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Lucy couldn’t keep the shock off her face. “You were there?”
“Yes. You wouldn’t have recognized me.”
“You were in disguise?” Her head began to spin. She willed her breathing to even out.
“Pretty much.”
“What about the skating park?”
He stared at her blankly. “I don’t skate.”
“No, at the skating rink in Arlington.”
He shook his head. “Before Saturday, I hadn’t seen you in over a year.”
“Why were you at the WCF fund-raiser?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“You said you’d tell me everything if I talked to you. I’m here. I’m talking. It’s your turn.”
Kate interrupted for the first time. “It might be helpful, Mick, if you tell Lucy about why you used her to lure parolees into a death trap. She deserves to know, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” He swallowed, his head falling into his hands. His shoulders rose, then fell. Again. Lucy did not feel bad for him, not even a sliver of empathy.
Mallory focused on Lucy. It was as if Kate wasn’t in the room, though it was clear he’d heard her.
“After my wife and son were murdered, I lost my heart and my soul. Lost everything that was good, everything I loved. After the…situation where I was fired, Fran was the only person I could talk to. We kept in touch.”
“That doesn’t answer Kate’s question,” Lucy said. “Why did you use me?”
“We didn’t. I never wanted you to know.”
“Too late. I figured it out. But not until after seven parolees were killed—seven that I lured into public.”
“Don’t feel an ounce of remorse for those animals! They were all violent predators who are better off dead.”
“Because you’re a god? Is that how you see yourself?” Lucy asked.
“No, I’m sure I’m going to Hell. I figured I’d send some of those bastards there before I arrive.” He paused, glanced at Kate, then turned back to Lucy. “Four years ago, Fran called me from Boston. She’d learned about a rapist who walked on a technicality. The bastard had been raping his niece from the time she was ten until she was fifteen. She committed suicide instead of telling her family that she’d had two abortions. They only found out after she died, from her diary. The judge wouldn’t allow the diary to be admitted as evidence, and there was nothing else to prove he was a child molester.
“The situation reminded Fran of what happened to her sister. She went to Boston and killed him. In his own house. Then she called me to help her cover it up. So I did. I stole the creep’s paintings and fenced them. He was quite a collector. Look it up—his name was Parker Weatherby.” Mallory paused, then added, “I read the diary, Lucy. It was gut-wrenching. Fran should have gone after the fucking judge. When our own system fails the innocent!” He slapped his palm on the table and a startled Lucy leaned back.
Mallory looked pained that he’d scared her. He said in a rush, “After that, I had an idea. I needed to do something to stop these men. I only took a few hits a year to avoid patterns, I never charged more than my minimum expenses, and I rarely did a job in the same state twice. If the Bureau had figured it out, they weren’t looking at me.
“It wasn’t enough. I was so dissatisfied, but couldn’t take on more. Not from lack of opportunity. And if I went after killers and rapists who got off on technicalities, like the prick up in Boston who Fran killed, the Feds would have figured it out pretty quickly. So I asked Fran to identify parolees for me to hit. She’d already started the lure program, it was successful, but honestly—why should these monsters go back to prison on the taxpayer’s dime for two, three, four years to finish their sentence when we damn well know that the minute they get out, they’ll be hunting for their next victim?”
“Did you know I volunteered for Fran?”
He didn’t say anything at first.
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I knew. I kept up with what you were doing.”
“And that’s not stalking? I suppose you’ve already rewritten the criminal penal code to suit your vigilante justice, so why not redefine stalking?”
“I’m sorry.”
