The Exiled (20 page)

“Until recently, yes.”

“How recently?”

“Jonathan had been dead a few months. I was a pallbearer at his funeral.”

“What changed between you?” Bay said.

“I don't really know. I guess he needed to leave this place behind. And me with it.”

“He resigned?” Raney said.

“Two years shy of a full pension.”

“Any idea why?”

“There'd been an incident in the yard. A man was stabbed to death by members of a rival gang. Oscar didn't so much as fire a warning shot. When I asked him about it, he said whatever they had going on between them was none of his business. Then he handed me his weapon and left. Apart from a formal letter, I haven't seen or heard from him since. Still, I find it damn hard to believe he—”

“He did,” Raney said.

“All right,” the warden said. “So keep asking your questions.”

“There's only one question that matters: Where do you think he is right now?”

“I couldn't say.”

“You've known the man for eighteen years. You saw him every day. You were friends. You came to his defense when you didn't have to.”

“So?”

“I'm sure you have an idea or two worth sharing.”

The warden leaned forward.

“I understand you're doing your job,” he said. “How well you're doing it is another question. If I knew Oscar was plotting mass homicide, don't you think I would have stopped him?”

“That's not what I asked.”

“Since I had no idea what he was doing, how can I predict where he might be?”

“Give us your best guess.”

“My best guess? He killed himself. Someplace where the animals would find him before the marshals. He did what he felt he had to do. I doubt he wanted to outlive his son by one more day.”

“Why do you think he did it?” Raney asked.

“People will have to act now. He made his son a martyr. Himself, too.”

“Okay, but why
Oscar?
The drug trade mass-produces bereft parents.”

The warden pushed back in his chair, wiped his glasses with a handkerchief.

“I doubt what he saw in Panama helped him any,” he said, “but a man who joins an elite branch of the military and then makes his living as a sniper is a man who likes to kill, and all that stands between him and killing is a cause. If he can find the right cause, then he isn't a killer, he's a vehicle. That's what the military gives a man like Grant. Jonathan became his ultimate cause.”

“You make him sound pathological,” Raney said. “But you were friends. You had him around your children.”

“Oscar had other qualities. Qualities most people lack. Loyalty. Bravery. A work ethic. And I believed in his ability to keep himself in check. Jonathan's death was the tipping point. It would have been for anyone. This is just how it played out for Oscar.”

“And for the people who died yesterday,” Raney said.

“Yes,” the warden said. “I'm aware.”

Raney stood, set his card on the desk. Bay stood with him.

“It goes without saying that if Oscar—”

“Of course.”

“I hope that leg heals quick,” Bay said.

“It's too late for that,” the warden said. “I just hope it heals.”

Raney took a sweeping look at the mounted wildlife.

“Impressive,” he said. “Who was the better shot, you or Oscar?”

The warden looked out at the sniper tower.

“No one was a better shot than Oscar.”

They sat in the squad car, Bay smoking, Raney staring at nothing in particular.

“I don't like it,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Him telling us Oscar is dead. The stuffed animals. The cast on his leg.”

“I caught a whiff of it, too,” Bay said. “Something staged.”

“Plausible deniability. ‘I hadn't been up there. My leg was broken. I didn't know.'”

“Hadn't been up where?”

“The man's poured a small fortune into taxidermy. I'm guessing he has a cabin in the woods someplace. A weekend getaway.”

“Where Grant and his son did their hunting?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you think Grant's there now?”

“I think there's a good chance.”

“If the place exists.”

“Should be easy enough to check,” Raney said. “Property's a matter of public record.”

“Let's pay the bureau a visit.”

Bay started the car.

“If he does have a place,” Raney said, “I doubt it's far from where Grant burned that truck.”

R
aney inched out onto the street, dug through Meno's pockets until he recovered his shield. The words and emblems were filled in with blood. He peeled off a latex glove, slipped the badge inside.

He drove Dunham's car back to the club, stopping to dump his spattered shirt and shoes in a sewer on the Jersey side of the bridge. On Staten Island, he parked and walked barefoot through the back alley, let himself in the basement delivery door. He felt his way through the dark. At the foot of the kitchen steps, he heard Pierre shouting orders to his assistant, heard the young Lena Horne belting out a chorus of “Alone Together.”

There was an industrial sink on the wall opposite the walk-in freezer. Raney scrubbed his hands with Ajax, washed his face and hair with bar soap, then emptied his pockets. He left his jeans and T-shirt soaking in bleach.

Dunham kept spare clothes and a cot in a room that had once been the root cellar. The khakis were tight at the waist, long at the heel. The wing-tip shoes were two sizes too big. The only shirt was violet and spotted with small white circles.

He couldn't think of where to go or what to do next. He collapsed on the cot, shut his eyes, lay there feeling Dunham's clothes turn damp with sweat. He jerked upright when the nausea hit, fought it back, felt his skin turn cold.

Dunham kept his personal stash in a lockbox under the cot. Raney busted the lock open with a hammer, found the interior brimming with prescription painkillers, packets of coke, tabs of acid. He swallowed a Percocet dry, snorted a long line, then lay back down. He heard the young Lena scatting above him. Little by little, he felt his strength return, his system settle. He pocketed his gloved shield, took up the lockbox, and carried it with him.

He drove his own car, tossed Dunham's keys into a vacant lot.

The live-in super was smoking weed. The odor rose through a basement vent, filled the street outside Sophia's building. All but a few of the windows were dark. Raney let himself into the lobby, swallowed another Percocet on the stairs. He rang Sophia's bell and waited. He stepped clear of the peephole, rang again. A succession of bolts clicked free. The door opened as far as the chain would allow.

“I suppose if I don't let you in, you'll make a scene,” Sophia said.

