An Empty Hell Read online

  Didn’t this asshole have to reload soon? What did he have? A minigun?

  A bullet caught his table lamp, and with a crash everything went dark. He’d never find the gun now. The only light came from the kitchen, and Donne continued to crawl that way. With luck, he could curl up in the fetal position until the assailant got bored.

  And, just like that, the gunfire stopped. Donne listened to the remaining glass fall from the windows. Listened to the leaves blow in the wind. Felt the cold air on his skin, along with the pinprick pain from the cuts on his hand. His breath was ragged and his chest felt tight.

  An iPhone went off, signaling a text message.

  “What the hell?” Donne said.

  He rolled onto his back and tried to catch his breath. At any moment there could be another volley of bullets, or someone could burst through that front door. His muscles were on high alert, fast-twitch and ready to go, like a ballplayer waiting for a hundred-mile-an-hour heater.

  Then: “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”

  Donne snapped up with a quick sit-up, and looked toward Herrick. He cursed himself for putting his body back in the line of fire, but Herrick shook his head.

  A car engine started and then pulled away, the sound of the engine fading into the night.

  “It’s over,” Herrick said, holding up his phone. He stood up and brushed glass off his pants. Then he tossed Donne the phone.

  After catching it, Donne had to flip it around to read the text. It was from a blocked number.

  It read: ANY TIME I WANT. YOU HAVE SIX HOURS.

  Donne put the phone on his lap and looked at the walls. There had to be a hundred bullets embedded into the drywall. Instinct told him to grab a shell and save it. Bring it to ballistics.

  Yeah, because that’s how his life worked now.

  “What does this mean?” he asked, tossing Herrick his phone back.

  “It means if we’re not back in New Jersey in six hours, people I care about die.”

  “Why didn’t he finish the job now? We were dead to rights.”

  “This guy is fucked up. He doesn’t just want to kill me. He wants to mess with me.”

  Donne closed his eyes. Both brothers were psychopaths.

  “And what about me?”

  Herrick said, “Did you kill his brother?”

  Donne didn’t answer. The image of Steve Mosley’s crushed head ran through his mind, a bloody piece of meat. His stomach turned, and his breath caught hard in his throat.

  “I need a beer.”

  Donne pushed himself to his feet.

  “You?”

  Herrick said, “I think I’m due a bourbon after this.”

  He went into the kitchen and saw the refrigerator riddled with bullets. He grabbed the handle and pulled. One or two of the bullets had made it inside. The shelves were covered in splattered ketchup and spilled Heady Topper.

  Donne shook his head at the carnage.

  “You’re right. It’s time to go back,” he said.

  Herrick came into the kitchen, while compressing his nightstick. He looked over Donne’s shoulder but didn’t say anything.

  “We’re going to find out everything about this Mosley guy, what makes him tick, and why he’s after you and me. What it has to do with Alex Robinson. And then we’re going to take him down.”

  He slammed the fridge door shut, and said, “You know how hard it is to find that stuff?”

  Herrick nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Damn it,” Donne said. “I was happy here.”

  It may not have been exactly true. Not after what he saw a year ago, when he finally decided to look at the news, when he saw Kate was gone. He’d just gotten Jeanne back, just cleared that from his soul, when he lost another one. It didn’t matter though; it was ages ago. He was as happy as he could be here. Chopping wood, drinking beer, and reading pulpy thrillers.

  That time was over.

  “Six hours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you get us back in four?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s move.”

  Donne packed a duffel bag in less than five minutes, and then they went outside. They took it slow, moving to Herrick’s car, keeping an eye out for their stalker. They looked for the glint of a gun barrel in the moonlight. The sound of squeaking brakes. They heard nothing. Saw nothing.

  Ten minutes later they were on the interstate. Donne’s heart pounded, and his palms were sweaty.

  He focused on the horizon ahead of him.

