Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (73 page)

But I couldn’t breathe!

The collapsing universe was pressing down on me. Squashing me like a bug. Crushing me for my sins.

My son was dead.

And so was I.

No chance I could live with myself now.

Not after murdering my own son.

I closed my eyes and let the demons loose.

Twelve months I’d held them back.

Unrestrained, they rushed in from the shadows.

And stole me from one hell to another.

213

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She reminded me of little Jenny McNamara. Lying here in the familiar pose of interment. Peaceful, serene – like she was sleeping. I brushed a hair from off her face and kissed her silken brow.

I wished things could have turned out different.

I asked for forgiveness.

Knew it wouldn’t be forthcoming.

I was trembling like a plucked string.

There was no visible evidence of her terrible injuries.

No detectable trauma from her fatal fall.

In my opinion, the undertakers had done a fine job on Jamie.

214

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I was alive but I was dead. Another oxymoron. I was sick of them. Sick of thinking. Sick of breathing. I drifted through the world of the living like a specter. Interacting on the surface. Numb. Swept along by events and the relentless flow of life.

I deserved to be dead. No doubt there. Any decent parent would have sacrificed their own life for that of their child. I deserved a lot of things – the least of which was eternal damnation. Being alive was my punishment.

I’d have to suck it up – for now.

215

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A mere seven days had now passed since the face-off at the
Stratosphere Tower
in Las Vegas with the killer known globally as
The Undertaker.
It seemed like forever.
As far as Norman Fuller and the FBI were concerned, they had their man: Harland Candlewood – still comatose with a dubious outlook. As far as we were concerned, they could go rent a room and screw around until the cows came home.

Seven days of mental torture had come to pass since I’d stared Death in the eyes and looked away. Three of which I’d spent in a Vegas hospital, recovering from sheer exhaustion and the consequences of a cracked skull.

I should have seen it coming. I didn’t.

‘That’s what happens when you allow killers to club you over the head.’ My surgeon had told me brusquely.

Ironically, the bed rest had given me a whole new lease of life. I should have been happy. I wasn’t.

Physically, I was patched up and medicated to the hilt.

Emotionally … well, emotionally I was spent.

What is there to say?

Seeing your own son kill somebody in cold blood – especially someone you care about – does that kind of thing, I guess.

216

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‘I’m telling you, Gabe, we searched every street and every rooftop in the vicinity,’ Sonny had told me once I’d come round after surgery. ‘There’s no sign of the killer anywhere. Looks like he vanished into thin air. I don’t know how he did it.’

I did. At least, I had my suspicions.

Base-jumping the El Capitan peak in Yosemite had been good practice for a leap of faith from the tallest tower west of the Mississippi. I’d been tempted to tell Sonny to search for a parachute, but decided
The Undertaker
would have every base covered – including his escape from Nevada with a pair of bleeding bullet wounds.
 

I knew my son – as my son knew me.

‘Did you check rooftop ventilators?’

‘Gabe, listen to me: we checked everywhere within a square mile of the Tower. And I mean
everywhere
. Rooftops, alleyways, window ledges
.
It’s like he sprouted wings and flew away. He’s literally in the wind.’

 
Rightly or wrongly, I’d masked the flame of hope behind my ribs. I didn’t have any right to hold a candle for my killer son. I couldn’t explain it. Some things are unexplainable. He was my son. I couldn’t explain it. If you think you can, you try.

The lack of a body meant a strong possibility that George was still alive. Somewhere. Out there. A fugitive. On the run. Free to kill again. But
alive
.

You know what they say: where there’s life …

217

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An awkward position. Why do we put ourselves in awkward positions? Mainly to escape criticism or judgment or truth. Your choice. At some point during my recovery I decided to keep the identity of the killer to myself. Don’t ask. We all do it. We all keep our darkest secrets close to our hearts and our mortal fears closer. Maybe it’s selfishness. Maybe it’s not.

Only I knew the true identity of Jamie’s killer. For now it would stay that way. Ultimately, I was responsible. And I would be the one to make things right. I couldn’t do that with the world pointing their fingers of accusation my way.