“That's not why I'm here,” Raney said.

“It's one in the morning, Wes. This is already a scene.”

“I want to come home.”

She seemed more tired than sad, her skin flushed, her eyes adjusting to the light.

“We can talk,” she said. “But I'm not sure this is your home anymore.”

She slid the chain from its plate, left the door ajar. Raney followed her into the living room. She sat on the love seat, legs crossed, terry-cloth robe wrapped tight around her chest. Raney sat leaning against one arm of the couch.

“Look at you, Wes,” she said. “You're dressed like a clown. Your eyes are bloodshot. Your pupils are so dilated I can barely see them. You're sweating, and it's sixty degrees in here.”

“I need help,” he said. “I didn't see it before, but now I do.”

“And I want to help you,” she said. “But you've become too big a job for me. For any one person.”

He looked at her, saw love and concern but no fear, no anger. She'd prepared herself, plotted a course of action. He volunteered.

“I'll check myself in,” he said. “I'll go right now if you want.”

“It's a little late,” she said.

“In the morning, then.”

“You can't just say that because I want to hear it.”

“I'm not.”

“It will be the hardest thing you've ever done, Wes.”

“I know,” he said. “I don't want this to be me. I never thought it could be.”

She moved beside him on the couch, set a hand across the back of his neck, kissed his temple. It was what he thought he'd come here for—affection, comfort—but he felt himself recoiling, shrinking inward, not for his sake but for hers, as though his skin made her touch grotesque.

“I know people,” she said. “People I went to school with. We'll find you the right facility. We'll get through this. We're going to be fine. I promise.”

They sat for a while, her head on his shoulder, before she took his hand and led him into the bedroom. Raney followed, thinking he would let her believe for one more night. When she woke, he'd be gone. He'd walk into Lieutenant Hutchinson's office, hand over his badge and gun, confess to every detail. He'd refuse bail, refuse all visitors. People would know where to find him, but he'd be beyond their reach, like a ghost or a dead man. The idea gave him some relief.

Sophia sat him on the edge of the bed and undressed him, pulling off Dunham's shoes, peeling back his socks. When she was done, Raney rolled onto his side, already asleep. Sophia's voice brought him back.

“Jesus Christ, Wes,” she said. “What the fuck is this?”

She was staring down at the floor, at his shield coated with blood and wrapped in latex.

“It fell out of your pocket. Whose blood is that?”

He managed to sit up, his head drooping forward, his eyes half shut. Sophia shook him conscious.

“Tell me whose blood that is. Tell me whose clothes you're wearing.”

He looked up at her as though she were a remnant of the dream he'd been having.

“Not now,” he said.

“Yes, now. Why are you here, dressed in someone else's clothes? Why is someone else's blood on your badge? We can fix this, but you have to tell me what happened.”

“Fix this?”

He came more fully awake, found himself picturing her as a little girl, crouched at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping while Ferguson plotted cover-ups and counted money. He had no more doubt.

“Fix it how?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“I'll call my father.”

Raney stood, pushed her away with one hand.

“Your father?”

“He can help. You just have to tell me what happened.”

Raney slipped into Dunham's shirt, fumbled with the buttons.

“What are you doing?” Sophia asked.

“I should have known. You're too smart not to have figured it out.”

“Figured out what?”

“Where the money came from. The private schools, the summers abroad. No cop can afford that. Not at any rank.”

“Wes, you're slurring your words. Sit down.”

“He used me, Sophia. He manipulated me into doing things. He used you to get to me. It all came back on him. He had to protect himself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“DA Stone.”

“Is that Stone's blood on your badge?”

“If I said it was, would you still call your father? Have him fix things?”

“Are you saying you killed Stone for my father?”

“No. He had Meno do that. Then he set me up to kill Meno. My guess is I'm next.”

Sophia backed away.

“You're scaring me,” she said.

He was dressed now, bending to tie Dunham's shoes.

“You should be scared.”

“You're delusional, Wes. You're going to sweat this out of your system. When people are coming down, they see things. They believe things that aren't true. You just need sleep. Lie down now. Please.”

He stood, stepped toward her.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you know.”

“What do I know? Stop talking in code.”

“That your father's a killer.”

“You want me to say that my father killed the district attorney of New York City? Do you hear yourself?”

“Your father shot Bruno in the back. He murdered two innocent men. He's been taking money from Meno ever since.”

“Money to do what?”

“Divert resources. Tamper with evidence. Meno paid him to let certain things happen, or to cover them up afterward. Stone knew. So did you. You were born into it, but don't pretend you're better than me.”

“You're sick, Wes.”

He started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Your father's house.”

“Wes, don't.”

She grabbed his arm. He spun, caught her hard with the back of his hand. She lay on the floor staring up at him.

“You fucking asshole,” she said. “If you—”

“If I what?”

He moved toward her. She tore her robe open over her stomach.

“Look!” she said.

He leaned forward, lost his balance, fell against the dresser, righted himself.

“Look!”

He saw. Her belly curved, smooth. Five, maybe six months. The mother of his child, her right eye turning colors. He saw what he'd done, but not as though he'd done it. He knelt beside her.

“Get away from me,” she said. “Get the fuck out or I swear to God it won't be my father I call.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

He couldn't think of anything more. He stood there, watching her, seeing himself years in the future, still stuck in this moment, unable to change or move past it.

“I'm sorry, too,” she said. “Sorry the father of my child is a junkie. I hope to God it isn't a boy. I don't want to see you in my son. There's no hope for you, Wes. Get out. Get the fuck out.”

Raney backed from the room, shut the apartment door behind him. He heard her sobbing from the hallway. Outside, he vomited a long stream of bile onto the sidewalk, then sat on the steps waiting for his skin to dry.