An Empty Hell Page 13

  “Only Leo Carver?”

  “Yes,” Donne said. “Only Leo Carver.”

  He and Martin were partners. Partners for a long time. They were still brothers. Tied together.

  “Are you sure?” Russell asked. “No one else was involved.”

  “We all did bad things,” Donne said. “But only at the command of Leo Carver.”

  Russell stalked back to the prosecution table. He shuffled through his papers, reading something back to himself.

  “And what about Bill Martin? How was he involved? Did he force you into smoking weed or sampling cocaine?”

  “Objection! This trial only has to do with my client.”

  “Sustained.”

  Russell tried one more time. “Do you remember being deposed, Mr. Donne? In that deposition, you explicitly state Bill Martin made you try weed, told you that only then were you part of a team.”

  “Objection!”

  “Sus—”

  “I must have been mistaken.” It felt like all the muscles in Donne’s back released their tension at the same time, sending a spasm through him.

  Russell sighed. “No further questions.”

  “WHAT THE hell was that?”

  Lester Russell wiped at his nose with a handkerchief as he paced back and forth in front of Donne. They were in the same room with the vending machines. Donne sipped on an overly sweet iced tea. The judge had adjourned for a short break before closing statements.

  “I told the truth,” Donne said after swallowing.

  Russell nodded and then slammed about thirty pages of typed deposition in front of Donne.

  “So you lied three months ago?”

  Donne shrugged. Drank more iced tea.

  “How the hell am I going to spin this next week?” Russell asked.

  Donne didn’t answer, but wasn’t expected to. The defense had cross-examined him and tried to throw some dirt on everything, but Donne held up. Steadfast that Carver was the one who orchestrated the evidence. They tried to question Donne’s drug use, but Russell cleared that up on cross-examination. He was forced to do it. He wasn’t addicted.

  Donne tried to control the shakes that threatened to wrack his entire body. The aluminum can gave way a bit underneath his fingers.

  IAD burst through the door, pulled out the chair opposite Donne and dropped down into it. He put his hands flat on the table and leaned in. Donne drank more iced tea.

  “What the hell was that?” IAD got spittle all over his side of the table.

  Donne nodded toward Russell. “He already asked that.”

  IAD looked up at Russell, who blew his nose again.

  “How long have we been working on this, Jackson?”

  It had moved quickly. Just six months ago, Donne sat in a room just like the one in the courthouse, big, white, and smelly. He laid it all out for IAD. Told them about Leo Carver and Bill Martin. Told them it was time to get out and do the right thing. That it wasn’t enough to put away drug dealers, if you were just going to steal evidence. That was part of the truth; the other part was saving his own skin.

  IAD and his partner were like wedding planners that day. They moved quickly, asking if they could get Donne anything. Refilling his coffee. Jotting notes and offering short suggestions. He was in good hands, they told him, just do what he was doing now and everything would be okay.

  But Donne didn’t follow their advice. Bill Martin was off the table.

  “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal,” Donne said. “You have Carver dead to rights. He was the ringleader. He was the boss-man. You got him. All Lester has to do is nail the closing argument and you have your man.”

  “We want both of them. We should put away the whole team. But we won’t. Those other guys—like you—will get laid off or fired or some shit we’ll come up with. But Martin is an asshole. To take him down would have been gold. You’re going to testify against him next week.”

  “No.”

  “Then your dismissal will be dishonorable.”

  Donne said, “I gave you what you wanted. Put the bastard away. Leave Bill alone.”

  IAD slammed his palms on the table. “Maybe I was wrong. It wasn’t Martin. You’re the asshole here.”

  Donne finished his iced tea while IAD stormed out of the room. Russell waited for the click of the door and then used his fingers to count to ten. He put a business card down in front of Donne.

  “You screwed me, Jackson.”

  Donne picked up the card and looked at it. It advertised Lester Russell as having his own business, doing defense. The card had an established date on it. The current year.

  He looked up at Russell.

  “I’m going private. Working defense instead of state prosecution could be lucrative for me. But I was supposed to go out on top, a superstar for the prosecution. I was gonna put away two corrupt cops. Headlines are the best billboards, Jackson. Remember that.” He put his handkerchief into his pocket.

  “You can still put away Carver.”

  Russell shook his head. “I can and I will. And that’ll be nice. But two cops? Aw, man. The crooks would have loved me. I’d be gold. Puts away two cops and then goes to work for the other side? Hoo boy. Cha-ching.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. “Now, with your testimony, it’ll look like I lost.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “You’re a terrible liar. They all saw it on the stand.”

  Donne smiled. “I didn’t lie.”

  Russell sighed. “All right, Jackson. If I know you, you’re going to need a defense attorney a time or two for the rest of your life. If you do, keep that card. I like you. Something about you. You’re a good guy. You just make terrible decisions.”

  “Don’t need to be smart to be a cop, I guess.”

  Russell laughed. He brushed off his suit jacket, tugged at his tie, and said, “I have to go give a closing argument. Be good, sir.”

