THIRTY-TWO

She was being silly, and she knew it. He had shown absolutely no interest in her, beyond that one night when he’d kicked skanky Mike down the stairs. It was just more proof that she always went after what she couldn’t have, what wasn’t good for her.

But still . . .

Joan found herself thinking about Castle a lot these days.

Right now, he sat by himself, down the counter, eating his way through a steak and eggs. He obviously wasn’t here to talk to her, though. He’d spent the morning writing in that little book he always carried with him.

“Oh my goodness.” Stanley, who sat at the counter in front of her, pushed his plate away and patted his stomach. “These blueberry pancakes are good, Joan. Can I have another order?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Stanley . . .”

They’d talked about his losing weight last night. None of his pants fit anymore; he had to leave the top button open and use his belt to hold them up.

“You’re right.” He nodded. “You’re right, Joan. I have to eat healthier. What’s he eating?” Stanley gestured toward Castle.

“He’s having eggs, Stanley. Steak and eggs.”

“That’s what I’ll have, then.”

“Stanley . . .”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get you some yogurt.”

Stanley visibly shuddered. “I suppose.” He sighed and slumped on his stool. “What’s he been doing the last few days, anyway? Where’s he been?”

“In his apartment, for the most part. As for what he’s been doing . . . not much. Drinking. A lot.”

“Why does he drink?”

“Bumpo.” Dave, at the stool next to Stanley, shook his head. “Why do you eat? Why do I spend all day in a video game?”

“Because you don’t have a job?” Joan asked.

Dave shot her a look. “Ha-ha. Because he’s a troubled man. A haunted man. A man whose very deeds and responsibilities are so . . . so . . .”

Joan sighed and turned to get Stanley’s yogurt.

“So awesome,” Dave continued, “that he has to douse his central nervous system in alcohol.”

“Please,” she said. “Spare me.”

Dave shrugged. “It’s either that, or he likes to get hammered.”

Joan put Stanley’s yogurt down in front of him and shook her head. Dave had left out the obvious reason—obvious to her, at least. Castle drank to forget. His wife. His son. She knew how that felt.

Her eyes went to the end of the counter then. Castle— she’d tried thinking of him as Frank, but somehow that just seemed wrong, she didn’t feel as if she knew him well enough to be on a first-name basis yet, even in her head— had put the book away and was now staring off into space.

Go talk to him, a little voice in her head said. The breakfast rush was long over. Old man Schurr had kicked back by the cash register and was reading his papers; he wouldn’t mind if she took a little break, too. Go talk to him.

She smoothed down her skirt, pushed her hair back from her face, and picked up the coffeepot. Refill, Frank? Why thanks, Joan. You’re very kind. Not at all. Anything else to eat? No. Say, what time do you get off? In about an hour. Why? I was wondering if—

The little bell above the entrance rang as the door swung open.

The thinnest man she’d ever seen in her life walked in.

Scary thin. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, bony-looking arms, bony-looking legs, and a crown of Lyle Lovett hair to top it off. He was carrying a guitar case, and wearing clothes that looked to her as if they’d gone out of style twenty years ago, if, in fact, they’d ever been in style.

Jee-sus. The goofballs they got in here . . .

The man walked to the corner booth, right behind Castle, and sat. Joan brought a menu over.

“Morning, sir. Coffee?”

“That’d be fine.”

She poured.

He smiled, and looked her right in the eye.

Joan tried smiling back, but the intensity of his gaze was unnerving. All at once, the man seemed like anything but a goofball. All at once, in fact, he seemed downright scary.

“I’ll be right back to take your order,” she said, and hurried away as fast as she could.

There was a mirror opposite the breakfast counter. Castle used it to study the man as he entered, and quickly dismissed him. Musician. Another junkie probably, judging from his wasted, skeletal-like appearance.

When the man took the booth directly behind him, though, Castle gave him a second look. Just to be sure. And then he was instantly on his guard.

The man was staring right at him, right in the mirror. Eyes clear, intelligent, piercing. He lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag off it, then a longer, slower sip of his coffee, his eyes locked on Castle the whole time.

Not a junkie. Not a musician. But not necessarily Saint’s man, either. Besides, even if Saint had sent him . . . he wouldn’t try anything in here. There were too many witnesses. Castle frowned. On the other hand, if he was indeed Saint’s man, he might not care about witnesses, except to kill them.

Castle’s eyes went to Joan, who was talking in hushed tones with Grayson and Bumpo, just down the counter.

He shifted slightly in his seat then so that the handle of the Colt tucked in his waistband was in easy reach.

