Envy

CHAPTER 37

As Veck hung up his cell phone, he stared at the screen and found it hard to believe that conversation with Reilly had just happened.

“What.”

He glanced over at Heron. The guy, angel—who the fuck cared—was behind the wheel of the truck they were all in, and his friend, comrade in wings—Christ, how could this be real?—was in the backseat of the dual cab, taking up more than half the space.

The three of them were heading for the Northern Correctional Institution in Somers, Connecticut.

“Nothing,” Veck said smoothly.

“Bullshit,” came from the rear.

First word the other man had spoken. Which meant that and the fact that he was apparently breathing were the only clues he was alive.

Jim shifted his stare over. “There are no coincidences. When we get this close to the end, everything matters.”

“It was . . .” My girl? Ex-girl? Internal Affairs officr? “Reilly.”

“What did she say?”

“She doesn’t want to see me. Ever again.”

The words were spoken factually, in a calm, deep voice—so at least his cock and balls were still with him. In the center of his chest, however, there was a big black hole of agony, as if he were a cartoon that had had a cannonball shot through him.

“Why? She give a reason?”

“Mind if I borrow a cigarette?” When Jim extended the pack, Veck took two, thinking that now was a perfect time to toss that I-quit thing right out the window.

“And the reason is?”

“Because I either smoke something right now or punch out the glass next to me.”

“Good call on the Marlboro,” came from the back. “We’re going seventy and it’s fucking cold outside.”

Veck took the lighter that was offered, flicked the Bic, and cracked the window. As he inhaled, he thought it was a damn shame there were so many carcinogens in the bastards, because sure as shit, this made him feel a little better.

Wasn’t going to last, though.

Unlike the pain behind his ribs. He had a feeling that was going to hang around for a loooooong time. Like a perpetual heart attack.

Except, man, he should have known this was coming. The woman went into Internal Affairs because she liked things that were done right, done well. Banging him? So not on that list. Falling in love with him? Don’t be f-in’ ridiculous.

“Reason?” Jim barked.

“Conflict of interest.”

“But why now? She had to know what was doing the whole time.”

“I don’t know. Don’t care, either.”

The good news was that they couldn’t fire him from his job just because she had woken up and smelled the crappies, so to speak. They were two consenting adults, and yeah, it looked bad, but she was doing the right thing and it was game over.

Inevitably, he was going to be called in for questions of the human resources variety, and he was going to be a stand-up guy and say it was all his idea. Which it had been: He’d been the pursuer, as well as the fathead with the I-love-yous.

Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was . . .

Not much else was said during the rest of the trip, which was fine with him. The images in his head of Reilly and him together made him not trust his voice—and not because it was going to go sad-sack cracking on him. He was liable to bite anyone’s head off at the moment.

When they got to within a mile of the prison, Jim pulled over in the town just before the institution and they traded places.

Now behind the wheel, Veck threw the truck in drive and assumed the role of what he was: a cop. “So no one is going to see you?”

Although it wasn’t as if he didn’t think the guy could go invisible. Heron had dogged him for days with nothing more than a whisper of instinct to tip that shit off.

“That’s right.”

“Just as long as—” Veck stopped talking as he looked over at the suddenly empty seat next to him. Quick check in the rearview mirror and the back was also completely filled by absolutely no big, tough guy.

“You SOBs ever think about robbing banks,” he said dryly.

“Don’t need the cash,” Jim said from the ether beside him.

“Don’t need the hassle,” came from the back.

Veck rubbed his face, thinking it would probably be better to feel like he’d gone crazy as he carried on conversations with thin air. Trouble was, he’d been dueling and dealing with this alternate reality all his life. The idea that it was an actuality and not a function of madness was nuts, but also made him feel sane.

Although . . . this was assuming he wasn’t Beautiful Mind-ing it entirely.

Then again, it was homicidal impulses and not schizophrenia that ran in his family, so he likely hadn’t lost his marbles, after all.

What. A. Relief.

Before leaving Caldwell, Veck had called ahead to the prison—not the number his father had provided, but the general line—and identified himself. It was not even close to visiting hours, but courtesies were extended in light of his professional occupation—as well as the fact that his father was going to be in a grave in about forty-eight hours. There was also undoubtedly the curiosity factor, something which Veck had no delusions about: in no time, this deathbed visit was going to show up everywhere . . . on the Internet, the television, the radio.

It was probably going to hit the Net before he even left to go back to New York State.

And what do you know.

As he zeroed in on the drive that ran up to the penitentiary’s walls, there was a small army gathered on both sides of the surrounding field.

His father’s fans.

There were at least a hundred of them, even though it was eight at night, dark as the inside of a hat, and chilly. They were prepared, however, with flashlights and candles and placards protesting the execution—and the moment they saw his vehicle, they rushed forward to the very edges of the asphalt, shouting, roaring, the din pressing into the truck even though they didn’t get close.

