While Galileo Preys (25 page)

The awkwardness passed into murmuring. Bob was always amazed how little people knew of their own history. But he wasn’t here for a history lesson, not really. This was about the future.

“What makes our country unique is its plurality. We are the United States of America. Not one state, but many. Not one race, not one religion, not one lifestyle but many. It is our greatest strength and those that try to undermine our diversity insult the very fabric of our identity. I am not the same as you, nor should I be. Do you want a president who agrees with everything you say and do and think? What about when you’re wrong? What about when he’s wrong? Like Mr. Jefferson, I am a skeptic. Like Mr. Lincoln, I place my faith not in an infinite God, but in the infinite potential of mankind.”

Bob took a breath. Now it was time for the closer.

“There are those who will look upon my words as an insult toward their personal beliefs. That is emphatically false. Our churches and synagogues are priceless, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for our great religions. As you know, my wife is Catholic. Do we disagree sometimes? Yes, we do. But disagreement is healthy. In a democracy, it is often our solemn duty
to disagree. There will be debate and I encourage it. Just be careful of those muckrakers and their tactic of shrinking a candidate to a label. As if any person could be minimized to a word. As if any country could be. I am a man of ambitious curiosity. Stay with me on this journey. There are no limits on what we can do together.”

He let out a breath. His hands were shaking. No one could see them but him. He waited.

Silence.

Silence.

Then the noise, erupting all at once. A cymbal-crash of applause. Those seated, stood. Those standing, raised their clapping hands as if reaching for the stars.

Bob smiled out at the crowd, waved, and made his way down the porch steps to greet his people.

Not everyone was outside, though. Many remained inside, enjoying the comfort of soft furniture and watching the speech on closed-circuit TVs. Rafe, Esme and Tom watched it from the study. Paul Ridgely had left for parts unknown, but their encounter with the governor had left them rooted to the carpet, and that was how they remained during the speech, eyes glued to the screen. When the applause erupted, they felt the thunderous noise shake through the room, and that seemed to break their spell.

Rafe sat down in a chair.

“Well,” said Tom.

“Yeah,” agreed Esme. Then: “Do you think he was watching?”

Tom glanced at her. “I don’t know.”

“He got what he wanted,” she said. “Until that end bit about religion
not
being the root of all evil.”

“Yeah, that probably ticked him off. Can I borrow your cell phone? Mine’s, well, non-functional.”

She reached into her purse and handed him her LG. He stepped out of the room for some privacy.

Esme sat on the arm of Rafe’s chair.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“I know.”

“Do you think it was because of what I said?” He looked at her, eyes wide. “Did that just happen because of what I said?”

She grinned. He was like a little boy. “Just because you were completely and totally wrong doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

“There’s a lot of double negatives in that sentence.”

“I’ll give you a double negative.”

She leaned in to kiss him. The door opened. It was Tom.

“Galileo didn’t hear the speech,” he said.

“How do you know?” asked Rafe.

“Because,” Tom replied, “we’ve got him in custody. We caught him thirty minutes ago at a ballpark. We caught him.”

T
he ballpark was Kauffman Stadium, home of the Kansas City Royals. On April 12, the Royals were scheduled for a home game against their arch-rivals, the Oakland A’s. It would be blue vs. green (the Royals players in the blue and the A’s players in the green) at 7:30 p.m. CST.

The stadium had recently undergone a major renovation—new HD scoreboard, beautified concourses, etc.—but the big fountain remained untouched. Located by right field, the fountain geysered thousands of gallons of water per game over 300 feet into air and provided a lovely, frothy backdrop. A small amusement park was set up behind it, and kids could almost always be found running to and fro (although seldom into) the tall white water. Expectedly, some of the priciest skyboxes were located at right field, with a perfect view of the manmade attraction. One of these skyboxes still remained closed, though, due to an architectural problem exposed during the renovation, and it was here that Galileo sat in wait.

He’d gained access the way he always did. “Mark Kenney” was the newest member of the Royals’ janitorial staff. As the low man on the totem pole, he didn’t have keys to most of the park, but he made friends with some of the veteran custodians, took them out to drinks, excused himself to the men’s room, hustled across the street to a locksmith, made duplicates of their keys he’d just lifted, and had the originals replaced before anyone was the wiser.

The windows of the closed skybox remained sheeted over with black plastic, but this made it that much easier for Galileo to hide. No one in the stands would be able to see him. And all he required was a tiny rip in the plastic, and he could see them.

It was Sanitation Engineer Appreciation Night at Kauffman Stadium, and with the promise of discounted tickets, the city’s hardworking trash collectors had come out in droves to enjoy a crisp cool night watching the national pastime with their families. They were the most overlooked, least appreciated of Kansas City’s civil servants, but tonight the city’s superstars had deemed fit to reward them. How good life could sometimes be.

“Mark Kenney” had finished his shift at five and was here now as a fan, wearing a yellow Polo shirt and dark tan khakis. The custodial staff received complimentary bleacher tickets, and as far as anyone knew, that’s where he would be. And so no one thought twice as he trotted through the corridor behind right field, passing the snack shops and Royals memorabilia. A few of his coworkers waved, and he waved back. And they were
used to seeing him with his long black suitcase, which he usually stored in his work locker. It contained his prized trombone. No one else had seen the trombone, not yet, but “Mark Kenney” was shy about his hobbies. Soon, though, he promised them. Soon.

