Burn: (Michael Bennett 7) Page 25

  “Arturo! Go around and block that gate! And call in backup now!” I yelled as I drew my gun.

  I pointed my Glock at the cop’s chest. Doyle drew and aimed his between the fed’s eyes.

  “Open this gate or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” I said. “I won’t say it again.”

  CHAPTER 109

  THE MOONLIGHTING COP AND the fed looked at each other and then turned and ran for the front of the building.

  Doyle and I hopped the fence. We could see Arturo screech into the breach of the other gate as we landed on the other side.

  We heard the roar of an engine as we were running for the steps, and around the back of the building came the Maybach. A tall black guy behind the wheel gave us the finger as he gunned it straight toward us.

  I raised the Glock in my hand and fired at him. The windshield in front of the driver’s face starred, but only barely. It was bulletproof.

  I emptied the Glock at the car anyway as it kept coming. Doyle joined me. We stood there shoulder-to-shoulder shooting until the windshield was a huge spiderweb. Still the car kept on coming. Doyle actually threw his empty gun at it as I pulled him to the left and out of the way at the last second.

  The speeding Maybach went past us and ripped through the construction site fence like a sprinter through finish-line tape. Tires screeched as it braked and tried to turn at Third Avenue’s sharp corner. It didn’t make it. There was a tremendous smash as it slammed against and then through the parked cars on the opposite side of the street. Then the tanklike beast flipped as it crashed into the front wall of a pizza parlor.

  “Doyle, take Arturo and get inside the building! Find the girl!” I said, running at top speed across the street toward the crashed limo.

  The long Maybach had landed on its side halfway inside the pizza parlor. There were glass and debris everywhere. The whole front wall of the pizza joint was caved in. Beyond the destruction, a Mexican guy behind the counter stood in slack-faced shock as a soccer game continued to play too loudly on the battered TV above him.

  “Call nine-one-one!” I screamed as I climbed over the rubble and shoved aside the shattered bench from a booth, trying to peer through the cracked glass of the tipped car. Its wheels spun stupidly, the engine still roaring.

  I was up on the side of the car, reaching for the handle, when there was a muffled pop from inside. I immediately hopped back down. It was a gunshot! It was followed quickly by another.

  I hopped up again and finally got the door open. At the other side of the flipped-over car was a man in a suit, a gun beside him, blood leaking from a hole in his temple. Through the lowered driver partition, I saw the side of the black driver’s motionless torso.

  They killed themselves, I thought as I stared, shocked, into the car. How can this be happening? How can Chayefsky and his driver have just committed suicide?

  My radio blooped as I staggered in a daze through the debris back onto the sidewalk.

  “Doyle! Did you find the girl?” I called into the radio. “Tell me you found her!”

  “We found her. She was in the basement. We just brought her out.”

  “Is she OK?” I said.

  There was a pause. It was too long. Way too long.

  “I thought we could save her, but she’s dead, Mike. They killed her. Two to the head. The bastards. They killed her.”

  It took seven minutes for the first fire truck to come. The cop and the fed and whoever else had been there were long gone. Arturo had grabbed a tablecloth from a dining room table set up inside, and we covered Iliana’s body with it.

  Arturo and Doyle, staring down at the body, looked a little shook up but were hanging in there, holding it together. I was proud of them. They were both going to be really great cops.

  That was when I saw the limo approach the gate. I ran toward it, my hand on my holster, as squad cars began to pull up behind it.

  Inside, behind the driver, I spotted a famous man, a television personality, along with a group of smiling, laughing, rich-looking men and women.

  “What’s going on?” the driver said. “These guests are here for the party. They’re here for the underground dinner party.”

  I shook my head back and forth. At the driver, the city lights, at Iliana now being wheeled into an ambulance. I didn’t think I’d ever stop.

  “Sorry,” I finally said sadly as I fished out my gold shield.

  “Party’s over.”

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 110

  AFTER THE LAST PRAYERS had been said and the last pints had been lifted, Mary Catherine found herself alone back at the old farmhouse where she’d been born. Her brother, Timmy, and Uncle Jerry, who’d come in from London together, were staying until Wednesday, but they had gone out with some old football friends who had come to the funeral.

  It seemed like just about everybody in the town had come to see Mrs. Flynn off into the great beyond, but it wasn’t so much her they were honoring as Mary Catherine’s father, dead these last ten years, who had been a famous footballer in his own time and a town leader. The first to tell a joke or to tip a hat or to pitch in if any of the neighbors needed help with a lost calf or cutting the hay in August.

  Mary Catherine looked out through the drizzle at the farmyard. Her mom had put up a good fight in keeping the old homestead together, but her age and illness had left their mark in the weeds in the vegetable garden, the holes in the henhouse roof by the apple orchard.

  She thought of her mother standing at this very window as the six of them ran about like packs of wild geese. They were a rambunctious family, at least when Da wasn’t nearby. When her father was home, a calming solemnity came home with him.

  She went into the parlor. It was as if she’d just left it on the day she left for America. The same photos on the wall, the ribbons for her father’s prize horses, her mother’s collection of country-western albums.

  She sat, sorting through the old records. Eddy Arnold, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis, of course. Her mother had loved American music, country and the early rock and roll. They all did and knew every song by heart.

  When she got to Buck Owens, she smiled and slid the record out of its sleeve. Her mother had been right mad for Buck Owens and his sad, jangly cowboy love songs. Even her father had liked him after a few glasses of lager on a Saturday afternoon, singing along in a perfect American country accent in his good tenor voice.

  She had just put it on, the first strains of “Together Again” ringing through the empty old house, when she heard the tires on the gravel driveway. She thought it might be her brother and uncle home early from their homecoming pub crawl until she looked out the window and saw the florist van up from Clonmel.

  More flowers. Probably some long-lost cousin in Australia; her mom’s family from County Down had been massive. A long-lost relation only now just hearing the news, she thought, going back to the albums in her lap.

  “Just come in and put them in the kitchen, please,” she said to the knock on the mudroom door.

  The screen door creaked open at the same time she heard the van suddenly pull away.

  “Hello?” she called.

  Then there was a footstep in the doorway, and she was looking up as all the albums spilled out of her lap like cards in a fallen deck.

  “I’m so sorry, Mary Catherine,” Mike said. “I wanted to be there for—”

  But she was in his arms by then, the stress of the last weeks breaking like a dam, and she was bawling, unable to talk, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but hold him.

  This man who she’d never stop loving, impossibly there for her now at the precise moment she needed him. Like a miracle come across the ocean for her at her time of greatest need.

  He sang along with Buck Owens as he took her hand and they began to sway.

  “Nothing else matters,” Mike whispered in her ear.

  “We’re together again.”

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  Published by Century, 2014

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  Copyright © James Patterson, 2014

  James Patterson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

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