"Just write the names down for me," the voice told him, guiding the pencil toward what felt like a notepad.
His eyes bandaged shut and his voice gone, Gus felt completely cut off from the world and alone, more so than he'd ever imagined. Where is everybody? Where are the doctors, the nurses, the fucking cops, for Chrissake?
The fingers seized the flesh around his wound and squeezed again, this time harder and for longer.
An excruciating pain shot through him. Every nerve in his body seemed to ignite as he bucked against the strap, screaming in silent agony.
"This doesn't have to take all night," the man stated calmly. "Just give me the names."
There was only one name he could write. Which he did.
"Branko . . . Petrovic?" the man asked softly.
Gus nodded hurriedly.
"And the others?"
Gus shook his head as best he could. That's all I know, for fuck's sake.
The fingers again.
Pressing in, harder, deeper. Squeezing.
The pain.
The silent screams.
Jesus fucking Christ. Gus lost track of time. He managed to write the name of a place where Branko worked. Other than that, all that he could do was shake his head and mouth, No.
Over and over and over again.
Eventually, thankfully, he felt the pencil being taken away from him. At last the man believed that he was telling the truth.
Now, Gus could hear small sounds he did not recognize, then he again felt the man's fingers lift the edge of the bandage in the same place. He cringed, but this time he hardly felt the needle prick.
"Here's some more painkiller for you," the man whispered. "It'll ease the pain that you're feeling and help you sleep."
Gus felt a slow, rising wave of dark weariness flow through his head and start down his body and with it came relief that the ordeal, the pain, was over. Then a terrifying realization descended on him: that the sleep into which he was helplessly plunging was one from which he would never awaken.
Desperate now, he tried to move but couldn't, and after a moment it seemed as though he didn't want to move. He relaxed. Wherever he was going, it just had to be a better place than the sewer in which he had spent his entire miserable life.
Chapter 23
Reilly climbed out of bed, pulled on a T-shirt and looked out the window from his fourth-floor apartment. Outside, the streets were deathly quiet. The city that never sleeps only seemed to apply to him.
He often didn't sleep well for a number of reasons. One was simply his inability to let go. It was a problem he'd had more and more frequently over the last few years, this incessant mulling over leads and data relating to whatever case he was working on. He didn't really have a problem falling asleep. Sheer exhaustion usually took care of that. But then he'd hit that dreaded four a.m. threshold and suddenly find himself wide awake, his brain churning away, sorting and analyzing, searching for the missing kernel of information that might save lives.
Sometimes, the workload was sufficiently intense to monopolize his thoughts. Occasionally though, his mind would segue into personal issues, straying into even darker territory than the underworld of his investigations, and unpleasant anxiety attacks would worm their way to the surface and take over.
A lot of it had to do with what happened to his dad, how he'd shot himself when Reilly was ten, how the young boy had come home from school and wandered into the study that day and found his father there,
sitting in his favorite armchair as he always did except, this time, the back of his head was missing.
Either way, what followed was always a hugely frustrating couple of hours for him. Too tired to get out of bed and use the time to do something useful, but too wired to get back to sleep. He'd just lie there in the dark, his mind taking him to all kinds of desolate places. And he'd wait. Sleep usually came mercifully at around six or so, little comfort given that he'd have to be up again an hour later to go to work.
That night, the four a.m. wake-up came courtesy of a call from the night duty officer. It informed him that the man he'd chased across the streets of lower Manhattan had passed away. The duty officer mentioned something about internal bleeding and heart failure and failed efforts to resuscitate the dead man. Reilly had spent the next two hours, as was customary, reviewing the case, one which had now lost its most promising and only real lead given that he didn't think Lucien Broussard would be able to tell them much, if and when he was actually able to speak again. But thinking about the case soon merged with other thoughts that were swirling around in his mind after leaving the hospital earlier that night. Thoughts mostly relating to Tess Chaykin.
Looking out the window, he thought about how the first thing he'd noticed about her when they'd sat down at the cafe was that she wasn't wearing a wedding band, or any rings for that matter.
Noticing things like that played an important role in his professional life. It was an instinctive attention to detail that came with years on the job.
Only this wasn't work, and Tess wasn't a suspect.
***
"His name was Gus Waldron."
Reilly listened intently, cradling a hot mug of coffee, as Aparo scoured the rap sheet with practiced eyes, cutting to the chase for the benefit of the assembled core team of federal agents.
"Clearly a pillar of the community who'll be sorely missed," Aparo continued. "Professional boxer, minor leagues, a wild man in and out of the ring, banned from fights in three states. Four counts of assault and armed robbery, both here and in Jersey. Couple of stints at Bikers—" he looked up and said pointedly, "—including a cruise on the Vernon Bain.'' ' The Vernon C. Bain, named after a well-liked warden who died in a car accident, was an eight-hundred-bed barge that housed medium- to maximum-security inmates. "Suspected of two homicides, both beatings. No indictments there. Compulsive gambler. Been running a losing streak for half his life." Aparo looked up. "That's about it."
"Sounds like a guy who's always in need of a fast buck," Jansson observed. "Who does he hang out with?"
Aparo flicked a page and went down the list of Waldron's known associates. "Josh Schlattmann, died last year . . . Reza Fardousi, a three-hundred-pound sack of shit—doubt any horse in the country could carry him." His eyes scanned the names, editing the no-hopes. "Lonnie Morris, a small-time dealer currently on parole and living with and working for, if you believe this, his grandmother, who has a flower shop in Queens." Then Aparo looked up again, this time with an expression on his face that Reilly knew spelled trouble. "Branko Petrovic," he stated unhappily. "An ex-cop. And get this. He was with the NYPD's mounted division." He looked up at them. "Retired. And not by choice, if you get my drift."
Amelia Gaines flicked a knowing glance at Reilly, then volunteered the question. "What'd he do?"
"Theft. Dipped his hand into the cookie jar at the precinct after a dope bust," Aparo said. "Doesn't look like he did any time. Discharged, loss of pension rights."
Reilly frowned, not exactly pleased at the prospect. "Let's talk to him. Find out how he makes a living these days."
Chapter 24
N o matter how hard he tried, Branko Petrovic couldn't keep his mind on his work. Not that his job at the stables needed his undivided attention. Most days, he watered and fed the horses and shoveled horseshit on autopilot, keeping his stocky body hard and fit. His brain was left free to work out angles, calculate odds, make plans. Usually, that was.
Today was different.
It had been his idea to hire Gus Waldron. He'd been asked to find someone big and tough who could ride a horse, so he'd thought of Gus. Okay, so he knew that Gus could be a wild man at times, but he didn't expect him to go lopping off someone's head with a sword. Christ, even the fucking Colombians didn't pull stunts like that. Not in public anyway.