understand?”
“I guess.”
“What I’m concerned about, John, is a bunch of grief-stricken behemoths like Manny waiting out on Beacon Street with more guns than I have.”
“What do you want me to say here?” he said. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I’m the one who’ll catch the first bullet anyway.”
I tapped his chin with my gun. “And the second, John. Remember that.”
“Who the hell are you, man?”
“I’m the really scared guy with the fifteen-bullet clip. That’s who. What’s the deal with this place? Is it a cult?”
“No way,” he said. “You can shoot me, but I’m not telling you shit.”
“Desiree Stone,” I said. “You know her, John?”
“Pull the trigger, man. I ain’t talking.”
I leaned in close, looked at his profile, at his left eye skittering in the socket.
“Where is she?” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I didn’t have time to question him or beat the answer out of him now. All I had was his wallet, and that would have to be good enough for a second round with John at a future date.
“Let’s hope this isn’t the last minute of our lives, John,” I said and pushed him into the foyer ahead of me.
7
The front door of Grief Release, Inc., was black birch without so much as an eyehole glass in its center. To the right of the door was brick, but to the left were two small rectangles of green glass, thick and fogged over by a combination of icy wind outside and warm air inside.
I pushed John Byrne to his knees by the glass and wiped the glass with my sleeve. It didn’t help much; it was like looking out from a sauna through ten sheets of plastic wrap. Beacon Street lay before me like an impressionist painting, foggy forms I took for people moving past in the liquid haze, the white streetlights and yellow gas lamps making everything worse somehow, as if I were staring at a picture that had been overexposed. Across the street, the trees in the Public Garden rose in clumps, indistinguishable from one another. I couldn’t be sure if I was seeing things or not, but it seemed that several smaller blue lights flashed repeatedly through the trees. There was no way to know what was out there. But I couldn’t stay here any longer. I could hear voices growing louder in the ballroom, and any minute someone would risk opening the door onto the staircase.
Beacon Street, in the early evening just after rush hour, had to be semicrowded. Even if armed clones of Manny waited out front, it wasn’t like they’d shoot me in front of witnesses. Then again, I didn’t know that for sure. Maybe they were Shiite Muslims, and shooting me was the quickest route to Allah.
“The hell with it,” I said and pulled John to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Shit,” he said.
I took a few deep breaths through my mouth. “Open the door, John.”
His hand hovered over the doorknob. Then he dropped it and wiped it on his pant leg.
“Take the other hand off your head, John. Just don’t try anything stupid.”
He did, then looked at the doorknob again.
Upstairs, something heavy fell to the floor.
“Any time you’re ready, John.”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight, for instance,” I said.
“Yeah.” He wiped his hand on his pants again.
I sighed and reached around him and yanked open the door myself, dug my gun into his lower back as we came out on the staircase.
And came face-to-face with a cop.
He’d been running past the building when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, pivoted, and looked up at us.
His right hand went to his hip, just over his gun, and he peered up at John Byrne’s bloody face.
Up the block at the corner of Arlington, several patrol cars had pulled up in front of the corporate offices of Grief Release, their blue and white lights streaking through the trees in the Garden, bouncing off the red brick buildings just past the Cheers bar.
The cop glanced up the block quickly, then back at us.
“I guess.”
“What I’m concerned about, John, is a bunch of grief-stricken behemoths like Manny waiting out on Beacon Street with more guns than I have.”
“What do you want me to say here?” he said. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I’m the one who’ll catch the first bullet anyway.”
I tapped his chin with my gun. “And the second, John. Remember that.”
“Who the hell are you, man?”
“I’m the really scared guy with the fifteen-bullet clip. That’s who. What’s the deal with this place? Is it a cult?”
“No way,” he said. “You can shoot me, but I’m not telling you shit.”
“Desiree Stone,” I said. “You know her, John?”
“Pull the trigger, man. I ain’t talking.”
I leaned in close, looked at his profile, at his left eye skittering in the socket.
“Where is she?” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I didn’t have time to question him or beat the answer out of him now. All I had was his wallet, and that would have to be good enough for a second round with John at a future date.
“Let’s hope this isn’t the last minute of our lives, John,” I said and pushed him into the foyer ahead of me.
7
The front door of Grief Release, Inc., was black birch without so much as an eyehole glass in its center. To the right of the door was brick, but to the left were two small rectangles of green glass, thick and fogged over by a combination of icy wind outside and warm air inside.
I pushed John Byrne to his knees by the glass and wiped the glass with my sleeve. It didn’t help much; it was like looking out from a sauna through ten sheets of plastic wrap. Beacon Street lay before me like an impressionist painting, foggy forms I took for people moving past in the liquid haze, the white streetlights and yellow gas lamps making everything worse somehow, as if I were staring at a picture that had been overexposed. Across the street, the trees in the Public Garden rose in clumps, indistinguishable from one another. I couldn’t be sure if I was seeing things or not, but it seemed that several smaller blue lights flashed repeatedly through the trees. There was no way to know what was out there. But I couldn’t stay here any longer. I could hear voices growing louder in the ballroom, and any minute someone would risk opening the door onto the staircase.
Beacon Street, in the early evening just after rush hour, had to be semicrowded. Even if armed clones of Manny waited out front, it wasn’t like they’d shoot me in front of witnesses. Then again, I didn’t know that for sure. Maybe they were Shiite Muslims, and shooting me was the quickest route to Allah.
“The hell with it,” I said and pulled John to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Shit,” he said.
I took a few deep breaths through my mouth. “Open the door, John.”
His hand hovered over the doorknob. Then he dropped it and wiped it on his pant leg.
“Take the other hand off your head, John. Just don’t try anything stupid.”
He did, then looked at the doorknob again.
Upstairs, something heavy fell to the floor.
“Any time you’re ready, John.”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight, for instance,” I said.
“Yeah.” He wiped his hand on his pants again.
I sighed and reached around him and yanked open the door myself, dug my gun into his lower back as we came out on the staircase.
And came face-to-face with a cop.
He’d been running past the building when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, pivoted, and looked up at us.
His right hand went to his hip, just over his gun, and he peered up at John Byrne’s bloody face.
Up the block at the corner of Arlington, several patrol cars had pulled up in front of the corporate offices of Grief Release, their blue and white lights streaking through the trees in the Garden, bouncing off the red brick buildings just past the Cheers bar.
The cop glanced up the block quickly, then back at us.
Similar Books