  Russell disappeared. Donne got another iced tea. He sat in the room, nursing it for an hour. He told himself he could hear the verdict on the news or in the paper. He finished his iced tea and stood up. He pushed the doors open and walked down the long hallway toward the courtroom.

  He had to be there for the verdict. Had to know how it ended.

  This time the courtroom didn’t hush over in silence for him. No one even knew he entered the room. They were all focused on Russell, who was waving his arms and doing what looked to be some weird interpretive dance while he spoke. Donne took a seat in the back and waited.

  Forty-five minutes later, after the defense gave their statement, the jurors were given the rules on how to come to a verdict.

  Twenty minutes after that, they came back in. Leo Carver guilty.

  Donne rubbed his face and watched them take Carver from the room. He watched Bill Martin shake hands with his attorney. Someone else was giving Lester Russell a hug. Donne lost track of Bill Martin in the crowd.

  And then, Martin was standing in front of Donne. Hands in his pockets, leaning against the bench.

  “That was my best friend,” he growled.

  Donne didn’t respond.

  “Leo Carver was my best friend,” Martin said again. “I will destroy you one day.”

  The following week, the charges against Bill Martin were dropped. He never was told exactly why.

  DONNE SLUMPED on the couch. A Molson was popped on the coffee table in front of him. He watched the sweat drip off the bottle and form in a pool around it. The TV was on, some sitcom that he was having trouble following. Didn’t matter, it was just white noise. It felt like his brain wasn’t working correctly, like a psychic electrician was up there crawling around, pulling wires and plugging them back in to see what happened.

  The clock on the cable box flipped ahead another minute. He wondered briefly how long he’d sat there and then realized it didn’t matter. All that mattered was when she got home. When he could tell her it was over, he was out. That was what Jeanne had wanted for the last six months,
for life to get back to normal.

  Another drop of sweat dribbled off the glass. Donne had only taken two sips in the past hour. The beer was probably warm by now. He wrapped his hand around it, picked the bottle up, and took a swig. Nope. It was fine. He took another sip and then placed it back on the puddle.

  The door downstairs creaked open, and the ADT security monitor beeped. Electricity ran through Donne’s chest and he sat up and wiped his mouth. He pulled the loosened tie around his neck completely off and tossed it on to the chair next to him. Jeanne’s footsteps were gentle, like always, and he counted each stair. Living on the second floor of a two-family house brought familiarity he’d never expected. Counting the stairs until he could see his fiancée was one of them.

  She pushed the door open, looked him over, and slumped against the door jamb.

  “Is it finished?” she asked.

  Donne nodded. His head felt like it was full of stones.

  “How’d it go?”

  He took a long drink of beer before answering. Finished the bottle off. Jeanne didn’t move.

  “Guilty.”

  As if someone had squeezed her tight, all the air went out of Jeanne. She laughed, and then came over and sat next to Donne, putting a hand on his shoulder. She rubbed his back and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He went through it slowly, recounting each question. He told her how he felt, how he didn’t even want to look at them. She nodded and kept rubbing his back.

  “Lester asked, and I told them,” he said. “Leo Carver was in charge of it all.”

  “And Bill Martin?”

  Donne exhaled. “He had nothing to do with it.”

  She stopped rubbing his back. Her hand jumped off his shirt like it’d been stuck in an electrical outlet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—” Donne shook his head. “He was my partner. We’d been through so much together. I just felt like…”

  “You’re not going to testify against him?”

  Donne put his face into his palms and rubbed. Jeanne had moved a few inches away from him.

  “Leo Carver started it all. He was the man behind it. He deserves to go to jail. Twenty years they got him for. No parole.”

  Jeanne sat with her arms crossed in front of her. She leaned back against the cushions.

  “What’s going to happen to you now?”

  Donne shrugged. “I’m out of a job. They’re finished with me.”

  “Unemployment?”

  Donne shook his head. “A nice severance, so I have some time.”

  “And what’s going to happen to Bill Martin?”

  After running a hand through his hair, Donne said, “I think they’re going to demote him. He’s been in the department for so long, they’re hesitant to get rid of him.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Donne nodded. “Probably. But it’s politics.”

  “You should have—”

  He turned to her and saw the tears in her eyes. Reaching over, he put his hands on her thighs. For an instant, it seemed like she flinched, but Donne was sure that was his imagination.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “You.” The word was like a sharp dagger. “You’re too rash. You make stupid choices.”

  “We’re going to be fine,” he said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “You have no idea what’s going on. You’re too blind.”

  The laugh track from the sitcom chimed in inappropriately. Donne grabbed the remote and turned the set off. The air in the apartment was very still, and seemed to hang there waiting for one of them to make the next move. Donne noticed another minute pass on the set top box.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jeanne stood up and walked over to the door. Slammed it shut.

  “You have to clean up, Jackson. Go to rehab.”

  “It’s just a beer.”

  “You think I don’t know you’ve been sneaking blow the past few weeks? Not every day, but once or twice? You think I can’t tell. Your nerves are rattled. You’re missing stuff.”

  “What am I missing?”

  Static was whooshing through Donne’s brain and he was having trouble focusing. He was clean. Today he was clean. No coke. Just a beer. That’s all. They were supposed to be celebrating.

