Gnoble slumped to the ground. Becky Lynn gathered herself up. “No
… No!” she cried, stumbling over to him. Angie ran past them, her puppy forgotten, and Sydney forced herself up. Ignored the burning in her chest. Kept her gun trained on Gnoble. Carillo was at her side, doing the same. They rushed forward, just as Jared Dunning and three other men burst onto the driveway, their guns drawn, one of them saying they couldn’t get a shot, because of the kid. Carillo pulled Becky Lynn back, shoved Gnoble with his foot.
He was not going anywhere. And the truth was, Sydney wanted to shoot him again. Just to make sure.
Breathe, she told herself. It’s over. Just breathe. “You okay?” Carillo asked her.
“Something hurts.” Sydney felt her chest, realized one of Carillo’s casings had landed in the little hollow between her bra and her skin. “Damned things are hot,” Sydney said, reaching down, digging it out.
“I can get it for you.”
She was about to quip something really smart-assed, just as she turned back, saw her mother. Saw Angie.
Saw Jake on the ground.
Her heart thudded.
She’d done this. She’d brought all this on.
“Oh my God…”
“Go,” Carillo said, holstering his weapon, then pulling out his cell phone. “I’ve got her.”
Sydney ran over, knelt beside them. Saw Jake’s gun on the seat of his car. He’d never even reached it. Just diverted Gnoble’s attention to save Angie.
She couldn’t see through the blur of her tears. Couldn’t see anything but the growing red stain in his gut as her mom applied pressure. “Mom. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Angie was sobbing. “He’s okay, right, Mommy?” “Ambulance en route, Fitz,” Carillo shouted.
Her mother pressed down harder, and Sydney put her hand over hers, tried to help. Her mother looked her right in the eye, her voice calm. “He’ll be fine. Get me a towel, Angela.”
Angie ran into the house, just as Jake opened his eyes. Tried to take a breath. “God… it hurts.”
“I’m sorry. Jake. I’m sorry…”
He closed his eyes again, and Sydney wondered if he’d ever forgive her. If any of them would forgive her…
The sirens grew louder, echoed off the house. Scotty arrived first, saying something about a neighbor walking over, telling them that Gnoble had taken off in a different car just before they’d gotten there. Two radio cars pulled up. Officers got out, ran up. Carillo with his creds out, holding Becky Lynn. “FBI. Two down. This one in custody.”
But it seemed an eternity before the ambulance came. Angie ran out with a towel, gave it to her mom, who placed it over Jake’s wound, pressed down, her voice calm, soothing, urging Jake to be still.
And then they came to put him in the ambulance, this man who had raised Sydney after her father had died.
And Sydney watched them working on him, afraid to say anything. Afraid to move.
Her mother came over to her, took Sydney’s hand in hers, while her gaze remained on Jake. “This is not your fault.”
“I-”
“Becky Lynn came to see me. You didn’t bring her.”
“Why?”
“Because this morning when she called, I told her not to call again. Every year around the anniversary, she’d get drunk and call to apologize about the explosion that injured your father, and then his murder. I guess this time… I just wanted to move on.”
Her mother looked at her, tried to smile, failed. She reached out, brushed a bit of something from Sydney’s cheek, dirt, grass, who knows, and said, “Call your aunt and uncle. Watch Angela.”
“I will.”
She kissed Sydney, walked over to the EMTs as they put Jake on the gurney. Efficient. Just another body to them.
The next thing Sydney knew, they were wheeling Jake toward the ambulance, her mother walking beside them, holding Jake’s hand. Sydney looked down at him, still as death on that gurney, and all Sydney could whisper was “I’m sorry, Jake,” over and over as she walked on the other side. Just as they were getting ready to lift him into the ambulance, he opened his eyes, looked at her. “Syd…” His voice was quiet. Sydney leaned over, not sure what to say, what to do.
“If Angie… grows up to be a goddamned cop… I want… want her… to be… like you.”
Sydney squeezed his hand, and he looked at the EMT and said, “How
… fast… can you drive this thing?”
50
Two days later, Sydney picked up a file folder containing her Jane Doe sketch. The tentative ID was verified, and they now had a name to put on her headstone. Delia Jones. The forensic odontologist had positively identified her killer from a reconstruction of the bite made from the broken teeth of the purse snatcher Carillo had arrested a few nights ago. “You’ll turn this in for me?” she asked Carillo, handing the file folder to him.
“Yeah, sure.” He was quiet, watching her place the last few odds and ends in the box on her desk. “You could fight this transfer. Wasn’t that the plan?”
“It was. Until the moment I saw Gnoble with a gun to my sister’s head. Maybe even before that moment. I don’t ever want to put my family through that again. I’m not sure I could go through that again.”
“Just when I was getting used to working with you.” “You’ll find another naive agent to torture, Carillo.” “Not like you. I mean, look at what you’ve done. The
Democrats would roll out the red carpet for you anywhere you went in this state. You single-handedly took out their candidate’s biggest contender for senator.”
“Funny,” she said, throwing him a dark look. “But I’ve made up my mind.”
“But Quantico?”
“Why not?”
“Because nothing happens there. You’re walking down hallways filled with recruits and marines and cops. It’s evidence and paperwork and teaching. Boring.”
“After the past week I’ve had,” she said, “boring sounds perfect.”
“Yeah, yeah. But just remember. Once you come to the dark side, Pollyanna, it’s hard to go back.”
Doc Schermer walked up, eyed the boxes on her desk, then gave an overly bright smile as he stuck out his hand. “Good working with you, Fitzpatrick.”
“You, too, Doc,” she said, shaking his hand. “And keep Carillo in line.”
“Always. So, what’s the good word on Wheeler? He out, yet?”
“Soon,” she said. “Apparently there’s a lot of red tape to clear up a man wrongly accused.”
And Carillo said, “Especially when they can’t publicly release ninety percent of what Gnoble was involved in that led up to that false accusation. It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out in the press.”
“Won’t it,” Schermer said. “You think they’ll go public on Mrs. Gnoble’s involvement?”
“They might,” Sydney replied. “Only because Prescott managed to tape a few of their conversations, particularly one very incriminating statement in which she said that once Wheeler was executed, the only thing standing between her and becoming first lady was my repressed memories.”
“And Becky Lynn?” Schermer asked Sydney.
“I have a feeling she’s going to make a deal.”
“A deal?” Carillo said. “I’ll bet she asks for witness protection and a new identity. She was sitting on millions upon millions of missing BICTT funds that the Black Network wouldn’t hesitate to kill over.”
“Okay,” Schermer said. “I’m a little confused. If she had the money in the offshore accounts all this time, then why’d Gnoble kill your father?”
“To cover for the black op, the one where Wheeler’s father was killed and mine was injured. That was how they acquired the BICTT funds. Not only wasn’t it sanctioned, the government didn’t even know about it. Gnoble was after the money, plain and simple.”
“Your father, too?”
“You mean was he in it for the money? I’d like to think he didn’t know it wasn’t a government op. But I do know he felt guilty enough to try to make it up to Wheeler for the loss of his father. The only problem was that Gnoble couldn’t risk moving any of that money, beause of the paper trial he was worried would follow.”