Phantom Limb (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

Mike Payton was right about the cappuccinos—they were delicious. Unfortunately, neither Gloria nor I got to finish ours. Because all of a sudden her cell rang.

She picked up, listened for a moment, said, “Right, on my way,” and clicked off. Then she gave me an urgent look.

We left Payton to finish his drink—and, at his insistence, pay the check when it came—and went out to my car. Soon we were driving back the same way we'd come, beneath an expanse of clear azure sky, headed for the Federal Building.

“They've just called a special briefing,” Gloria explained. “A joint Pittsburgh PD and FBI meeting to get everybody up to speed on the manhunt for Sykes and Griffin.”

“Why the sudden urgency?”

“Apparently, Charles Harland's well enough to make phone calls from his hospital bed. One was to the governor, wanting to know if we'd caught the bastards who kidnapped his wife yet.”

“I guess his memory's returning. Or else Lisa told him about it when she went to visit him in his room.”

“Whatever. But the governor started making a few phone calls himself, as you can imagine. To the director, your mayor. He's screaming for results.”

“Sure. Harland's a potentially huge campaign donor.”

Coming into view up ahead were the clean silver lines of the Federal Building. I pulled around to the front entrance and stopped at the curb. Gloria climbed out, then leaned her head back in the passenger side window. Smiled.

“Hey, in case Wilson's right about Sykes, keep your head down. That's an order, Dr. Rinaldi.”

“You do the same, Agent Reese.”

She winked, then hurried into the building.

***

I'd just rolled back into the flow of midday traffic when my own cell rang. Harry Polk. I switched on the hands-free app.

“Listen, Rinaldi, I got a call a minute ago about some bullshit briefing at the Feds. Attendance is mandatory.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“That means I gotta get my butt over there ASAP.”

“Where are you now?”

“Same place I've been for the past two hours. I followed Skip Hines from his fleabag motel in East Liberty to this pool hall a couple blocks away. Near the old fire station.”

“I think I know it, yeah.”

“Well, I'm parked across the street, but I got a good view into the place through the front window. I've had Hines in sight the whole time.”

“What's he been doing?”

“Ya mean, besides gettin' his ass kicked playin' pool? Nothin'. Waitress comes over with a beer every twenty minutes, but he ain't budged. I mean, not even to take a leak. Unless he's pissin' into that fake leg o' his.”

“Jesus, Harry…”

“Anyway, other than jawin' with the other players, he hasn't been approached by anybody. Nobody suspicious, if ya know what I mean. Plus he hasn't called out on his cell, or answered a call from nobody. Not that I could see.”

“So what do you think?”

“Who the fuck knows? Maybe he's just layin' low. Actin' normal 'til Sykes contacts him. Or maybe they're meetin' later.”

“That's possible, too.”

Over the phone, I heard Polk start his car.

“Look, Doc, I gotta book outta here. If I don't show up at that goddamn meeting, Biegler'll hang me out to dry.”

“I get it, Harry. Thanks.”

“For what? We got nothin' on Hines, other than he's good at gettin' hustled at pool. See ya later…”

Polk clicked off, leaving me to stare distractedly at the back of a semi chugging to a stop in front of me. The intersecting lines of cars, buses, and trucks had grown, slowing traffic to a crawl. Angry horns beeped, frustrated drivers cursed. A cool but dazzling sunlight glared from windshields, glazed the edges of steel-and-glass buildings. Threaded the thin haze of billowing diesel smoke and bus exhaust.

None of which had its normal irritating impact, as I thought about Skip Hines.
Was
he involved in any of this? Maybe Polk was right, and he was merely going on about his business until he was contacted by Sykes. Purposefully acting like any other aimless guy on the block. Hanging out. Killing time.

On the other hand, maybe he was exactly what he seemed to be—a wounded vet at loose ends, one of many living casualties of that war, struggling to come to terms with a civilian world into which he no longer fit.