Clearly they’d had training on civil disobedience, in spite of their Sex Pistols style of dress and the rabid way they carried on: No one blocked or touched his vehicle, and he slowed down only to get a look at them.

Big mistake.

One of the men leaned in to Veck’s window, and obviously recognized him: As the guy hollered and pointed, the god-awful rapture that came over his features made Veck want to put down the glass between them and smack some sense into the sonofabitch.

But what a waste of knuckles that would be. Fidiot had the anarchy symbol scratched into his forehead. Try reasoning with that.

“It’s him! It’s him!”

The crowd tightened up and rushed at the truck.

“What is wrong with these people,” Veck muttered as he gunned it, prepared to turn them into hood ornaments if he had to.

“This is what she does,” Jim said out of the thin air.

“Who’s ‘she’?”

“Exactly what we’re going to try to get out of you.”

No time to follow up on t size. He turned in to the lane that law enforcement used and stopped at the gatehouse. Looking up at the guard, he put the window down and flashed his badge and creds. “DelVecchio, Thomas—Jr.”

In the background, the crowd was chanting his name—or his father’s. Both of theirs, actually, and how frickin’ efficient.

The guard’s eyes dropped to the ID, and came back to Veck’s face. There was a measure of distrust in that stare, but he’d no doubt been holding the hard line against the loonies for the last week.

Still, the guy hit the gate switch and the iron bars rolled back. “Stop as soon as you are clear. I’m going to have to search your vehicle, Detective.”

“No problem.” And good call not to do it on the outside. God only knew how long that crowd would stay put.

Veck followed protocol, idling into the compound and putting the brakes on the moment his rear bumper was on the far side of this first barrier. When he got out, he took Heron’s pack of Marlboros with him and put them to good use, lighting up while the gates reclosed and the officer crawled around with a flashlight.

As he smoked, he knew the angels were not far. He could sense them hovering, and he was glad they had his back—especially as he stared through the bars at the crowd of crazies. The energy in those nutjobs was the kind of thing that made him grateful for what separated the bunch of them.

“You’re free to proceed, Detective,” the officer said, his attitude dialed down. “Go up to your first left and park by the door for security purposes. A guard is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No smoking indoors. So you may want to take your time.”

“Good tip.”

Back in the truck. Pausing at the second gate. And then they were in the facility proper.

Maximum-security prisons were nothing like they were in the movies. No age-washed stone walls with gargoyles eyeballing your ass. No steeped-in-history, Al Capone–laid-his-head- here. No guided tours.

This was the very modern business of keeping people like his father isolated and out of the gen pop. This was about bright xenon lights at night, and video cameras, and computerized monitoring. There were still guards with guns, and enough barbed wire to run a circle around the whole city of Caldwell, but procedure was executed with pass cards and computers and automated cell doors.

He’d been in a number of these places, but never this one: As soon as his father had been sentenced, a letter had been hand-delivered to the frat house Veck was living in at college as a senior. He should never have opened the damn envelope, but he’d never suspected his father could get someone to sneak the note out of jail. Retrospect? How fucking naive.

Then again, at least it had told him where not to go.

So yeah, there was a good goddamn reason Veck didn’t work in Connecticut, and had gone into the police force instead of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No out-of-state for him, thank you very much.

And yet here he was.

As promised, the moment he got out of the truck, a reinforced door opened wide and a guard met him and led him into the sparkling clean, well-lit environs. As an officer of the law, normally, he would have been allowed to keep his badge and cell phone and weapon, provided he didn’t go into the cell blocks, but he wasn’t here in an official capacity, and that meant everything got checked in.

While he was turning his phone over, he saw that the thing had a couple of messages. Clearly, the trip down had taken them into some no-service areas, because he hadn’t heard it ring, but he wasn’t going to stop and listen now. Whatever it was would be waiting for him when he got out of here. Besides, he had a feeling what they were about. He was no doubt going to get assigned another IA person—oh, joy. And Bails was probably checking in on him. The guy did that, especially if he’d texted and Veck didn’t reply.

After he’d signed in and given all his stuff to the guard, he was taken down a series of halls with not much more than footfalls between him and the prison officer. But what the hell were they going to talk about?

Here to say good-bye to your dad? Oh, cool . . .

Yeah, first time I’ve seen him in years, last time in this life . . .

Have fun with it, then.

Thanks, man.

Yup. Big hurry to have that one.

About a hundred yards through the prison’s maze later, Veck was shown into a visiting area that was the size of a small cafeteria, and made up like one as well, with long tables that had seats on both sides. The thing was lit like a jeweler’s display case, with great panels of fluorescents screwed into the ceiling, and the floor was a speckled brown, the kind of thing that hid dirt well, but was kept buffed and shined anyway. There were no windows, no plants, and only one mural of what appeared to be the Connecticut statehouse.

