THIRTY-NINE

Howard Saint looked at the phone in his hand in disbelief.

“Say that again.”

Rebecca did. “Chadwick asked me to postpone the announcement.”

“Did he say why?”

“Not really. Just that he didn’t think it was a good time.”

“Not a good time?” Saint shook his head. That was a crock of shit, and he knew it. Chadwick was postponing for one reason, and one reason alone.

He was running scared. All the bad publicity, first the thing with Bobby, and now the incident at the Saint Tower, which Palmer was still playing up in his column, a week later . . .

Castle. It all came down to Castle. He couldn’t wait to dance on the man’s grave.

His other line beeped.

“Hang on a second, Rebecca.” Saint clicked in the second caller. “Howard Saint.”

“Pop.”

“John.” Saint sat up in his chair. “Tell me something good.”

Silence.

Fuck, Howard Saint thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Castle’s alive,” his son said. “The Russian’s dead.”

“Hold on.” Saint clicked over to Rebecca. “I’ll have to call you later,” he said, and disconnected her.

He sat for a moment in silence then, in his darkened office, and thought.

Outside the mansion, the sun had just set. The front lights were on; he could see Livia’s azaleas all lit up along the walkway to the tennis court.

His Bentley was in the driveway. His invitation to Senator Woodling’s Christmas party was on his desk. His beautiful wife was in the upstairs bedroom of his beautiful house. His humidor was full of Cubans. And his cook, Mrs. Caprese, was making him steak tartare tonight.

He was Howard Fucking Saint, and anybody who thought he could cross Saint for even a second was sadly mistaken.

He clicked John back in.

“Where’s Quentin?”

“Home. Getting cleaned up.”

“Where are you?”

“At the club.”

“Okay. Tonight we’re closed for business. Make the calls.”

“Closed? Ah, Pop, we got that DJ coming down from New York tonight. Can’t we—”

“Closed, John. You hear me?”

His son sighed. “Yes, Pop. I hear you.”

“Good. You make the calls. I want every warm body there, no excuses. Arrange food and drinks. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“What do I tell everyone?”

“You tell them we’re going hunting.”

He hung up.

On the desk was a picture of Bobby. Saint picked it up and smiled.

Tonight, son. Tonight we finish the job.

“Howard? Darling? Did you hear me?”

He looked up. Livia walked into the room, wearing her workout clothes.

“Sorry. What?”

“I said I’ll be back after ten.”

He frowned.

“It’s Thursday.”

“Oh, right.” Her girl film. “Thursday. Of course. Have a great time.”

“I will.” She leaned over the desk and kissed him. “You have a good night, too.”

He looked up at her and smiled.

“Oh, yes. I think I’m gonna do just that.”

Castle opened his eyes. He was lying in the old freight elevator. Joan was leaning against him, her eyes red and rimmed with tears. How had he gotten here? He remembered the Russian, the knife wound, the stitches, passing out. . . .

He sat up with a jolt and looked at his watch.

Six twenty-five. There was still time.

Castle remembered something else now, the sound of cars pulling up in the front of the building, and he grasped the situation in a heartbeat. His neighbors had dragged him in here, to keep him safe.

Joan looked at him, realized he was awake, and started to sob.

“Frank,” she said. “Frank, they—”

He put a finger to his lips. No talking. Not till they made sure Saint’s men were gone. He became aware that, though his wound still throbbed, the worst of the pain had passed. His head was clear now.

He activated the hydraulics—the elevator rose up through the floor and clanked to a stop. The doors opened. Castle rolled out first, helped Joan, and then got to his feet.

Outside, it was dark and starting to rain. Drops pattered down on the skylight. Lightning flashed.

Bumpo sat on the couch before them, chest heaving. Joan went to him.

Footsteps came from the hall, and a shadow fell across the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. A second later, a man’s shoes followed. A big man’s shoes.

Joan tiptoed up beside him, a question in her eyes. He shook his head—wait here—and stepped carefully through the wreckage of his apartment, searching for something to use as a weapon.

His eyes fell on a piece of office equipment left by whoever had rented the loft before him. A paper cutter. A moment later, he had what he needed.

He waited until the man and the shoes had gone past again, heading back toward the staircase, before stepping quietly out into the hall.

It was one of them. Even though the man had his back to him, Castle recognized him instantly, from that day at the compound.

