At the City's Edge (40 page)

Kent stood beside an open drawer, a snub-nosed revolver pointed at them. The pale face and shaking hands that had lulled Washington
to relax, to let down his guard enough to check on the boy, they were gone. In their place was his former unflappable confidence,
the slightly cruel sneer.
All war is deception.

Beside him, Washington could feel Officer Cruz tense like a bowstring. She still had her hands on Billy’s head, a pose that
reminded him of religious iconography, the Blessed Virgin healing a wounded child. But he knew better than to expect spiritual
aid.

After all, he’d made only one vow in his life, and he’d broken it. And now they lived in the shadow of the gun. He wasn’t
surprised. It was a lesson he’d learned early and hard. Pick up the gun and you live forever in its shadow.

Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.

‘I said,’ Kent’s voice firm, ‘put it down.’

But then, what option had there been? He could explain the engineering of the Roman aqueducts, but couldn’t save the boy’s
life. Different books. Yet he could hardly sit and watch him die. Not for a principle. Certainly no principle was so crucial
it justified the death of an innocent child. At the end of a day, wasn’t that what defined a principle?

Washington stood, the weapon steady in his hand.

‘What are you doing?’ Kent asked.

Surely no hard and fast rule applied in every situation. Or if one did, it stated that it wasn’t acceptable to stand by while
an innocent boy died. Or to allow a man who attacked children to go free.

And the sting of betrayal. He’d
believed
in this man. Needed to believe in him, to believe that there were other ways to fight.

He took a step forward.

‘Freeze, goddammit.’ Kent cocked his pistol, held it in shaking hands. ‘You’re a man of peace, remember? You swore you would
never pick up the gun again.’

Washington nodded. ‘I guess I was wrong, Adam.’ Then he squeezed the trigger, just as he’d done thirty years ago. Just like
then, there was a roar, and a hot punch against his hand.

Kent’s shot came a fraction of a second later, the gun jerking as he staggered back, face wild and confused. His jaw fell
open. A red flower bloomed against the starched white of his shirt. He stared at it,
blinking. Then his legs gave and he went down like a drunk, the pistol falling from his fingers. In the end, he died the
same as anybody else.

Washington waited till he was sure Kent wouldn’t get up before he fell down himself. Fire in his chest, cold in his belly.
Long overdue. An old debt, now paid.

He heard Officer Cruz but he couldn’t see her. Felt her rip open his shirt, press hard. She was yelling, telling him not to
give up.

He smiled at her misunderstanding.

From around either side of the darkness he took to be her, he saw a strange glow. Like someone stood behind her with a flashlight.
He squinted. It was odd. He couldn’t bring Officer Cruz into focus, but somehow he could clearly see shapes standing on either
side.

Two young boys. One was Billy, on his feet and breathing easy. The other was a smiling black boy about the same age. Who was
it?

The boys each took one of his hands, Billy the left, the smiling boy the right. Their touch flooded him with peace like warm
rain.

And just before he died, he saw that the smiling boy had a cauliflower ear.

They wait for him inside. Alive and dead, they wait.

He heard the shots. Somehow knew what to expect, even as he forced himself to his feet, even as he staggered through the living
room, hand tracing one wall.

The living. Cruz, her arms a mess of gore as she labored over Washington. Billy on his side, eyes closed, breath steady.

The dead. Scarface, Kent. Galway.

And Washington. Jason knows even as he watches Cruz press on his chest, as he watches her try to save him. He can tell by
the strange little smile on his friend’s lips.

More than he’s ever wanted anything, Jason wants to lie on the cool hardwood floor and close his eyes. Rest and let this all
fade away.

Instead he looks around. Flashes of Baghdad, the inside of a café after a suicide bombing, chunks of drywall and wood, fist-sized
holes in the walls. The glass doors to the back are spider-webbed and gaping. One of the chairs has been knocked into the
fireplace, and the stuffing burns with a hungry green flame that casts flickering shadows.

Perfect.

He walks to the fireplace, bends to grab the protruding leg of the chair, a wave of heat washing red over his face. Carries
it to the drapes on the rear wall and touches them. The fire leaps like a child.

