Hell Bent (32 page)

We were on Route 2 approaching the Fresh Pond rotary before Greeley spoke. “Your country thanks you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

He smiled. “There won’t be any commendations or speeches or newspaper stories, I’m afraid.”

“Suits me fine.”

He was looking out the tinted side window, facing away from me. “Thirty-five years,” he said softly. “I don’t know who was
more obsessed, him or me. He thought he’d been put on earth to end all war, and I was hell bent on nailing him.”

“On the phone,” I said, “Kinkaid wanted me to give you a message.”

Greeley turned to look at me.

“He said he wanted you to know it was never a game with him,” I said. “He wanted you to know that it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t personal. He said his convictions were sincere.”

Greeley smiled quickly. “He was a true believer, all right.”

“So he really was going to blow us up?”

“Along with himself.” Greeley nodded once. “Absolutely. We’ve managed to track down several members of his support group in the past week or so, and as well as we can figure it, Kinkaid’s original scheme was to have several suicide bombers detonate themselves simultaneously, PTSD victims like Shaw and Accardo, at Lexington and other Veterans Day celebrations. Unexpected, shocking, devastating, deadly, symbolic, to replicate what innocent citizens in other countries experience on a regular basis. In the seventies he blew up buildings. Now he wanted to blow up people.”

“So Gus Shaw and Pedro Accardo squelched that plan?”

Greeley shrugged. “That’s how we figure it. That’s why Kinkaid killed them. We’ll probably never know exactly what happened. For all we know, there are other John Kinkaids, his disciples, out there.”

“That,” I said, “is not comforting.”

“You should never feel comforted,” he said.

After lunch on the Friday after Veterans Day, as I was daydreaming about a quiet weekend without suicide bombers or FBI agents or old girlfriends, just Henry and me and maybe a couple
of football games, Julie buzzed me. When I picked up the phone, she said, “I’ve got Attorney Kenilworth on line three.”

I hesitated. “Who?”

“Kenilworth. Charles Kenilworth. Chuck. New Hampshire. The Epping case?”

“Aha,” I said. I hit button number three on my telephone console and said, “Chuck. How’s it going?”

“That was damn good,” he said. “The picketing and the television and everything. Civics 101, huh?”

“My clients are merely exercising their rights as American citizens,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “it’s a helluva story, but my client thinks it’s time to write
The End
to it.”

“You spell
The End
with dollar signs in front of it, you know.”

“I’ve got your letter here,” he said. “Mr. Delaney will meet your terms. I can have a certified check in the mail to you this afternoon.”

“Did you see the Eppings on television?”

Kenilworth laughed softly. “I sure did.”

“Did you hear what Doug said he was looking for?”

“Everybody’s looking for money, right?”

“Doug said he wanted to be acknowledged,” I said.

“A fat check is a pretty good acknowledgment.”

“How’s about,” I said, “Mr. Delaney himself personally invites the Eppings to get together so they can see that he’s not such a bad fellow, and he can see that they’re a nice retired couple who just don’t like getting fucked over? How’s about he gives them the check himself and apologizes for being tardy with it and maybe explains himself? I’m assuming he’s not the complete asshole that he seems to be.”

“Actually,” said Chuck Kenilworth, “Nick Delaney’s a pretty
good guy. In this housing market, the moving business is pretty shaky, and he’s had to hustle to stay afloat. Takes a lot out of a man, worrying about his business going under.” He hesitated. “I think he’ll go for it. No TV cameras or reporters, though. Let’s keep this private. The last thing Mr. Delaney needs to do is grovel and apologize and admit his mistakes in public.”

“No lawyers, either,” I said.

“Wouldn’t you like to be there?”

“Nope,” I said. “This is simple. Delaney walks out of his office there in Nashua and goes up to Doug and Mary, who are carrying their signs up and down the street outside his door, and he says, ‘Why don’t you folks come inside, have a cup of coffee and get warm, and we can talk about this thing?’ You don’t need lawyers for that, Chuck.”

Kenilworth paused, then said, “You know, you’re right. Okay. Lemme give him a call right now. Pleasure doing business with you, Brady.”

“You, too, Chuck,” I said.

We closed the office at noon on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and by four o’clock that afternoon Henry and I were crossing the Piscataqua River Bridge on Route 95 entering Maine.

Henry disliked seat belts, so I banished him to the back, where he liked to stand on the seat behind me and rest his chin on my shoulder and watch the road.

Alex had called the previous Sunday evening. When I answered, she said, “So what’re you doing for Thanksgiving? No, wait. That’s not really any of my business. I mean, do you have any plans for Thanksgiving? No, that’s not right, either. Um, okay. You better not turn me down, Brady Coyne, because I’ve
been thinking about this for a week and I know you’d never know it, but I’ve been rehearsing this stupid telephone call. So here it is. I would love for you and Henry to join me for Thanksgiving. Okay? That’s it. Old Mr. Terry down the street gave me this huge goose he shot, and I’ve got big plans for it that include cranberry-and-walnut stuffing, sweet potatoes, my mother’s four-bean casserole, butternut squash, mince and pumpkin pies, and … and I think it would be nice. Maybe you could come on Wednesday and stay through the weekend and the three of us could just relax, walk in the woods, eat, listen to music, whatever? You want to watch a football game, that’s fine by me, and I’ve got a pile of wood that needs to be split and stacked.” She stopped and I heard her blow out a long breath. “Right. Shit. I feel like an idiot.”

“We’d love to,” I said.

“You would?”

“It sounds great,” I said.