What Happened to the Bennetts(70)

I took a right onto Donegal Street, where there were fewer parked cars. A quick scan told me the BMW wasn’t among them, but I had known this wouldn’t be easy. Phil Nerone could be anywhere, or he might not even be on the street. I had assumed he was a low-level dealer, but I could have been wrong.

I drove ahead in the dark, my thoughts grim. I used to think that law governed us all. I had thought that justice was an ocean, and that lawlessness was only islands in the water. The exception, not the rule—like Gitmo, an island beyond the reach of courts. Now I knew better, after Allison. There were no islands of lawlessness; the lawlessness was everywhere. An ocean of lawlessness, with no island in sight, no land anywhere at all.

I kept driving in light traffic, but I didn’t see Phil Nerone. I continued for almost two more hours, then started to think that I should move on to another town. I hopped onto 202 for a stretch, then hopped off and on again in Ranston, another old farming town that had seen better days. It was laid out on a similar grid, though it had a nicer residential section of brick rowhouses and a longer main drag with a Wendy’s, Mexican and Thai restaurants, bars, and other small businesses, closed now.

I headed for the rougher sections of town, where the houses were run-down and vacant lots left to rubble. The pattern was depressingly familiar: men hanging on street corners, cars stopping and starting.

I gave up eyeing the men, realizing it would be easier to spot the BMW than to spot Phil Nerone. I drove past slowly, going down one street, then the next, less familiar with the grid than New Cumberton’s, since I hadn’t looked up the map of every town.

Two hours later, I hadn’t found the BMW or Nerone, but felt only more determined. I would find Nerone if it took all night, and if I didn’t find him tonight, I would try again the next night and the night after that.

I stopped at a red light on Donegal Street, trying to decide if I should move on to the next town, so preoccupied that it took me a moment to notice a man with a goatee stepping out of the shadow on the corner. Phil Nerone. I had just passed him. He was alone, and there was no one else on the sidewalk.

The light changed, and I drove forward, spotting the BMW parked on Whitman. I drove around the block, then cruised down Donegal again, making a beeline for Nerone at the corner. He was leaning into the passenger side of an old white Altima, its brake lights glowing. The streetlamps were out, and the rowhouses dark. Two were boarded up with plywood covered by graffiti. A dog was barking, the sound echoing in the still night.

I told myself to stay calm. I had rehearsed this moment in my mind. It was do or die, but I was hoping for the former. In case of the latter, I’d left some letters.

The Altima drove off, and I steered toward the curb, lowering my passenger side window. Nerone turned to face me, dark narrow eyes, longish hair, and a scraggly goatee, wearing a black hoodie with jeans.

I braked, my engine idling. Nerone started to walk to my passenger window, then slowed his step. I assumed he was being cautious because I wasn’t a regular. I didn’t think he recognized me, newly bald. Either way worked for me.

I gestured him forward, and Nerone came over, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“Who sent you?” he asked flatly.

“I need to see George Veria. I’m the guy he’s looking for.”

Nerone snorted. “Move on, buddy.”

“I’m Jason Bennett. Get in your car and call Big George. Tell him I want to meet him, alone. I’ll follow you wherever he chooses.”

Nerone’s lips parted. He wasn’t used to decisions, he was used to orders. He didn’t understand why I was offering myself up, and it threw him off. Surprise gave me the upper hand.

“Is this a hard one, Phil? Call Big George.”

Nerone moved his hand in his pocket, presumably aiming a gun at me. “Get out of the car. You’re coming with me.”

“No. Don’t even think about killing me. You know he’ll want to do it himself.” I met Nerone’s nervous gaze. “Either you get in that BMW or I leave now. You wanna be the one who let me get away?”

Nerone hustled to the BMW, sliding a phone from his jeans.





Chapter Forty-Four



I followed the BMW down 202 South, and the drive gave me time to get nervous. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 4:25 a.m., and I was heading for parts unknown behind a killer, going to meet an even better killer. Hard to believe this was my plan, but it was all I had.

I clenched the wheel and straightened in the seat. Drizzle misted the air, and I turned on the windshield wipers, keeping the BMW in view. There was almost no one on the highway. My tires rumbled on wet asphalt.

I ran through the possibilities, my stomach tight. All I had to do was get to Big George and tell him the truth. If he came to the meeting alone, I had a shot. If he came with Milo, it could be lethal.

We got off 202 and wound our way through the suburbs, passing Cape Cods and McMansion developments, and in time the houses began to disappear. We reached the mushroom farms, passing their characteristically long, rectangular buildings of white cinder block. Their parking lots were full because the farms operated around the clock, but there were no signs of life. I knew if I lowered the window, I would smell the stench. I didn’t lower the window.

We drove deeper into the countryside, then the field opened up on a night so dark that I couldn’t tell the difference between land and sky. There was no moon, no stars, and the only light was my headlamps. Flies and moths flew crazily into the jittery cones of light. A car passed us, then another, and we came to a faded sign that read valley composting.