, then the student would crush his hands together”—Travis clapped his hands together suddenly, startling the jury—“and snuff out the poor creature’s life.
“And so the student went to his master, the tiny creature cupped between his palms, and he said, ‘Master, I hold a small bird. Is the bird alive or dead?’
“And the master looked directly into his student’s eyes and said, ‘My son, the bird is in your hands.’ ”
Travis made eye contact with each of the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Alberto Moroconi is in your hands.”
He held their gaze for an extended moment, then returned to counsel table.
After Judge Hagedorn dismissed the jury, Travis left Moroconi with a bailiff and strolled to the back of the courtroom. Cavanaugh was waiting for him.
“Now that the trial’s over, am I permitted to smooch with opposing counsel?”
“I think that’s in the Rules of Professional Conduct somewhere.”
His lips met hers for a long, sweet moment. “How did I do?” he asked.
“Great, as always. You won the case.”
“Don’t jinx it. Let’s wait until the jury returns before we declare a winner.”
“Unnecessary. I know how it will come out. We had a flimsy case and you tore it apart. Moroconi may be vile, but he didn’t commit this crime.”
Travis nodded. “What has your boss decided to do about Dan?”
“The grand jury handed down the indictments this afternoon. Sixteen counts. Against him and Kramer and Mario.”
Even now, weeks after Travis confronted Dan, he still couldn’t shake his lingering sorrow. The man he had known so long and so well, the man he considered his mentor and hero, had met a pitiful end. “Should come as quite a blow to him.”
“Well, he’s had several severe blows lately. Including one involving red paint.”