“You’re going down a dark road, Jack.”
McNeal took his handgun out of his waistband and stared long and hard at it. “I don’t see any other way.”
Forty
The brothers went their separate ways.
McNeal watched Peter reverse down his driveway, turn, and begin the long drive south on I-95 to New Jersey. His brother faced at least a two-and-a-half-hour journey, returning home without the family pet.
McNeal realized that his home in Westport was no longer safe. There could be cameras in the house. He could get an expert to look the place over. But that could be done another time. He had business to attend to first.
His gaze locked on a photo of him and his son. He crumpled under a heaviness in his heart. He had beaten himself up for years over his son’s death.
McNeal knew he had changed since his son’s death. He had kept the pain and the hurt inside. He hadn’t wanted to communicate with anyone. Caroline had wanted to talk about it. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
He would walk on the beach, always alone, with his thoughts and grief. Only when he was out of sight would he allow himself to break down. He prayed some days that he wouldn’t wake up. His wife hadn’t been able to live with him anymore. He just worked, slept, and grieved. On and on, a vicious cycle. Eventually she left. But his wife’s sudden death had resurrected all the old feelings. He began to think more and more about his son. He wanted more than anything to expunge the rage. A black rage.
McNeal had never really gotten over his son’s senseless death. It was all too much to bear. The pain—a sickening pain—had never really subsided in his heart. He just thought it had. He took his son’s photo off the wall and kissed it. He stared at a boy fixed in time. A boy who would never grow old. A boy who would never become a man. “If I could bring you back, I would. I want you back. But Daddy will see you one day, I promise.”
McNeal put the photo back on the wall and looked around the living room. It might be the last time he saw the place. He quickly filled a backpack with a change of clothes, some bottles of water, and snacks. He had three hundred dollars in cash, a wallet with three credit cards, and his two guns—his NYPD-issued Sig Sauer for when he was on duty and his Glock, his personal firearm.
McNeal placed the Sig Sauer and the ammo into a locked box in the trunk of his car. The Glock he tucked, locked and loaded, into his shoulder holster.
He headed back into the house and sat down on the sofa, watching TV, channel surfing for an hour or so, clearing his head.
He challenged himself to think about how far he was really prepared to go with this. Was he prepared to take the fight to them? The problem was that all he had was circumstantial evidence. It all pointed to Graff. But there was no proof that he was involved in the break-in. Even the CIA links to Feinstein didn’t prove that Graff had authorized or was involved in the operation to discredit him. But McNeal knew Graff was behind it.
The problem was proving it.
McNeal picked up his cell phone and called Belinda Katz.
“Jack, I was going to call you later. I haven’t heard from you for a couple of days. I was worried.”
McNeal’s breath sped up. His heart raced.
“Talk to me. What is it? This is what I’m here for.”
“I haven’t got much time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . . I wanted you to know something before I embarked on a particular course of action.”
“Jack, I’m concerned. I hope you won’t do anything rash.”
McNeal closed his eyes.
“What is it?”
“I found out my wife was murdered.”
“What?”
“I believe it was organized by a man called Henry Graff.”
“Why are you telling me this? Have you told the police?”
“Can you write that name down? And no, I haven’t told the police. I don’t know who I can trust. Henry Graff murdered my wife. If something happens to me, I want you to know that. And take it to the cops, do you understand? NYPD. Not the Feds.”
“Where are you now?”
“Westport.”
“I’ll come up and see you.”
“Not now. I have things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Personal business.”
“Jack, I sense you’re in a very dark place. This man, Henry Graff . . . I would caution you against taking the law into your own hands. I would urge you to get treatment. We can resolve some of these feelings. We can find a path forward.”
“I think I’m at the end of my rope.”