The man set down his coffee and turned to the guitar case on the seat next to him. Humming softly to himself, he began flipping open the latches of the case.

Castle tensed, ready for anything.

The man opened the lid. The fluorescent bulbs of the diner lights reflected off something inside it.

Castle let his hand drop to his side, inches from the Colt.

The man reached into the case and pulled out a guitar.

Castle exhaled.

The man strummed a chord. Out of tune. He fixed it, then in a gravelly voice began to sing.

“I have taken the blood of an innocent life

And I ran from the light like I ran from the law.

You know the wages of sin catches up with us all.

But he kept his hand on me,

He kept my faith alive.

It will carry me home, I pray,

On the day that I die.”

As he finished singing, the man looked up in the mirror again. Looked long and hard right in Castle’s eyes. Castle took it about as long as he could, then turned to face him.

“Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. You’re the one in the papers. The one that came back from the dead.”

“That’s me. What do you want?”

The man smiled. He stood up and put the guitar back in its case.

“Just wanna pay for my coffee, that’s all.” He looked over at Joan. “How much do I owe you, darlin’?”

“Seventy-five cents.”

He slapped a handful of change on the counter. “Thanks much. See y’all soon.” Tipping his hat to Castle, he stepped toward the door.

“Hey.” Castle spoke without looking up.

The man turned.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s ’cause I didn’t give it. But I’m flattered by your interest.” The man smiled, that same half smile he’d given before. “You liked that tune, huh? It’s called ‘The Day I Die.’ I wrote it for you, Frank.”

The two of them locked eyes again; at that second, Castle knew.

This guitar player, whatever his name was, was Saint’s man. And nothing was going to happen inside the diner.

They would meet again outside it, though. And there wouldn’t be any singing going on then, Castle was pretty sure about that.

The man pushed through the door and disappeared.

Joan, Bumpo, and Grayson all turned to him.

Castle turned back to his breakfast.

Joan kept trying to start a conversation. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he had to prepare. Besides, after the last week . . . she should know better. He wasn’t interested. He couldn’t be interested. He had to stay focused.

Maria. Will.

He left a big tip and exited the diner.

The lot was clear, save for the GTO. The street was empty, too, save for the usual assortment of neighborhood hangers-on. The blue-haired old ladies who couldn’t afford to move, the gray-haired men who’d lost their jobs, the kids with dreads who couldn’t give a damn whether they worked or not.

He climbed in the car and headed for the apartment. Saint’s man had dictated the time and place of their first meeting: Castle would pick their next. The loft was ready. He was ready. It was just a matter of luring the man there.

He checked the rearview. Clear. He turned onto Batavia, cut across the Waffle House lot over to local 211, and headed north. A roundabout route home, but it would give him time to think. Today was Sunday; Saint would want him out of the way by tomorrow afternoon, dinnertime at the latest, in order to be 100 percent certain he could proceed with the week’s shipment, even on the revised schedule he’d set up. Duka had clued him in on that schedule; Castle wondered if it might not be worth a call to the man now, see if he’d heard anything about this hit man with a guitar Saint had brought in.

Up ahead, the gate to the old Harbor Drawbridge came down. Castle slowed the GTO and stopped before the lowered arm.

All at once, a roar sounded behind him.

He looked in the rearview and saw a black-and-yellow Plymouth Roadrunner tearing down 211, heading right for him. Full speed.

The guitar player was behind the wheel.

Castle was reaching up, reaching for the first of the three levers he’d installed only yesterday, the one next to the driver’s-side visor, when the Roadrunner slammed into the back of the GTO. His car shot forward, smashing through the lowered arm of the drawbridge gate and smack into the raised road surface itself.

If he hadn’t had his arm up, Castle would have gone through the windshield.

As it was, the recoil almost snapped his neck anyway. He bounced back hard against the seat, shook his head to clear it—

And saw, in the driver’s-side mirror, the guitar player climbing out of the Roadrunner, a sawed-off shotgun in each hand.

Castle reached up again; this time, he managed to grab the lever over his head and yank it down. He did the same with the one on either side of the car, and the spring-loaded steel panels he’d spent the last two weeks building slammed down around him, cutting off his view of the world outside and creating a bulletproof cage.

Just in time. Steel clanged on steel, and a small dent appeared in the driver’s-side panel. A second later, another huge clang sounded, and the windshield panel bowed inward.

In about two seconds, Castle knew, Saint’s man would figure out all he had to do was shoot out the engine and wait.