The skybox was cluttered with tools and sawdust. Thick muslin tarp was draped over what Galileo assumed were tables and chairs. Earlier today, he’d placed his shoe box here, at the base of one of the amorphous covered shapes, waiting to be found later by the authorities. Now he propped up his suitcase and flipped open its latches. His M107 lay unassembled in the felt casing. He’d cleaned it last night.

It took him twenty seconds to assemble. Each part made a reassuring click as it snapped into place. He hefted the rifle in his arms and ejected the ten-round magazine. One final check before—

The magazine was empty.

Galileo frowned, shook it to be sure, then lifted a hidden flap inside the suitcase, where he stored his spare ammo…but that compartment was empty too. What the hell…?

The door to the skybox whipped open and six flak-jacketed FBI agents stomped into the room. Each wielded a pistol and each aimed directly at Galileo’s rapidly beating heart. Unlike the M107, their weapons were armed.

Then a seventh FBI agent sauntered in. Galileo recognized the roly-poly man from the database he’d pilfered. This was Norm Petrosky, and he was chomping on about ten ounces of bubblegum.

“See, we would have got you a couple hours ago,” he said, casually, “but we wanted to wait until you were in a secure location. You know, where you couldn’t run.”

As Norm spoke, one of the other agents patted Galileo down, found his ankle Beretta, and removed both it and its holster. Galileo, for his part, didn’t raise his hand or flinch or even scowl. He just stared back at Norm, and watched the fat man take a few steps closer.

“You know what trips you guys up every time, don’t you? You’re creatures of habit. Which is really fucking stupid, but it makes our jobs a whole lot easier. Because we know you like pretending to be janitors and we know where you’re going to be. We were here before you ever showed up.”

Norm winked at him, then indicated to the other agents. The shackles came out, clanging not unlike the earlier sounds of the rifle being assembled. There was one pair of shackles for the wrists and one for the ankles, and they were yoked together with a third lock to allow for easy towing.

They waited until the second inning to bring Galileo out. There were still people in the corridors, but by now most had found their seats and weren’t yet ready for a refill of beer. Still, it was impossible to avoid the gaping looks as the FBI escorted their catch down the ramps, past snack shops and memorabilia, to the exit.

They already had a van in the parking lot. Anna and Hector Jackson (no relation) were waiting there, arms crossed, smiles stretching from ear to ear to ear to ear. Even Daryl Hewes was there. He didn’t look as giddy, though. He was just relieved.

“Henry, you ever been to a supermax? You are in for a treat. In two hours, we will be transferring you to one of our nation’s finest homes for the criminally fucked. While awaiting your hearing, you’ll get a terrific view of, well, nothing, because your room won’t have a window. Oh, by the way, you have the right to remain silent.”

Norm shoved Galileo into the rear of the van and rounded to the front seat with Anna Jackson. Hector and Daryl joined Galileo in the back. Galileo sat on one bench. The FBI agents sat across from him on the other. While Hector linked Galileo’s chains to a hook in the floor, Hector yanked shut the rear doors.

An hour into the drive, Daryl finally asked the question:

“Why didn’t you kill Esme Stuart?”

Galileo looked up from his chains. Hector looked over from his magazine.

“You murdered a friend of mine. Her name was Darcy Parr. You murdered dozens of innocent people. But you let Esme live. Why?”

Although the radio was on in the front cab, at the moment no one was listening to the Royals game. Norm, who was riding shotgun, swiveled his head to get a better view of the response.

Galileo responded, “I didn’t set out to kill anyone.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“All of this could have been prevented.”

“Why did you let her live?”

“Would you rather I’d let her die?”

Without warning, Daryl jumped forward and clasped his left hand around Galileo’s throat.

“Would you rather I let you die?” snarled Daryl. “Huh?! How would you like that?!”

They were inches from each other. Although restrained, Galileo had easy access to the technician’s gun, exposed at his hip. He didn’t go for it.

Hector, for his part, was ignoring the act of brutality until a glare from Norm changed his mind. He separated Daryl from his victim. Galileo gasped for breath. His throat had pale smears where Daryl had dug in his thumbs.

“Daryl,” said Norm, “apologize to the psychopath.”

Daryl scowled from across the aisle. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” replied Galileo, softly. “I meant what I said. I didn’t want any of this to happen. That’s why I let Esme live. She was supposed to stop me. I needed to be stopped. I knew God wasn’t going to step in. You all brought her in. She was supposed to be your expert, so I chose her to be my wall. But she failed.”

That was when Tom called from Long Island, and Norm told him about Galileo’s capture. Shortly thereafter, the van crossed the Missouri-Kansas border. They were now ninety minutes from their destination.

By the seventh inning, the A’s had climbed up to a 5-2 lead, and Anna Jackson switched the station to talk radio. Unsurprisingly, the main subject of discussion was Governor Kellerman’s speech in Long Island:

“—and he couldn’t have picked a better place to deliver this address, insulated among his staunchest supporters, preaching to the choir, which I suppose is an inappropriate metaphor now, eh, Charlie?”

