The Evil That Men Do Read online

  “I can’t.”

  He punched O’Neill in the face, the old boxing instincts returning. He didn’t just try to punch the face, he tried to punch through the face. O’Neill’s head snapped back and bounced off the wooden floors. When it came back up, Tenant caught it with a left cross.

  Connor O’Neill, the powerful New Jersey state senator, screamed in pain. He yelled for Tenant, the lowly overnight longshoreman, to stop. He begged for mercy.

  “Tell me what’s going on!” Tenant screamed. “My daughter almost died. My wife is gone. My life is falling apart because of what I saw. I need to know the truth!”

  “I never wanted Maxwell Carter dead. He was a good friend of mine.”

  “But he wasn’t supporting you anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did he stop?”

  “Willy Hackett.”

  “Who?”

  “This Irishman. I grew up with him in Newark. He’s crazy.”

  Tenant didn’t even realize he’d grabbed O’Neill by the lapels and pulled him close to his face, listening to every detail of his words.

  “Why did you have Maxwell killed?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Did Hackett?”

  “Please don’t make me say it!”

  Tenant hit him again. And again. He was screaming at O’Neill to talk. To tell him more. But if O’Neill knew any more, he wasn’t talking. Even with a broken nose and bruises swelling in his cheeks, O’Neill kept the secrets close to the vest.

  “Please,” the senator finally begged. “I can’t tell you any more.”

  “You’d better.”

  “You’re nothing compared to Hackett.”

  The words actually made Tenant step back. Even when he was in the ring, very few fighters were able to withstand the kind of beating he’d just given the senator. They would have done anything to have him stop. Given up their first child, sold government secrets, anything.

  “Please, just stop hitting me,” O’Neill pleaded. “All I have left is my job. Hackett—he’s taken everything else from me.”

  “You still have your wife. And, if you tell me what I want to know, you’ll see her again.”

  “No, I don’t,” O’Neill said. “After I talked to you at the funeral, Hackett was afraid I’d turn him in. He killed my wife. I have nothing left except this.”

  Chapter 35

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Donne held his hands over his head, a natural instinct. The feds were pointing weapons at him, and though he’d had guns pointed at him before, it made him want to shit his pants.

  “My name is Jackson Donne. I’m a relative.”

  Thank God Iapicca’s gun had been confiscated at his sister’s. “A relative of who?”

  “The residents of this house. George and Faye Tenant.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They were murdered two days ago.”

  The black fed looked at the white one. There was a moment’s hesitation in both their faces, as if they were unsure of what to do next.

  “Are you armed?” the white guy asked.

  “No,” Donne said, and got frisked.

  Satisfied with his search of Donne, the white guy held out his ID. Special Agent Draxton. The black guy was state police, Jason Marshall.

  “Why are you here?” Marshall asked.

  This was tricky, as usual. Donne wanted to handle this on his own, find Hackett, talk to him, see if he really had taken Franklin. And Donne wanted to know why. But cops catch up with you when you lie. Always.

  “I’m trying to find out about my aunt and uncle’s foster son.”

  “Oh really. Who’s that?”

  Bastards. They knew exactly where this was going. Donne wasn’t sure how they knew, but they knew.

  “Bryan Hackett,” he said.

  At the mention of the name, Draxton’s eyes darkened. Jason Marshall just nodded.

  “I used to work with him,” Marshall said. “He was bomb squad.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Donne asked. His mind flashed through the scenes on the TV in the nursing home.

  Draxton finally holstered his gun, and took a deep breath. Jason Marshall stalked past Donne into the kitchen. Draxton followed him, and Donne followed Draxton. By the time he entered, Marshall was sitting at the kitchen table. Draxton leaned against the counter where the sink was. Dishes were still in the sink, and Donne was pretty sure he could see bloodstains on the tiles.

  “Tell us what’s going on,” Draxton said. “Why should I?” Donne asked.

  This wasn’t making sense. Donne couldn’t figure out why the feds were here. How much did they know about Hackett? Obviously, enough if they had tracked Hackett’s interests here.

  “We know who you are, Mr. Donne,” Marshall said. “We’ve done extensive background checks on Bryan Hackett and his family. We understand you are a private investigator and are an adopted cousin of his. We’ve read the news articles on some of your cases.”

  “Former private investigator,” Donne said, as if he scored some kind of point on their outdated research. The comment fell flat.

  “Listen, if you’re here looking into things about Hackett, then you have an idea why we’re here.”

  He thought about telling them he was here to check on his dead relatives’ interests, but at this hour of the morning, he didn’t think they’d buy it. Stick with the truth.

  “The bombing in the city.”

  Draxton nodded but still didn’t speak. This was clearly Marshall’s show, though Donne wondered why a federal agent would step aside for a state cop.

  “We need to know what’s going on.”

  “I’m not sure,” Donne said. “My brother-in-law has been kidnapped, and I think Hackett had something to do with it.”

  “Franklin Carter is your brother-in-law, correct?” Donne nodded. “It was his restaurant.”

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Draxton said.

