What Happened to the Bennetts(76)

“You killed Junior!” George tried to kick me, but I wriggled out of range.

“That’s not true . . . Milo lied to you! I didn’t fight . . . why would I, I’m just a guy, the car’s insured . . . I was taking care of my daughter, she was on the street and—”

“You did it!” George tried to kick me again, but he missed, seeming to lose steam, his chest heaving with effort.

“I was trying to save my daughter. . . . We heard another shot and we saw it. . . . Milo shot Junior.”

Suddenly George started coughing, and I shifted away, landing on the stones and silt at the edge of the water.

“He used . . . Junior’s gun . . . then he drove away. Milo did it, I swear. . . . He wants to move up, he needs Junior gone . . . right?”

George doubled over, hacking from deep within his chest. He sprayed blood droplets onto the grass. The two thugs came running toward him.

“Get away!” George shouted, sputtering blood on his shirt. The thugs retreated hastily, and he wiped his mouth with a tissue he took from his pants pocket, still stooped over.

I lay on my side, in pain, but I made myself keep talking. “Milo’s not returning your calls, is he? Last night I told him . . . I was getting to you today. He knows . . . I’m going to tell you the truth. He’s an . . . FBI informant.”

George stayed doubled over, his hands resting on his knees. His dark gaze shifted upward, boring holes into me. “How do you know?”

“I overheard it . . . it’s true.”

“So your family’s in the program.”

“Yes, but we have to get out . . . and I never did anything to you or Junior, and you have to let us be . . . let us get back to our lives.” I settled in to my pain. “My wife can’t take it, neither can my son. . . . We don’t deserve it, any of it. We didn’t even get to . . . bury my daughter.”

George fell quiet. His lined face was a haggard mask of spent rage.

“You’ve done everything you can to me . . . to what’s left of my family. I lost a daughter, you lost a son, it has to stop.” I didn’t know what I was saying anymore, I was throwing everything against the wall. “You have to believe me . . . it’s Milo, he killed Nerone at the plant, he sent Nerone to run Hart over—”

“What about Hart?” George scowled, still doubled over.

“Nerone killed him . . . he was driving the blue BMW . . . I know Nerone killed Hart . . . I was there, I saw him run Hart over.”

George’s dark eyes flared briefly.

“I knew the BMW from Junior’s funeral. I saw him. It was Nerone.”

“You were at the cemetery? With the feds?”

“Not with them, on my own. . . . I wanted to figure out a way to get to you . . . to tell you about Milo. . . . Your guy chased me through a cornfield. He tried to run me . . . off the road.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know Contessa . . . Hart’s girlfriend . . . she died in her apartment. . . . They tried to make it look like a suicide.”

George’s fleshy lips parted, as if he hadn’t known that, either. I sensed he was back on his heels, so I kept going.

“Milo killed Contessa . . . because she could prove to you he was an informant.”

“No, that’s not why. Something else is going on.” George shook his head, and blood dripped from his lower lip. He straightened with a grunt, returning his tissue to his pocket. “I know Milo’s a snitch. Whose idea do you think it was?”

“Yours?” I asked, astonished. “Milo was playing the FBI . . . for you?”

George didn’t reply, but I couldn’t process it fast enough, trying to refit the pieces of the puzzle, and all of a sudden, it struck me.

“Milo is playing you.”

“Ya think?” George motioned me to stand. “Get up.”

I tried to get my legs under me, but fell back again. George shuffled over, grabbed me by the arm. He started to hoist me up, and I finally got my feet under me, bringing me to his level, then I felt rage from deep within me.

“George, you’re responsible for my daughter’s murder. Milo fired the gun, but you sent him.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t kill your daughter.”

“I didn’t kill your son.” We faced each other, two grief-stricken fathers, barely able to stand. Every inch of my body was in pain, but I saw a way to get out of this alive. “George, take off these handcuffs. We need to sit down and sort this—”

“Were you an altar boy?”

“Yes, why?”

“It shows.” George motioned to the thugs, and I felt panicky, so I went for broke.

“What’s the point . . . of killing me? How much time . . . do you have left anyway?”

George’s dark gaze shot to me. I heard the thugs coming from behind. I knew it was my last chance, so I took a flier.

“Milo killed Junior . . . because he wants your business. He knows you’re dying, he’s waiting you out. You just going . . . to let him take everything you worked for? I can help you . . . stop him.”

“Why would you?” George asked, his eyes narrowing. He halted the thugs with a hand signal.

“You said, ‘Something else . . . is going on.’ If Milo’s not working for you . . . he’s working for somebody else. That makes him a threat to my family . . . as long as he’s alive.”