A Blood Thing Page 35

  “It hurts,” Tyler said.

  “I know. But you’re going to be fine.”

  “That’s good. You know, you can’t tell in video games how much it hurts people when they get shot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure I wanna play those games anymore. There’s a race car game that looks pretty good.”

  She smiled again.

  Somewhere, a phone rang.

  Molly sensed someone standing behind her. She turned and saw the cop looking down at them, his eyes hard, his gun still in his hand. Then his eyes drifted to the stapler on the ground, and something in those eyes changed. They softened at the edges.

  “I have to arrest you both, ma’am,” he said, though not in the hard-ass way he’d spoken before.

  She nodded and stood.

  From a few feet away, Mike said, “You can bring Tyler in, Officer, but I don’t think he’s going to prison.”

  “He’s not?” the cop said.

  “I just got off the phone with a Detective Ramsey of the state police. Said they think Tyler might have been framed. So yeah, do your duty and take him in until they get this all sorted out. Just don’t expect him to stay long.”

  If Molly were more of a crier, she would have cried then. Instead, she said, “You hear that, Tyler? You’re not in trouble anymore.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m afraid I still have to arrest you, ma’am. Obstruction, assaulting a police officer. What you did was dangerous as hell.”

  “I understand.”

  As sirens sounded in the near distance, Mike said, “Officer, it seems to me that this woman just prevented you from shooting and possibly killing an unarmed man. That kind of thing is frowned upon. It can put a big dark stain on your record.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “The way it looks, though, is like fine police work on your part. Suspect turned, you thought he might have had a gun but you weren’t sure, so you dropped him with a well-placed shot in the leg. Impressive.”

  “Okay, but . . .”

  The sirens ended as the sound of cars screeching into the parking lot in front of the building carried to them.

  “And, Officer?” Mike said. “You really want your buddies to know you were taken down by a woman?”

  Cops were shouting nearby.

  The officer thought a moment, then said to Molly, “You never touched me.”

  “No, sir,” she said.

  He spoke into the radio on his shoulder. “This is Officer Lichtman. We’re behind the building. The situation is under control. The suspect is down but injured. We could use an ambulance.”

  Molly gave Mike a nod of thanks and he nodded back and smiled. He had a nice smile. She turned and knelt beside her brother again and stroked his hair, the way she used to do when they were kids and he woke up from a bad dream.

  The nightmare is over, she used to say. You’re safe.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Over the next several days, more and more of the story became clear to Andrew . . . and, more important, to the rest of the world.

  In a room in Wyatt Pickman’s basement, stunned authorities found an absolute treasure trove of evidence, neatly organized and labeled, filed in file cabinets or stored in boxes—evidence pertaining to the recent events involving the Kane family, as well as numerous other cases, some of which had gone unsolved, others of which had been solved incorrectly. So far, Pickman’s records indicated eighteen murders and dozens of other crimes committed in furtherance of elaborately designed plots, which authorities who were tasked with reviewing the material deemed far more complex than necessary to accomplish Pickman’s goals. Privately, they started referring to him as Rube Goldberg, a cartoonist and inventor famous for creating ridiculously overcomplicated machines to perform the simplest of tasks. As a former assistant state attorney, Andrew could well imagine the excitement the abundance of evidence provided the police and prosecutors alike.

  Wyatt Pickman was in jail, of course, recovering from a gunshot wound and facing a lengthy list of charges pertaining to his recent activities. Other charges were expected to pour in from other cases involving other victims, both in Vermont and nearby states. Andrew knew it would take a lot of time, cops, and lawyers to sort everything out, but unfortunately for Pickman, as well as for everyone who had ever hired him to either kill someone or destroy another person’s life, he kept those voluminous records. Every case relating to his past crimes would almost certainly be reopened and reinvestigated, and unless the statutes of limitations had run—which they never would on murder—some guilty people who thought they’d gotten away with their crimes were going to be in scalding hot water very soon. And fortunately, some innocent people framed by Pickman would eventually be freed. As for Pickman himself, there wasn’t the slightest chance he would ever spend another night outside of a cell.

  Neither would Grady Austin, who was in jail awaiting trial on numerous charges relating to his having hired Wyatt Pickman to commit numerous crimes, including murder. Austin was going to die in prison one day, as his son did . . . though, unlike his son, the elder Austin deserved to end his days there.

  With respect to Tyler’s case, authorities found hundreds of papers, notes, and photographs littering the floor, where they had evidently come to rest after being torn from the wall. They found dozens of related files in one of the file cabinets. They found the video of Pickman murdering Sally Graham while wearing Tyler’s clothes. And they found a thick binder Pickman had created, outlining in extraordinary detail his plan for executing the job Grady Austin had hired him to do—that was, ruining the lives of everyone Austin blamed for the conviction, incarceration, and eventual death in prison of his son years ago. All charges against Tyler were dropped, of course, even though he’d technically violated the terms of his bail by leaving his property. All things considered, the prosecutor’s decision to dump the case entirely was an easy call. It was doubtful there had ever been a more sympathetic defendant in the state’s history.

