Page 99 of The Furies

“Which may be why he got away with it. The consensus is that Angioni was no great loss. Someone would have taken care of him eventually. Could be Reggio got there first.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s just interesting, is all. Mattia Reggio may be more than he appears to be.”

“That’s what worries me,” I said. “I’ll see you in ten.”

CHAPTER XXXII

Pantuff and Veale were nearly at the Braycott Arms when they saw the flashing lights of the vehicles in the lot. Their immediate reaction was to turn tail, until Pantuff spotted the ambulance and surmised that whatever else they might have done, they hadn’t hurt or injured anyone, not so far.

“What do you think?” he asked Veale, as they pulled up to watch the show from a safe distance.

It took a while for Veale to respond. Pantuff thought he had been reserved on the ride back, even for him, but Veale got like that sometimes. Moods descended on him, and often wouldn’t lift for days. Pantuff had long ago decided that Veale’s problem was thinking too much, which often equated simply to brooding.

“Could be somebody fell down the stairs,” said Veale.

“Or got shot. Fucking place is full of ex-cons. I’ve been in jails with fewer criminals.”

Two police cars were parked beside the ambulance, along with an unmarked Crown Vic that screamed “Detectives!” Pantuff needed to use the john, but he’d hold it in until his bladder burst before identifying himself as a guest at the Braycott to a bunch of uniforms and plainclothes. He’d be better off climbing straight into the back of one of those prowl cars and requesting a cell with a view.

“We ought to have stayed someplace else,” said Veale.

“Nobody asks questions at the Braycott,” said Pantuff.

“They’re asking them now.”

“Not of us.”

A gurney was wheeled from the front entrance, its occupant covered from head to foot. The two paramedics ran it straight to the open rear doors of the ambulance, where the wheels folded up and the gurney slid gently inside. Pantuff detected no great sense of urgency from the cops, which led him to believe that they were looking at the aftermath of an accident, not a crime. That was good. It meant no one would be knocking on doors to make inquiries of, or about, any guests. He said as much to Veale, but his companion’s attention was elsewhere, distracted by a line of elementary school kids being led along like ducklings by a pair of young female teachers. Each child held on tightly with one hand to a loop of ribbon attached to a rope.

“You considering adopting?” said Pantuff.

But Veale didn’t answer, so Pantuff left him to it.

* * *

VEALE WATCHED THE CHILDREN cross the road and disappear from view. None of them resembled Kara Sawyer, and yet somehow they all did.

Veale didn’t want to return to the Braycott Arms. Given the opportunity, he’d have blown it sky high, along with everyone and everything in it, and it wouldn’t have cost him a moment’s sleep. As they’d drawn closer to Portland, he’d felt a pressure growing in his skull, which had become real pain by the time the hotel came in sight, and what had at first sounded like the distant crashing of waves, or the hissing of gas, now resembled a whispering, except Veale couldn’t make out the words, not yet. But he would be able to, he knew, as soon as he set foot in the Braycott, because he was sure that what he was hearing was the voice of a dead child, the one who was waiting for them inside—no, for him. Pantuff couldn’t hear it, only he. Kara Sawyer was trying to talk to Veale, but he didn’t want to listen. Whatever she had to say would be of no consolation to him.

“I might go for a walk,” he said suddenly.

“Where?” said Pantuff.

“Anywhere. I got a headache. Walking might help get rid of it.”

“You’re not running out on me, are you?” It was said as a joke, but underpinning it was the recognition that, at some point in the future, it might have to be said in earnest. They trusted each other as much as any men of their stripe could, which meant that they did not really trust each other at all.

“When I plan to leave, you’ll know about it,” said Veale.

But he was as close to abandoning his partner as he’d ever come. The only thing preventing it was the money. Veale wanted his half of the fifty thousand. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to survive for long, not unless he planned on busing tables or cleaning restrooms—or the criminal equivalent of the same, which was knocking off convenience stores and mugging old ladies. Veale wasn’t above either, and in the past he’d done both, but it was subsistence living, like feeding off dead matter. The $25,000 would elevate him, and his needs were few.

“So walk,” said Pantuff. “But don’t go trying to reach any horizons.”

Pantuff hated sounding like Veale’s mother, but he had his routines and didn’t like them to be disturbed. He knew that he wouldn’t be fully at peace without Veale nearby, not until the job was done and she was safely in their possession. As long as Veale was tramping the streets instead of sitting on a bed or chair in their shared room, Pantuff would be on edge. It wouldn’t come between him and a nap, but his sleep might not be as restful as he desired.

“I won’t,” said Veale, as he got out of the car.

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