The pain had lingered, festered, and erupted in a manner he could never have foreseen. The events of that night at the backyard barbecue haunted him. He closed his eyes. The steely gaze of Graff flashed through his mind. The blood-curdling scream as Nicoletti plunged down the mineshaft into the darkness echoed in his head.
Then the demented, reddened eyes of his NYPD partner, gun in hand, wanting to be killed by a cop.
McNeal had killed three men. He was a stone-cold killer.
His mind began to play through the events at the mine. He had committed Ted Outcrow’s phone number to memory before he dropped Nicoletti down the mineshaft. He had taken out the SIM card and flushed the cell phone down a storm drain. Ted Outcrow. The anagram of Woodcutter. But who exactly was that? Did he really work in the White House, as Nicoletti claimed? Did he even exist?
He slipped into a deep, dark sleep, thinking only of his son.
Fifty-Eight
Three days later, McNeal decided he was ready to face the world again. He got up before dawn. He showered; shaved; and put on a suit, a pale-blue shirt, tie, and black oxfords. He checked his reflection in the mirror, peering at the dark shadows under his eyes. But he was alive. He was still breathing.
McNeal had a big breakfast, tidied up, ran the dishwasher. He called a rental company. An SUV was dropped off, and they took away his other rental car. He drove up to the cemetery and bought flowers on the way.
He crouched down at the graveside, the names of his wife and son carved in granite. He took out the weeks-old flowers, replacing them with white lilies, his wife’s favorite. He touched the carved names on the headstone and bowed his head.
“Please forgive me. That’s all I ask.”
McNeal said a silent prayer and headed back to the car. He sat for a few minutes in the car, contemplating his wife’s fate. His one consolation was that she was back in a town she loved, at peace. He would tend to her grave, same as he did for his son’s. Lying together for eternity. He would try and atone for not being there for her.
He would carry that to his own grave.
The regrets.
McNeal pushed those thoughts to one side and drove down to Manhattan. The familiar skyline quickened his pulse. He parked a block from the office and took the elevator to the third floor.
A few familiar faces.
Dave Franzen, cup of coffee in one hand, embraced him tight. “Long time no see, buddy. I’ve been trying to call you but got no answer.”
“I thought you retired?”
“I’m still clearing out my goddamn desk. What about you?”
“Just trying to put things back together.”
“I’ve been thinking about you. You want to go for a beer tonight?”
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
“Meeting a few of the guys at Flannerys.”
“Sounds good. See you there. I’m going in to see Bob.”
Franzen patted McNeal on the back. “Take care, man.”
McNeal knocked on Bob Buckley’s door and walked into his corner office.
Buckley looked up and smiled as if he was seeing an old friend. “Christ almighty, Jack. Everyone’s been trying to contact you. It’s like you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“Just needed some time to try and get away from it all.”
Buckley got up and shook his head. “So sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry for all that crap with the Diplomatic Security guys and the Feds. Christ knows what they were thinking.”
“Just doing their jobs.”
“Fucking insensitive pricks.”
“I’m from New York. I’m surrounded by them twenty-four seven. I’m used to it.”
Buckley smiled. “Take a seat, Jack. You shouldn’t be back at work yet. You need time to recover and get your head straight.”
McNeal settled into a chair and did a tour of Buckley’s office. Photos of Buckley with the mayor, governor, and President adorned the walls. “You get around, Bob.”
Buckley laughed. “They’re all a pain in the ass. But hey, you need to kiss ass sometimes. Besides, the photos look good on the wall for visitors.”
McNeal smiled.
“I meant to ask, how was the session with the psychologist?”
“It wasn’t something I enjoyed, but I think it helped me address a lot of issues.”
“I’m glad. Might want to take a vacation too.”
“I’ll think about it. As of now, I want to get back to my job.”
“Nothing wrong with some hard work.”
“So, are we good? No further inquiries from the FBI regarding my late wife?”