Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (99)

“Yeah? Well, you got some balls, old man, I’ll give you that. But I also got news for you, I’m not going back. And what makes you think I’d even try to drive out of here?”

“Because before I came here, I visited your boat. Calamity Jane? It’s not going anywhere with water in its fuel tanks.”

“You’d better be bluffing, you fuck.”

“I guess you could take a plane, but that’s so easily tracked. The Overseas Highway is your only real choice and that’s a long drive. They’ll pick you up before you get to the mainland.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

Bosch didn’t answer. He just stared at the gun, ready for it, ready for the end. McShane stood up, keeping it aimed at his heart.

“So you’re wearing a wire, then? Sent in here to get me to confess? Open your fuckin’ shirt.”

Bosch lowered his right hand and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“No, no wire,” he said, opening his shirt. “Just you and me. I want to hear you say it. Then do what you have to do.”

McShane took a step closer.

“I’ll give you what you want, old man. I’ll tell you. But they will be the last words you ever hear.”

“Were they asleep?”

“What?”

“Emma and Stephen Junior. The kids. Were they asleep when you killed them? Or did they know what was coming?”

“Would that make it better for you? If they were asleep, if they didn’t know.”

“Were they?”

“No, they were on their knees. And they knew what was coming. Just like their parents. What do you think of that?”

McShane’s eyes were bright with the memory, and in his dark pupils Bosch saw an emptiness that was void of all humanity. A deep rage welled up in him as he flashed on photos he had once carried of Emma and Stephen Jr. A primal scream for justice came from the darkest folds of his heart.

McShane seemed to sense what was coming and lurched toward Bosch, raising the barrel of the gun toward his face.

“Turn around. Get up against the fucking wall.”

Bosch was ready for it. He dropped his hands and dipped his shoulders to the right as if about to turn as instructed. But then he took a half step back to his left, dropping the screwdriver out of his sleeve and into his hand.

As McShane came in close, Bosch shot his right hand out to grab the gun and deflect its aim upward. At the same moment, he brought his left arm up and drove the screwdriver into McShane’s ribs.

McShane’s body tensed with the impact and he groaned. Still holding him close, Bosch pulled the screwdriver back and then savagely drove it in a second time, this thrust delivered at a new and upward angle. He threw his full weight into McShane and rode him four feet back and crashing into the wall.

He pinned him there, holding the hand with the gun up and keeping pressure on the screwdriver. He felt McShane’s sticky and warm blood on the hand that gripped the tool.

Leaning into McShane, Bosch was close enough now to feel his last, desperate breaths on his face. He had not killed a man so close since the tunnels of fifty years before. He held McShane’s eyes as he felt the tension and strength in his body weaken and start to ebb away with his life.

McShane’s grip on the gun weakened and finally released. The weapon bounced off Bosch’s shoulder and clattered to the floor. Then McShane started to slide down the wall, his eyes holding a surprised look in them.

Bosch let him go and he dropped into a sitting position, propped against the wall, still pierced by the screwdriver. His blood soon flowed down his body and to the floor.

Bosch kicked the gun across the floor, stepped back, and watched McShane bleed out, his eyes losing their focus and finally staring blankly at nothing at all.





53


THE RED-EYE LANDED at Miami International at 6 a.m. and Ballard was on the road to Key West within an hour, a large coffee in the cup holder of her rental car. Her biggest concern at the moment was staying alert during the four-hour drive and keeping the rental between the lines on the Overseas Highway. The plane from L.A. had been full and she had booked one of the last seats. She’d been assigned a middle seat in economy and ended up bookended by two men who had no trouble falling asleep and snoring for the whole flight.

She, in turn, didn’t sleep a wink. Instead, she thought about Harry Bosch and what he might be doing so far from home.

Halfway down the archipelago to her destination, she moved out of range from the Miami radio stations and ended up listening to a Florida Keys weather station, which repeated the same news every fifteen minutes. An unusual pre–hurricane season storm had formed off the coast of Africa and was heading toward the Caribbean. The anchor at the weather station in Marathon said they were watching this development closely.

She was less than ten miles from Key West and about to call the KWPD, when her phone buzzed. It was a call from L.A., where it was not yet 8 a.m. She took the call.

“This is Renée Ballard.”

“Mick Haller. You left me a message last night.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Sounds like you’re driving. Can you talk?”

“I can talk. I’m a detective with the LAPD. I’ve worked with Harry Bosch.”

“My brother from another mother. I know who you are, Ballard. Is this about Harry? Is he all right?”