Although the bank of four vending machines did add a little color.

“He’s being brought over now,” the guard said. “We’ve put you both in the contact visiting area as a courtesy, but I’m going to have to ask you to keep seated with both hands on the table at all times, Detective.”

“No problem. You care where I park it?”

“Nope. And good luck.”

The guy backed up and stood against the door they’d come through, crossing his arms and focusing on the bare wall across the way like he had a lot of experience with the pose.

Veck sat at the table in front of him and linked his hands together on the smooth surface.

Closing his eyes, he felt the presence of the two angels. They were to the left and the right of him, standing much as the guard did, still and watchful—

The door at the far end of the room opened without a sound . . . and then there was shuffling.

His father came through the jamb with a smile on his handsome face, and shackles on his wrists and ankles. In spite of the fact that he was in a baggy orange jumpsuit, he was elegant, with his dark gray hair brushed back off his forehead and his ambassador attitude out like a royal flag.

But Veck didn’t give a shit about those kinds of appearances ; he looked to the floor. His father threw a shadow, all right, a single shadow that pooled around his feet like black ink. The fact that it was darker than any other on the linoleum seemed logical in the new paradigm.

“Hello, son.”

The voice was as deep and grave as Veck’s own, and as he lifted his eyes to his father’s, it was like looking in the mirror—twenty or thirty years from now.

“No greeting for me?” the elder DelVecchio said as he came forward with tight little steps, the guard who brought him in riding his ass so close he might as well have had another jumpsuit on his back.

“I’m here, aren’t I.”

“You know, it’s a shame we have to be chaperoned.” His father sat down across from him and put his hands on the table . . . in the precise position Veck’s were. “But we can keep our voices low.” The planes and angles of that face eased into an expression of warmth—that Veck didn’t buy for a second. “I’m touched that you’re here.”

“Don’t be.”

“Well, I am, son.” The saddened shake of the head was so appropriate Veck wanted to roll his eyes. “God, look at you . . . you’re so much older. And tired. Work been tough? I’ve heard you’re in law enforcement.”

“Yeah.”

“In Caldwell.”

“Yeah.”

His father eased forward. “I’m allowed to read the newspapers and I’ve heard you have a little fiend at work up there. But you caught him, didn’t you. In the woods.” Gone was the benevolent-father lie. In its place? An intensity in the man’s expression that made Veck want to stand up and walk out. “Didn’t you. Son.”

If eyes were the windows of the soul, then Veck found himself staring into an abyss . . . and in the same way that leaning over a ledge and looking down created a vertigo-induced increase in gravity, he felt a pull.

“What a hero you are, son. I’m so proud of you.”

The words warped in Veck’s ears, his senses getting muddled, so it was as if he both heard them and felt them as a brush over his skin.

You should have killed him when you had the chance, though.

Veck frowned as he realized his father had spoken without moving his lips.

Shaking his head, Veck broke the connection. “This is bullshit.”

“Because I complimented you? I meant it. As God is my witness.”

“God has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, no?” His father quickly reached into his jumpsuit and pulled out a cross before the guards could get a hard-on about the hands rules. “I can assure you He does. I’m very much a religious man.”

“Because it looks better for you, no doubt.”

“I have nothing to prove to anybody.” Now those eyes glinted. “I let my actions speak for me—have you been to your mother’s grave lately?”

“Don’t you dare go there.”

His father laughed a little and lifted his hands, showing off the steel cuffs. “Of course, I can’t. I’m not allowed out—this is a prison, not the Four Seasons. And even though I’ve been falsely accused, falsely tried, and falsely sentenced to death, I’m held just as everyone else is.”

“There is nothing false about where you’re at.”

“You actually think I murdered all those women.”

“Let’s be more accurate—I think you butchered all those women. And others.”

More with the head shaking. “Son, I don’t know where you get your ideas. For example . . .” His father’s stare lifted to the ceiling, as if he were faced with a complex math equation. “Did you read about the death of Suzie Bussman?”

“I’m not one of your fans. So no, I don’t keep up with your work.”

“She was not the first girl they accused me of, but the first one they thought I killed. She was found in a drainage ditch. Her throat had been cut, her wrists had been slashed, and her stomach had been inscribed with all of these symbols.”

As his father fell silent, he leveled his chin and stared at Veck.

Sissy Barten. Found in a cave. Her throat cut, her wrists slashed, her stomach inscribed with ritual symbols.

“Now, son, as you know, serial killers have patterns they like to follow. It’s like a style of clothing or an area of the country to live in or a professional pursuit. It’s where you feel most comfortable expressing yourself . . . it’s the sweet spot in the center of the racket and the perfectly cooked piece of tenderloin and the room that is decorated to your taste and no one else’s. It is home, son—where you belong.”

