When One Man Dies (28 page)

“I’ll try,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do but try.”

I thought she was going to break down again. But she kept it together. Listened again briefly, and hung up.

“What did he say?”

“He said Jesus is alive only because of me. Because I helped him—Pablo—out when he came here. Because we used to date. Because he respects me.”

Apparently Pablo Najera had more sway with Michael Burgess than I thought. “Did he say anything about Burgess?”

“No.”

Okay, Jackson, don’t get ahead of yourself. “What did he say about Jesus?”

“He said, he said—” She buried her face in her hands. “He said I could keep him alive.”

“How?”

“They want to meet me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Pablo and someone, he didn’t say. They want me to talk Jesus into giving it all up.”

“Giving what up?” But I already knew. “The drug business.”

“Where do they want to meet?”

“Jockey Hollow, tonight at midnight. Wick’s farm.”

“In Bernardsville?”

“Yeah.”

Jockey Hollow was huge, an old Revolutionary War encampment. There were old houses, a museum, and lots of dark grassy walkways. It was the perfect place to hide for a hit. I had no doubt that they were only keeping Jesus alive to draw out Tracy on Burgess’s orders. No way either Pablo or Burgess wanted to risk a witness coming back to haunt them.

“Okay,” I said. “I will be back.”

“Where are you going?”

I looked at my watch. We had plenty of time to get there, which was good. I had to clean up some loose ends.

“New Brunswick. I’ll pick up you tonight. Don’t do anything without me.”

“But—”

“Trust me,” I said. I wish I felt as confident as I sounded.

Chapter 49

My office was cluttered with paperwork. I was going through files, anything I had on Gerry, on Jesus, any drug cases I’d worked as a private investigator. There wasn’t much. New Brunswick cops didn’t have a tight grip on the drug business because—at least while I was there—they were all junkies themselves. But the cops knew what was going on so no one came to me privately. The one case I worked for Gerry was a favor, and I didn’t keep too many notes. I’d never worked for Jesus. There was nothing to back up my theory. But my gut was telling me my worst fears were true.

The phone sat on the desk, taunting me. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t want to pick it up. Taking on Pablo Najera and Michael Burgess on my own, trying to save Jesus and Tracy on my own, was not a good idea. Using Tracy as bait was the only play I had, but I needed backup. Blanchett and Daniels wanted Najera alive.

I picked up the phone, dialed.

“New Brunswick Police Department,” a voice said.

I took in air through my nose, then said, “Bill Martin, please.” I rubbed my face. “Tell him it’s Jackson Donne.”

The operator put me on hold. Martin considered Jesus a friend. Jesus was his snitch. Still, he wouldn’t hesitate if he needed to shoot someone. The problem was, what would calling Martin cost me. How much more could I lose?

“What the hell do you want?” he grumbled. “No small talk?”

“Somehow I doubt you’re calling me to catch up.”

“Have you solved Gerry Figuroa’s case yet?”

“What do you care? Believe me, you’ll know when it’s solved.”

“What if I could help you out?”

“I’d say either you lied to me the last few times I talked to you, or you’re working the case again. Either one is a no-no.”

Christ, this was the point I’d worried about. Whether or not to take the leap. Outside my window two women eyed shoes at the Payless. Kids played Hacky Sack on the corner.

“You were right,” I said. “Sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Gerry was selling drugs to try and make his rent. I talked to his ex-wife. She hinted Gerry had done this before. Sold drugs out of his apartment.”

“You talked to his ex-wife?” I couldn’t tell if he was pissed with me or impressed.

One of the kids playing Hacky Sack kicked the ball into the middle of George Street. He didn’t look before running after it. A campus bus almost flattened him. He jumped out of the way just in time. His buddies laughed.

“I talked to her. Here’s what I think is happening. Gerry was killed as a warning. He was small-time. But Burgess—”

“Michael Burgess?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t big in New Brunswick when I was on the force. Is he now?”

“I don’t have my ear to the ground as much as I once did. Rumor has it since Burgess moved into central Jersey, he’s become a force.”

“I think he’s trying to make a move.”

“A move to what?”

“Become the most powerful drug dealer in central Jersey.”

“And how is he going to do that?”

“Gerry was a warning. Diane, too. I think she tried to leave Burgess, sell drugs on her own. And now, well, who’s one of the big fish in the New Brunswick area?”

Martin paused. “Our old friend?”

“Right. Jesus Sanchez.”

“He’s dead?” Martin swallowed. “No, I would have heard.”

“He’s not dead yet.” I told him what had happened.

“I don’t have jurisdiction in that area,” he said. “Since when has that stopped you?”

“You son of a bitch. Are you trying to play me? You get me up there. There’s a shoot-out or something, someone dies, I get in a shitload of trouble.”

“I just want to help Jesus.”

I pictured him twirling a pencil while trying to decide. “You will not be anywhere near there.”

I didn’t say anything.

“If I catch you anywhere in Jockey Hollow tonight, you are up shit creek. You broke my rule. You investigated this case. I could put you away for attempted murder. I still might. And if I see you there tonight, I’ll have no choice.”

“I told Tracy I would drive her.”

The Hacky Sack players were walking back toward Rutgers now. The women looking at shoes were long gone.

“I don’t give a fuck. Not that it matters. You never listened. Not to me. Not to Jeanne when she needed help. You were the one who pushed her toward me.”

What Jeanne’s father said was right.

“And I got her back. Even if it was only for two weeks. She came back to me.”

He slammed down the phone.