Suddenly, I needed to know for sure. I figured I owed it to him. I knew damned well I owed it to Charlene.

Glancing to my right, I spotted a rarely traveled side street. A narrow tributary adjacent to this clogged, sluggish river of traffic. Spinning the wheel beneath my hands, I whipped the Mustang out of my place in the line of cars and headed straight for it.

***

Ernie's Billiard Hall was less like a hall and more like a head-banger's basement. Dark, low-ceilinged, air thick with the smell of cigarette smoke mingled with the pungent aroma of weed. Its chiaroscuro ambience due to a combination of sunlight coming through the smudged front window and the hazy glow from a half-dozen frosted-glass wall lamps.

Three guys who looked like refugees from a biker movie, all in sleeveless leather jackets to show off their tats and 'roided-up biceps, lounged at the bar. Behind which a single waitress—slim and barely legal, with nose and lip rings—stood looking vacantly at her purple nails. Her name tag read “Penny.”

When I came in, there were only two other guys—fraternity brothers of the solid citizens at the bar—playing pool. The other tables stood unused. One of the pool players looked up as I passed, so I nodded. He merely stared.

At first, there was no sign of Skip Hines. Then I heard a toilet flush, and a worn wooden door at the back of the room opened. It was Skip, zipping up his pants as he shuffled toward the bar. Despite what Polk said, Skip had finally needed to make use of the facilities.

It wasn't until I joined him, pulling up the stool next to his, that Skip acknowledged my presence. Then he broke into a broad though uneasy grin.

“Hey, my man Danny!” He stuck out his hand. I took it.

One of the guys in leather jackets dropped his cigarette butt in his beer mug and slid off his stool. The other two reflexively followed suit, but not without giving Skip and me a menacing, suspicious look.

Suddenly, the first guy leaned across the bar, put his forearm around Penny's neck, and drew her to him. Though she struggled, he gave the waitress a long, deep, angry kiss. Then he shoved her away. She staggered, blood dotting her lip.

I'd gotten up from my own stool by then, but the girl shot me a beseeching look.
Please don't do anything, mister.

When I turned back to the creep who'd kissed her, he was holding the business end of a switchblade about six inches from my sternum.

I planted my feet, muscles tensed. Then heard Skip from behind me.

“Not worth it, Danny. Bad-ass motherfuckers, these guys.”

The guy with the knife nodded.

“Listen to your friend…
friend
.” Giving me a tight smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two guys who'd been playing pool gently lay down their cue sticks. Though looking the part, neither apparently wanted anything to do with what was currently going down in Ernie's Billiard Hall. Instead, they quickly and quietly went out the front door.

As they fled, Penny spoke to the guy with the knife.

“Get outta here too, Joe.
Please?
” She pointed across the bar, at the door. “No charge for the beers. Okay?”

I was still gauging my chances, eyes never leaving the tip of that knife as it made lazy little circles at my chest. Even as I realized my chances weren't good.

“You gonna back down, hero? Or are ya gonna get cut?”

“
C'mon
, Joey!” pleaded Penny, voice rising. “Give the guy a break. He didn't
mean
nothin'!”

Joe stared at me.

“Is that true, hero? You didn't mean nothin'?”

I didn't budge. Instead, I let my gaze drift up from the knife to Joe's hard, resolute face.

“Put that goddamn knife away, pal. Before I
take
it away.”

Empty bravado, I assure you. Stupid. Dangerous. Where it comes from in me, from what well of pain and rage and grief, I'll never know. But there it is. As though bred in the bone.

I felt Skip's hand on my shoulder.

“Christ, Danny. Chill.”

Joe kept staring at me.

“Again, I'd listen to your friend…”

But I could tell that some of the sting had gone out of his words. Joe was starting to look bored.

“Aw, fuck it,” he said at last.