  Donne didn’t know. And he told them as much, but he also told them everything else he knew, from Delshawn Butler to Carlos to Mike Iapicca. Marshall and Draxton didn’t speak much, listening intently. A few times they asked some questions to clarify what he was saying. He found he mumbled his words a lot, but he guessed that was from the onset of exhaustion. He’d been up for almost twenty-four hours straight. And there was still time before Hackett’s imposed deadline.

  When Donne finished, neither officer said anything. He couldn’t shake being in the kitchen where his aunt and uncle had died. There was a heaviness in the air, and a stale aroma, the mix of bleach and death that he tried not to notice. The memories of times as a child playing with Bryan Hackett, sharing toys, getting in trouble, doing stupid kid bullshit. It was such a brief period of time, and one he hadn’t thought of in years, but now that it had been brought up again, the images were incredibly vivid.

  Finally, Marshall stood up.

  “Let’s go talk to your sister,” he said.

  ***

  Marshall wanted to drive the car. Donne let him. Draxton followed them. Marshall was comfortable to sit with. Without Draxton’s evil eye, Donne felt able to talk more.

  “Hackett came to my aunt and uncle when he was about ten years old. A little younger than me. They were older when they adopted and wanted an older kid. He stayed with them for three years. Finally, they had to send him off to a private school. I wasn’t sure why. My uncle and aunt never spoke about it.”

  “Hackett had anger issues,” Marshall said. “It’s what got him kicked out of the force.”

  “Anger issues?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “He tried to blow up our office.”

  ***

  Bryan Hackett was sure they didn’t understand him. Not Franklin Carter, not his foster parents, and especially not Jason Marshall.

  He still sat in the darkened room, the glow of the digital clock the only light. The sun would be up soon and the end would be near. He’d talked to Jill only minutes ea
rlier, the tickets to the Caribbean purchased via her parents’ credit card. They’d leave tonight, the last flight out of Newark. They could relax.

  No one would understand why he’d lived his life the way he had. And he wasn’t about to explain himself to them. But here in the dark, sitting and waiting and watching time pass, he couldn’t help thinking about those times.

  People had always been against him. Trying to keep him from getting what was his, what was his family’s. After what had happened with his great-grandfather, his grandfather tried to make it work. And so did his father. He was fifteen and went out and got a job and met his mother and did what he could. And people still remembered, it was in the news all the time. And Hackett’s father couldn’t take it. The constant scrutiny. So he went back to Ireland.

  Eventually, Bryan Hackett was born to the poor Hacketts in Ireland. His entire time there was bullshit. The first ten years of his life in Irish schools learning nothing, watching his parents argue over him, over money, over whether or not they could survive. Eventually, they came to the decision to put him up for adoption. Fucking sell him off.

  Ten years old and he had no say. No say in the direction his life was going to take.

  His parents had some sort of connection in the States. In New Jersey. John Hackett called all the people he knew and looked for a family that was willing to buy a ten-year-old, legal or not. And he found them, George and Faye Tenant in Rutherford.

  They were nice enough people. They tried to be loving, George always talking about the importance of family. Inviting the cousins Jackson and Susan over all the time. But it all seemed like such fake Norman Rockwell crap to Hackett. If family was so important, why did his parents send him away?

  School wasn’t any better. The kids made fun of his accent. Every day, the way he said “arse” and “shite” and all that crap. It drove him nuts. He was in fights all the time, suspended, kept for detention. When he was home, he’d practice talking into a tape recorder, playing it back until he was sure his voice sounded like every other kid. Hard, tough, and Jersey.

  He remembered the day he walked into class and answered a question from his teacher. They were reading “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” and Mr. Hokenberg asked about what a mongoose was. Hackett raised his hand and said, “A tough motherfucking animal that’s gonna kick that snake’s ass.”

  The class ate it up, and it was the one detention he was proud of. He didn’t have problems in school after that. Not with classmates—they loved him.

  He grew up, went to college, and got recruited to be a state cop. He liked the idea, wearing a uniform, pulling speeders over on the Parkway, so he went to the academy and found he had a talent for bombs. Cool and collected under pressure, he loved to play with the wires, find the right way to defuse or detonate bombs. Loved studying all of it.

  And that business with headquarters, years later, that was all bull too. If his partner was worth anything, it wouldn’t have happened. Just a prank. An accident. But his partner was stupid and just let it blow up. Instead, he ended up working at Ploch’s farm carting fertilizer.

  And there was so much he could blame all this on. It was amazing how it all tied back to something he wasn’t even alive for. He’d done all the research, he knew the stories. He knew about Joe Tenant and his great-grandfather Willy. Willy—it seemed to Hackett—was a stupid man, one who had a temper and let it lead him. He didn’t plan ahead, and when things didn’t work out, he let his temper go and he’d do something rash.

  That wouldn’t happen with Bryan Hackett. Yeah, he had a temper too, but he also thought logically. He’d waited until the time was right to enact this plan. To take out Franklin and Susan Carter. And Jackson Donne.

  He was owed this. This plan had to work out. If life was based on karma, it was finally his fucking turn.

  Time to turn his life around.

  He wanted to know if Delshawn had created enough chaos to let his plan continue. All Delshawn had to do was distract Donne until Hackett was ready to take care of him. And now he was ready.

