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Ned Mahoney came up behind me. “Alex, can I have a second?” What was he doing here? What else had happened?
“I’ll wake them, get them dressed,” Nana said. “Talk to your friend.”
I stayed behind with Mahoney. “What is it, Ned? Can’t it wait for a couple of minutes? Jesus.”
“The bastards hit Burns’s house. Everybody’s all right. We got there in time.”
I stared into Mahoney’s eyes. “Your family?”
“They’re out of the house. They’re safe for now. We’ve got to find him and burn him.”
I nodded. “Let me get my kids up.”
Twenty minutes later my family was escorted outside to a waiting van. They climbed inside like frightened refugees in a war zone. That’s what the world was becoming, wasn’t it? Every city and town was a potential battlefield. No place was safe.
Just before I climbed into the van, I spotted a photographer posted across the street from our house on Fifth Street. It looked like he was photographing the evacuation of our house. Why was that?
I’m not sure how I knew who he was, but somehow I did. He’s not from any newspaper, I thought. I felt myself filling with rage and disgust. He works for Christine’s lawyers.
Chapter 112
CHAOS.
The next day, and for two days after that, I found myself in Huntsville, Texas, the site of the federal prison where Lawrence Lipton had been murdered while he was in the custody of the Federal Bureau. No one there had any explanation for how Lipton and two agents had been killed.
It had happened during the night. In his cell. Actually, the small suite where he was kept under guard. None of the video cameras had a record of visitors. None of the interviews or interrogations had turned up a suspect. Lipton had had most of the bones in his body broken. Zamochit. The Red Mafiya trademark.
The same method had been used on an Italian Mafia figure named Augustino Palumbo this past summer. According to stories, Palumbo’s killer had been a Russian mobster, possibly the Wolf. The murder had taken place at the supermax prison in Florence, Colorado.
The following morning I arrived in Colorado. I was there to visit a killer named Kyle Craig, who had once been an FBI agent, and also a friend of mine. Kyle was responsible for dozens of murders; he was one of the worst psychopathic killers in history. I had captured him. My friend.
We met in an interview room on death row in the isolation unit. Kyle looked surprisingly fit. When I’d last seen him he had been gaunt and very pale, with deep, dark hollows under his eyes. He appeared to have put on at least thirty pounds, all of it muscle. I wondered why—what had given Kyle hope? Whatever it was scared me a little.
“All roads lead to Florence?” he quipped, and grinned as I entered the interview room. “Some associates of yours from the Bureau were here just yesterday. Or was it the day before? You know, the last time we met, Alex, you said you didn’t care what I think. That hurt.”
I corrected him, which I knew would annoy Kyle. “Not exactly what I said. You accused me of being condescending and told me that you didn’t like it. I said, ‘Who cares what you like anymore?’ I do care about what you think. That’s why I’m here.”
Kyle laughed again, and the braying sound he made, the baring of his teeth, chilled me. “You always were my favorite,” he said.
“You were expecting me?” I asked.
“Hmm. Hard to say. Not really. Maybe at some time in the future.”
“You look like you have big plans. You’re all buffed.”
“What plans could I possibly have?”
“The usual. Grand delusions, homicidal fantasies, rape, the slaughter of innocents.”
“I do hate it when you play psychologist, Alex. You didn’t make it in that world for a good reason.”
I shrugged. “I know that, Kyle. None of my patients in Southeast had money to pay me. I needed to start a practice in Georgetown. Maybe I will someday.”
He laughed again. “Talk about delusions. So why are you here? No, I’ll tell you why. There’s been a terrible miscarriage of justice and I’m being released. You’re the messenger of glad tidings.”
“The only miscarriage is that you haven’t been executed, Kyle.”
Kyle’s eyes sparkled. I was one of his favorites. “All right, now that you’ve charmed me, what is it that you want?”