  The funeral and burial of Judge Morgan Jeffers was attended by the greatest number of mourners Andrew had ever seen. It seemed as though everyone involved in the Vermont criminal justice system was there. The courtroom over which he had presided for more than three decades was renamed the Honorable Morgan Jeffers Courtroom.

  A somber funeral service, only slightly smaller than the judge’s, was held in a packed church for Officer Gregory Blake, the last person killed by Wyatt Pickman. Andrew paid his respects from the back of the church.

  Julie Davenport’s body was flown to Illinois and laid to rest in a quiet cemetery in her hometown of Naperville. The entire Kane family attended, with the Davenport family’s blessing. Molly served as a pallbearer. The day after the funeral, Andrew established a college scholarship in Julie’s name at her old high school.

  Sally Graham, the first of Pickman’s recent victims, had been buried weeks ago, days after her murder, following a sparsely attended service. At Molly’s suggestion, the Kanes commissioned an elegant yet tasteful granite headstone to replace the plain cement marker originally placed over her grave.

  Andrew was told that Kyle Lewis’s body had been cremated with no fanfare and no one in attendance but the crematory technician.

  Ex-governor John Barker survived his attack and within hours of his release from the hospital had announced that he was considering running for governor again, which didn’t surprise Andrew in the least. Barker talked a lot about karma, irony, and not throwing stones if you live in a glass house.

  Detectives Ramsey, Novak, and Egan were commended for their roles in the Pickman-Austin case, and Andrew took no issue with that.

  Even though all charges against Tyler were dropped when Wyatt Pickman and Grady Austin’s involvement became clear, Rachel Addison claimed it as a victory, putting the case in her “win” column—a designation reflected in the size of her final bill, which the Kanes paid without a second thought.

  By contrast, for his role in
Pickman’s scheme, public defender Wesley Jurgens was facing disbarment and, very possibly, a prison sentence.

  Gabriel Torrance, who had broken no laws after his release, remained a free, fully pardoned man. He turned the gun he found in the Rutland Projects over to the authorities, informing them that, according to Kevin Austin, it was the weapon they’d never been able to find, the gun that killed Dave Bingham eight years ago, on which should be the fingerprints of Zachary Barnes, son of Clifton Barnes. Ballistics testing and fingerprinting of the gun began soon after receipt of the evidence.

  Among the evidence collected at Pickman’s house was the audio recording of Molly acting as Andrew’s negotiator with respect to the pardon of Gabriel Torrance. There would be no charges against her, though, and she was assured by almost anyone whom she asked that, under the extraordinary circumstances, this was unlikely to negatively impact her chances of becoming a state police officer once she completed her graduate courses and earned her master’s degree in criminal justice. In short, no one seemed to place blame on her for her role. Which Andrew found to be a relief and totally appropriate.

  The nail salon’s security footage of Henry finding the alleged bag of evidence hidden by Pickman—which Henry said contained nothing but trash, and which he claimed to have disposed of—proved to be a bit more problematic. The problem for the authorities was that they couldn’t be certain the bag had actually contained evidence because Henry had gotten rid of it. Pickman’s records indicated that it had, and those records had generally proven to be both detailed and accurate, but on this specific issue, they were contradicted by the statement of a veteran state police detective with a spotless record—namely, Henry. Possibly because of that—but more probably, Andrew thought, because most of the cops and FBI agents who reviewed the matter wondered whether they would have done the same thing in his shoes—Henry was reinstated, and no charges were filed against him. His career in Internal Affairs was over, though. His supervisor, Warren Haddonfield, hadn’t yet decided where to put him.

  Of the Kanes, it would apparently be Andrew who would suffer the worst. His reputation was in tatters. His famous integrity was, in the eyes of nearly everyone in the state, nothing but fiction. He’d lost the respect of everyone outside the family. And because the story had gone national, his had become yet another face that would spring to the minds of people everywhere when they heard the word corruption. Whereas Henry and Molly essentially had been given passes because of the circumstances surrounding their actions, Andrew’s breach of the public trust was apparently deemed a far greater sin. He couldn’t disagree.

  He looked at the others sitting around the dinner table—Rebecca, Molly, Henry, and Tyler—and said, “I have an announcement, everyone. I’ve decided not to run for president.”

  After a brief moment of confused looks, Henry chuckled and Molly laughed. A second later, shaking her head, Rebecca smiled. Only Tyler looked disappointed.

  “And I’m resigning from office this week,” Andrew added.

  Objections filled the room, but no one’s heart seemed to be behind any of them. They had expected it. The outcome had seemed a foregone conclusion—to Andrew, at least, and he suspected to the others—the moment he’d confessed everything to Ramsey.

  “They’re calling for my head,” Andrew said. “Everyone. So I’m going to step down before they kick me out.” He glanced at Rebecca, who gave him a small nod of support, which he appreciated. She hadn’t been thrilled with his decision when he had shared it with her this morning, but she’d understood.

  “Like Nixon,” Henry said.

  “Well done, Henry,” Molly said. “Politicians just love being compared to Richard Nixon.”

  Henry shrugged. No smart comeback, which Andrew found a bit odd.

