A Dark and Broken Heart (48 page)

Madigan could not bear to see it. He closed his eyes.

The sound was deafening once again, just as it had been in the bathroom, and Madigan lay there for a second more, his eyes closed, his heart a clenched fist, until he dared to open them once more.

The pain and tension in his chest almost unbearable, knowing already what he would see, Madigan opened his eyes one at a time. There it would be—the wide arc of blood on the wall behind Isabella, her head slumped forward, the matted rags of hair, the smell of cordite . . .

Sandià was on his knees. The gun had slipped from his fingers. His head lolled to one side, and then he turned and looked at Madigan, his mouth agape, a single line of blood running from his lower right temple to his jaw line.

The world shifted. Madigan did not understand. Confusion, disorientation, disbelief.

He scrabbled backward until he reached the wall, and then he saw Bernie Tomczak. Bernie stood there in the doorway, in his hand Madigan’s gun, his face grim, his eyes closed, his expression one of utter determination.

Isabella was screaming again, her eyes wide and wild, the muffled sounds through the gag like some beaten animal.

It was a minute before anyone moved, and then Madigan was up on his feet, there at Isabella’s side, untying the gag, the binding that held her wrists to the chair, and even as she got up from the chair she was coming at him.

Her fists were like hammers, beating against his chest, his face, the side of his head.

Madigan was down on his knees. He could not defend himself. He could not protect himself against the onslaught she delivered.

Bernie Tomczak stood silent. He did nothing to help Madigan, nothing to stop Isabella Arias.

Madigan was curled up, knees to his chest, his hands over his head, doing all he could to protect himself.

And then she had the gun in her hand. Sandià’s gun. The .38 with which he had killed Bryant.

“Enough!” Bernie shouted. He raised Madigan’s gun and aimed it at Isabella.

“He dies!” she screamed. “He fucking dies for what he did. He shot my daughter. He shot my daughter . . . He nearly killed her. He lied to me. He lied to me about this . . . He was involved in this and he lied to me all along!”

Bernie Tomczak took one step forward and grabbed the .38. Isabella—caught off guard, Tomczak’s action utterly unexpected—felt nothing but pain as Tomczak twisted her wrist back. The gun was relinquished, and Tomczak stood there, Madigan’s 9mm in one hand, Sandià’s .38 in the other. He held them steady, one aimed unerringly at Madigan, now seated on the floor, his back against the wall, the other at Isabella.

“No one else is dying here,” Bernie said, and even he was surprised at the level certainty of his own voice. “Enough already. Enough. I came for my money, and I’m taking it. Whatever the hell goes on between you is your business, not mine.”

Isabella started crying. She put her face in her hands and her chest was racked with staggered breaths as she sobbed.

Madigan started to move. Bernie shook his head. “You just sit
right there, Vincent . . . Seriously. Don’t say a goddamned word, okay? It all ends here. This is it. The game is over, all right?”

Madigan didn’t respond. He looked at Isabella Arias. Still she sobbed, each gasp of air sounding painful and labored.

Bernie nodded at the money on the floor. “What can you get on this?” he said.

Madigan frowned.

“Don’t act freakin’ dumb, Vincent. Right now, the next two hours, what can you get me on this?”

Madigan shook his head. “In two hours? Fuck, Bernie, I don’t know . . .”

“You know people, Vincent. You know everyone it’s worth knowing in this city. What can you get me in two hours?”

“Maybe forty, maybe thirty-five on the dollar . . . In two hours you’re not going to get much better than that.”

“And how much is there?”

“A hundred and twenty, give or take.”

“So what’s that? Forty, forty-five grand? That’ll do. Put it in the bag.”

Madigan hesitated.

“Put it in the damned bag, Vincent. Jesus, what the hell is this? I’m asking you to do something real simple here . . .”

Madigan shuffled forward on his knees. He started scooping wads of money into the duffel.

Bernie Tomczak had to lunge forward and wrest Isabella Arias back. She’d moved to the left and let fly with a kick to Madigan’s ribs. Madigan grunted painfully, but he did not stop putting the money in the bag.

“Enough!” Bernie shouted. “Jesus Christ. Enough of this shit, okay?”

Isabella backed up. She sat down again. She glared at Bernie. She glared at Madigan. Her rage was palpable.