Castle heard a rumble then: The drawbridge was lowering. That was his way out: He hit the gas and retracted the front panel at the exact same second. Caught a glimpse of the guitar player’s surprised face as the GTO shot forward, and the man—just barely—managed to jump out of the way.

The bridge was far from horizontal yet, though: Castle had a split second to decide whether or not he would be able to make the jump to the other side; he realized he had no alternative and dropped the car into overdrive.

For a second, rubber squealed, and then, all at once, stopped.

He—and the GTO—were flying in midair.

Ahead of them, he caught a glimpse of the other half of the bridge lowering, and he willed the car to stay up long enough to come down on it.

They hit. The impact rattled his teeth—impact on the front end, not the rear. Castle felt the car begin to fall, and instinctually reached for the door handle.

The back end of the car hit then, rattling his teeth a second time—and the GTO straightened out, all four wheels down.

Castle shifted again, as the car smashed through the gate arm beginning to rise ahead of them, and flew back onto 211.

He saw the Roadrunner coming up fast behind him.

Keeping a hand on the wheel, he reached down, beneath the passenger seat, and drew one of his father’s Parkers. He looked ahead. An intersection was coming up—De Valle, another big street.

Castle slowed the GTO—not enough to make Saint’s man suspicious, but enough to let him get a little closer. Bring him within range.

A hundred yards shy of the intersection, Castle threw the wheel hard left and slammed the brakes. The GTO slid toward De Valle, suddenly perpendicular to his pursuer.

Castle raised the shotgun and fired.

The Roadrunner swerved.

He pumped again and fired a second time. The other car’s windshield shattered. Saint’s man appeared from behind the wheel, pistol in hand, and fired.

The driver’s-side mirror of the GTO shattered.

Castle hit the gas, and the GTO took off down De Valle.

He dropped the shotgun and drew his Colt. Waited.

The Roadrunner appeared behind him, again coming up fast. This time he didn’t wait; he slammed on the brakes.

Saint’s man was good, but no one could react that fast. The Roadrunner’s tires screeched as it came within range.

Castle sighted down the barrel of the Colt and fired.

The passenger-side window shattered, but the Roadrunner’s driver was unharmed. He raised his pistol, and Castle hit the gas again.

They were coming up on the old warehouse district. The other side of North Tampa. Castle realized he wasn’t going to be able to make the apartment—too bad, he had some nice surprises waiting there—so he’d have to make do with what he had. Luckily, that included a few surprises as well.

Another intersection loomed. Castle shot through it, the Roadrunner just behind, and gaining. Castle had a feeling that all the damage the GTO had absorbed was taking its toll. The car felt sluggish to him.

The back windshield shattered: Castle heard the bullet slam into the back of the seat next to him. In the rearview, Saint’s man smiled.

Up ahead, on his right, Castle saw an abandoned warehouse. Long abandoned: the brick facade was crumbling, vines were crawling up the building, the huge front bay doors were half drawn, leaving the building open to the elements.

Looked like his kind of place.

Castle spun the wheel hard right, heading straight for it. The car bounced over the curb, heading for the space between the doors; and right at that second, Castle heard something snap just below his seat. Axle? Drive train? Brake line? Whatever it had been, all at once he had no control.

The side of the building loomed before him. He barely had time to put his hands up before his face before the GTO smashed into it.

The next thing he knew, his head was lolling on his shoulders. His ears were ringing.

Get out, he thought. Get out.

His hand found the door handle, and he pushed himself up and out of the seat, out his door.

He staggered once, and fell face first to the ground.

When he looked up, the Roadrunner was at the curb and Saint’s man was walking toward him, holding a pistol in each hand, wearing a smile as big as Texas on his face.

Castle realized he was still holding the Colt. He raised it and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Castle dropped that weapon and fumbled awkwardly under his coat.

His fingers closed on the handle of a knife, and, with the last of his strength, he drew it.

Saint’s man burst out laughing.

“What is that, a potato peeler?”

Castle’s vision blurred, then came back into focus. The man was right; the knife in his hand did look like a kitchen tool. Like a child’s toy.

“You’re dumber than a box of hammers, boy. You brought a knife to a gunfight.”

“They paid you to kill me,” Castle managed to say. “So kill me.”

“It’ll be a pleasure.”

The man pressed the barrel of his gun against Castle’s head.

Castle squeezed the hidden button on the bottom of his knife.

The spring-loaded blade shot out and embedded itself in the guitar player’s throat.

“Akk,” the man said, looking down.

He gurgled once, then fell over backward and lay still.

Castle struggled to his feet. In the distance, sirens howled, growing closer.

He climbed into the Roadrunner and drove home.