Our speed varied, so I couldn’t tell if we were on a highway. I stopped trying to see through the hood and closed my eyes. I inhaled, calming down. I thought of how much had changed since I decided not to play it safe. I didn’t feel brave, but I felt determined. I had one priority, Lucinda and Ethan. They had to be safe and they had to be free.
I thought of Allison, and for the first time the image that surfaced wasn’t a heartbreakingly gruesome one. It was the Great Blue Heron that I had seen that first day, taking flight over the marsh, its beautiful wings angular and strong.
My chest felt full and tight, both at once. My heart was broken, but broken open. I hurt so much, but I felt so much, too. I felt everything more than I had before. I gave myself over—to what, I didn’t know. To whatever happened next.
I was unarmed, with no way to protect myself. I was just a suburban dad who believed in the truth. I was about to see if that mattered anymore.
I turned my thoughts to what I would say when I met Big George. It would take everything I had, and everything I was, to survive. I felt strangely as if I had lived my entire life for this moment.
In time I noticed the sounds of traffic recede and I felt the van slowing, turning right, then left. I heard the faint keyboard sounds of someone texting.
I sensed we were almost there.
Life or death.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The van came to a stop, and I heard the two thugs opening their doors, then slamming them, and their heavy tread on gravel as they walked around the back of the van. I heard the back door flung open, creaking at the hinge, and was yanked out by my elbow. I scrambled to get my feet under me and was pulled stumbling out of the van, then shoved forward.
My heartbeat thundered. My mouth was completely dry. I staggered a few steps, my wrists cuffed behind me. I could see sunlight through the hood. I tried to orient myself, but couldn’t. There was no sound except birds chirping.
They started me walking by shoving something in my spine. A gun. The ground sloped downward, but I had no idea in what direction I was heading. I half-stumbled and half-walked downhill.
Suddenly a heavy hand gripped my shoulder, as if I were going to be held still while I was shot. I went rigid with terror. I didn’t want to die. I thought of Lucinda saying that she hadn’t wanted to die at the hospital. I knew exactly how she felt.
My hood flew off, and I staggered, blinking against the bright sun. I wheeled my head around, getting my bearings. I was in the woods on the bank of a running stream. Across the stream was a cabin of weathered wood with a front porch.
The thugs behind me left and went back to the van, as if dismissed, and I looked to my left to see a figure charging over a footbridge toward me.
George Veria. His silhouette was thick and wide, his build powerful. His black hair glistened darkly and his eyes were flinty slits in a fleshy face, with deep crow’s feet. His eyebrows were graying, his nose bulbous, and his jowls loose. Close-up, he looked older than he had at the funeral, in a boxy black shirt with baggy jeans.
My gut clenched. I was handcuffed. I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t protect myself. There was nowhere to run. I stood my ground. He advanced quickly, his bulky arms at his sides, balled into fists. He gathered momentum as he reached me, and I could hear him panting, enraged, like an animal.
I had to talk fast. “Listen, I didn’t kill your son, Milo did—”
George threw such a powerful punch that I felt every knuckle in his fist embed itself in my face. I flew sideways, knocked off-balance, barely managing to stay on my feet. I doubled over, weaving. Pain arced through my cheek, temple, and skull.
George lurched after me. He hit me with a powerful uppercut to my face. My forehead exploded in agony. I emitted a primal sound.
He grabbed my arms and hurled me to the ground. I rolled downhill, tasting dirt and grass. He charged after me. I tried to roll toward the stream. He kicked me, his heavy boot connecting with my hip.
I curled up in the fetal position, trying to protect myself. He kicked me again, grunting with effort. Pain radiated throughout my body. I folded up. I couldn’t hold a single thought in my head except one.
This is how.
The realization triggered an adrenaline rush. I hadn’t come this far to get kicked to death. My brain started working. So did my mouth.
“George, I didn’t do it . . . Milo did it!” I could barely talk. I had no wind left. “It’s the truth! Would I come here . . . if it wasn’t? I can tell you . . . I can explain—”
“Shut up!” George kicked me in the back, and I cried out, but kept talking.
“I was driving with my family . . . Milo and Junior, they pulled us out of the car, then the dog jumped on Milo . . . his gun went off and hit my daughter.” I gulped, I couldn’t catch my breath. “Milo killed . . . my Allison, he killed my daughter, he shot her, you sent him—”
“You killed Junior!” George tried to kick me, but I wriggled out of range.
“That’s not true . . . Milo lied to you! I didn’t fight . . . why would I, I’m just a guy, the car’s insured . . . I was taking care of my daughter, she was on the street and—”
“You did it!” George tried to kick me again, but he missed, seeming to lose steam, his chest heaving with effort.
“I was trying to save my daughter. . . . We heard another shot and we saw it. . . . Milo shot Junior.”
Suddenly George started coughing, and I shifted away, landing on the stones and silt at the edge of the water.
“He used . . . Junior’s gun . . . then he drove away. Milo did it, I swear. . . . He wants to move up, he needs Junior gone . . . right?”
George doubled over, hacking from deep within his chest. He sprayed blood droplets onto the grass. The two thugs came running toward him.
“Get away!” George shouted, sputtering blood on his shirt. The thugs retreated hastily, and he wiped his mouth with a tissue he took from his pants pocket, still stooped over.
I lay on my side, in pain, but I made myself keep talking. “Milo’s not returning your calls, is he? Last night I told him . . . I was getting to you today. He knows . . . I’m going to tell you the truth. He’s an . . . FBI informant.”
George stayed doubled over, his hands resting on his knees. His dark gaze shifted upward, boring holes into me. “How do you know?”
“I overheard it . . . it’s true.”
“So your family’s in the program.”
“Yes, but we have to get out . . . and I never did anything to you or Junior, and you have to let us be . . . let us get back to our lives.” I settled in to my pain. “My wife can’t take it, neither can my son. . . . We don’t deserve it, any of it. We didn’t even get to . . . bury my daughter.”
George fell quiet. His lined face was a haggard mask of spent rage.
“You’ve done everything you can to me . . . to what’s left of my family. I lost a daughter, you lost a son, it has to stop.” I didn’t know what I was saying anymore, I was throwing everything against the wall. “You have to believe me . . . it’s Milo, he killed Nerone at the plant, he sent Nerone to run Hart over—”
“What about Hart?” George scowled, still doubled over.
“Nerone killed him . . . he was driving the blue BMW . . . I know Nerone killed Hart . . . I was there, I saw him run Hart over.”