KIN (27 page)

He checked over his shoulder, to be sure Pete wasn't up to anything, and satisfied that he wasn't, cocked the hammer on the gun. "Don't," she whispered.

Where are the police?
she thought, panicked.
The gunshot was like thunder. Why aren't they comin'?
She couldn't even hear them in the distance. Her heart sank further as it occurred to her that maybe they lived in one of those places the police preferred to ignore.

Red's attention on her body increased. "That no-good son of a bitch didn't deserve a fine hunny like you," he said. "Soon's he brought you up here and showed you to me, I told him he'd make more money if he put you on the streets. But he was the jealous type, as I'm sure you know." He slid his hand down her chest, parting her robe with his thumb.

"Please don't."

"He didn't want nobody havin' his woman," Red continued. "Which don't make no sense considerin' he liked to brag about whuppin' you. Man didn't know how to treat a lady. But I do."

His hand slid down over her stomach and lower, but Louise kept her knees pressed tightly together. It was no use. Red's insistence came with the threat of death if she denied him. She winced as his rough fingers dug between them.

"Red, stop...I don't want the boy to see this. He's been through enough."

"Shit," Red replied. "We've all been through enough, ain't we?" he said with a grin as he slipped his fingers inside her, turned his head and smiled at Pete, who Louise realized was suddenly standing very close behind him, his face lost in shadow.

Red grunted. "Now what the f—?"

Abruptly, Louise realized the boy's intent and immediately grabbed Red's hand, jerking the gun away from beneath her chin. It went off, deafening her and blowing a hole in the wall by the door as the light from the muzzle filled the room, just long enough for her to see Pete drive a shard of the broken TV screen into Red's eye.

-23-

Finch couldn't remember the last time he'd been so drunk. If not for the alley wall, he knew he'd be on his face right now, perhaps singing into a puddle or laughing at some half-remembered joke. Very carefully he let himself slide down until he was on his haunches, his back pressed against the red brick wall of Rita's Bar. A light breeze played with his hair, and crept down the back of his neck into his jacket. He shivered, momentarily thankful for the numbing effects of alcohol.

The buildings around the cobblestone alley were too tall for him to be able to see if there was a moon tonight. Not that he cared. The moon was for romantics, and even if he'd been one in his younger days, he'd long forgotten how to be one now. He turned his head and looked to the mouth of the alley, where Beau, who had remained perfectly sober thanks to a night spent sipping orange juice, was holding open the door of a taxi as a tall black woman touched his cheek and smiled the kind of smile Finch had only ever known once in his life and now could scarcely recall. It made him feel suddenly isolated and terribly alone, and he wished Beau would either hurry up and say his goodbyes to the woman—Georgia, her name was—or else jump in the cab with her and take off, so Finch at least would know the score.

A moment later, her feet lost in a writhing red-tinged river of exhaust fumes, Georgia kissed Beau long and hard, then vanished into the darkness inside the cab. Beau stood for a moment, hands in his pockets, and watched as it pulled away. Then he turned and started back up the alley toward Finch.

"You still with me?" he called out.

"Barely."

"Well, don't quit on me just yet. We got things to discuss."

Finch knew he was right, but at that moment he found himself wishing that his friend had accompanied the woman home. He didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to talk anymore. He just wanted to sleep. At home. In the alley. Wherever. He was tired of thinking. Tired of feeling as if his head was going to explode from all the anger inside it, and the sorrow. The sorrow was worse because it came unbidden, and unlike the anger, which demanded action, pain, a release of any kind, sorrow asked nothing but for him to just be still while it spread through him like a cancer and drained his resolve, his will to do anything but sleep and feel sorry for himself.

"Hey." Beau nudged him with his foot, and Finch looked up, startled. Without knowing it, he'd started to doze off, and now, like stop-motion animation, his friend had somehow moved from the alley entrance and materialized right in front of him.

"Jesus," Finch said and rubbed a hand over his face. "What a lightweight, huh?"

"We ain't kids anymore, man."

"No shit. Too bad, too. I had a lot of fun as a kid."

"Most folks do until they get saddled with responsibility."

Beau plucked two beer crates from beside the dumpster to their right, and set them down—one for himself, one for Finch. Glad to take the pressure off his aching knees, Finch nodded his thanks and lowered himself onto the crate, one hand against the wall to steady himself.

"Man, you're in bad shape," Beau said, laughing.

"You mean because of the beer, or otherwise?"

Beau joined him, their shoulders touching. "The beer," he replied. "Not that I don't think you ain't messed up enough without it."

Finch had to narrow his eyes to dissuade double vision. He hated being this drunk, and had only allowed himself to reach this point because of the euphoria it had promised, and which, for a brief spell, had delivered. Now though, he was sad, angry, and more than a little miserable, every speck of those feelings directed inward despite the availability of much better, more reasonable targets.

"I'm going to kill them, Beau," he said, nodding slowly. "Every fucking one of them. And I don't care what happens because of it. They had no right to do what they did."

Beau sighed. "No, they didn't. But if you're hell-bent on lookin' for fairness, you're on the wrong damn planet."

Finch squinted at him. "The fuck's that mean? I know what the world's like. Doesn't make a goddamn bit of difference. Look at the World Trade Center. Thing comes down, the whole nation gets mad and demands justice. The President sends us in to kick the shit out of them. Now all of a sudden people are complaining about his choices, and no one's demanding anything anymore other than that he wise the hell up."

"What's your point?"

"Point is, I've never seen a bigger tragedy than 9/11, and yet everybody not directly related to the victims seemed to get over it real quick."