  WHEN DONNE was a kid, after his father had left, his mother used to take his sister and him on road trips to Florida. A two-day drive that started at five in the morning the first day, stopped overnight somewhere in South Carolina, and ended in Orlando. They’d hit the parks, maybe take another long ride to the beach one day, and then come back a week and a half later.

  What always stuck out to Donne when he was a kid was how things changed during the time they were away. The local billboard near their home off the parkway always seemed to change. The city would put a new speed limit sign in. Minor changes, but to an eight-year-old, it felt like life had changed. The world went on even when he wasn’t there.

  As Herrick gassed the car across the NJ border and onto the parkway, Donne was struck with the same feeling. The rest stop where the Starbucks had been was now a Burger King and a Dunkin’ Donuts. They’d added digital signs every ten miles or so. Today, they advertised a silver alert, looking for a blue Toyota Solara. They crossed over Route 17 and the car dealerships he could see were still the same. Cars still hummed at a breakneck pace, passing on the right and refusing to get out of the way of people entering the highway. And there were still the left lane slowpokes that policed the speed limit on their own accord; slothlike vigilantes keeping everyone from getting to their destination.

  The familiarity caused Donne’s heart to race. It felt like a small lizard was crawling up and down under the skin of his arms. He shifted in his seat and tugged on his seatbelt. He told himself to focus on his breathing. Which, of course, was when Herrick decided to speak.

  “He’s going to call me as soon as we get to Hoboken,” he said.

  Herrick had filled Donne in on the ride down. It was amazing; this guy with his fresh-shaved face and his close-cropped military hair cut just kept talking for the first hour of the trip. Spilling everything like they were best buds that hadn’t seen each other in a few years. Basketball, Alex Robinson, a mugging. Donne wouldn’t have told this guy anything.

  “We may have an hour on him, the way you pushed the tempo.”

  Herrick shrugged while keeping both hands on the wheel. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “You tell him the truth. That I’m there.”

  “He’s going to want to come and get you.”

  Donne nodded. “Seems like a good trap to set.”

  “We don’t even know why this is happening.”

  “If we can catch Lucas, it might be an easy way to find out.” Donne rubbed his hands together. “You wouldn’t see it, would you?”

  Herrick glanced away from the road. “See what?”

  “This is all about me.”

  “That part I got.”

  Donne rubbed his face. That damned insect had replaced the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins, and now all he wanted was to shut his eyes and make it all go away.

  “Why now?”

  Herrick said, “You were in the news?”

  “I’ve been in the news before. They’ve left me alone for years, and now Alex Robinson comes back making up stuff about me. Someone’s sent a hit man on my tail.” Donne rubbed his mouth.

  Herrick said, “You were on the run. You were vulnerable.”

  “Not good enough. I was hurt and I was down. That should have been enough. That should have been the revenge. It was Bill’s plan.”

  “Except Bill Martin died. You killed him. You took out another one of their own.”

  Donne nodded.
“Bill was Leo’s best friend and vice versa. It’s why Bill was always over me.”

  Herrick didn’t speak. Donne was grateful for a moment of quiet. He let the situation play out over itself. Herrick talked to Leo Carver. That’s the only reason Donne listened to him. He said he talked to Carver.

  “You got into the prison?” Donne said. “They’d kept him locked up pretty good, even though it was general pop. It was hard to talk to him.”

  “So, you kept track of him?”

  “Early on.”

  “He’s not in prison anymore. He’s been declared insane. He’s in an institution.”

  Donne blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

  Herrick told him about Sandy, about the legal case. Then the move, and how hard it still was to talk to him.

  “Damn,” Donne said. “He waited that long to make a move, get out into the open.”

  “I had to bullshit my way in there.”

  Donne nodded. “And if it was that easy for you, how do you think it went for others? I’m sure he’s finally been in contact with the outside world. He heard about Bill. He’s pissed.”

  “So why kill the other two?”

  Donne shrugged. “You’re the detective.”

