McNeal pressed the gun even tighter to Graff’s skull. “You will answer me, you sick fuck, so help me God.”
“I have sacrificed. Lord knows I’ve sacrificed. For my country. All for America. I’ve sacrificed relationships, my marriage, and my sanity, and for what? Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“I’m protecting the quarterback.”
“We’re talking in analogies now, huh?”
“The guy who makes the plays. Makes the calls. And takes the hits.”
McNeal stared down at the shaking, tragic figure on his knees. His insides grew cold. His brain was getting the signal. He could see now what this was all about.
“I was approached by people. They showed me a picture of my wife in . . . compromising positions.”
“With who?”
“So many people. But there was one in particular.”
McNeal wanted him to say it.
“I did it all to protect him.”
“Say it! Say his name!”
“The President of the United States, that’s who! He was fucking my wife.”
McNeal froze in horror.
“Now do you understand what you’re dealing with?”
“The President? The President was fucking your wife?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“The people who approached me said it was mutually beneficial. My wife wouldn’t cause me or the President any further embarrassment. But you need to know one thing: killing your wife wasn’t my idea. I swear.”
McNeal’s thoughts careened around his head. He thought of his wife’s last moments. Her final moments before she drowned. He pulled out his cell phone, turned the flash on. He started to record, gun trained on Graff. “Henry Graff, who ordered the murder of your wife and my late wife, Caroline McNeal?”
Graff shook his head, eyes closed. “Someone close to the President.”
“Who? Give me a name?”
“I don’t have a name. The person approached Nico, who in turn spoke to me. Inside track. That’s how it started. He passed on the photos of my wife and the President. Nico acted as the link between them and me.”
“Where does he live?”
“Nico? He’s from Warwick, New York. He has a place there. Actually, I have an address.”
Graff kept one hand on his head and used the other to reach into the back of his shirt collar.
McNeal saw the glint of steel.
Graff lunged forward, arms outstretched, penknife in hand.
Time stood still.
McNeal’s mind flashed back to when he had killed his partner. The night his son died. A split second. Then he squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out. The blood and brains erupted out of a small hole in Graff’s forehead, his body collapsing into a heap on the dirt road.
Forty-Seven
The seconds that followed were a sickening blur for McNeal. He stared down long and hard at the body of the man who had organized his wife’s murder, watching blood pooling around Graff’s head in the near darkness. Time stood still. He became aware that someone had started speaking to him.
“Jack!”
McNeal snapped back to reality as his brother ran up to him.
“What the holy fuck, Jack?”
“He went for my gun. The guy had a death wish. He wanted to die. He had a knife.”
“Holy mother of God.”
“He knew about my partner. About how I killed him. And he taunted me. He wanted to die the same way. He wanted me to take him down. Fuck!”
“We’ll figure this out. We can deal with this.”
McNeal shook his head. “This is not your fight, Peter. Get the hell out of here.”
“Jack, you’re holding the gun I gave you.”
The blood seeped toward his shoes. McNeal took a step back.
“Know what he said? He said his wife was having an affair with the President. His wife was fucking the President.”
“What?”
“That’s what he said. Sophie Meyer was fucking the President. He had pictures. And he was approached to do something about it. That’s how this all started. Now he’s sacrificing himself. He said he thought he’d be next. He saved me too. Said there was an ambush waiting for me.”
“Listen to me—”
“The guy wanted to die. This was his way of putting me in the picture. He said he wanted to save me, but what he really wanted was to embroil me in the whole shitshow. He also wanted me to kill him. The bastard lunged at me with the knife. He knew I would have to take him down.”