“There might be surveillance cameras picking up parts of our journey. There are no guarantees.”
Jack patted his brother on the back and shrugged. “I’ll give you a guarantee. Neither Graff nor Nicoletti will be telling their side of the story, that’s for sure.”
Fifty-Seven
The sky was bloodred as McNeal returned home to Westport. He had rented a car in New Jersey and driven all the way home. He waited until it got dark. Then he put on a thick coat, wrapping himself up against the cold. He headed out onto a deserted Compo Beach, moonlight bathing the sand in an icy glow.
McNeal walked and walked, hands deep in his pockets. He felt empty. He closed his eyes and smelled the salty breeze in the air. It cooled his skin. He thought he would feel a sense of closure. He wondered if he had undergone some sort of psychotic breakdown. He had enacted a retribution both brutal and shocking, even to himself. He sensed this was not the end. Maybe it was the beginning of the end. But whatever it was, he didn’t believe it was over. Not by a long shot.
He knew deep down that he had left a trail, and one day it would lead cops to his door. An investigation was like a jigsaw puzzle. But McNeal also knew that circumstantial evidence could be pieced together. The problems accelerate when a suspect lies to police. Gives fake alibis. That was why pleading the Fifth was always the best option.
He was relying on his brother to stick to that policy.
However, once the Feds or cops realized Jack had a dossier on Henry Graff sent to him, he would become the number-one suspect. It was possible to prosecute a case on the circumstances. But having a file on Graff didn’t point in any way to McNeal being responsible for his disappearance.
There might be pressure applied to Peter. Maybe his brother would lose his pension. Maybe he would get desperate. His brother might crack. But that was only supposition.
McNeal knew the forensic link was the best possible evidence, and that would be harder to prove. No body. No DNA. There was always the possibility of hair strands or circumstantial evidence turning up. Graff’s car would be discovered eventually. But what would it show? His brother’s DNA? Within days and certainly weeks, the DNA would have degraded. At least that was what he hoped.
McNeal knew one thing: Nicoletti’s body wouldn’t be discovered for a long time. At least not now. It might eventually. Years from now. Maybe decades, but by then there would be nothing left. Deep in the mine, rats would have eaten the flesh down to the bones. Anything left, right down to fragments of bone, would wash away in the flooded mine shafts.
He had also visited the Feds with Peter. Given them the evidence painstakingly compiled by Caroline.
Just plead the Fifth. Silence was a powerful weapon. Can’t incriminate with silence. Can’t dig a hole if you don’t say anything.
He would say nothing. He would get the best lawyer he could afford. As it was, he could afford the best. The money Caroline left him meant he could get a great lawyer.
His cell phone rang. He recognized Peter’s caller ID.
“Hey, bro. Made it back safe and sound?”
“Yeah, safe and sound. How are the wife and kids?”
“They’re fine. Jack, this is over, right?”
“It is for now.”
“And if the cops or Feds come calling?”
“As I said, we both take the Fifth.”
“Always works for the scumbags I deal with.”
“Listen closely. If the shit hits the fan, you call me. I’ll get us a great lawyer. Money is not an issue now. But until then, we move on.”
“You going to let it go, Jack?”
“I’m going to try. It won’t be easy.”
“We need to just let this nightmare go.”
McNeal stopped and stood, staring out over the dark waters of Long Island Sound. He absorbed the hypnotic sound of the sea washing onto the sand. “The nightmare will always be with us. What we’ve done. We will have to atone. Maybe not now, but someday down the line.”
“Someday down the line is fine by me.”
“Me too. I love you, bro.”
“Love you too. Take care.”
Jack McNeal locked the door and headed upstairs to his wife’s study. He sat down in her favorite easy chair. He took in her books. Her desk. The photo of them on their wedding day. Her favorite photo of their son: Jack, holding Patrick’s hand, walking along the beach.
When he couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night, he sometimes imagined he was back on that beach, watching Patrick skim stones into the water. Moments in time. Etched into his brain. Memories of the son he lost.