“You said it, Mitch. Why don’t we replay some of the choicest portions for our listeners?”

Daryl was lost in his own thoughts about Darby Parr and what might have been. Galileo, however, stirred from his stupor. His muscles tensed in his neck, and underneath his yellow Polo shirt. Preaching to the choir as an inappropriate metaphor? Was it possible after all this time that the governor had finally come clean? Was it possible these murders had not been in vain?

As he listened to the broadcast of the speech, Galileo felt warmth spread out from his chest and surfeit his muscles, tendons, and bones. The Jefferson analogy made him smile. The Lincoln analogy made him beam. He was like a kid on Christmas morning and everything he wanted was waiting there underneath the—

“—churches and synagogues are priceless, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for our great religions. As you know, my wife is Catholic. Do we disagree sometimes? Yes, we do. But disagreement is healthy. In a democracy, it is often our solemn duty to disagree.”

The warmth inside of him froze, became ice, tipped and jagged. His fingers curled like rotting fruit. Nothing but the utmost respect for our great religions? What was that? How could a true atheist bear anything but contempt for groups that invested their entire purpose in worshiping an imaginary super-being? “Great religion” was an oxymoron. Religion created dependency, encouraged infantilism, and fostered an us vs. them mentality and for that man to stand there, knowing better, and to pander to these dangerous, delusional miscreants…

No. This would not do.

Hector turned a page in his magazine. Daryl, though, noticed the look of disgust painted across Galileo’s face. Galileo raised his gaze to match Daryl’s.

“Do you know how to dislocate your thumbs?” inquired Galileo, gently.

“What?”

Galileo smashed his thumbs against the hard cartilage of his kneecaps; the digits made soft popping sounds as they separated from their joints. Before Daryl could react, Galileo slipped his now-rubbery hands out of their shackles and launched across the aisle. His left hand went for Daryl’s Glock and his right hand went for Hector’s and he hoisted their handguns out of their holsters as smoothly as he’d freed his hands only seconds before. The barrels tapped simultaneously against their foreheads. The gunshots were simultaneous too. The backs of their skulls splashed amoeba-like splashes of reddish-gray brain matter against the wall of the van.

Four seconds had passed since he’d dislocated his thumbs.

Norm Petrosky barely had time to reach for his own weapon when Galileo spun around—as dexterously as his leg chains allowed—and fired off two more rounds, one into the cranium of Norm and one into the cranium of Anna. Anything could have happened, then. The van could have spun out of control. It could have swerved into oncoming traffic. But Anna’s death throes took her foot off the gas and instead of a violent end, the van just rolled
to a stop, angled toward the breakdown lane. All the better, for Galileo had things to do. And people to see.

Tom and Esme were alone in the study. Rafe had gone out to find Governor Kellerman, as if they were old friends. He said he owed him an apology. Esme didn’t argue.

“So,” said Tom.

Esme nodded.

“How’s Sophie?”

“Good.”

Tom nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly adding, “About your motorcycle. I’ll try to get it back to you.”

“It’s okay. I took it for granted, anyway. I didn’t realize how important it was to me until I lost it.”

Esme cocked an eyebrow. “You’re laying the subtext on a bit thick, Tom.”

“It’s been that kind of night.”

“So, do you think Kellerman will be annoyed that he gave that speech for nothing?”

Tom laughed. Esme joined him.

“And after all this,” she mused, “they catch him in at a ball game.”

“Don’t you know? Baseball is full of catchers.”

“Ugh.”

Their laughter dwindled. So did their smiles, as heavier thoughts moved in.

“Do you really think I’m reckless?” asked Tom.

“You know you are,” Esme replied. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“It is when the ends don’t justify the means.”

“In certain jobs, the ends always justify the means.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Tom flashed her another grin. “Does housewife qualify as one of those jobs?”

“You try raising a precocious little girl while having the absentminded professor for a husband.”

“No, thanks,” said Tom. “That’s not for me.”

Esme shrugged: but it is for me.

And that was that.

“I should find Rafe before, well, you never know.”

“I never do,” answered Tom.

He walked her to the door of the study and watched her disappear into a sea of suburban glamour. He remained in the doorway, and was mostly content. A waiter offered him a flute of champagne, but he declined. It was time to go.

At the very least, it was time to call a cab (although certainly not on the cracked plastic remains of his cell).

He searched the ground floor of the house for a landline, milling through pockets of heightened gossip, but couldn’t even find a wall jack. As he passed from room to room, the crowds seemed to expand in size and volume, and a reasonable sense of claustrophobia began to creep into his nerves. Gradually he maneuvered toward—and then out—the front door.

His pal, the bald-pated gorilla who’d wrecked his cell phone, remained stationed there, and gave him a dirty look.

“Hi there,” demurred Tom.

“Sorry about before,” the gorilla replied. “Just doing what I get paid for.”

“Me, too.”

Tom ambled down toward the valet station. Surely one of them had to have a phone he could—