Into the Fire(10)

His footsteps echoed as if off the walls of a crypt. He reached the kitchen island and pulled out one of the barstools. It screeched on the concrete floor. He sat in the darkness.

After a time he checked the RoamZone, but it showed no missed calls.

He put it away and folded his hands.

He would have liked something to do.





6



So Much More to Wreck





The Spanish-style mansion, set behind a front lawn big enough to host a polo match, had a 1920s glamour. Through countless renovations Max had heard about countless times, Grant and Jill had maintained the original integrity of the house, whatever the hell that meant. All Max knew was that he’d gotten lost once trying to find the powder room.

Crickets sawed away in the lush landscape rimming the grass, an ominous trill vibrating the night air. Behind the curtains of the big front room, Max could see shadows moving around, the bustle of a household fresh in mourning. He heard the voice of Michelle, the oldest, home from Tufts law school. She was a second-year now. She appeared to be comforting her mother. Even over the crickets, Max could hear Jill’s choked sobs.

He couldn’t imagine her without her husband, and he doubted she could either.

Pausing on the walk, Max checked the street behind him once more in case he’d been followed. An image flashed through his mind—the Terror savaging his mattress with that big knife—and he had to remind himself to take long, even breaths.

Stepping up onto the broad porch, he rang the bell.

Chimes sounded musically in the vast foyer, ringing off the high ceiling.

A moment later Michelle pulled open the architectural door, her face red and puffy. She wore a fluttery sweater the length of a duster, clipped at the front. At the sight of him, she lightened. “Mighty Max,” she said, her breath hitching, and then she hugged him. “I’m glad you’re here. Mom’s losing her shit over the funeral arrangements. Like, who cares if we have a lily wreath on the coffin? And no one wants to talk about just being sad. And, like, missing him, you know? I mean, given everything, I know I’m super emotional, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

He shot another glance at the dark street and closed the door behind them. Then he looked her in the eye. “Don’t let anyone else tell you how you’re supposed to feel, okay?”

Her voice came out little-girl small. “Okay.”

Jill’s voice echoed in crisply from the other room. “Who’s that?”

Max walked past the grand staircase and into the immense front room. He wasn’t sure what it was called—a sitting room? a parlor?—but there Jill was, propped on one of the immense couches, her nose rimmed red, a cluster of broken blood vessels etching a fragile pattern beneath one eye. To her side a crystal vase the size of a trash can was home to a clutch of curly willow branches that resembled fingernails.

One of the house staff passed through the swinging door into the kitchen. As it waved open, Max heard voices—a family get-together he’d not been told about. Michelle hovered at the edge of the big room, arms crossed, nibbling her bottom lip.

Before he could offer his condolences, Jill waved a wrung-out tissue in his direction. “Why can’t anyone do anything? I mean, he was scared for days. And you know Grant—he didn’t get scared.”

Max felt as though he’d walked in mid-monologue. From what Michelle had told him, maybe he had.

“That’s why he was heading to the cabin in Big Bear,” Jill continued. “To keep us safe. Because someone was after him.”

Max’s throat felt suddenly parched. “Who?”

“He didn’t tell me. He’d never discuss specifics like that with us.” Jill eyed Max pointedly. “He always put his family first.”

An accusation.

Even so, she was right. Max knew that Grant would never bring anything explosive near his home, and it seemed the Terror had surmised the same.

“Yes, he did.” Max took in a breath. “So you think it was a work thing?”

“Of course it was work-related.” She snatched up a notepad, scribbled something else on her to-do list, and tossed it back onto the glass coffee table.

“Why didn’t he go to the cops?”

At this she gave a nasty little laugh. “The cops. Right. You’d think they’d be some help. I mean, you’d imagine that they could swing in and … and … But it’s amazing how helpless we actually are. When there’s a real threat? The police are useless. Can you imagine, what with who Grant was in the community? Think of everything he did over the years for their investigations, for their cases. But he said they only offered the usual bureaucratic nonsense. Fill out a report. A cruiser by the house twice a night.” She rubbed her eyes hard, smearing the lids in circles. “It’s not like I expected them to whisk him off into witness protection, but something. And then this. Jesus God. I mean, they said it was a professional hit. A professional hit. On Grant. Our Grant. And they don’t know.… They still don’t know anything.”

She sobbed quietly for a time.

Dread had taken up residence in Max’s belly, lead-heavy and dense. If the cops weren’t willing to help Grant Merriweather, what recourse would he have?

He took an awkward step toward her. “Jill, listen, is there anything I can do?”