City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(92)

“You said we were going to Boca,” Pam says. “A nice house, out of the business . . .”

“Boca, you dumb bitch?” Liam says. “There’s a federal dope indictment on me. We have to get out of the country. Mexico, maybe Venezuela, maybe farther, I don’t know.”

“I’m not going.” Pam sits back down on the bed. “To Mexico or anywhere else. If you want to run, run. But without me. I’m not living as a fugitive.”

“You think you’re clean on this?” Liam says. “You’re up to your tight little ass in it. You’ve been spending my coke money for two years. What, the feds are going to give you a pass because you’re so fucking pretty? The bull dykes in the joint are going to think you’re pretty, too, sweetheart.”

“Liam, it hasn’t been good with us for a long time,” she says.

He looks pathetic. Scared, sweaty, his eyes pinned with coke. “What do you mean?”

“We fight all the time,” she says. “We don’t even have sex anymore. You haven’t fucked me in . . . I don’t think you even can.”

He smacks her across the face.

It’s an open hand, but it hurts, wrenches her neck. Then he’s pummeling her, careful not to punch her in the face, but raining fists on her ribs, her thighs, her legs. “You think you’re going to leave me, bitch? After everything I’ve done for you? I put my life on the line, for you, I killed for you. My brother died for you. I’ll never let you leave. I’ll kill you first. I’ll fucking kill you now, then I’ll blow my brains out. Is that what you want?”

“No. Please, Liam. I’ll go with you.” She’s terrified.

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

“You’re lying.”

“No,” she says. “I love you, Liam. With all my heart.”

He gets off her. “Get in the car.”



Danny goes down to the chapel, kneels at the votary altar and lights a candle.

Then he prays. “Dear Father God, Mother Mary, Saint Anthony, and Jesus. I know I don’t talk to you as much as I should and I probably shouldn’t even be here but I don’t know what else to do.

“Please take Terri’s soul when she comes and keep her safe in heaven. She’s a good person, she didn’t have anything to do with all the bad things I’ve done. One of those innocent bystanders, and why you have to take her instead of me I’ll never know. But you did, and now I have a son to take care of, and a sick old father, and a bunch of other people who need me, and to do all that I’m going to do something very wrong. A mortal sin. And I’m not asking for your forgiveness, to tell you the truth; what I’m asking for is your help to do what I have to do.”

He crosses himself and gets up.



When Jardine gets to the safe house in Lincoln, it looks like Liam left in a hurry. Clothes in the closet, food still out on the kitchen table, shit, a stove burner is still warm.

Just missed him.



Liam drives north up Route 95. Doesn’t say a word to her for an hour, up into Massachusetts, then says, “Why do you make me hurt you?”

Pam doesn’t answer.

“We got four hundred and fifty K in heroin,” Liam says. “We’ll be fine. I’ll sell it up in Canada, we’ll get new IDs and fly down to Mexico. Right back in fucking business.”

She still doesn’t say anything.

“What are you, mad?” he asks. “You pouting? I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I am.”

“That’s great.”

Up around Lowell, Liam gets tired.

He pulls off at a Motel 6 and parks the car around the back, where it can’t be seen from the highway.

Pam goes to the desk to check in, gives a fake name and pays in cash. Before heading back to the car, she goes to the pay phone in the lobby.



Jardine takes the call.

Hears a woman’s voice say, “Motel 6, Lowell. Room one-thirty-eight.”

The woman hangs up.

He knows who it is.

Pamela Murphy.

He calls Paulie Moretti and then heads out.



Danny wonders if he’s doing the right thing by going. Leaving Terri at the edge of the void, to die alone, slip away down the road to God knows.

But he knows his mother is right.

Even God is telling him to get out.

For Ian, for sure, but not only for him. I’m the leader now, I have to take care of my people.

I gotta get us all out of here.

Find a place to set our feet.

He leans over, kisses Terri’s cheek.

It feels like she’s already gone, like this isn’t the woman he knew, the woman he loved. It’s weird, he can smell the vanilla on her skin, even though it’s not there; he can feel the fine little black hairs on her forearm that he used to stroke with the back of his hand when they’d lie there after making love, even though her arms are covered now in patches and tubes and needles. He can see her so clearly—not her when she was sick, but her when she was younger. Can feel her body warm asleep in bed beside him, can see her walking on the beach. Can hear her breathing softly, the way she used to when she was deep asleep, not like the mechanical rasping that comes out of the ventilator; can hear her voice—teasing, mocking, loving, tough and tender—although she’s silent now, drowning under a sea of morphine, drifting out and away.