He goes to the sofas. To the bookshelves. To the ornate chairs and the hardwood bar. Touches them all, and everywhere he touches,
fire is born.

He leaves the chair leaning against a wall of photographs and framed newspapers. Adam Kent cutting a ribbon on his company’s
new offices. Adam Kent shaking hands with the Mayor. Adam Kent looking somber next to an article describing his IPO.

The car keys are in Galway’s pocket. Jason kneels by Cruz, still bending over Washington, and touches her shoulder. She looks
at him through a wet veil.

‘Let’s go,’ he says.

She swallows, and nods, face lit by fire. She lifts Billy, cradles him.

He takes Washington. It isn’t easy, but he doesn’t want it to be.

Jason made sure the door was locked. Double-checked it.

Then he walked through Michael’s bedroom, his fingers tracing objects his brother had touched. The soft worn texture of the
comforter. A pair of running shoes, the soles scuffed bare. A bureau of polished mahogany. He went in the bathroom. Shaving
cream and a razor, a comb with strands of hair stuck in it, half-empty shampoo bottles. He looked in the closet, opened dresser
drawers. Shirts neatly folded, underwear jammed in. A tin holding spare change. A couple of loose pictures:

Michael and Lisa coming home from the hospital with baby Billy wrapped up like a burrito.

Billy wearing a McDonald’s crown and tearing open a birthday present, his face lit from within.

Jason’s mother, that scowl she always got when you pointed a camera in her direction, but a smile in her tired eyes.

The teenaged Palmer brothers at the lakefront, circa 1992. Cheeks sunburned, hair wild. Michael’s arm around Jason’s shoulder.

Jason took the photo to the edge of the bed, sat down. It was cool to the touch, and there was a
thumbprint along the edge, like Michael had paused on it himself. Jason put his own thumb there, felt something straining
inside his chest. Started to fight it, reminded himself that was why he’d come up here. Glanced again at the door to make
sure it was locked.

And finally let go.

The sobs came hard, long brutal tugs at his innards. He bit his fist to fight the noise, but let the tears run free, rocking
back and forth, his feet on ground his brother had walked, his head and heart far away. Let himself remember the afternoon
the photo had been taken. The heat of the July sun on his face and shoulders. The way he’d been vaguely embarrassed to be
at the beach with his mother, to be posing for a picture. The girls in the background, soft brown spirits of a lost summer.
The waves forever frozen in the image, one just breaking, white foam and sand grit, and behind it another, and another, on
into an endless blue sky.

He cried for all the things he’d done wrong with Michael, and all the things he’d never get to do right.

But he also cried for all the moments that had been perfect.

And he cried because finally he could.

Eventually, he stood up. Put the photos back in the drawer. Went to the bathroom and took off his dress shirt. Ran cold water,
splashed dripping double handfuls on his face, then borrowed his brother’s razor to shave, doing it slowly and carefully.
Toweled off and
looked in the mirror. Put his shirt back on, thumbing the buttons slowly, then reknotted his tie.

He would mourn again. He would cry again. All his life, he supposed. But now someone else needed him more than he needed himself.
Practicing his smile, he unlocked the bedroom door and went downstairs.

Cruz was in the kitchen, talking on the phone. He tapped his wrist, and she nodded. Behind him, footsteps echoed down the
stairs. His nephew looked fragile in an Izod shirt and slacks. Tendrils of purple and yellow marked his forehead. His concussion
had messed with his short-term memory, as they often did, and Billy couldn’t remember anything later than sitting under the
table at the party, smashing cities of hors d’oeuvres with the toy that had been his father’s, and then his uncle’s, and now
his.

Strange to think it, but in an odd way, DiRisio had done Billy a favor.

Billy stared up at him with wide eyes. Michael’s brown eyes.

‘Hey, kiddo. How you doing?’

‘Okay.’ Billy said, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

‘It’s okay to feel sad.’ He knelt in front of his nephew. ‘I do.’

Billy bit one lip. ‘Me too.’ The boy looked at him like it were a headache, like Jason had a pill that could make it go away.
He felt that old panic, the instinct that had sent him running most of his life. The one that saw responsibility the way other
people saw an
onrushing train. He had an urge to ruffle the boy’s hair and then go fetch the car.

