A second gunshot ripped through the casino. A door leading to the street opened and closed, throwing light inside the darkened interior. Valentine pulled himself to his feet and ran toward the door. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and his head was spinning. Gerry was right beside him, their shoulders almost touching.
“You didn’t have to kick me so hard,” his son said.
“Yes, I did.”
The darkness was deceiving, and made it hard to judge distances. Valentine found the door and jerked it open. Sunlight flooded through the space. Lying on the floor was the guard assigned to make sure Bronco didn’t escape. He’d taken a slug in the shoulder and had his hand pressed against the wound.
“You okay?” Valentine asked.
“Flesh wound,” the guard said. “Get that son-of-a-bitch.”
Valentine and Gerry went outside. The exit led to an overhead pedestrian walkway that connected the MGM to the other side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Vegas was filled with pedestrian walkways, and Valentine hated every single one of them. They served no other purpose than to give escape routes for criminals.
Bronco was halfway across the walkway. He had eyes in the back of his head, and spun around, then aimed and fired. The bullet winged the building above their heads.
“Fuck you, Valentine!”
Laughing, Bronco climbed over the walkway’s restraining wall, and jumped to the street, landing on the hood of a car filled with people. Rolling off, he began to run. The loss of power had knocked out the traffic lights, and he darted through the sea of cars.
“Let’s get him,” Gerry said.
“Stay here. That’s an order.”
The door to the MGM banged open. Bill staggered out, clutching his bloody arm. It was a nasty wound, but the pain was nothing compared to what he was feeling inside.
“We lost him,” Valentine said.
“What a way to end a career,” Bill said.
“It’s not over, yet.”
“It is for me.”
“You don’t look good. We need to find a doctor.”
“Where’s your son?”
Valentine spun around. Gerry had taken off. He felt himself panic, and heard the pounding of footsteps as Gerry ran down a stairwell that led to the street.
“ Gerry!”
Valentine was never going to outrun his son. He stepped onto the walkway, and hung his head over the railing, trying to find him down below.
“There he is,” Bill said.
His eyes followed the direction of Bill’s finger. Gerry stood in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard in the spot where Bronco had rolled off the car. His son picked up a piece of paper lying on the street. Thirty seconds later, he was standing next to his father, all out of breath.
“You trying to give me a heart attack?” Valentine asked.
“This fell out of his pocket,” Gerry explained. “It’s a photograph.”
Valentine had a look. The photo had been taken in the days before digital cameras. In it, a little boy was swimming in a plastic above-ground swimming pool. He was a cute kid, with loads of freckles and a playful smile. He flipped it over. Written on the back was the word Mikey.
“You sure this was in Bronco’s pocket?”
“Positive,” his son said.
Valentine didn’t know what it meant, and wasn’t sure he ever would. Bill had turned white as a ghost, and looked ready to pass out. They went back inside the MGM. There was a flicker of light in the ceiling, and people in the casino cheered. Moments later the lights came on, only dimmer than before, the patrons enveloped in a sickly yellow glow. As they helped Bill across the floor, Valentine noticed that everyone had gone right back to gambling. It was as if nothing had happened.
Which was exactly what Smoltz had wanted.
Chapter 60
Valentine stood on the balcony of his comped suite at the Acropolis, watching the neon jungle that was nighttime on the Las Vegas strip. Down below, thousands of people, some in cars, other on foot, snaked through the canyon formed by the gigantic casinos.
They’d checked Bill into the hospital a few hours ago, then tried to find lodgings for the night. The town was sold out, and Valentine had called Nick, and asked a favor.
Through the open slider came the voice of a TV newscaster, talking about the power outage that had taken down Vegas that afternoon. The outage was being attributed to a faulty generator in the city’s main power plant, located at the Hoover Dam. It was the first time since the assassination of President Kennedy that the city’s casinos had been shut down. The newscaster was making it sound like it had been no big deal, and Valentine supposed it wasn’t a big deal, unless you happened to know the truth.
He went inside and killed the TV. Gerry lay on the bed, still fully clothed, snoring away. His son had surprised him on this trip, and made him think there was still hope.
On the coffee table lay the photo of Mikey the mystery boy. He and Gerry had spent several hours trying to determine the photo’s significance. The photo had not been well taken care of, which had led them to believe that it wasn’t important to Bronco, and was something he planned to use when he established another identity.
Or maybe it meant something else. He sat down on the couch, and stared into space. Bronco had always been an enigma. He’d been chasing him for a long time, yet had never understood what made him tick. The things he’d learned about him on this trip had only added to the confusion. It had started with the tape of the woman named Marie. She’d obviously meant a great deal to Bronco, yet there was no evidence that she’d been in his life recently. So why had Bronco kept her dresses in his closet, and a framed photo on his night table? Had he been in love with her? It didn’t seem possible. Bronco had impressed him as someone incapable of love. That was true with most killers. They did not know how to love, or be loved in return.
Then Bronco had kidnaped Gerry. Bronco could have killed his son, only he hadn’t. Gerry’s comment about why Bronco hadn’t killed him had bothered Valentine. He has a heart.No, he didn’t. If Bronco had a heart, he wouldn’t have shot Bo Farmer on his honeymoon in front of his wife.
Valentine got a ginger ale out of the mini bar. It tasted good and cold. When it was gone, he went back onto the balcony, and thought about it some more.
Another strange thing had happened in Reno. Bronco had been nice to Karl Jr., buying him an ice cream cone, and later stuffing three hundred dollars into the little boy’s shirt pocket. Sociopaths didn’t do things like that, at least not the ones he’d encountered.
Did those things make Bronco a nice guy? Far from it. He’d killed Bo Farmer, stabbed Karl Klinghoffer, been responsible for his cell mate getting killed, and caused all sorts of mayhem in Las Vegas, including shooting the Asian in the back on Fremont Street. Bronco was a stone-cold, cold-blooded killer. Yet for some reason, he’d shown kindness to Gerry and Karl Jr., and revealed a side of himself that few killers had.
He has a heart.
That bothered Valentine. Going inside, he put on his reading glasses, and studied the faded photo. He stared until his eyes hurt.
It took a while, but he finally saw it. The resemblance was faint, but it was there. Mikey had Bronco’s genetic stamp.
Bronco didn’t have a heart, but he did have a son. That was who this kid was. And he’d died a long time ago. Otherwise, the photo would have been new.
He paced the room, and thought about it some more. Bronco had spoken to him inside the MGM that afternoon. I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled.He probably would, too, just to get under his skin.
Bronco was going to leave Las Vegas, and never come back. Would he say goodbye to Mikey, just like any loving father would do? Valentine had a feeling that he would.
Valentine shook his own son awake.
“What’s going on?” Gerry said groggily.
“Get up. We’ve got work to do.”