  Hackett got up from the seat and went to visit Franklin Carter. Carter was going to give Hackett Donne’s phone number.

  And then he and his adopted cousin were going to have a nice conversation.

  PART FOUR

  JACKSON DONNE

  1938

  Connor O’Neill wasn’t a man, as far as Joe Tenant was concerned. His wife was dead and he still wasn’t willing to go to the police. Tenant even gave the battered man Detective Lacey’s address. They could talk, he said, no pressure.

  But O’Neill would have none of it, lying on the floor crying. He wasn’t willing to give up his run for the Senate and his advisers were telling him to cover up his wife’s murder for as long as possible. They were deciding whether or not it could be used for sympathy in the upcoming election.

  Tenant left the house disgusted with the senator. It seemed he was like everyone else in office, unable to do what was right because sometimes what was right was hard. Tenant was not about to let that stop him.

  Now he sat in Sops’s car, a mile or two away from O’Neill’s home. They were pulled over to the side of the road, trying to figure out what to do next.

  “You beat up a senator?” Sops gripped the steering wheel like he was going to tear it off.

  Tenant said nothing.

  “I mean, you can’t just walk into Connor O’Neill’s house and beat the hell out of him, man. Have you lost your mind?

  I know you’re worried about your family, but come on. We’re going to catch a lot of shit. I want to help, but I can’t—”

  “Shut up,” Tenant said. “I need to think.”

  Sops closed his mouth and looked out the front window. Tenant tried to figure out what he was looking at. There wasn’t much. The road was barren, trees on each side, a few puddles and thick mud. Occasionally, another car rattled past them from the opposite direction.

  “We need to find Willy Hackett,” Tenant said finally. “I don’t know, Tug. I mean, there’s a lot of shit going down here. I can’t be involved.”

  “It’s too late,” Tenant said, his voice even. “You don’t think someone saw me getting into your car? They’re going to come for us. And if you get out now, you’re going to be an easy target.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our only chance is to find Willy Hackett and get him to talk about what’s going on”.

  “How does that make sense, Joe? They haven’t come after you or your family in weeks. They gave up after trying to kill Isabelle, because you stopped going after them.”

  “Lisa’s going to the papers. Sometimes doing the right thing also means doing the hard thing.”

  “Tug, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Let’s think about the people I’ve been dealing with here,” Tenant said. “People with money. There’s hardly any money out there right now, but the Carters and O’Neill have what money there is.”

  “So what? This is ridiculous.”

  Tenant wanted to tell Sops to shut up again. But he didn’t. He was onto something.

  “Who could this Willy Hackett guy be? Someone who needs money. Someone who’s latched himself on to O’Neill’s horse. Someone who has something to gain. Where does someone acquire a lot of money these days?”

  It was there in front of him, if only he could get to the part of his brain that was holding the information. Tenant closed his eyes, tried to will himself to relax. He couldn’t picture it, though. He couldn’t get the answer. All he could see was Connor O’Neill’s bloody face. Bloodied by his hands.

  “Buy land. It’s the only thing they’re not making any more of,” Sops said.

  Tenant opened his eyes.

  Sops was pointing out the car window toward the trees on the side of the road. A sign made of paper and wooden stilts was stuck into the dirt. It read: SOLD GIANT REAL ESTATE. Land development.

  “Something my father used to say,” Sops said. “Land was going
to be big.”

  “You think Willy Hackett’s getting a land deal from the senator?”

  Sops shrugged.

  Tenant smiled and put his hand on Sops’s shoulder.

  “I like the way you think. Stop the car. I’m going back to Connor.”

  “You’re going to walk?” Sops said, braking.

  “Yeah. You don’t need to be involved anymore. This is almost over.”

  “What will you do after that?”

  “I’ll find my own way home. And then I’m going to talk to Willy Hackett.”

  “But you need to take something with you if you’re going to follow this through.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not much, but you never know.”

  Sops reached across the car to the glove compartment and fished out a Swiss Army knife. He handed it to Tenant.

  “If you’re really going to go through with it, jam this in his throat.”

  Chapter 36

  Eleven hours

  “Something’s bothering you,” Jason Marshall said.

  Donne didn’t answer at first. The sun rose behind them as they drove along Route 3 back toward Montclair. The highway headed east was backed up, a distinct difference from a few days ago. Once the news confirmed that the explosion at Carter’s hadn’t been terrorism, tourists, employees, and everyone else flocked back to the city unafraid.

  “Donne?” Marshall asked.

  Of course something was bothering him. His mother was dying. He had two murdered relatives and one who’d been kidnapped. There was a massacre at his sister’s home. He’d shared all that with Marshall already, but the state cop had good instincts. He knew there was something else.

  And there was.

  “I never really knew Bryan Hackett,” Donne said. “He was a part of our extended family, but I never felt like he was really involved.”

  Marshall got off on Valley Road. “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “When he came over from Ireland, he was polite but withdrawn. He didn’t want to talk to us. He would only say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ at the dinner table. Hellos and good-byes and that sort of thing. But even when we were around, he’d disappear into his room and only come out to eat.