Giving Penny a boozy leer, he backed up, flicking the blade in and out of its handle. His two companions flanked him, glaring back at me. Until, without exchanging a word to each other, all three ambled out of the pool hall.

At that point, I remembered to breathe. Which I did, deeply. Then I let myself sit back down on the stool. Skip's hand still gripped my shoulder, which now felt rigid as stone.

“Told ya, man. But I gotta admit, it took guts. First round's on me.”

Meanwhile, Penny had taken a cigarette from her blouse pocket and was lighting up. Eyes boring into mine through the rising smoke.

“Do me a favor, okay, mister? Next time, mind your own fuckin' business. Joe's my boy's daddy, and it don't do me any good to have some stranger in here pissin' him off. He don't give me enough money for the lousy kid as it is.”

“Hey, girlie.” Skip frowned at her. “Is that any way to talk? Now get me and my buddy Dan a couple beers.”

She blew a sizeable smoke ring. “Get 'em yourself, asshole. I'm on my break.”

With that, she sauntered down to the end of the bar and disappeared out a rear exit door. Skip turned to me.

“Cool place, eh?”

***

Cool or not, it was obvious we suddenly had the place to ourselves. For how long, I didn't know. Or care. I figured I wouldn't need much time.

I grabbed two cold Rolling Rocks from behind the bar and brought them over to the pool hall's sole booth, wedged in a corner next to the bathroom. Skip had already made his way there and slid into a seat. I sat opposite and handed him his beer. We touched bottles.

“To my long-sufferin' sister,” Skip said. “I don't know how the hell she lives with that lunatic.”

“I think she and Noah are actually good for each other.” I sipped my beer. “I mean, true, Charlene does most of the heavy lifting, sanity-wise. But he loves her and she knows he loves her. He may be crazy, but he knows what love is.”

“If you say so, Danny. As long as he treats her right.”

“No need to worry about that, Skip.”

Skip guzzled half his beer, then carefully placed the bottle on the table. Turned it slowly with his fingers.

“This isn't a social call, is it, Doc? I'm guessin' Ernie's is not the kinda place you normally hang out.”

“Tell you the truth, Skip, I do have some questions I wanted to ask you. About your first deployment in Afghanistan. Your unit commander. Raymond Sykes.”

He stopped turning the bottle, fingers frozen in place.

“How'd you know that?”

“Did some research. I was surprised to learn that you served with Sykes. And with Max Griffin.”

Skip sat back, face tightening. Then, hand still gripping the bottle, he put it to his lips and drained it.

“Skip…”

He shook his head. “No way, Danny. I'm not talkin' about that shit. I wanna forget all about it.”

“I understand. But, believe me, the best way to come to some kind of peace with it is to talk about it. It's not a cure. It doesn't make it like it never happened. Hell, it doesn't even mean it'll hurt any less. But you'll be able to put it in perspective. Give it its rightful place in your memory, in the history of your life. Or else it fucking
owns
you. Know what I mean, Skip?
It owns you
.”

He seemed startled by the vehemence in my voice. Frankly, so was I. Though I meant every word I said.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other. Two proud, stubborn men. Staring, as though neither would give an inch.

Then, finally, Skip let out a low, heavy sigh.

“I'm gonna need another beer,” he said quietly.

I got up to get it for him.

Chapter Thirty-four

“My unit was dug in outside Kandahar. About two months. Started with twelve guys, ended up with eight. Lotta ground fighting. Sometimes goin' house to house, in some shit-hole of a village, depending on what intel came down. But mostly exposed field. Nothin' but sand for miles around. Back roads, insurgent supply routes. So you're lookin' at snipers, spider holes, land mines. Real fun stuff.

“I think I hated Lieutenant Sykes on sight, but maybe it took a couple days. Listenin' to his bullshit. His big-shot Ivy League way o' talkin'. Thought he was better than everybody else. No ‘Band of Brothers' stuff with this guy. Used to walk around with these highbrow books in his pocket. Sit off by himself, readin'. Philosophy and that shit. He loved this one guy, Shopen-somethin'…Always quoted stuff this dude wrote about how fucked-up life was…”

“You mean, Arthur Schopenhauer?”

