Power Play
Page 80
As he drank his chocolate, Blessed thought of his brother Grace, as cold as the winter ground outside, dead and buried in the wilderness. Grace had always been stronger, known what to do and how to do it. But Grace was dead, gone. For a long time now. And these FBI agents were trying to kill him dead, like his mama was, and Father. Everyone he loved was dead, except Autumn, and she wanted no part of him. Even the old bum whose coat kept him warm was dead and gone.
He wondered what had become of his mama’s house—no, more a shrine, really. He sometimes wondered if his mama hadn’t loved that house more than him or Grace, maybe even more than Father. He shook it away; it was disloyal. No, Mama had loved them both.
He mourned them all, and wished somehow they could know he was mourning. He didn’t think there would be anyone to mourn him when his own time came. Mama wanted him to find himself a wife, but he didn’t think that was going to happen.
He knew his brain was looping back and forth, had been for days now, between what he’d lost and what he had to do. Couldn’t be a good thing, but what else was there? This was what his life was for now, and there was no changing it. Mama asked him for revenge, and that meant the deaths of these two agents in the bushes who’d brought his family down.
He looked out again through the winter dead branches of an oak tree, and beyond to the yew bushes. That was the right spot. He could see them moving, trying to stay warm in their dark parkas and their winter gloves. They were waiting for him to come, only he wouldn’t, because two hours ago, he’d knocked on Mr. MacPherson’s kitchen door. When the old man had opened it the width of the chain, he’d looked into his old rheumy eyes and told him to invite him in. Like a vampire, he thought, and wasn’t that a kick? It smelled like an old guy’s house, like he’d been alone for some time, but still it was nice, filled with mementos of his long-dead wife and what seemed like dozens of his grandkids, photos all over the place. His mama hadn’t kept a lot of photos, preferred showing off her antiques, and Grace’s soul-black paintings.
He’d walked the old man to his couch in a living room that smelled like faded violets. He didn’t tie him up, no need. He’d stay there until Blessed told him otherwise. He even laid a big, soft quilt over his lap, just like his mama used to do for him in the cold months. He scooped up the yapping little mutt and tossed him in the bedroom closet. He gave the old man his ancient revolver and told him to shoot anyone who came in.
He smiled now, realizing those two had to be tired, growing careless. Unlike them, he’d slept most of the day to stay out of sight of the cops. On his way here, he’d stopped for two hamburgers at a burger place over in Foggy Bottom.
It was time for him to stop sitting and waiting. It was time to get up close and personal, from behind them, close enough to put that Glock three inches from their heads, if he could, and end this. Then he could leave this cold, ugly city with its crackheads and gangs and homeless bums roaming the streets and sleeping in the alleys, and this was the nation’s capital? Marble buildings and granite monuments and thousands of worker bees and the underbelly he’d stayed in that nobody gave a crap about.
He eased quickly out of the back door of the house, bent low and started working his way through the backyards, down past a couple houses, then he’d get on his hands and knees and quietly work in behind them.
Sherlock had a cramp in her calf. Dillon rubbed it for her, but she had to stand up, no choice. She eased up onto her knees, looked through the bushes. All was quiet, all the houses were dark, neighbors in bed. It was cold, but the night still, with little wind. She heard the sound of an engine and tensed. She smiled when she saw an old Mustang she recognized come cruising to a halt at the curb of the Morgans’ house, three houses down across the street. No wonder it was coming back late—it was Saturday night and the Morgans had three very pretty teenage girls. The boy cut his engine and coasted up to the house, lights off. Was he hoping for a little necking time? An instant later, the Morgans’ living room light went on, then the porch light. The front door opened and Todd Morgan came out, pulling his robe belt tight around his waist. Six foot four inches of firefighter dad stood with his arms crossed over his chest, sending the hairy eyeball toward the Mustang.
She heard a muffled yapping sound—a dog’s bark?
