“And I’ve got the Glock I used on Graff. Let’s get a move on and get in place.”
Peter edged slowly along Cascade Road. He turned onto the dirt road leading through the woods.
“Seems like a thousand years ago we were here,” Jack noted. “But it’s all so familiar.”
Peter nodded. The place they had played in when they were kids. Exploring the caves. Carrying flashlights.
He drove on for a mile until they got to a clearing.
Jack put on a Knicks hat from the back seat. They both got out of the car and hugged tight.
“You okay, Jack? You got this?”
Jack was consumed by doubt, but he wasn’t going to show it. They were both in over their heads, and there was no turning back. “I got this.”
“No fucking around. This guy is a killer.”
Jack stared at his brother. “That makes two of us.”
Time dragged as Jack waited. He didn’t know if Nicoletti would show up. Even if he did, would he come alone or bring a crew? Maybe the fucker would shoot him on sight.
The more McNeal thought about it, the more a strange sense of calm seemed to wash over him. He had one advantage. Nicoletti probably wouldn’t recognize Jack or Peter. He would have known what Caroline looked like if he was stalking her, but not her estranged husband. Then again, maybe Graff had already circulated a photo of Jack to Nicoletti.
McNeal needed to bear that in mind. He envisioned Caroline’s last conscious moments. Had she seen her killer’s face? Had Nicoletti killed her near the Potomac before dumping her body in the water?
The black, putrid thoughts filled his head. A virus filled his soul. Bastards like that had no compunction about killing. But then again, neither did he—not anymore. He hadn’t hesitated to kill Graff. He had calmly watched as his brother had poured the cement into the bucket, then they had both dropped the trussed-up dead weight into the dark waters of the reservoir. One day, local fishermen could drag up the body, or parts of the body. It might be weeks. Nothing would tie what remained of Graff to either McNeal or his brother. No forensic evidence. Maybe circumstantial. Maybe a surveillance camera out in the middle of nowhere would catch them traveling down the highway. Maybe their luck would run out.
Jack wondered if, one day, when he thought this was all in the past, it would catch up to him. Then again, like a lot of cases, maybe not. Maybe Mother Nature would do her work. The fish in the reservoir could chew the meat off of Graff’s bones, leaving only a skeleton, its feet in concrete.
McNeal thought back to his first session with the psychologist. She had been concerned for his well-being. She was right to be concerned. His wife’s death had plunged him into a darkness from which he might never emerge. The hours since had been a living nightmare. And it was all still playing out. He would die in jail, haunted by the memories of what he had become. But, as it stood, a free man had become a hunter. He didn’t give a damn.
He thought of his son. His poor, dead son. The pain was too much to bear. Maybe dying would be a respite for McNeal. A beautiful release.
The sound of crunching footsteps snapped him back to the present.
“Henry?” A man’s voice. “You here?”
“This way,” Jack said.
A lone figure approached wearing a combat jacket, jeans, and heavy boots.
McNeal brushed against the cold metal of the Glock in his pocket as he scanned the man’s craggy features. It had to be Nicoletti.
Fifty-Five
Jack stepped forward and waved the gun at Nicoletti. He approached just close enough to get a whiff of strong cologne. “Hands on your head, motherfucker,” he ordered.
Nicoletti tilted his chin, amused. “Who are you?”
“Are you fucking deaf?”
“I don’t want any trouble, man.”
McNeal implemented his game plan. He fired one shot and blew out Nicoletti’s kneecap. The fucker screamed, collapsing on the ground, blood gushing from his knee. The sound of the gunshot and screaming echoed through the woods, birds scattering. “Too bad.”
Nicoletti shook, gripping his bloodied knee. “What the fuck, man?”
Peter ran out of the woods and kicked Nicoletti in the head. The guy passed out for a few moments.
Jack grabbed Nicoletti’s right hand as Peter grabbed the left. They hauled him headfirst down the dirt path until they reached the cave entrance. Peter had already ripped off the wooden sheeting.
Nicoletti came to and began to scream.
The brothers dragged Nicoletti through the filthy ankle-deep water of the cave. The fucker’s screams echoed in the dark mine.