Madigan put the last of the money inside and held out the bag.

“You carry it,” Bernie said. “Both of you are coming with me.”

“Wha—” Isabella started.

“Shut the fuck up!” Bernie said. “Christ Al-fucking-mighty, I’m just about ready to shoot the pair of you. Now shut the hell up and start walking. We’re going outside. I’m behind you. Don’t you run or anything. I’m just gonna shoot you dead in the damned street, so help me God, if you even take one goddamned step the wrong way.”

“Where are we going?” Isabella asked.

“Enough questions,” Bernie said. “We’re going out to Vincent’s car, and he’s gonna drive us.”

Madigan took his car keys from the kitchen table. He went out of the rear door, along the side of the house and into the street. Isabella walked beside him. He tried to look sideways at her, but the sheer force of hatred that he felt from her dissuaded him from trying to make any gesture.

“You’re in the passenger seat,” Bernie said to Isabella. “I’m in back.”

The three of them got in. Madigan started the engine.

“Where to?”

“Wherever we can get the most for this money,” Bernie said.

“You just killed the guy who would have given you the most,” Madigan said.

“Shut up, Vincent. Just drive.”

Madigan pulled away from the sidewalk. He reached the end of the street and turned right. He did not know how this was going to work, but he had to take Bernie Tomczak someplace where they could get the money cleaned, somewhere where there would be forty grand ready and waiting for them. There was no such place. Nowhere he could think of. Twenty-four hours, maybe less, and he could do it. But now—right now—in the middle of the night? It wasn’t happening. He couldn’t tell Bernie this. However long he could string this out increased his chances of doing something to extricate himself from this situation. Would Bernie shoot him? Probably not. But he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the knee-jerk reaction that might happen if he tried something. The guy had a gun in each hand. He had one trained on the back of Madigan’s seat, another at Isabella. Try something fast, something sudden, and he would more than likely just respond by pulling one of the triggers. Enough people had been hurt and killed. Enough damage had been done. It was now a matter of salvaging whatever he could out of this.

“You need to let her go,” Madigan said.

“What? What the hell are you saying?”

“Seriously, Bernie . . . She doesn’t belong in this. You need to let her go.”

“She’s insurance. She stays, Vincent, and that’s all there is to it.”

“I want to stay,” Isabella said. She looked at Madigan. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her lips were thin and bloodless. Such an
intensity of emotion was communicated in that expression, it was hard for Madigan to even comprehend how much she hated him. “I want to see you die, Vincent Madigan. I want to see this crazy son of a bitch shoot you in the fucking head.”

Madigan didn’t say a word.

Bernie Tomczak leaned back in the rear seat and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, Vincent . . . You really are not in the making friends business, are you?”

Madigan said nothing. He just drove. He drove in a straight line, turning left or right only when he had to, stopping at lights, moving off again, everything on automatic as he tried to work out any possible escape route.

Maybe this was it. Maybe there wasn’t a way out of this. Maybe this was the end of the road.

And then Bernie told him to stop the car. “Pull over,” he said. “Just pull over, Vincent . . .”

Madigan did as he was told.

“Out of the car,” Bernie said. “Both of you.”

Isabella was out first, then Madigan. They stood apart on the sidewalk, ten or twelve feet between them.

“Bernie—” Madigan started.

“Shut the hell up, Vincent,” Bernie said matter-of-factly. “Enough. Really, enough from you. Okay?”

Bernie Tomczak seemed uncertain. He looked from Madigan to the woman and back again.

“I shot Sandià,” he said. “I freakin’ well shot Sandià.” For a moment dismay crossed his face. He was elsewhere, his gun hand lowered, and Madigan thought to rush him, to get the gun off of him, to turn the tables on this thing.

Bernie looked up.

“You . . . Jesus, Vincent, the shit you get me into. What the hell is it with you? Everything, just everything you touch turns to shit.”

“Bernie . . . we can figure this—”

Bernie Tomczak took a step forward, and he swung his right arm in a sideways arc and connected with Madigan’s face. Madigan went down like a felled tree. Blood broke the surface. He felt like his eye had been punched clean from his face. He sat there awkwardly on the sidewalk, one hand against his cheek, the other on the ground.