“Yeah, that's him. Typical for Sykes. He loved showin' off how smart he was. Pissed the rest of us off. Even Max Griffin, who was pretty tight with Sykes, used to make fun of him about it. Not to his face, but…”

He paused, took a slug of beer. Maybe his third since I'd shown up. No way to know how many before that. But Skip's eyes had already turned glassy.

“Anyway,” he went on, “every other day, Sykes gets intel from HQ, sends us on search-and-destroy missions. Rootin' out snipers, mostly. Out in the middle of nowhere. Half-blind from the goddamn sand and sun. Gettin' our asses shot at by some towel-head with a Kalashnikov, or maybe takin' a mortar shell in the gut. Yet Griffin…man, that macho jerk loved it. Always took point. Like he dared the bastards to try to waste him.”

“What about Sykes?”

“Big surprise, he always stayed behind. Well back from the advance line. Sat on his ass in the Humvee, nice and safe. Probably jerkin' off to one of his bullshit books. Meanwhile, there were a couple times the unit took some heavy fire out in the field. By the end of the first month, we'd lost two guys. Third was shot up pretty bad and got choppered out. By the end of the second month, another guy—some Okie kid, good buddy o' mine—got his damn fool head blown off.”

Then Skip glanced over his shoulder. I'd seen her, too. Penny, the young waitress from earlier, now sidling back behind the bar. Watching us with a feigned lack of interest.

Moments later, a pair of lowlife guys in denim and cowboy boots strolled in. The taller of the two threw some bills on a vacant pool table and started racking up the balls. His partner, who also wore a cowboy hat, went over to the bar and ordered some beers. Then something he said made Penny laugh, though it was more like a cynical snort.

“Maybe we oughta go somewhere else,” Skip said.

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring look.

“We'll be fine here, Skip. Just go on. What happened after your friend got killed?”

After another nervous glance across the room, he lowered his voice to reply.

“I guess I did somethin' stupid. When we got back, I went over to Sykes, in front of the whole unit, and accused him of bein' a coward. Of not givin' a shit about his men. I mean, I just lost it with that cocksucker. Called him out on all the crap he pulled since we got there. The way he talked down to us, treated us. Couple of the other guys tried to restrain me, get me to calm down. But I practically spit in Sykes' face.”

“How did he take it?”

“He just smiled at me, the smug bastard. The next thing I know, Griffin has me in a choke hold. Draggin' me away. Some of the guys have to restrain
him
. Then Sykes orders everybody to stand down, or he'll put us all on report. So I finally manage to chill out. Just start walkin' it off, ya know? By myself. But the next couple days, me and Sykes stay the fuck away from each other. No eye contact, nothin'. Which is fine with me.”

“Was that the end of it?”

Skip finished his beer. Looked at the bottle in his hand.

“I wish. Two days later, we move further in-country. Intel says there's significant activity. Which is command-speak for there's a bunch o' sand-rats waitin' to frag your sorry asses. So Sykes gets the coordinates sent down from HQ and orders us to scour the perimeter. Which we do. Me, Griffin, and the rest of the unit.”

“And Sykes stays behind again?”

He nodded. Slowly and deliberately. As though steeling himself for what he was to say next.

“Anyway, a couple hours in, the patrol finds itself in a firefight. Bullets, smoke, guys screamin' and yellin'. Our guys, their guys, who the fuck knows? Then, somehow, I get separated from the unit. Maybe twenty clicks away. I freak out, and start runnin' back to where I think my guys are. But there's so much smoke and swirlin' dust, I can't really tell. All of a sudden, my foot slips on somethin' and I hit the ground. At the same time, a bullet flies past my head. I swear, I could hear and feel that sucker whizzin' by. Missed me by an inch. If I hadn't stumbled when I did…”

Another long pause. I waited.