  Tyler said, “I don’t think you should quit your job, Andy. They made you governor because everyone likes you. They want you to be governor.”

  “Well, things have changed, buddy.” He looked at each of their faces. “Honestly, I couldn’t stay in office even if they let me. I don’t deserve it. Not after everything I did, the way I abused my position and failed those who had placed their faith and trust in me.”

  Molly objected, less half-heartedly than the last time. Henry, though, said nothing.

  “First, I’m going to pardon Kevin Austin posthumously. Then I’ll go through the pardon file and see if anyone else in there truly deserves one. I’ll have to work fast before the villagers show up with torches and pitchforks.”

  “What villagers?” Tyler asked.

  “It’s just an expression, Tyler,” Andrew said. “After I start the pardons rolling, I’ll resign. Lynne Kasparian’s great,” he said, referring to his lieutenant governor, who would assume office when he stepped down. “A terrific person. She’ll do a wonderful job. Better than I did.”

  “But what happens at the next election, in a year?” Molly asked. “We get Jackpot Barker again?”

  “He’s not really going to run. He’s just saying that because he likes the publicity. If he became governor again, he’d have to be scrupulously honest because everyone would be watching him a lot more closely next time, and he’d never want that. We don’t have to worry about Jack. It’ll either be Lynne again, or someone new.”

  “Either way, gotta be better than Jackpot,” Henry said, though the remark didn’t have his usual snap to it. They’d all been through a lot.

  After dinner was finished and all the dishes were in the dishwasher and the pots had been cleaned and dried, Tyler announced that he was going to go for a ride on his motorcycle.

  “It’s dark,” Molly said.

  “I have a light on my motorcycle, remember? And besides, I wasn’t able to do it for a while, and now I’m allowed to again.”

  “Come on, Molly,” Andrew said. “Let him go.”

  She relented, and Andrew listened to his footsteps pound through the house and out the back door. A moment later, they heard the whine of his electric bike’s motor as he sped past the kitchen windows. Within seconds, the sound faded away.

  With the kitchen clean, they went out to the front porch and sat side by side in wicker rockers. They didn’t say much for a while, just sat and rocked and looked at the night. Finally, Molly said, “I have to get some studying done. Got a victimology exam next week.”

  She disappeared inside. Rebecca said, “Anyone feel like coffee?”

  Andrew declined, but Henry jumped at the offer with more life than he’d shown any other time this evening. As soon as Rebecca was inside, Andrew turned to his brother.

  “Something on your mind, Henry?”

  Henry said nothing for a moment; then, with his eyes still looking out into the darkness, he said, “The gun that Torrance found, the one he says killed Dave Bingham?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s supposed to have that rich kid’s prints on it. Zachary Barnes.”

  There was something in Henry’s manner, in his voice, that Andrew didn’t like. “And?”

  “And it won’t.”

  “You don’t think it’s the gun that killed Bingham.”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  Andrew closed his eyes as the truth began to dawn. He almost wanted Henry to stop talking. He wanted to pretend this conversation had never begun. But he said, “So what are you saying?”

  Henry lowered his gaze. “It’ll be my prints on the gun, Andrew.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  “Did you hear what I said, Andy?” Henry asked quietly. “The prints on the gun are mine.”

  No, Andrew thought. How could that be? Not Henry. He suddenly felt feverish.

  Then Henry began to tell the real story of what had happened the night his friend and mentor, Dave Bingham, died.

  Bingham, who had retired from the force and gone private, was hired by Clifton Barnes to dig up dirt on the candidate who was in the lead for the elected position of Vermont Attorney General—Andrew Kane. It seemed that Barnes’s rumored connections to
organized crime might have been more than just rumor, and Andrew, who had promised a crackdown on mob-related activity in Vermont, was seen as a threat to Barnes and his associates in other states. So Barnes wanted ammunition he could use to derail Andrew’s campaign. And because they were friends, Bingham warned Henry that he had found something, that there might be a bit of trouble on Andrew’s horizon. In fact, he would be meeting with his client that night to deliver the financial records proving it.

  “I don’t know what Dave could have been referring to, Henry,” Andrew said, truly perplexed, “but there was no dirt to dig up on me. I’m clean. Always have been. Well, until lately, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but Jared Schilling wasn’t.”

  “What?” Schilling had been Andrew’s campaign manager, with whom he parted ways after becoming attorney general. According to Bingham, Schilling had proof of payments he had received in exchange for promises that Andrew would be friendly to certain causes should the need arise. This was the first Andrew had heard of this. If promises had been made purportedly obligating him, he hadn’t been aware of them—which was good because he wouldn’t have honored them.

  “It may have been Schilling doing it,” Henry said, “but it would’ve looked like you were in on it. We both know that.”

  Though Andrew was surprised about all this, he had to admit that he’d developed a bad feeling about Schilling, which was why he’d severed ties with the man years ago. If Andrew wasn’t so focused on Henry’s confession, he would have been incensed about Schilling’s actions.

  From the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Rebecca appear at the screen door with a coffee mug in each hand—one for her, one for Henry—but she must have sensed something because, without a word, she backed away and disappeared into the house.