The Four-Night Run (18 page)

28

O
N THE
R
OOF

They rushed through Jenny’s soggy yard, over a fence, and across two others before the Nightingale led them to a sturdy metal ladder leaning against the roof of one of the row houses. It was raining softly but steadily as the Nightingale scampered up first, and then Sean, and then his mother, her foot slipping off a wet rung, and then Scrbacek. When Scrbacek dragged himself onto the slanted asphalt, the Nightingale pulled the ladder to the roof and, bending at the waist, carried it off with her.

The roof was wet, but not slick, and the others followed the girl with the ladder, Jenny holding tight to Sean’s wrist as they passed over a series of rooftops with differing surfaces, the route curving as the road curved.

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“I don’t know, sweetie.”

“I’m cold. I’m wet.”

“Quiet, Sean. It’s okay. Just be quiet and very careful. Do you know where we’re going?” she said to the Nightingale.

The girl turned back and smiled. “I do,” she said. “And thanks for breakfast.”

Beyond that roof was a gap before the next elevated surface. The Nightingale put down the ladder. “We have to get over.”

“How?” said Jenny.

The girl smiled and, with a great leap, jumped the gap, barely reaching the other roof’s edge, water splashing as she landed.

“I can’t jump that,” said Jenny, but the Nightingale motioned for Scrbacek to push the ladder across, making a bridge. The girl anchored one end, Scrbacek the other.

“Go ahead, Sean,” said Scrbacek.

The boy looked at his mother. “I can’t. It’s too high.”

“Does he have to?” said Jenny. “Can’t we just go down and up again?”

Scrbacek looked at the Nightingale, who gestured at him to hurry. In the distance now, above the steady patter of the soft rain, they could hear the roar of cars, brakes squealing, doors opening and slamming shut.

“There’s no time,” said Scrbacek.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” said Jenny, with a false cheeriness in her voice. “Just go on your knees and don’t look down. You want me to go first?”

The boy nodded.

Jenny gave the boy a nervous smile before turning and crawling slowly across, the metal ladder bowing as she went.

“Your turn, Sean,” said Scrbacek when Jenny was across.

“I can’t,” he said.

“You can,” said his mother.

“Go ahead, Sean,” said Scrbacek. “Pretend it’s the playground and you’re on top of the jungle gym, and Connor has already made it to the other side.”

“I’m a gooder climber than Connor.”

“Better, Sean,” said Jenny. “You’re better than Connor.”

“He repeats my sentences, too,” said Sean to his mother, motioning toward Scrbacek with his chin.

Jenny gave Scrbacek a stare. He shrugged back.

“I’m a better climber than Connor,” said the boy.

“That’s the ticket,” said Scrbacek. “If you’re better than Connor, you’ve got it licked. Go on ahead.”

The boy hesitated, looked at his mother, hesitated, and then, arms shaking, began to make his way across. It was slow, his trek across the ladder, careful, rung by painstaking rung, until, finally, he made it to the end, jumping into his mother’s arms and laughing loudly as Scrbacek scurried across.

The Nightingale pulled the ladder over, left it on the other side of the gap, and led them to an area behind a double chimney where they could stay hidden even as they were able to see the street in front of Jenny Ling’s house.

It was lousy with police cars, sirens off but lights flashing, sending arcs of red across the entire neighborhood. The cars formed a semicircle with officers behind, some in yellow rain gear, rifles out as if expecting a shoot-out with Ma Barker and the gang. On the edges of roofs around Jenny’s house, they could now see more officers, prone in their dark ponchos, their rifles trained on the front and rear entrances.

Jenny, hugging her son close, sighed in relief. “It’s just the police,” she said, but Scrbacek quickly quieted her.

“How’d they know about me?” whispered Scrbacek.

“Did you tell anyone about my visitor?” Jenny asked Sean.

The boy shook his head.

“Who else knew?”

“No one but . . .” said Jenny, and then she stopped, shaking her head. “Dan. That fool.”

“What are they waiting for?” whispered the Nightingale.

“I suppose we’ll find out,” said Scrbacek.

The four huddled behind the chimney in the rain and watched as the police held their ground until an unmarked brown sedan pulled onto the scene and the doors on either side opened.

Scrbacek could just make out the figure coming out of the driver’s side—blocky, with a yellow slicker and a rifle in her hand—and he let out a breath in relief.

