time is running out.”
“I’ll find another way to get the money.”
Louis crushed the cigarette in an ashtray. “Who are you kidding? If you could have gone elsewhere for the money, you would have. You proved I’m your last hope just by coming to me.”
He reached inside his desk drawer and removed his personal checkbook. “If you want my help, I’m here—but only if you’re willing to help me correct the past.”
Michael was about to speak, but then decided it was pointless and left for the door. Before stepping out of the room, he stopped and looked at his father. Louis’ eyes were as cold and as bitter as the silence that hung between them. “If George Redman did what you say he did, then he should pay for what he did to Mom. But there are other ways. There’s the law. I’ll be damned—”
Louis raised a hand. “Don’t say any of this to me, Michael. Say it to your mother. She’s the one you need to explain this to, not me.”
Only his father could make this more difficult than it was. “I’m not a murderer.”
“But your mother was murdered. So, why couldn’t you be? We all could be.”
Michael left the room.
When the door clicked shut, Louis reached for the phone on his desk and punched numbers. Michael would see his side sooner than he expected. “It’s Louis, Vincent.” He looked at the picture of his wife. He had sworn long ago that he and Michael would avenge her death together. Michael just needed a little stimulation. “I’ve got another job for you, but you must move quickly.”
* * *
Michael knew something was wrong the moment he finished climbing the six flights of stairs and saw that the door to his apartment was ajar.
The first thought that raced through his mind was Rufus. If someone was in the apartment, then why wasn’t the dog barking? Had the intruder already left? Michael couldn’t be sure.
He started down the hallway, moving slowly, his senses acute. He glimpsed an empty wine bottle lying beside the freight elevator, picked it up and tossed it once between his hands. The bottle was heavy, solid. It could fracture jaws, break bones, cut flesh.
He passed the apartment to his right and heard the sound of a child crying, the tinny blare of a television that was turned too loud. Canned studio laughter wafted through the thin, graying walls—Edith Bunker shouting at Archie.
Michael stopped beside his apartment door, listened, but heard nothing. Surprise was his only chance. Drawing back his foot, hand tightening around the bottle, he gave the door a vicious kick and rushed inside when it crashed open.
The apartment was in shadow. Heart racing, nerves wired, Michael stepped farther into the room, pushing past the sea of cardboard boxes, ready to fight. He called Rufus’ name once, twice, but there was no response. He turned toward the open window, moved past the basket of spoiled fruit and stepped over to his bed. There, he found his dog’s mangled body lying in a bloody heap.
Each of his legs were cleanly chopped off. One was stuffed in his mouth.
For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or react. His heart seemed to slow and then freeze. Lips parting, throat tightening, the bottle dropped from his hand and struck the hardwood floor, where it shattered in a dozen gleaming pieces.
Revulsion cut through him like a blade. Legs weak, mind whirling, he knelt beside his dog, touched his back and tentatively stroked Rufus’ tan, bloodied fur.
Already, the dog was beginning to stiffen. His coat was cool. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere. Behind Michael was a box filled with towels, sheets, an assortment of rags and clothes. Moving like an automaton, he reached inside the box, selected a thick, pale-blue towel and draped it over Rufus’ back. In numb horror, he watched as it turned dark
“I’ll find another way to get the money.”
Louis crushed the cigarette in an ashtray. “Who are you kidding? If you could have gone elsewhere for the money, you would have. You proved I’m your last hope just by coming to me.”
He reached inside his desk drawer and removed his personal checkbook. “If you want my help, I’m here—but only if you’re willing to help me correct the past.”
Michael was about to speak, but then decided it was pointless and left for the door. Before stepping out of the room, he stopped and looked at his father. Louis’ eyes were as cold and as bitter as the silence that hung between them. “If George Redman did what you say he did, then he should pay for what he did to Mom. But there are other ways. There’s the law. I’ll be damned—”
Louis raised a hand. “Don’t say any of this to me, Michael. Say it to your mother. She’s the one you need to explain this to, not me.”
Only his father could make this more difficult than it was. “I’m not a murderer.”
“But your mother was murdered. So, why couldn’t you be? We all could be.”
Michael left the room.
When the door clicked shut, Louis reached for the phone on his desk and punched numbers. Michael would see his side sooner than he expected. “It’s Louis, Vincent.” He looked at the picture of his wife. He had sworn long ago that he and Michael would avenge her death together. Michael just needed a little stimulation. “I’ve got another job for you, but you must move quickly.”
* * *
Michael knew something was wrong the moment he finished climbing the six flights of stairs and saw that the door to his apartment was ajar.
The first thought that raced through his mind was Rufus. If someone was in the apartment, then why wasn’t the dog barking? Had the intruder already left? Michael couldn’t be sure.
He started down the hallway, moving slowly, his senses acute. He glimpsed an empty wine bottle lying beside the freight elevator, picked it up and tossed it once between his hands. The bottle was heavy, solid. It could fracture jaws, break bones, cut flesh.
He passed the apartment to his right and heard the sound of a child crying, the tinny blare of a television that was turned too loud. Canned studio laughter wafted through the thin, graying walls—Edith Bunker shouting at Archie.
Michael stopped beside his apartment door, listened, but heard nothing. Surprise was his only chance. Drawing back his foot, hand tightening around the bottle, he gave the door a vicious kick and rushed inside when it crashed open.
The apartment was in shadow. Heart racing, nerves wired, Michael stepped farther into the room, pushing past the sea of cardboard boxes, ready to fight. He called Rufus’ name once, twice, but there was no response. He turned toward the open window, moved past the basket of spoiled fruit and stepped over to his bed. There, he found his dog’s mangled body lying in a bloody heap.
Each of his legs were cleanly chopped off. One was stuffed in his mouth.
For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or react. His heart seemed to slow and then freeze. Lips parting, throat tightening, the bottle dropped from his hand and struck the hardwood floor, where it shattered in a dozen gleaming pieces.
Revulsion cut through him like a blade. Legs weak, mind whirling, he knelt beside his dog, touched his back and tentatively stroked Rufus’ tan, bloodied fur.
Already, the dog was beginning to stiffen. His coat was cool. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere. Behind Michael was a box filled with towels, sheets, an assortment of rags and clothes. Moving like an automaton, he reached inside the box, selected a thick, pale-blue towel and draped it over Rufus’ back. In numb horror, he watched as it turned dark
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