THIRTY-SEVEN

Dave had always taken grief about his taste in music.

Growing up, while his friends were into Nirvana and Soundgarden, he was listening to big band stuff: Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, the Dorsey brothers—his grand-father had gotten him hooked the year he was six and had to stay with them while his mom detoxed. After that, he just couldn’t listen to anything recorded past 1950. Okay, some Blue Note stuff, but otherwise . . .

Bill Haley was the Antichrist, as far as he was concerned.

It wasn’t a big deal until puberty, when every girl in the eighth grade was dying to talk about the latest, greatest records, and Dave was revealed (not for the last time in his life) as a clueless geek.

He had suddenly become cool for about a month in high school when swing was briefly in, but, soon enough, everyone was mocking him again. It got even worse his senior year when he discovered classical, because then the music teachers all wanted to play him stuff, which earned him a teacher’s pet rep and several bruises. By the time college rolled around, he’d bought an expensive pair of headphones and learned to keep his taste—and his CD collection—to himself.

Which was why Bumpo’s record collection had come as such a pleasant surprise. The day he’d moved in, he’d heard Wagner coming from underneath his new neighbor’s door, and he’d beaten on it till Stanley answered. When Stanley showed Dave the record collection his mother had bequeathed him . . . well, he’d felt as if he’d died and gone to heaven. There were 78s of Caruso; the original Decca Callas collection, the actual vinyl, which to his ears sounded so much better than the CDs burned from those original recordings; Olander conducting Beethoven’s ninth. . . .

And Verdi. The complete Verdi. Rigoletto.

Dave closed his eyes and tuned out the slamming from Castle’s apartment, letting the music flood over him.

Wham. Wham. Wham.

He frowned, and opened his eyes.

Joan and Bumpo were dishing out the Florentine by the stove. Had been, anyway. Stanley was stopped in midmotion, scooping a ladle full of the fried ice-cream treat from the vat. Next to him, holding a bowl, Joan was frowning, too.

“Is it my imagination,” she asked. “Or is it louder than usual tonight?”

“Your imagination, I think,” Dave said.

“It’s definitely louder, Dave.” Stanley cocked his head a moment and listened. “It sounds like it’s coming from right out in the hall.”

Don’t be silly, Dave was about to say, when an ax split Bumpo’s door in half.

Joan screamed.

The door splintered, and Castle fell through what remained of it, followed a second later by the biggest guy Dave had ever seen in his life, holding the ax at his side.

“Run!” Castle shouted. He looked the way skanky Mike had looked the other night—worse, in fact. Much worse. More black and blue than not.

The big guy raised the ax and brought it down again. At the last possible second, Castle rolled out of the way, and the blade buried itself in the floor.

Holy shit, Dave realized. He really is trying to kill him.

The big guy dropped the ax, picked Castle up by the shirt, and spun him around and around like an airplane. Joan and Bumpo dodged frantically out of the way: The guy slammed Castle down on Bumpo’s cutting table, right next to the stove.

He reached for Bumpo’s knives.

Castle grabbed the vat of oil off the burner and threw it in the big guy’s face.

The man screamed and staggered, clawing at his face.

Castle got to his feet and tackled him, driving him back out into the hallway.

“Run!” he called out again, over his shoulder, and then disappeared through the door.

Joan looked at Dave. Bumpo looked at Dave.

“Shit,” Dave said. “Let’s go help him.”

They ran out into the hallway. The two men were on the ground, rolling over and over, locked in each other’s embrace, the big guy punching blindly, Castle striking back with relentless purpose.

Dave didn’t know what to do. A second later, there was nothing he could do.

They hit the top of the stairs, still fighting, still wrapped together, completely unaware of where they were, what was about to happen. The big guy swung, a roundhouse punch that caught nothing but air, and then—just like that—they were falling.

Clunk, clunk, clunk was the noise they made, a slamming, bone-on-wood noise that made Dave’s stomach turn.

“Frank!” Joan yelled, and she ran to the staircase, Dave a step behind her.

He heard them hit bottom, and cringed. Next to him, at the top of the stairs, Joan cringed, too.

Bumpo came up behind them.

Dave shook his head. “Whoa,” he said.

“Mr. Castle?” Stanley called out. “Frank?”

There was no response.

The three of them took a hesitant step forward, then looked down the staircase together.

Dave heaved a sigh of relief; Castle pushed up off the ground and got to his feet.

“You’re all right?” Joan said.

“I’m fine,” Castle replied. “He’s not.”

Which was most definitely true: The big guy was lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his unseeing eyes wide open.

Something about his position suddenly struck Dave as off. It took him a few seconds to figure out what, though, and when he did get it, he wished he’d hadn’t, because the realization made his stomach roll over.

The big guy’s head had been completely twisted around on his neck. One hundred eighty degrees.

He thought he was going to be sick.

Then he got a better look at Castle, who had just finished climbing the stairs, and threw up.

Careless. Stupid and careless, and it was going to cost him everything.

Today was Thursday. Six P.M., at a rough guess. In less than two hours, Livia Saint was going to be walking out of the spa, dressed in her workout clothes, putting her gym bag in the Jaguar, and then heading over to the Centurion. He had to be there. Had to.

But his head wouldn’t stop spinning.

He staggered down the hall and into his apartment. The others followed.

“You’re bleeding,” Joan said, looking down at the floor.