Bernie kicked him then. A hard, swift kick to the chest. Madigan
howled in anguish, fell backward, feeling like every rib in his body had been smashed.

Bernie stood above him, both guns aimed at his head. Madigan dared to open his one good eye. He could see nothing but Bernie’s silhouette against the streetlight behind him.

“Not a goddamned word, Vincent! Not a single word. Okay? I’ve had enough of your shit and lies and crap. Jesus Christ, how the fuck do you get me into this shit? What the fuck is it with you?”

Bernie kicked Madigan again, and then he was leaning down, all set to rail on him again. Madigan’s hands were over his head, his face, doing all he could to protect himself against the onslaught that was coming.

A gunshot.

Sudden. Unmistakable. The sound was deafening.

Bernie Tomczak froze.

He looked back, and there she stood—Isabella Arias, in her hand Madigan’s secondary gun, the one that had forever sat beneath the driver’s seat.

“Enough,” she said, her voice calm, measured. She leveled the gun at Bernie Tomczak. “Put the guns down,” she said, “or so help me God I will shoot you. Don’t think I won’t . . .”

“Hey, wait up here,” Bernie started. “We’re on the same side here . . .”

“I’m on no one’s side. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care who you are. He got my daughter shot. He did business with Sandià. He cheated and lied to everyone, and he has to take responsibility now . . . He has to take responsibility for what he’s done. If you kill him, then he is off the hook . . .”

“I have no intention of killing him . . . I’m just giving him back some of the beatings that he’s given me . . .”

“Take the money,” Isabella said. “Take the money and go. Disappear. Vanish. This is the end of it for you . . .”

Bernie Tomczak looked down at Madigan. Then he looked back at Isabella Arias. There was something in her expression that told him not to take the risk. He was a gambler, had always been a gambler—but with money, never with his own life.

“I’m taking the car,” Bernie said.

“So take it,” Isabella replied.

Bernie lowered the guns. He put one in each of his jacket pockets. The keys were still in the ignition. He backed up a step toward the vehicle, and then—almost as a final thought—he
kicked Madigan hard, just one more time. Madigan was stunned, winded, and he lay there on his side with nothing to breathe for thirty seconds.

“Fuck you, Vincent Madigan,” Bernie said. “I hope you rot in fucking hell.”

With that, he turned and got into the car, slammed the door, gunned the engine into life, and pulled away.

Isabella Arias stood there for a moment, listening to nothing but the sound of Madigan’s car disappearing toward the city, the sound of Madigan himself gagging and retching for breath on the sidewalk, the sound of her own heart as it thundered in her chest.

“You nearly killed my daughter,” she said.

“I—I . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she interjected. “You did whatever you did. You made a mess of your life, and you made a mess of so many other peoples’ as well. You are a piece of shit. You are nothing. You are supposed to be a cop. To protect and serve. Protect your own interests, serve your own ends. That’s what you do. That’s who you are. You say you care for people. You say you want to do the right thing. Fuck you, you selfish, lying piece of shit motherfucker . . .”

Isabella Arias took one step forward and aimed the gun at Madigan’s head.

He tried to look back at her. He tried to hold her gaze. He tried to steel himself for the blaze of fire that would come from the muzzle, the sound, the impact, the silence that would follow.

This was it. This was where it ended. Killed by the very person to whom he had wished to confess.

This was justice. This was his redemption. This was the end of all of it.

“Where did you shoot my daughter?”

Vincent opened his eyes.

“Where, Vincent?”

“I didn’t shoot your daughter—”

“How do you know, Vincent? How do you know who shot her?”

“I—I d-don’t . . .”

“So where did you shoot her?”

“In her stomach,” he said. “She was shot through the side of her stomach . . .”

Isabella Arias leaned forward. She held the gun against Madigan’s gut, right there to the left of his solar plexus.

“Here?” she said. “Was it here that you shot her?”

“Isabella . . . please . . .”

“Yes or no, Vincent. Yes or no.”

He nodded, his eyes wide, his hands up in some sort of defense, the look in her eyes unrelenting, unforgiving, implacable.

“Y-yes,” he said, and he closed his eyes once more.

“Good enough,” she said matter-of-factly, and she pulled the trigger.

61
THE FIRE OF LOVE