“It’s okay,” said Scrbacek softly. “I know her. She’s an agent of the State Bureau of Investigation named Dyer, and I think she’s pretty straight with—”

Scrbacek stopped speaking as the passenger door opened and a tall man with unruly red hair, a full-length leather coat, and a shotgun in his hand stepped out of the car.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

29

P
ALSGRAF

“He looks familiar,” said the Nightingale.

She reached into the side pocket of her pants, pulled out her small set of binoculars, and trained them on the man as he loaded his shotgun. Then both the man and Dyer started, side by side, through the rain toward Jenny Ling’s front door.

“He was at Donnie’s,” said the Nightingale. “The one shouting orders into the phone.”

“Goddamn son of a bitch,” said Scrbacek.

“What?” said Jenny. “Who is it?”

“Remi Bozant.”

“My God,” said Jenny, who had been with Scrbacek through the whole of the Amber Grace case.

The Nightingale handed the binoculars to Scrbacek. He wiped them dry, put them to his eyes, moved them about until Bozant came into view. He watched as Bozant kicked in Jenny Ling’s front door. Scrbacek could hear the wild barking of the dog as Bozant waited at the doorway, crouched, now holding the shotgun by its double barrel. Then suddenly he took a step forward and swung his gun like a baseball bat. The barking turned into a squeal, stopped for a moment, and then started again. Stephanie Dyer followed Bozant into the house.

“Call your house, Jen,” said Scrbacek, “and then give me the phone.”

He listened to it ring—once, twice, three times—and then a voice answered, a woman’s voice feigning unconcern even as a dog growled and barked hysterically in the background. “Hello. Who is this, please?”

“Stephanie, it’s me,” said Scrbacek.

“Scrbacek. Where are you? We’re looking for you everywhere. Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t think so.”

“My God, let me help you. Let me bring you in. It’s your only chance. I can guarantee your safety.”

“You and Bozant?”

Pause. “I’m the only one keeping him under control. He wants to rip out your heart. I can control him, but barely. Let me bring you in. Where are you?”

“Someplace safe. Who’s behind all this, Stephanie?”

“We don’t know yet. Come in and we can figure it out together.”

“Let’s figure it out now. Let’s start with who paid you off. Who bought your soul?”

“It’s not like that at all. You have to trust me. I’m trying to help.”

“Like you were trying to help when you falsified the Bureau phone logs to make it seem like Ethan tried to call you. Like you were trying to help when you stayed outside my house to make sure I didn’t leave while Bozant set about turning me into a cinder. You’ve been dirty from the start.”

Pause. “Not from the start.”

“Then why?”

“It may pay to be honest, but it’s a long time collecting.”

“I have a message for whoever it is who bought you. Tell him to watch his back.”

“What are you going to do, Scrbacek?”

“I’m going to find out who’s behind all this and crush him beneath my shoe like a cockroach.”

“You don’t know what you’re up against, Tenderfoot.”

“Not yet, but I will. Someone’s going to pay for Ethan Brummel.”

“You don’t have the stones for it,” she said. And then, over the phone he heard a gunshot from inside the house, which echoed outside it. The wild barking of the dog suddenly died.

Scrbacek’s teeth ground together at the sound. Sean shouted out a “Mommy” before Jenny hugged him close to her chest and quieted his cry.

“I could hear the report over the phone,” said Dyer. “You’re somewhere close. Buckle up, Tenderfoot. Here we come.”

On the street, Dyer, still in her yellow slicker, rushed out of the house and began looking around, raising her sights to examine the rooftops nearby.

“Who was inside?” said the Nightingale quietly.

“Just the dog,” said Scrbacek.

Jenny hugged her son more tightly.

The Nightingale shook her head as she unslung her rifle. “Bitch wants to play nasty.”

“Don’t even think it,” said Scrbacek, disconnecting the call.

“I have the suppressor,” said the Nightingale. “They won’t hear it through the rain, and the yellow lady will be dead before she hits the asphalt.”

Scrbacek looked at the Nightingale and then at the boy, whose mouth was crushed into his mother’s shoulder but whose eyes were open wide and staring at him. “Put it away.”

The Nightingale shrugged and slung the rifle back upon her shoulder.

Dyer continued her examination of the rooftops until her gaze fell on the double chimney. The four on the roof pressed themselves against the brick, but Dyer kept staring and then she began to lift her arm to point. At that instant a car appeared, a small blue economy piece-of-garbage kind of car, and as soon as Dyer saw it she retreated back inside the house. A moment later, out of the back of the house darted Remi Bozant. His long leather coat flapped as he jumped a fence, water spraying when he landed, and disappeared through a gap between two houses.