Rising on the balls of his feet, walking as close to the edges of the floorboards as he could to avoid any telltale creaks, Castle raised his makeshift weapon and approached.

Halfway down the hall, the man—prompted by instinct, perhaps, or the creak of a floorboard—turned. His eyes widened, and he went for his gun.

The blade of the paper cutter flashed.

The man’s body tumbled down the stairs.

The head remained on the landing, eyes wide in disbelief.

Castle went back to the loft. Joan and Bumpo had gone to the corner of the room, and they were leaning over someone slumped in a chair. He could see only shadows, but he recognized the figure nonetheless.

Dave. They’d killed him.

Then the man moaned and turned his head, just enough that the light coming down from above touched his face.

Joan gasped and started crying all over again.

“Oh no . . .”

“Dave,” Bumpo said. “Oh, Dave. Look what they did to you.”

Castle was looking. Not just at the awful mess that had been made of Grayson’s face, but at the table beside him, where every single one of his facial piercings now lay, bits of skin and hair and coagulated blood dangling off them. They’d been arranged very neatly on the table. As Castle stepped closer, he saw they spelled something: HI FRANK.

His blood boiled.

“Who did this?”

“Quentin,” Bumpo offered. “That’s what they called him.”

“They tried to make me talk,” Dave croaked. “I gave ’em nothing.”

Castle didn’t understand. “You don’t know me,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Bumpo was crying now, too, right along with Joan.

“I’ve brought you nothing but trouble. Why . . .” He shook his head. “Why were you ready to die for me?”

“You helped Joan,” Dave said. “You stood up for me.”

God help him, the man tried to smile then.

“You’re one of us, Mr. Castle. You’re family.”

Family.

Castle closed his eyes.

He saw his mother fall. Saw Frank Sr. shotgunned from behind, saw Donal McCarey cut down trying to start his cycle, saw Dom Castiglione executed running down the beach . . .

Maria and Will lying still, on the pier.

Family.

Not again, he thought. Dear God, not again.

“Take him to a hospital,” he said, and looked at his watch.

Six forty-five. Time to go.

He moved to the footlocker, unlocked it, and began to pack. Soapdish charges. Remote detonators—all of them. Antipersonnel mines. The last of the Claymores . . .

“Are you going to die tonight?”

Joan stood over him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Take Dave to the hospital, I said.”

“Stanley took him. You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to die tonight, Frank?”

He filled the first duffel and took out a second.

Extra rounds for the shotguns, extra clips for the Colts . . . Ah.

The Kevlar vest. He set that aside to wear. The fireplug. The voice distorter.

Joan was still talking.

“Is that what you want? Damn it, Frank, talk to me.”

“All I want is for it to be over.”

He moved past her, unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, and took out the pictures. Glass and his barber, Livia on her way to the movies . . .

“If you don’t let go of the past,” Joan said, “it’ll never end. Believe me, I know. I know how you feel, Frank. You think you’re the only one that ever lost family? The only one that ever—”

“My whole family,” he said. “Everyone. Everything. My wife. My son.”

“My son,” she yelled. “I lost my son, too!”

Castle stopped in his tracks. That wasn’t what his file—

“Stevie,” Joan said, and even though she was still crying, maybe even harder than before, her voice was steady, calm, and full of a barely suppressed rage that went beyond any emotion Castle had ever seen from her before. “My boy. My husband, Earl, that sonuvabitch. I went off to work one day, and when I got back, they were gone. I haven’t seen or heard a word from either of them since. Five years, Frank. I keep hoping, I had someone working on it for a while, but . . .”

She sighed, and Castle saw the anger go out of her like air from a balloon. “Every day, I live with it. I live with it, though—you understand? You can live with it, too, Frank. You don’t have to die.”

She sighed again, and slumped back down on the couch. “You don’t have to die.”

He stood there a moment, in the wreckage of the loft, and considered her words. He considered her.

She was a beautiful woman. He’d seen that before. What he hadn’t seen: she was strong. Smart. Brave as all hell.

But the watch said six fifty-two.

He had to go.

He turned his back on Joan, reached into the drawer one final time, and pulled out the journal.

He pulled out a chair.

He began to write.

Behind him, he heard footsteps run to the door. It swung open; then, a second later, it slammed shut.