Beau shrugged. "It's the nature of people, I guess. We're designed to grieve and mourn, and do what we can to move on."

Finch scowled. "Yeah? Well, not me."

"Not you," Beau echoed. He sounded resigned.

"Let me ask you something," Finch said, straightening so he could appraise him. "If those terrorists hadn't used planes...if instead they'd sat in their cars a few blocks away...say a dozen of them, and used remote detonators to set bombs off to bring those buildings down..."

"Yeah?"

"And after it was done...people discovered those guys sitting in their cars congratulating each other."

Beau said nothing, waited for him to continue.

Finch did. "What do you think would have happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Aw c'mon," Finch said, throwing his hands up in disgust. "You know
exactly
what I mean. There wouldn't be a cop within a thousand miles would raise an eyebrow over what would happen to those terrorists. Those fuckers would have been torn asunder by the people who found them, torn to goddamn
ribbons
like those poor bastards in Somalia last year, and not a judge in the whole country would make them accountable for it."

"I don't know about that, man."

"Sure you do."

"Okay, so say I do. Where are you goin' with this?"

"A man catches someone attacking his wife. How does he react?"

"Gets pissed."

"Yeah, he gets pissed, even if the attacker is twice his size and built like a tank, and even if he knows it will mean his death. Hell, if you were married, had kids, and found out someone was sleeping with your wife, or messing with your kids, you'd want to beat the living shit out of that guy, right?"

"Right."

"And if those terrorists had been caught, instead of doing the kamikaze thing, the people there would have murdered them without a second thought. And why? Because they were
there
when it happened. They saw their world being violated, threatened, plundered in a day and age when we're supposed to be safe, when everybody is supposed to be your friend and those who aren't are too far away to be a danger. But if those enemies
hurt
you,
threaten
you, shatter your world and you
see
them do it with your own two eyes, or you can reach out and
touch
them, tell me, Beau, that you wouldn't do what instinct told you to do before weighing up the consequences."

He was out of breath, and incensed, the blood rushing through him, warming him against the cold. A dull ache throbbed in his temple.

After a moment, Beau sat back. "Yeah," he said.

Finch looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'd tear 'em to pieces, along with anyone who tried to stop me, probably."

"Then why, knowing what those guys did to Danny, are you trying to keep me from doing what needs to be done?"

It took Beau a long time to reply, but when he did, he looked squarely at Finch. "Because you're my friend."

Despite his inebriation, Finch was surprised. Not by the sentiment, but by the fact that Beau, a characteristically stoic man, had said it out loud. It moved him, perhaps a little more than it might have because he was drunk, but nevertheless he appreciated it.

"All the more reason for you to be behind me on this then."

"I am behind you on it. You know that. I told you—"

"I know what you told me," Finch interrupted. "And I know what you said, but I want you behind me one-hundred percent. Not because you know I think it's the right thing to do, but because you agree with me."

Beau looked annoyed. "So you want me to validate what you're doin', is that it? You want me to tell you I think murderin' a bunch of people and maybe gettin' yourself killed or sent to prison for the rest of your life is a spectacular idea I can't wait to be a part of?"

Finch smiled grimly. "Something like that, but without the sarcasm."

"Can't do it," Beau told him. "And if you really believed in what you aim to do, you wouldn't
need
my approval, or care what I think."

"Yeah, well...I do."

"Why?"

Finch smiled. "Because you're my friend."

"Asshole. You read those printouts I put in the folder with the other stuff?"

"Sure. Veterans suffering from PTSD."

"And?"

"And they came home, didn't get the help they needed and went apeshit, shot a bunch of people before killing themselves. Is there a moral there I'm missing?"

"It fucks you up. War. Chews you up and spits you out. It's one of the few places where you're given free reign to act like a psychopath and then one day you're standin' on your lawn, maybe pickin' up the mornin' paper and suddenly you find yourself back there, lookin' at the world through crosshairs. And you either run screamin' for help you probably won't get because there's a mighty long queue, or go get your gun so you can keep fightin'."

"Jesus...you need your own talk show, man. Seriously."

Beau ran his palms over his bald head and sighed heavily. "I'll go, all right? That's as good as I'm givin' you. I got your back. Whatever you need. But I'm not holdin' your hand down there and I'm not going to be your goddamn cheerleader."

Finch pursed his lips and nodded. "Too bad. You'd look good in the outfit."

Beau rose. "No wonder half my brothers are on crack. Bet it makes it easier to listen to crazy white guys."

There was silence then, but for the late night sound of slow traffic sizzling through the wet streets, water running down a drain, distant laughter as revelers headed home, the far-off drone of a plane delivering bodies eager for a night of sleep without turbulence. Beau stood there staring at the mouth of the alley, as if trying to decide whether or not it was time to leave. Instead, he turned, looked at Finch, and folded his arms.

"How are you goin' to do it?"

"We need guns," Finch said flatly.

"Covered. My uncle Leroy has a gun shop over in Powell. He'll give us whatever we need, as long as we don't tell him we're goin' on a huntin' trip and then ask for a bazooka, and as long as we got the money. He ain't big on family discounts."

"Katy Kaplan's father is going to cover the expenses."

"Nice, how d'you swing that?"

"He offered. I'm guessing he's the kind of guy who approves of my idea but prefers to stay well clear of the war zone."

"So he's a politician?"

Finch smiled. "We're gonna need maps. And we're going to need to know everything that happened from the moment the kids stepped foot in Elkwood until the time Claire was found. We need to talk to the Sheriff down there."