The blue car stopped behind the semicircle of cops. Out of the driver’s side doorway climbed a man in a pale-tan raincoat with a pinched face and flattop haircut. Scrbacek aimed the binoculars at the man.

“Son of a bitch,” said Scrbacek.

“Who is it?” said Jenny.

“Surwin.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Look.”

Jenny Ling took the glasses and focused on the man. “You’re right.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Sean.

“Sean,” Jenny whispered too loudly before staring angrily at Scrbacek.

Scrbacek took back the glasses, wiped them dry once again, and watched as the police, at Surwin’s urging, suddenly rushed, one after the other, guns drawn, into the house. A moment later, out the front, her rifle pointing down, came Special Agent Dyer.

Surwin stormed up to his special agent. From Scrbacek’s viewpoint, it was as if he were in the bleachers watching as an irate baseball manager let an umpire have it for a blown call.

“What just happened?” said Jenny.

Scrbacek waited a moment, thinking it through. Finally, he said, “You and Sean can go back to the house now.”

“I don’t understand what just happened.”

“And when you go back, I want you to talk only to Surwin.”

“You thought he was in on it.”

“Not anymore. Dyer and Bozant went in to wipe me out—and, I assume, any witnesses, which would have meant you and Sean. But Surwin got the call, too, and showed up in enough of a hurry to ruin everything.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be of anything anymore. Take Sean back to your house now. The cops there will take care of you. Speak to no one but Surwin, and do it in private. Can I keep your phone?”

Jenny nodded. “Just don’t call France.”

Scrbacek turned the phone off and stuffed it in his pocket. “There’s a pay phone in Crapstown by the mural of the seaside. Surwin will know it. Tell Surwin to show up there at midnight and I’ll contact him. Tell him to come alone.”

“The mural of the seaside,” said Jenny. “Alone.”

“Tell him everything. You did nothing wrong.”

“What should I say if he asks where you are?”

Scrbacek looked at the boy who was wet and shivering and taking in every word. “Tell him everything and tell him the truth. Only the truth. The truth matters. And then you should get out of here. Is your mother still in Philadelphia?”

“Yes.”

“Take Sean and visit for a few days. You’re linked to me now, and that’s a dangerous thing to be.”

“What about you?”

“Go on. You need to get there before Surwin leaves. The Nightingale will help you off the roof. Be careful climbing down.”

“J.D. . . .”

“Thanks for taking me in,” said Scrbacek.

“J.D. . . .” She came over and gave him a tight hug.

“I’ll be all right. We’ll talk when this is over.”

She nodded and backed away.

Scrbacek went down on a knee and faced Sean. “Take care of your mother, all right, Sean?”

“Okay.”

“And be a good boy.”

“I am.”

“I know.” Scrbacek reached out his arms. “You want to give me a hug, too?”

The boy shrank away and gripped his mother’s leg.

“That’s all right,” said Scrbacek with a smile.

“What happened to Palsgraf?” said the boy. “Will he be all right?”

“I don’t think so,” said Scrbacek. “But you’ll be all right, Sean. And your mother.”

“Come on,” said the Nightingale as she started toward the edge of the roof and the ladder.

“Be careful, J.D.,” said Jenny Ling. Her lips pressed together, and rainwater dripped down her pretty cheeks. She took Sean’s hand and headed after the Nightingale. Then she stopped and turned to face Scrbacek one last time. “And when this is over, can you do me a favor. One favor? Please?”

“Anything.”

“Stay the hell out of our lives.”

The boy, pulled along by his mother, took a final glance at Scrbacek before turning away.

Later, with the Nightingale behind him, Scrbacek stooped in the rain behind the double chimney and watched as Jenny and Sean Ling made their careful way down the street to the front of the house. Sean’s head kept moving back and forth, taking in all the sights, every now and then looking back at Scrbacek’s position behind the chimneys, but Jenny made a beeline for Surwin. When she reached him, she took hold of his arm and pulled him out and away so she could talk with him in private. Scrbacek couldn’t read their lips, but he could tell by her body language, and by Surwin’s, that the message had gotten through.

And then Surwin asked a question.

And Sean Ling pointed up to the very roof where Scrbacek and the Nightingale stooped.

Surwin barked out orders. A group of cops tore down the street toward the house Sean had pointed to. The snipers, contacted through their radios, started running across the roofs, bent at the waist like soldiers, toward the double chimney.

It was only fractions of a minute before one of the snipers had leaped across the gap, but by then the space behind the double chimney was deserted and Scrbacek was gone.