“But why kill Florentino?”
“I don’t think they meant to kill him. I think they meant to kill you.”
Ryan was quiet for a moment as that sank in.
“They nailed him in the upper chest and base of his throat,” McGee continued. “Right where—”
“My head would have been had I not dropped,” she said, finishing his sentence for him.
“With that kind of luck, we ought to stop off and have you buy a lottery ticket.”
“It wasn’t luck,” she replied pensively. “It was instinct. Florentino knew they were there. His eyes gave them away. For some reason, something inside me just told me to react.”
“Call it whatever you want, but you were smart to listen to it. Between you and that Florentino guy, I’m glad it was him and not you that bought it.”
Ryan didn’t respond.
McGee accelerated to make it through the light that was changing up ahead. Once he had cleared the intersection, he asked, “Do you think he knew what they were intending to do to you?”
Ryan shook her head. “No. We were friends once. If he knew, I think he would have found a way to warn me.”
“Maybe he did.”
She fell silent again and McGee didn’t push the conversation. After several minutes, Ryan said, “I’m glad you followed me outside. Thank you.”
“You would have been fine,” he replied. “You’ve got great instincts.”
“No, you were right. I got lucky. Very lucky.”
“Don’t start second-guessing everything now and overanalyzing it. It’s done.” Changing the subject, he asked, “Did you recognize who was shooting at us?”
“No. I’ve never seen them before.”
“I don’t know what kind of pies Durkin has his dirty little fingers into, but he has access to a lot of manpower. Two hitters at my place, two at yours, and now two more on Florentino.”
“If you’re right,” said Ryan, “and he’s got people watching the other team members, we’re not going to be able to get close to them, much less get them to talk to us.”
“There is still one way,” McGee reminded her.
“Bob, I told you no. No children.”
“That was when they’d only used a Taser on you. I thought being shot at might change your mind.”
“It hasn’t. We’ll have to come up with another way.”
“Well, the McGee idea factory is closed for renovations. You’re going to have to come up with something on your own.”
Ryan turned in her seat to face him. “Are you telling me you won’t help?”
“I’m telling you that you got my best idea. Hell, you got my only idea. I’m fresh out. That’s it.”
She didn’t believe him. “We just need to think harder.”
“If I try to think this thing through any harder, there’s going to be smoke coming out of my ears. Listen, you know me. I’m a simple guy. I made a career out of tracking down bad guys, kicking in their doors, and shooting them in the head. Sometimes I delayed that last part long enough to have a chat with them, but not often. I’m not a schemer. I don’t construct intricate plots and ruses. I’m a door kicker. It’s in my blood and I’m not ashamed of that.
“As far as I’m concerned the shortest distance between two points really is a straight line. Often the simplest answer is the best.”
“Wait,” she interjected. “Say that again.”
“What? About the simplest answer being the best?”
“No, the other part.”
McGee took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “About the shortest distance between two points being a straight line?”
“That’s it,” Ryan admitted with a look of satisfaction.
“What’s it?”
“It’s something Tom Cushing, our team leader always said. The shortest distance between two points isn’t a straight line, it’s an angle.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” said Ryan as she opened the Mustang’s glove box to see if it had a map, “I think I know how we’re going to beat Phil Durkin at his own game.”
CHAPTER 41
BOSTON
MASSACHUSETTS
She had lied to him. She had told him her name was Chloe. He knew it wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. Prostitutes lied. Drug addicts lied. Runaways lied. They all lied. He had lied, too. When her instincts kicked in and the fear began to consume her, he told her he wasn’t going to hurt her. She knew he was lying, but at that point there was nothing she could do about it except die.
The doctors had lied, too. They had told him that as long as he continued diligently with the medication, he would be able to keep things under control. And by things, they meant his urges, his impulses, that primal part of himself that delighted in power and the taking of life. He saw himself as a lion on the savannah; free to eat whatever he wanted whenever he was hungry. Of course, that’s what the meds were for. They were supposed to curb his “appetite.”
It didn’t mean he stopped killing, though. They brought him out from time to time, sent him hither and yon. One of the doctors asked him once if he expected any explanation as to why he was asked to kill. It was a very frank session, but then again it was a very frank subject. Nevertheless, he merely shrugged in response. He didn’t need an explanation or a justification. It was all about balance. Without some form of equilibrium, all living things on the savannah, even the lion, would perish from the earth. Taking a kudu or a water buffalo or even a giraffe or elephant from time to time was simply nature’s way of maintaining harmony. He was the lion. It was what lions did.
Tonight, the lion was preparing to kill again. It would be dramatic, as befitted his stature. The young woman he had left in the Charles was because he had been hungry. When a lion is hungry it eats. This is the way of the world. This was the way of his world. For the moment, he was satiated. Having cleansed himself of his need, he could focus on the task at hand.
Another key, another garage, another vehicle, another neighborhood. Everything was waiting for him, just as before. Locking the garage door behind him, he removed his flashlight and surveyed the van. Upon it was the name of a plumbing company. It had a Boston address and a Boston telephone number as well. It wouldn’t strike anyone as unusual that such a vehicle might be out at night conducting a plumbing repair. Plumbing problems happened and they happened at all hours.
Sliding open the cargo area door, he found coveralls with the name Mickey embroidered on the left chest and the company name on the back, worn work boots, a tool belt, a pillow, and a clipboard loaded with invoices and the other accumulated receipts and pieces of paper a person of his assumed identity would amass in the course of doing his job. There were lengths of copper and PVC pipe, blowtorches, cylindrical tanks, a padded moving blanket, various pieces of plumbing equipment including grates, drain snakes, and rods of all sizes, heavy metal buckets with lids, plungers, spare parts, multiple service manuals, old plumbing catalogs, a few cinder blocks, and a small stack of bricks that looked like they might have been reclaimed from a job site. The monotony of it all would bore even the most inquisitive of police officers. For his part, though, he had no intention of dealing with law enforcement. They merely appeared after the fact to admire the lion’s work.
In the back of the van was a large metal “gang box” on casters used for organizing and locking up tools or other pieces of equipment. Removing another key from his pocket, he placed his flashlight between his teeth and stepped into the van. He walked back to the gang box and tapped its lid with the key. He knew there was a little mouse inside but the mouse was being very quiet.
He tapped again, and then again once more. Fear radiated out from the box like steam from a pile of hot rocks doused with water in a sauna. He felt a chill run through his body. Getting a purchase on the gang box, he shook it violently and then pounded the lid near one of the airholes with his fist. He pressed his ear up against the side and strained to listen. Was the little mouse cowering? He certainly hoped so. A mouse should cower in the presence of a lion.