Instead he took his hand. ‘You know what your dad would say when I was sad, though?’

‘What?’

Jason leaned forward, motioned Billy closer, then closer still. When the boy’s face was only inches from his, Jason dodged
in, his face moving fast, planted his lips against Billy’s neck, and blew a raspberry against the soft skin. Billy shrieked
and squirmed, wriggling away, smiling, his hands furiously wiping his neck. ‘Gross!’

Jason smiled back. ‘I always thought so.’

‘I got your package.’ There was anger in Division Chief James Donlan’s voice. ‘I know you’re pissed at me, but this is a lousy
way to play.’

‘My package?’ Cruz switched the phone from one ear to the other.

‘Real estate contracts, shipping manifests, payroll logs, bank account info for Tom Galway, Alderman Owens, some guy named
Anthony DiRisio. It’ll take the lawyers weeks to backtrack it all. And with Adam Kent involved, what was already a major news
item just got escalated to the story of the damn century. Bitchy of you, Elena.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Christ and all his spotted saints. I’m talking about you sending this to every news outfit in the city.’

‘I didn’t send any packages.’ She felt like she was
half a step behind. ‘I know what you’re talking about, but the copy I had ended up in the river. Is there a mailing label?’

He paused, and she heard the rustle of papers. ‘Huh. No. No postmark. It must have been hand-delivered last night.’

She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. Score another point for their mysterious informant. Stories of the gun battle and
fire at Adam Kent’s house had been all over the news. The media had been having a field day broadcasting theories as to how
a CPD sergeant, two known mercenaries with extensive criminal records, and one of Chicago’s wealthiest men all ended up dead
in what they dubbed ‘The Millionaire Massacre.’

Someone must have decided they wanted the truth out there. She could understand Donlan’s ire. It was a PR nightmare. Dirty
politicians, dirty cops, and a forced acknowledgement of the seriousness of the gang problems ripping apart the South Side.
All heightened by a lurid whiff of conspiracy. The story would dominate dinner tables and bar rooms for a long while to come.

She tried to feel bad about it, but the feeling just wouldn’t come. ‘Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.’

‘You don’t have any idea,’ he said. ‘I’m slated to be fed to the media this afternoon. But first I have to explain to the
superintendent how such a colossal fuck-up happened on my watch.’

‘Yeah, well, cue the violins,’ she said. Jason walked into the kitchen, straightening his tie. He smiled at her, tapped his
wrist where a watch would be if he wore one. She nodded. ‘I have to get going.’

‘Wait.’ She heard a creak like Donlan’s chair leaning back, and could picture him in his office, broadcloth armor and a bleached
smile, the smell of Dunhills. ‘You were there, weren’t you? At the Massacre.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I could always have you arrested and questioned.’

‘I could always bring a libel suit against the department for labeling me an assassin in the press.’

He paused, then heaved a sigh. ‘Look, I’m sorry. For everything, I mean. What happened between us, and afterwards. And for
dropping your name on TV. I didn’t have a choice.’

‘I think you did.’

‘Okay. I deserve that. I know things got messed up. But I still consider you a friend. And one hell of a cop.’

She twisted the phone cord around her fingers. ‘That would mean more if I didn’t think you wanted something from me.’

‘Don’t be like that.’

Cruz said nothing, content to wait him out.

‘Okay, fine, you win. I’m a prick, all right? Yes, I want something.’ His breath heavy. ‘This whole thing, it’s a mess, and
there’s no up side to it. But if you were involved, we could position you as a hero. The under-cover cop who busted an arms
ring and helped stop a
gang war. That turns it around, makes this into a great story.’

She laughed. ‘You’re asking me to bail you out?’

‘The department, not just me. There’s no reason to get personal or political here.’

It finally snapped, the last strand of affection or respect for him. She smiled to see it go. ‘Remember our breakfast the
other morning?’

‘Of course.’

‘Like you said then, this is Chicago. Everything is political.’

‘Wait –’

‘Listen very closely, James. I have something I want you to hear.’

She hung up.