“The thing is, Danny…when I turn around, I see Griffin. About ten clicks away, half-hidden behind a dead olive tree. M-16 in his hands. And he's just smilin' at me. Doesn't move for a couple seconds. Like he
wants
me to see it was him.”

“Jesus…”

“Then he runs off. And I'm still shakin' like a leaf, with a mouthful of sand and a leg cramp from fallin'. My
left
leg, in case you're wonderin'.”

“The left leg…?”

“Nice irony, eh? Same leg I'm gonna kiss good-bye a couple years later, when I'm back in that godforsaken country. Don't tell me God doesn't have a screwed-up sense of humor.”

His sudden smile was a rictus of pain.

“Skip, what happened when you met up with your unit again? Did you confront Griffin?”

“Sure did, once we got back to safety. I accused him in front of everybody. Includin' Sykes. But Griffin just denied it. Said why would he waste a bullet on a shit-stain like me in the middle of a firefight? But I saw the look that passed between him and Sykes. And I knew. For certain.”

“Knew what?”

“That Sykes had ordered Griffin to take me out. So it'd look like I got killed in action. All them bullets flyin'…”

I rubbed my chin. “Even if somebody took the trouble of matching the bullet to Griffin's gun, it could still be chalked up to accidental death in combat. Friendly fire.”

He laughed shortly. “Goddamn
un
friendly, ya ask me.”

“I believe you about Sykes, by the way. Given who he is, how he's built psychologically, he couldn't tolerate being confronted by you earlier. He'd have to make sure that you were punished for it.”

Skip shrugged. “Like they say, payback's a bitch.”

“Any other incidents like that?”

“Nah. The unit got called back to Kandahar base soon after. By then, my tour was almost up. So I just kept my head down 'til I could catch the next plane stateside. Damn shame, too, since I loved the service. Loved being part o' somethin' important.”

“Is that why you re-enlisted? After working at Starr Sentinel for a while?”

“What, you got a private eye checkin' up on me?”

“No, I have your sister, who gave me the details. Who wished you'd never gone back. Who loves you very much.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Then he reached under the table, rapped his knuckles on his prosthetic leg. A dull, dead sound.

“Guess I wish I'd never gone back, too.”

***

“You want anything to eat, Skip? I saw a place down the block. Didn't look too bad.”

“Nah. Maybe just another beer.”

He signaled for Penny, who sullenly shuffled over. Skip asked the waitress for two more Rolling Rocks.

“Not 'til you guys pay for the beers you drunk already. Includin' the ones you stole from the bar while I was takin' my break. Sneaky bastards.”

I looked up at her. “Of course we'll pay for them, too. We always intended to.”

“Yeah, like I believe you. See, Ernie don't just count the cash in the register every night, he counts the bottles. If the numbers don't add up, it comes outta my pay.”

“Your boss sounds like a total dick.” Skip smiled at her.

“Takes one to know one.” She held out her hand, palm up. “That'll be thirty-two bucks, even. You want any more beers, I'll have to start you a new tab.”

Skip reached behind him for his wallet, but I beat him to it. Handed her two twenties.

“Keep the change. And, yeah, bring us a couple more Rocks. Then we'll get out of your hair.”

She pocketed the bills and scowled. “Won't be soon enough for me. You two shit-heads are bad for business.”

Skip and I sat in silence until she came back with our beers, and then departed again. As Skip took a pull from his bottle, I noticed Penny sauntering over to the two cowboys playing pool. Something the shorter one said made her laugh again, though more invitingly this time. Flirting.

When I turned back to Skip, I saw that he'd been watching the girl, too. He sipped his beer reflectively.

“Jesus, Danny, I ain't been laid in, like, forever. I mean, I love my beer as much as the next guy, but I love me some pussy more. But it's been damn slow since I got back.”