  “Maybe when you clean up, you’ll figure it out. I’ve basically been broadcasting it to you. Should hire a skywriter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Get clean, Jackson. Get clean or it’s over between us.”

  Jeanne took the ring off her finger, dropped it on the coffee table, and stormed out of the room. Seconds later, the bedroom door slammed. Still, he could hear muffled sobs through the wood paneling. He put the TV on to cancel it out, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t keep it quiet. Couldn’t shut the noise in his head off either.

  Not twelve hours later, Jackson Donne found himself in rehab. A year later he opened his own private detective agency.

  Five years after that, he was on the run.

  And today—in Vermont, of all places—it all caught up with him.

  MATT HERRICK needed time, but didn’t have any. By his count, there were maybe eight hours left to convince Donne to get into a car with him and head back to New Jersey before people started dying. But doing that while having a gun pointed at your head wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

  Or, for that matter, a dark alley.

  “Listen, Jackson,” Herrick said, “I have two options, either I can take that gun off you right now or we can be men about this.”

  “You’re a peon. You can’t take this gun from me.”

  “You’re not who you used to be, you seem like you’ve had a couple beers and I’m a former Marine. Come on. Think about it.”

  Donne flared his nostrils. “I don’t want to go back.”

  “You want more blood on your hands? Like what’s on your sleeve?”

  Donne flinched and Herrick had his opening. He snapped his body across the room, reached out, and grabbed Donne’s wrist. He twisted the gun away from his body, down at the floor. With this free hand, he snatched the weapon away. He brought it back up and cleared the chamber. He dropped the gun on to the couch, letting it out of his grip like it was on fire.

  Donne nodded. “Nice.”

  Herrick said, “Let’s go back.”

  “The minute I set foot in New Jersey, I’m locked up. Put away for something I didn’t do.” Donne stared off to his right; his voice got smaller. “It was all Bill Martin.”

  Herrick had followed the news last summer, who hadn’t? Donne had been the logical suspect, but the cops kept saying they wanted him for questioning. Never overtly said he was the state senator’s killer. And, like smoke in the air, Donne faded from the airwaves. Forgotten.

  “You’re smart. You know that’s not true. I haven’t heard your name in the media in almost a year. You’ve been forgotten about. You think they didn’t clear your name with ballistics or DNA or some CSI craziness? I talked to a cop about you, they just want to question you.”

  Donne shook his head.

  “Listen,” Herrick said, “I’m going to level with you. If we don’t get back to New Jersey in the next seven hours, a man is going to kill someone very important to me.”

  Outside something squeaked. An odd bit of wildlife, Herrick guessed. Donne didn’t seem to notice it. Probably like that fridge in the apartment that hummed. Herrick never heard it unless he had a guest who pointed it out.

  “Who is trying to kill—You’re bullshitting.” Donne paused. “What are you talking about?”

  Herrick laid it on the line. “One of your former cop buddies hired me to find you. He thought you were trying to kill him. Two of your other colleagues are dead and Alex Robinson is scared. He hired me to find you before you got to him.”

  Donne shook his hea
d. He put a hand on his easy chair to steady himself. “That definitely wasn’t me.”

  “A man named Lucas Mosley has been messing with my life ever since.”

  Holding up a hand, Donne said, “Like Steve Mosley?”

  “Yes, why? What?”

  “Steve was here. Steve was—” Donne tugged on the sleeve to his shirt, and Herrick felt his stomach crawl into the soles of his shoes.

  “Do you know Alex Robinson well?” Donne asked, his eyes lighting up.

  “We’re both PIs,” Herrick said. “We’ve crossed paths.” He didn’t add anything else. Nothing about their past.

  “In a good way?”

  Before Herrick could answer, the squeak came again, louder this time. Donne straightened.

  “That’s not an animal,” Herrick said, realization washing over him.

  “Brakes,” Donne said.

  Before either could say anything else, the glass shattered and the room was filled with the sound of gunfire.

  THE GLASS was the first thing to hit Donne. Like sharp pieces of ice. They sprayed over him as he dove to the floor. He rolled until he was up against the couch, and then brushed some of the glass off. It sliced the side of his left hand and the pain wrapped its way up his arm like a snake. Bullets thudded into the walls.

  He scanned the room for his gun, and for Herrick. He found the person first, on the other side of the room, crouching on the floor. The nightstick of his was out, full length, like it would be useful in this hail of bullets. Donne couldn’t find where Herrick dropped the gun, though. The bullets kept flying, each round sounding like a cannon in the cold night.

  For the first time in over a year, Donne hoped someone had heard and called the cops.

  He got on to his stomach and military-crawled in toward the kitchen, away from the incoming fire. As he moved, he felt along the carpet for the gun. He caught a few more shards of glass in his hand instead.

  “God damn it,” he yelled. “Where did you put the gun?”

  No answer. For an instant, Donne though maybe Herrick had one in the chest and was bleeding out, but he turned to see Herrick still crouched. His lips were moving too. The roar of the gunfire was too much.