An instant later, in the reflected light from the Morgans’ front porch, Sherlock saw movement in the bushes next to Mr. MacPherson’s house, low and moving away from them. She whispered, “Dillon, there’s someone bent low, in Mr. MacPherson’s backyard, going or coming, I can’t tell. It’s got to be Blessed. I hope Mr. MacPherson’s all right.”
He wondered what had become of his mama’s house—no, more a shrine, really. He sometimes wondered if his mama hadn’t loved that house more than him or Grace, maybe even more than Father. He shook it away; it was disloyal. No, Mama had loved them both.
He mourned them all, and wished somehow they could know he was mourning. He didn’t think there would be anyone to mourn him when his own time came. Mama wanted him to find himself a wife, but he didn’t think that was going to happen.
He knew his brain was looping back and forth, had been for days now, between what he’d lost and what he had to do. Couldn’t be a good thing, but what else was there? This was what his life was for now, and there was no changing it. Mama asked him for revenge, and that meant the deaths of these two agents in the bushes who’d brought his family down.
He looked out again through the winter dead branches of an oak tree, and beyond to the yew bushes. That was the right spot. He could see them moving, trying to stay warm in their dark parkas and their winter gloves. They were waiting for him to come, only he wouldn’t, because two hours ago, he’d knocked on Mr. MacPherson’s kitchen door. When the old man had opened it the width of the chain, he’d looked into his old rheumy eyes and told him to invite him in. Like a vampire, he thought, and wasn’t that a kick? It smelled like an old guy’s house, like he’d been alone for some time, but still it was nice, filled with mementos of his long-dead wife and what seemed like dozens of his grandkids, photos all over the place. His mama hadn’t kept a lot of photos, preferred showing off her antiques, and Grace’s soul-black paintings.
He’d walked the old man to his couch in a living room that smelled like faded violets. He didn’t tie him up, no need. He’d stay there until Blessed told him otherwise. He even laid a big, soft quilt over his lap, just like his mama used to do for him in the cold months. He scooped up the yapping little mutt and tossed him in the bedroom closet. He gave the old man his ancient revolver and told him to shoot anyone who came in.
He smiled now, realizing those two had to be tired, growing careless. Unlike them, he’d slept most of the day to stay out of sight of the cops. On his way here, he’d stopped for two hamburgers at a burger place over in Foggy Bottom.
It was time for him to stop sitting and waiting. It was time to get up close and personal, from behind them, close enough to put that Glock three inches from their heads, if he could, and end this. Then he could leave this cold, ugly city with its crackheads and gangs and homeless bums roaming the streets and sleeping in the alleys, and this was the nation’s capital? Marble buildings and granite monuments and thousands of worker bees and the underbelly he’d stayed in that nobody gave a crap about.
He eased quickly out of the back door of the house, bent low and started working his way through the backyards, down past a couple houses, then he’d get on his hands and knees and quietly work in behind them.
Sherlock had a cramp in her calf. Dillon rubbed it for her, but she had to stand up, no choice. She eased up onto her knees, looked through the bushes. All was quiet, all the houses were dark, neighbors in bed. It was cold, but the night still, with little wind. She heard the sound of an engine and tensed. She smiled when she saw an old Mustang she recognized come cruising to a halt at the curb of the Morgans’ house, three houses down across the street. No wonder it was coming back late—it was Saturday night and the Morgans had three very pretty teenage girls. The boy cut his engine and coasted up to the house, lights off. Was he hoping for a little necking time? An instant later, the Morgans’ living room light went on, then the porch light. The front door opened and Todd Morgan came out, pulling his robe belt tight around his waist. Six foot four inches of firefighter dad stood with his arms crossed over his chest, sending the hairy eyeball toward the Mustang.
She heard a muffled yapping sound—a dog’s bark?
An instant later, in the reflected light from the Morgans’ front porch, Sherlock saw movement in the bushes next to Mr. MacPherson’s house, low and moving away from them. She whispered, “Dillon, there’s someone bent low, in Mr. MacPherson’s backyard, going or coming, I can’t tell. It’s got to be Blessed. I hope Mr. MacPherson’s all right.”