I smiled. “Who knows? Play your cards right and you might get lucky with our girl here. I think she's warming up to you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Then, abruptly, a guarded look crossed his face.

“Tell me somethin', okay? How come you asked me about Sykes, anyway? Is somethin' goin' on I oughta know about?”

I took my time before answering.

“The fact is, Skip, you already know about it. And you're one of the few people outside law enforcement who does. Because Mike Payton told you.”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“I spoke with Payton earlier today. He said he called you a few days ago and asked if you were involved in the kidnapping of Lisa Campbell. Because the guy who abducted her called himself Julian, which is your real name. As Mike Payton knew.”

Skip flushed, then slammed his beer down on the table. One of the two cowboys looked up from his pool game, cue stick in hand, irritated. At the bar, Penny peered anxiously in our direction, too.

“Listen, Danny, I'll tell you the same thing I told Mike. I had nothin' to do with any kidnapping. Shit, I didn't know what the fuck he was talkin' about. I mean, I never saw nothin' about it on the news, or—”

“That's because it was kept out of the media. The story still hasn't broken, even though Lisa's been returned safely. Her husband, a rich businessman named Harland, paid a ten million dollar ransom to get her back.”

The ransom amount leached some of the color from his face. Though he was still plainly angry.

“And this guy who kidnapped her…Payton told me the prick said his name was Julian. Like mine. That's why Mike called to see if it was me. Which really pissed me off.”

“Yeah, he told me how you reacted.”

“Did Mike also tell you that I got an alibi? He gave me the time line, and I was at Noah's bar the afternoon this lady was snatched. And I was still there that night when the kidnapper called. So I'm sorry to disappoint you two, but I'm not your guy. I didn't snatch nobody. And I
hate
this fucker for usin' my name. I mean, who the hell
is
he, anyway?”

I took a breath. “Okay, here's where it gets a little weird. You should know that the FBI has been keeping tabs on Ray Sykes and Max Griffin since they came back from the war.”

“What? Why?”

“Sykes has become a pretty high-profile criminal, involved in drugs, human trafficking, that kind of stuff. Apparently, he's known as ‘Splinter' Sykes, because he's unnaturally thin. Almost emaciated.”

“Tell me about it. He was already startin' to look like hell back in Kandahar. Rumor was, he'd contracted some kinda bug, like that flesh-eatin' shit, then tried treatin' it with black market drugs. Only made him sicker. Almost killed him, I heard. It didn't, which sucks. But it left him lookin' like a pipe cleaner. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

“I agree. But it didn't stop him from building up quite a criminal operation. And Max Griffin's working with him.”

“I'll be damned. I mean, I can't say I'm surprised. Sykes and that psycho Griffin…Makes sense they'd end up together, after what they tried to do to me over there.”

I watched him drain the rest of his beer.

“That's not everything, Skip. That kidnapping we were talking about? The man behind it was Sykes. When he called with his ransom demand, his voice was altered so it couldn't be recognized. But he said to call him ‘Julian.'”

He gaped at me. “
Sykes
was the guy who used my name…?”

“Yes. I don't know why, not for sure. Maybe to implicate you, in case things went sideways. But I don't think that's it.”

“Me, neither. Knowin' that arrogant piece o' shit, he just did it for the hell of it. For kicks.”

“It fits my assessment of him, of his personality. Sykes probably saw using your name as some kind of private joke. His own sick, self-titillating revenge on you for having survived the murder attempt in Afghanistan. For having gotten away with insulting him in front of his men. Not only that. Once he was safely away with the ransom money, he could revel in the thought that the authorities would always believe that Lisa's kidnapper was someone called Julian.”

Skip glowered down at the empty beer bottle, now gripped with both hands. I was afraid he'd shatter the glass.

“I know this is a lot to absorb,” I said evenly.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Then he looked up, past my shoulder. Peering at the world outside the pool hall's grime-streaked window.