  Donne looked out the window and watched the streetlights pass above them. Herrick hit his left blinker and took the exit onto Route 3. They were going to Herrick’s apartment. Donne wasn’t home yet.

  “We need to buy ourselves some time,” Donne said. “Need space to figure out exactly what’s going on. Who Mosley is. How Carver is pulling the strings here.”

  “If he’s pulling the strings.”

  “And why Robinson brought you in on this in the first place. Why he put you in danger. Alex Robinson isn’t an idiot. He knew what he was doing.”

  “And how do we get ourselves that time?”

  Donne sighed. Counted to five. Rolled it over in his brain.

  “Two hours until your deadline. That’s how long we have to come up with a plan.”

  “Totally doable,” Herrick said.

  “Well,” Donne said. “At least you’re confident.”

  He put his head back on the seat as Herrick slammed down on the gas. The cars they passed were metallic blurs. At this time of night, there weren’t many on the road anyway.

  Lived in Vermont for over a year, nary a problem. Back in New Jersey for forty minutes and there was a target on his back.

  “This state sucks,” Donne said out loud.

  HERRICK’S APARTMENT smelled like nutmeg. It felt like Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one, which, Donne guessed, was appropriate. Christmas was coming after all. The coffee table was spotless and empty except for a book on basketball strategies. The carpet had been vacuumed recently. There were two filing cabinets in the corner, each labeled, though Donne couldn’t read what they said. The TV, a big flat-screen, was the center of attention.

  Donne wanted to pass out. His temples were throbbing, and his eyelids felt heavy. No time for that, though. The clock was ticking. Herrick said they had maybe an hour and fifty-five minutes to figure this out. To buy themselves more time.

  “Why didn’t he kill us up there?” Donne asked, while plopping down on the couch. It was leather, but felt soft enough that it could envelop him. “He had us.”

  Herrick dropped the ASP on the coffee table.

  Donne said, “He could have walked in, shot us both in the head, and gone home to collect his reward. There’s clearly more here.”

  “He thinks it’s a game. We’re being toyed with.”

  Donne shook his head. “There’s more. You toy with someone too long, you give them the chance to fight back.”

  “Let’s fight back, then,” Herrick said.

  For the first time, Donne noticed Herrick rubbing his ribs. He opened his mouth to ask, but thought better of it. It was something he might be able to use later.

  Herrick went into the kitchen and came out with a beer and a bottle of bourbon.

  “I don’t drink beer much,” Herrick said. “But this is a good one.”

  It was called Carton Boat Beer. He accepted it and took a sip. It was low on alcohol but had a ton of flavor. He took another sip, the watery hops cascading down his throat. For once, he didn’t miss Heady Topper. He put the bottle on the table, without a coaster, next to the ASP.

  Donne watched Herrick, trying to figure him out. He got the gun off Donne quick, up in Vermont. He was faster than he looked, but Donne was pretty sure he didn’t have a gun of his own. When he put Donne’s gun down, he’d dropped it like it was burning his hands.

  Herrick caught him staring.

  “You don’t trust me yet, do you?” Herrick asked.

  “Why should I? The only reason I’m here is because someone shot up my house. You show up and someone shoots at me. Not something that happens too often.” He picked up the beer and took another slug. “Anymore.”

  “I could have killed you in the car, if that was my goal. I could have made sure you got shot in the house. My job was to find you and bring you back.”

  “Except you could have left me there. You know Robinson is wrong. There’s something off on him.”

  “If I hadn’t brought you back, people were going to die.”

  Donne shrugged. “Still might.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.” Donne sighed. “Any time I’m around people die. Just the way it goes.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I’m working on believing that.”

  Herrick hadn’t taken a sip of his bourbon yet. He was tapping his thigh. The nightstick was still on the table. Donne played through possibilities. Herrick shifted on his seat, inching his right hand closer to the table.

  “How are we going to do this? I am devoid of ideas.”

  “Devoid?” Donne counted the distance. Herrick was farther from the ASP than Donne was. He could get to it first.