Castle looked, too. Blood was pooling at his feet. A lot of blood.

His vision blurred; the next thing he knew, he was on his knees.

Joan’s face appeared next to his.

“Frank. We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

“No. No hospital. No police.”

“You need a doctor.”

Castle shook his head. What he needed was time, just a minute or two to gather his strength, to push the pain away long enough to complete the task before him. . . .

“I know what he wants,” Dave said, and disappeared. A second later, the man was back, holding out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“Good,” Castle managed, taking the bottle from him. He slugged it down like Gatorade. It burned in his throat; it burned in his gut; it burned in his veins.

“We’ve got to do something about that knife wound,” Joan said.

It was her turn to disappear then. She returned with Castle’s first-aid kit: she cut away the shirt from the wound, and then began threading a surgical needle.

“Gee,” Dave said. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Waitress, cook, nurse,” Bumpo added.

She smiled. “I’m not good with much, but I’m good with a needle.”

She took out the iodine and poured it on his wound. It stung like a maddened swarm of bees. Castle took another hit of the whiskey.

She held up the needle.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“This’ll hurt.”

“It always does.” Castle had been treated on the battlefield before; he could handle it.

Then the needle pierced his skin, and he screamed.

“Is he going to die?” Dave asked. “He looks weak.”

Joan glanced up quickly from the wound: Frank’s eyes had rolled back in his head. His eyelids were fluttering.

Castle didn’t look good, Dave was right about that, but she doubted he was going to die. The wound didn’t seem that bad: On the other hand, what the hell did she know? She’d been an ER nurse for all of six months before getting fired for stealing from the hospital pharmacy. Most of those brain cells, her nurse-trained brain cells, had been killed off long ago by her drinking. She was going by instinct here as much as training.

“I think he’s going to be fine,” she said, doing another stitch.

“Yes. I agree . . . Joan . . . appearances . . . aren’t . . . everything.” All at once, Dave’s voice sounded strained: She looked up and saw Frank had grabbed him by the bicep and was holding on tight.

“Ah, Mr. Castle,” Dave said, “you can let go now. Please?”

Frank’s grip relaxed.

Joan patted his shoulder. “Just about done here. Two more stitches, I think, and then—”

Engines roared outside. Tires squealed, and doors slammed.

“Sounds like a couple BMWs.” Dave frowned. “Who owns BMWs around here?”

“That’s an easy one,” Joan said. “Nobody.”

“Right.” Dave sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

Castle reached up then, and tugged her arm. He mumbled something.

“Say that again,” she said, bending closer.

At that same instant, Stanley walked to the window and frowned.

“Uh-oh.” He turned back to the others. “Does everyone with guns in Tampa have this address?”

“No, really—I do hope he’s still alive, Quentin, and I’ll tell you why.” John Saint slammed the door behind him, and started up the front steps of Castle’s building. “Because I want a chance to inflict some pain on him myself. A little payback, for what he’s done. A lot of payback, actually, before he goes off to never-never land.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Castle getting off easy, John,” Glass said, climbing a step behind the younger Saint. “The Russian specializes in pain. Wait.”

They’d reached the top of the stoop. Glass had stopped Saint with an outstretched arm, a foot shy of the building’s front door.

“What?” Saint frowned. “He could be dyin’ in there already, Castle. Let’s get to him.”

Quentin shook his head. “Better safe than sorry.” He was thinking not just about Castle but about Howard and Livia, both of whom had warned him about keeping John Saint safe.

Glass motioned Lincoln and Cutter forward. He and Saint stepped aside as the two men took up positions on either side of the front door.

“On three,” Cutter said. “One . . . two . . .”

They kicked the door wide open.

“Fuck!” Glass screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Russian’s body lay at the bottom of the staircase, burned, battered, and very, very broken.

“Looks like you got your wish, John,” Glass said, unholstering his gun and popping in a fresh clip.

The others did the same, and then they started up the stairs.

“We have to move him,” Dave said.

No shit, Joan thought. The only thing was, Frank was not in any condition to be moved more than a few feet.

“Where?” Stanley asked. “There’s no place to go.”

Castle mumbled something again. Louder this time.

“ ‘See you later’?” Joan asked, frowning. “Did you just say ‘See you later’?”

He shook his head weakly, and tried again.

“What?” Dave asked. “What did he say?”

“ ‘Ebidador,’ ” Stanley said. “I distinctly heard ‘ebidador.’ ”

“What’s an ebidador?” Joan said. A name? A place? A kind of weapon?

“Mr. Castle,” Stanley said, leaning over him. “Could you repeat that?”

But he couldn’t. Frank was fading, Joan saw, eyes rolling back in his head, babbling, incoherent from the pain, probably going into shock.

“Ebideebeebobby,” Castle gurgled, head lolling on his neck. “Ebideebeebader.”

“My apartment,” Joan said. “It’s the closest.”

She took one arm. Stanley took the other. They began dragging him toward the door.

“Wait!” Dave shouted, pointing down at the floor. “Elevator. See?”

Joan didn’t.

“Elevator!” Dave yelled again, running over and grabbing one of Castle’s legs. “Come on! Help!”

He spun the man around a 180 degrees and began dragging him away from the door.

Joan resisted for a second. Then she took a closer look at the floor where Dave had pointed, and nodded.

“Ah. Elevator,” she said, and began pulling in the same direction.