I waited for a dial tone, then rang Tracy. When she picked up, I said, “Stay by the phone. I’m close.”

She started to respond, but I said, “I gotta go,” and hung up.

In my cabinet I kept a hunting rifle and my second pistol. I took them both and headed to my car.

Chapter 50

Son of a bitch. That son of a bitch. He wasn’t supposed to talk like that. He wasn’t even supposed to call.

Bill Martin took a deep breath. This wasn’t a big deal. Donne would still be there tonight.

He’d still die.

But for Donne to remind Martin that Jeanne went back to him. That son of a bitch.

Martin couldn’t wait to see the look on Donne’s face as he died.

Chapter 51

We were on 287. It was nearly ten. Traffic was light, but I still had to dance in and out between some trucks that were cruising without deadlines.

“Why did we leave so early?” Tracy asked.

Her hands shook. Her eyes darted around the car without a break. She was still high, most likely did some more after I’d left her. “We have to get there before anyone else.” I hadn’t mentioned to her that Martin would be there. I hadn’t decided how I was going to be involved and still hide from him.

“Najera and Burgess are going to get there early. They want to beat us. So the trick is to get there even earlier. Watch where they set up, look at all the angles.”

“I just want to get Jesus back.”

She hadn’t realized I was using her as bait. I wasn’t going to tell her. Sending a woman I’d made love to into the line of fire was wrong. It hurt me to do it, and made me feel like an asshole. She could be dead by the end of the night. Then again, so could I. We pressed on. It was time to end this.

“We will,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.

I turned on the radio. Tracy was nervous; she wanted to talk. Maybe she’d sing along. I had to focus. I’d never planned something like this. And definitely not while attempting to hide from someone on my own side. I stepped on the gas.

About twenty minutes into the drive we started seeing orange signs for JOCKEY HOLLOW. New Jersey tried its best to pump up the good things about the state. Unfortunately, most people didn’t get the message. Over two hundred years ago, soldiers stayed there on their way to destroy an army. Now there would be more bloodshed.

“Why are you wearing all black?” she asked.

“Because I’m not going to be standing anywhere near you. And I don’t want anyone to see me.”

“You’re . . .” She paused, looked at the roof of the car. “You’re not coming with me?”

“If I’m there, they will kill you, me, and Jesus.” And if I’m not, the odds are they’ll still kill the both of you.

“What are you going to do?”

I took Exit 30B off 287 and got onto Route 202. Traffic was light around the windy road, and I was able to take the curves at forty miles per hour. A sign for Jockey Hollow told me to look out on my left.

“Have you ever seen Lethal Weapon?” I asked. “No.”

“Here’s the plan. I’m going to be as close to you as possible without being seen. There’s no light in the park, and not a lot of open spaces. But where Burgess and Najera want to meet with you, that’s kind of open. A wooden picket fence surrounds it, if I remember right.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to hide there with my hunting rifle.”

I hung a right and pulled into the Jockey Hollow site. I ignored the small parking lot. Across from it was a paved trail just wide enough for my Prelude. I took it slow, ten miles an hour.

“If things go wrong, I’ll take out Najera and Burgess.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tracy said. “I’m just going to talk to them. That’s what Pablo said.”

“And that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Think of me as insurance.”

The clock on my dashboard said eleven-eighteen. Less than forty-five minutes until the meet. I turned my car up on a grass trail and hit the headlights. I eased about five hundred feet in.

“If I start shooting, if anyone starts shooting, just grab Jesus if you can, and get the hell down. And try to crawl out of the way.”

“Oh my God.”

Her hand went to her mouth, and I could tell she was shaking. I put my hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed.

“Relax,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”

Tracy Boland, eyes wide open, sucked in air through her mouth like she was about to hyperventilate. I squeezed the shoulder a little tighter.

“I promise you’ll be fine.”

“What should I do now?”

I pointed out my back window up a hill to a small wooden house encased in a rotten wooden fence. Surrounding it were trees with leaves that were just beginning to blossom.

“Wick’s farm,” I said. “That’s where your meeting is. Walk toward it slowly. Try to get to the house in about ten minutes.”

“It’s only about half a mile away.”

“I know. Walk slow.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find the best vantage point.”

She said Jesus Christ again and opened the car door. She kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Good luck.”

“You, too.”

I counted to a hundred as she walked away, reached into my backseat, and took both of the guns.

The trail led me to the right of the house, up a steep incline. I tried to run and stay low, but in the darkness I couldn’t see the rocks that scattered the ground and I kept stumbling. I found pavement—the trail we drove up—and followed it close to the wooden gate. The Wick farmhouse was about five hundred feet away.

The air was clear, cool, and smelled like must, a sign of oncoming rain. Against the sky hung heavy clouds. A thin moon peeked beneath the clouds, giving the pale grass a stream of light. It didn’t help my vision much, but any light at all was nice.

Finding the clearest view, I lay on my stomach and aimed the rifle. Best I could do at this distance was lay down some cover fire and scare the hell out of Najera and Burgess. Hopefully Martin would be there, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it too much. Just a few rounds to get them running. Then the cops could take over and I would get the hell out of here.

It seemed like a good plan. But something tugged at me, gently twisting my nerves, making my hands shake. I’d never fired a rifle from long range. Accidentally hitting someone I didn’t want to was a definite risk. Hell, missing everyone, not even coming close, was a risk. I didn’t know much about this rifle.

Sighting the gun, I could see Tracy making her way toward the farmhouse. She slipped to one knee. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if she were cold. Occasionally she looked over her shoulder.