  Herrick said, “It was the long drive. My vocabulary improves when I’m exhausted. It’s a curse.”

  “Here’s my thought.” Donne polished off the beer. Herrick still hadn’t taken a sip.

  “Thank God.”

  “I think you brought me here, and now you’re killing time until Mosley gets here. I think you’re going to hand me over, and you’re letting me talk this out to buy yourself whatever time you need.”

  Herrick tilted his head at him. “I’m a basketball coach. I’m not a hired killer. Investigating is my side gig. Do you think I’m going to ruin that by working with murderers?”

  “I think, if this threat on your friends is true—and you won’t even mention them by name—then you’ll do anything to save them. Human nature. What do I mean to you?”

  “You’re the job.”

  “What’s the matter with your ribs?”

  The tangent caught Herrick off guard, and he looked down toward his hands. Donne leapt forward, stepped over the table, and swung a right fist hard into Herrick’s ribs, right where he’d been rubbing. Herrick screamed out and fell backwards, into the table next to the couch.

  Donne gave him another kick to the ribs, and Herrick went down to the carpet hard. He reached up to try to get to his feet, but Donne didn’t wait on him. He sprinted to the front door, out into the hallway, and hit the staircase. He took the steps two at a time, and was out on the street.

  The road was quiet, the bars closed, and most of the world sleeping. Donne took the first corner hard and ran into an alley. He leaned against the wall, letting the cold night air wash over his face.

  Maybe Herrick wasn’t going to just hand him over, but Donne couldn’t take that risk. And, at the very best, he’d bought Herrick the time he wanted and they could both work to end this.

  At the worst, Donne was on the run again, and a target was on his back—and he’d lost his only ally.

  He checked his watch. Three hours to kill before the first train to New Brunswick left the station. Best to keep moving until th
en. He pulled his jacket tight around his chest and started off into the night. The sound of faraway sirens faded away from him.

  Donne walked aimlessly. He wanted to leave this all in someone else’s lap, but he knew better. Twelve hours earlier, he’d killed a man and buried two bodies in the dirt.

  This was all about him, and everyone else was collateral damage.

  Violence always found him.

  “I WANT to talk to him,” Lucas said.

  Herrick had the phone on speaker, an ice pack pressed to his ribs, and a can of beer pressed against his forehead. Screw being on the clock.

  “He’s not here.”

  A beat. Herrick took a sip.

  “Then someone dies.”

  Herrick took a breath. The image of the boy in Afghanistan danced in front of him, like a flicker movie on an old TV. His arms akimbo. Yelling. Herrick could feel his hand going for his gun. Realizing the gunshot he’d heard only seconds earlier was the boy killing a guard to get through security.

  “Someone always dies,” he said. His ribs throbbed against the ice.

  “You disappoint me, Matt. You’re giving up? Willing to go through more personal pain?”

  The boy was still screaming. The jacket flopped open and Herrick saw the straps and the wires. He pulled his gun, wrapped his finger around the trigger in one swift move. The boy shouted louder, and Herrick squeezed the trigger. A thunderclap.

  Herrick tried to blink it away. The boy falling backward. The cloud of dust surrounding him as he hit the ground. Herrick dropped his own gun. Soldiers ran toward the body.

  “Why are you afraid of me?” Herrick asked.

  Lucas laughed.

  “I’m serious,” Herrick said. “You’re scared. You had me in your sights, and you missed. You had Donne in your sights and you missed. Instead, you’re playing this game, threatening others. Come at me.”

  “You don’t want that,” Lucas said.

  “No,” Herrick said. “I do. You already took a shot at me, and I’m still standing. How about you? How’s your ankle?”

  He saw the gun on the ground. His gun still hot, outlined in Afghan sand. He swore he’d never fire it again. He’d never need to fire a gun again. There were other ways to fight. He’d been trained in them. But killing a boy—him or me—no matter what the stakes? No more shooting.