Jamie laughed. “Well, I’ve gotta say I’m a lot better now that you put that thing away. Thought I’d pee my pants for a minute there.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Jamie Feldon.”
Vaughn shook his head. “Do I know you?”
“Not really, but we’ve met.”
“What can I do for you?”
Jamie said brightly, “I’ve come to see you about making amends.” He nodded at the Champagne.
“Amends?” Vaughn asked, frowning. “What did you do to me?”
“Oh,” Jamie said, “it’s not what I did to you. It’s what you did to me.”
“To you? What-?” Vaughn asked. But before he could continue, Jamie lunged forward and swung the bottle into the side of the businessman’s head.
The businessman went down like a rock.
Five minutes later Charles Vaughn came to.
Jamie was standing over him, aiming the man’s pistol at his chest, the grip of the gun wrapped in a napkin he’d found in a nearby trash bin.
“What,” Vaughn gasped, “what’s this all about?” He squinted.
“Amends,” he said. “Like I said.”
“But I don’t even know you… What’d I do?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“No. I swear.”
“Well, take a good look.”
“I’m sorry. Really. Please put down the gun. We can talk about it.”
“Think back,” Jamie said in a smooth voice. “Think back to late March. You were in the Lincoln Brew Pub.”
“I go there all the time.”
“I know. But this particular day you should remember. You started to walk out the door, but all of a sudden you jumped back, like you saw a goddamn ghost. You spilled my Bloody Mary all over me. And then you just run out the back door.” Jamie gave a cold laugh. “Do you say you’re sorry? Do you offer to pay for the dry cleaning? No.”
“Wait…” Vaughn was shaking his head. “I remember that. But… Wait, how did you find me?”
“Just asked the bartender at the Lincoln Pub what your name was. Then I Googled you and found where you lived and worked. Had to see you alone, of course. Didn’t want your family around.”
“You have to understand-at the bar back then in March? That guy I was telling you about, the attacker? I thought he was outside. I was afraid.”
Jamie shrugged. “I was supposed to pick up my kid for visitation but I had that drink all over me. Couldn’t pick him up looking like that, could I? I had to go home and change. I was late and his mother’d taken him someplace with her by the time I got there. Made a big deal about it with the court, too.”
“I’m sorry, but-”
“Sorry, but,” Jamie mocked. “See, I’ve been putting up with crap like that all my life. People’ve insulted me, cheated me, made fun of me, bumped into me ever since I was a kid. And I’ve never had the guts to fight back. I just swallowed it all… I get walked over and I never have the balls to do anything. But a week ago I decided I’m not going to put up with it anymore. People’re going to make amends to me for what they’ve done. And you’re the first on my list.”
“Make amends?” Vaughn gasped. “But I just spilled something on you. What do you want? You want money?”
“No, I want you to die,” Jamie said matter-of-factly and shoved the gun against Vaughn’s head, then pulled the trigger.
After he cleaned the blood off his own face and hands Jamie wrapped the dead man’s fingers around the gun and quickly left the garage. He looked around. Nobody seemed to have heard the shot. He walked slowly down the stairs and out to the lot where he was parked, carrying the Champagne. Jamie’d taken the bottle to use as a weapon; it was something that nobody would be suspicious of. He’d planned to either beat Vaughn to death with it, or, if it broke, use the jagged neck to slash the man’s carotid artery.
But Vaughn had actually been carrying a gun! If the businessman was really so jittery about whatever’d happened on St. Patrick’s Day, the cops might get the idea he’d gone over the edge and killed himself. Or maybe they’d think that guy who’d attacked him had finally tracked him down.
Jamie climbed in his car and drove slowly out of the parking lot. He kept hearing Vaughn’s words in his mind.
At the bar back then in March? That guy I was telling you about, the attacker? I thought he was outside. I was afraid.
Excuses, Jamie reflected in disgust. There were always excuses.
And he wasn’t going to accept them anymore.
Jamie was going to be true to his resolution. The TV show he’d seen had changed him forever. People had to make amends for their transgressions, and he was going to be the angel of justice to make sure they did.
Who next? He glanced down at the list and noticed his wife’s name, but she was at the bottom. He’d have to handle that one carefully since he’d be a prime suspect in her death.
But there were plenty of scores to settle before her.
He saw the name below Vaughn’s.
Carole, in Scituate. She was a thirty-five-year-old bank manager he’d taken out on a date in February. They’d gone to the Red Lobster, All You Can Eat… and she sure had.
But afterwards, a double insult: She’d refused to sleep with him and then she’d never called, like she’d promised.
It was seven-thirty. Did he have time to take care of Carole tonight?
Sure he did, Jamie decided. Tomorrow was Saturday; he could sleep in. Besides, there were a lot of names on his list; it’d feel good to mark another one off.
He lit a cigarette, only his fourth of the day, and headed for the turnpike.
About the Author
Former attorney and folksinger Jeffery Deaver is the best-selling author of a dozen suspense novels and numerous short stories. He has been nominated for an Edgar Award three times and is a two-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Readers’ Award for best short story of the year. The London Times has called him the “best psychological thriller writer around.” He makes his home in Virginia and California. The Bone Collector, the first Lincoln Rhyme thriller, is soon to be a feature film from Universal Pictures.