Luckily for George, Sonny hadn’t glimpsed his face. And Bill had no recollection of his time under the influence of
The Undertaker’s
mind-warping drugs. No recall of even meeting him in the lobby of the
Stratosphere Hotel
. No recollection of the urgent text he’d received on landing back in Vegas – ostensibly coming from me via Jamie’s phone – saying we’d got the killer holed up at the
Stratosphere Tower
. A needle in the neck had ensured his compliance. The rest was history.

Unsurprisingly, George hadn’t gone home after his stint in Sin City.

An inconsolable Katie had poured out her heart to me by phone. I’d listened from the grave of my hospital bed. Feeling all mangled up inside as she’d recited the note which simply told her that her husband had left. No reason. No clue to where he was going or if he might return. Just a goodbye and kisses for the baby.

We were all left holding the
whys
.

Grace had arrived on day two. She’d already lost one parent and had no intentions of losing another. She kept me comfortable and topped up with encouragement. Have I told you Gracie is my lamplight? She’s my grace in every sense of the word. It pained me to keep her from the terrible truth. But I love her too much. Knowing her brother was a serial killer would ruin her life – as it had mine. She stayed two days before work called her back to Florida.

On day seven, Jamie was buried.

218

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A black tie never looks good on me. Makes me look more morose than normal. The only consolation was it went well with my frame of mind. Let’s leave it at that.

Everybody knows how I feel about public appearances – so being in the spotlight for the first time since our Press conference in Vegas was predictably tough. No choice. Socializing of any kind rubbed against my nerves. Crawling under my bed with the rest of the demons seemed preferable.

Some things are inescapable.

The turnout for Jamie’s funeral saw every available officer and civilian worker from Central Division come pay their last respects to a fallen comrade, and many that were still on duty but snuck over all the same. As is the case with most police funerals, there was a big law enforcement presence. One of our own was gone. Slain in the line of duty. Coming out in numbers was our way of showing a united front. In fact, the entire length of the driveway running through Calvary Cemetery in East Los Angeles was lined with gleaming patrol cars. Polished to perfection. I counted more than seventy, excluding the hearses and the family sedans. In a few short weeks, Jamie had made a big impression on her comrades, it seemed. Enough to win her a twenty-one gun salute, and her parents their very own Stars and Stripes, courtesy of the Department. Captains Ferguson and De La Hoya, Coroner Benedict, a few mourners from the Crime Lab – everyone whose lives had been touched by Jamie Garcia – were here.

And yet all eyes were on me.

Gabriel Quinn: the father of the killer, the fraud.

No argument from me that I was to blame. No disputing that irreversible fact. I had exposed Jamie to mortal danger. Okayed her pursuit of the killer’s survivor. Didn’t even flinch when I’d learned she was in New York. Her death was my fault. Plain and simple. Her blood on my hands. I wondered how many of these other black-tied people shared my thoughts.

On returning to Quantico, Bill had cleared me of the trumped-up charges for the murder of Stacey Kellerman. We all agreed the evidence had been planted and I’d been framed. But it didn’t make me feel any less of a monster.

Takes one to father one, I guess.

The next day I tended my resignation.

‘Gabe, don’t give me any of this bull crap.’ Ferguson’s voice was as loud as a whisper could get. ‘Jamie’s death has been hard on all of us. Especially you. You’re not thinking straight right now. Go away and take time out.’

We were in his office, with the window blinds closed. We were still wearing black ties. They were still choking our voices.

‘The Department doesn’t hold grudges.’ He said. ‘No one’s blaming you.’

Except me.

He tossed my badge back across the desk.

‘Take a leave of absence if you have to. Take as long as you need. Go clear your head. Visit your daughter in Florida. Kick some sand. Now’s the worst time to make this kind of long-term decision. We’re all mourning, Gabe. Don’t forget your boy’s still out there. You’re our best chance of nailing this son of a bitch.’

What could I say?

He was right.

I was.

219

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