“So you’re saying that all those other women couldn’t have been your work—in spite of the evidence at the scenes—because your first one didn’t match the pattern?”

“Oh, I didn’t kill anyone.”

“So how do you know about the sweet spot.”

“I’m a good little reader, and I like pathology.”

“I’ll bet.”

His father leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know how you feel, how apart you are, how desperate it can be to be lost. But I was shown the way and was all the better for it, and the same is going to be true for you. You can be saved—you will be saved. Just look inside of yourself and follow that inner core that we both know you have.”

“So I can grow up and be a serial killer just like my father? No fucking thank you.”

His father backed off and offered his palms to the ceiling. “Oh, not that, never that . . . I’m talking about religion. Naturally.”

Yeah. Right.

Veck glanced around at the security cameras in the corners of the room. His father had cleverly not implicated himself in anything, even though the subtext was Las Vegas–obvious.

“Find your God, son. . . .” Those eyes grew luminous once again. “Embrace who you are. That impulse you have is going to take you where you need to go. Trust me. I’ve been saved.”

As he spoke, the voice morphed into a dark symphony in Veck’s ears, as if his father’s words were being set to epic movie music.

Veck slanted forward, bringing them so close together he could see every one of the flecks of black in his father’s deep blue irises. In a whisper, he said with a smile, “I’m pretty sure you’re going to hell.”

“And I’m taking you with me, son. You can’t fight what you are, and you’re going to be put in a position you can’t win.” His father tilted his face, like someone would a gun when they had it right up to your forehead. “You and I are the same.”

“You sure about that? I’m walking out of here, and you’ve got a date with a needle on Wednesday. No ‘same’ there.”

The pair of them stared at each other for a while, until his father was the one who ended up backing off.

“Oh, son, I think you’ll find me alive and well come the end of the week.” Lot of satisfaction in that tone. “You’ll read about it in the papers.”

“How the hell are you going to manage that.”

“I have friends in low places, as it were.”

“That I believe.”

The charming, slightly haughty smile returned, and his father’s voice eased back into gracious territory. “In spite of how . . . acrimonious . . . this is, I’m glad to see you.”

“Me, too. You’re less impressive than I remember.”

The twitch in the left eye told him he’d hit a mark. “Would you do something for me?”

“Probably not.”

“Go see your mother’s grave for me and bring her a red rose. I loved that woman to death, I really did.”

Veck’s hands curled into fists.

“Tell you what.” Veck smiled. “I’ll put my cigarette out on your headstone. How about that, Father.”

The elder DelVecchio eased back, his expression going cold. Clearly, the meet-and-greet was not rolling the way he’d expected.

“This wasn’t just about you, by the way,” his father announced.

As Veck frowned, the man focused on the blank space behind Veck’s shoulder. “She wants you to know that she suffered. Horribly.”

Jesus . . . exactly what Kroner had said . . .

Veck caught himself before he looked up and over at Jim, but the angel’s response was clear: A cold draft boiled up and drifted over Veck’s head, crossing the table and causing the skin on the back of his father’s hands to go goose bumps.

His father smiled into the thin air where Jim was standing. “You don’t honestly think you’re going to win this, do you? Because you can’t take her out of him—an exorcism isn’t going to work because he was born with it—it’s not in him, but of him.”

His father glanced back over at Veck. “And didn’t you think I’d know you brought friends? Silly, silly boy.”

Veck stood up. “We’re done.”

Yup, it was definitely time to go: Given the arctic-blast thing going on, Jim Heron, the angel, was about to raise hell on his dad. Fun to watch, but aftermath-wise? File that under not-here-not-now.

“No hug,” his father drawled.

Veck didn’t bother replying to that one. He was through wasting his breath and his time on the sonofabitch. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he’d come—just to trade potshots? There was no crossroads he could see here . . . Then again, maybe the point had been that message to Heron?

As Veck turned and walked over to the guard, the other guy opened the door quickly, like he didn’t want to be in the enclosed space a moment longer, either.

“Thomas,” his father called out. “I’ll see you in the mirror, son. Every day.”

The closing door cut offe="3"rds.

“You okay?” the guard asked.

“Just fine. Thanks.”

Following the other man, Veck headed in the direction they’d come from. “When’s the execution scheduled for?”

“First thing in the morning, Wednesday. If you petition the warden, I think you can get a seat.”

“Good to know.”

As he strode along, Veck could feel his father’s presence with him, as if the battery that kept that evil lamp inside of him on had been plugged into its charger and regained a strength it hadn’t had for years.

In the center of his chest, that dark anger flared to life . . . and spread.

“You sure you’re okay, Detective?”

Veck wasn’t certain which part of him was answering as he replied, “Never felt better in my life.”