Right here, right now, came the voice, in the terrible darkness of our world, sins like rats are crawling out of every gutter, creeping into our homes, burrowing under their foundations, the foundations of righteousness and virtue. A virus of sin is finding the weakest chambers of our sinful bodies, where it will fester, from whence it will spread. Im talking about diseases of the mind, the soul, the heart, the loins.
Laura Flynn laughed out loud.
The presenters voice cut through. Those were the words of Howard Coombes, who will be speaking at Monday nights service to honor the victims of the Aurora Theater shooting.
Oh, Lord, have mercy, we are both headed in the same direction, said Laura. It might just be hell. She laughed again.
I can laugh. At least, I can still laugh. Even at my seriously, is this really my life? moment, the how did it all come to this? Janey Mac!
Janey Mac was a polite alternative to Jesus Christ. It was years since her sister had told her about a guy called Janey Mac who used to drink in the dive bar where she had worked in Yonkers. Janey Mac got his nickname long before then. It was a three-story nickname. His last name was McMullen. Mac. He thought he was God. Jesus Christ. And he was a supplier of guns. Janies Got a Gun. The result was: Janey Mac. When he fled to Chicago to get away from a warrant, he became Janey Mach 3. Laura liked that. And as a story, it always raised a laugh.
Lauras sister had once mixed with the wrong kind of people. But sometimes the wrong kind of people ended up being exactly the kind of people you needed.
The car filled with flashing lights; headlights from behind. They flashed again. It wasnt a police car. She drove on. The lights flashed again.
Maybe I have a broken taillight. Maybe the trunk is open.
This was her first time driving the car, maybe she was missing something. She checked the panel in front of her; no warning lights. She pulled in. Her heart was pounding. The car behind pulled in too. Should I be nervous? She could see someone, a man in black, pulling a mask up over his face, running toward her. Oh my God. Her heart rate shot up. Then he was in her side mirror. Right there.
No, no, no. She began to scramble for the door handle. Her fingers were numb. Move. Move. Move. But he was there, he was opening the door. It was open. He was holding a gun. Laura stared up at him, willing herself to speak, willing herself to tell him no, dont do this, why are you doing this. Nothing came out. Speak! Scream! Shout! She managed to turn her body toward him. His eyes, vaguely familiar, stark in the rectangular cut-out from his black mask, flickered.
Confusion? Fear? Did it matter?
Laura closed her eyes, squeezed them shut. The blast deafened her. There was a second one. She felt a searing pain in her ear. She could smell earth, the grass, the night. She felt a breeze. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard footsteps. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Her ears still ringing, she could make out the sound of his car door open, then slam shut, the engine starting, the car skidding, turning, leaving her behind.
Her whole body started to convulse.
What was that? What the hell was that? How could he miss? He was right there. He must have more than two bullets.
Minutes passed. She sat with her hands clamped onto the steering wheel, her forehead pressed against it.
She thanked the same God she had once cursed for taking away her mother and her sister before their time. Her father was a different story, he had danced with death from the moment he brought a bottle of whiskey to his lips. He was no match for even the slowest of the Devils quick steps.
I am one of those people from those blighted families, my lifes journey a series of join-the-dots tragedies.
She put her foot on the gas.
But Im alive. Thank you, God. Thank you. This is not my time.
New York
Robert Princes vast TriBeCa office was lit only by the antique desk lamp on his custom four-thousand-dollar desk. There was one framed photo on top his wife, Ingrid. He sometimes Googled her, just for fun. He had been reading a gossip piece on them from two weekends previously, their rumored baby news!, and was now looking at a Tumblr page dedicated to her early modeling work, created by someone who was probably in junior high at the time. Robert wondered if it was easier for a man like that to idolize an image from the past; was the extra remove a small way of justifying why he couldnt have her? Not because a woman like that would always be untouchable to a man like him, but simply because she no longer existed in that form. This man had described her as a woman of exceptional beauty. Robert felt a small stab of envy that it was not he who had formulated this perfect description of his wife, that he had not presented it to her himself, maybe on a hand-written card on a tray at breakfast time. He loved her like no other woman. Not that there had been many. He had never been a ladies man. He respected them too much. He was Ingrids man.
His cell phone rang and the face of exceptional beauty flashed on the screen. He picked up. Hey, sweetheart.
Its me! said Ingrid at the same time.
Robert loved how she announced herself on the phone. Of course it was her. But she spoke every time as if it would be a surprise to him. Maybe it was something about her bouncy Nordic twang.
I just got a PDF of our magazine spread, she said. The official announcement. Oh my goodness, listen to this: The Baby Prince! How pregnancy suits me. They call you my besotted husband; I have tamed Robert Prince!
I am your besotted husband, said Robert. But can you tame a mouse?
Mouse! said Ingrid. Tiger.
Robert laughed. With you, Im a mouse.
Well, journalists see you in a different way... she said.
As they see you... said Robert.
There was a short silence.
The photos are great, said Ingrid.
Good, good, said Robert.
I have to warn you, though, theyve used that old shot of you with the Lotus
Well, you can get them to remove it I presume the purpose of the PDF was for pre-approval. Robert had a collection of eleven historic racing cars. The Lotus Series 2 Super Seven had been his favorite. And it had been totaled on New Years Day, through no fault of his.
Ill see what I can do, said Ingrid. But I love it. It just captures you so well. You look so happy.
Well, now I feel a little sadder, said Robert.
Its only a car, everyones alive, she said.
I know that, said Robert. I know. Speaking of precious lives, is Laura back?
No, said Ingrid, but I was expecting her about an hour ago.
You didnt go to the airport? said Robert.
Ingrid laughed. No, Robert. Youre very sweet, though. She was getting a cab. She insisted.
And you havent heard from her? said Robert. And shes late?
No, but Im sure shes fine.
I tried her phone; it was diverted to voicemail.
She was probably in the air, said Ingrid.
I worry, said Robert.
I know. But theres no need. Ingrid paused. I miss you.
No you miss New York.
What? said Ingrid. Thats not true. What are you talking about? Are you OK?
I am, said Robert. Of course I am. I love you, sweetheart. Sleep tight. Im going to finish up here shortly. Text me when Laura gets in.
OK sleep well, said Ingrid. Talk tomorrow. Love you.
Robert ended the call and stared out into the night. He looked down at the letter on his desk. It was dated August 1st, 1919, written by his great-grandfather, the source of much of his wealth, copper-mining star, Patrick Prince.
Dear Fr Dan,
I hope this finds you in good health. Thank you most sincerely for accepting Walter into your community for the coming months. Though now just sixteen years old, he is already showing signs of acuity and I have no doubt that, in business, his efforts will bear fruit. Please do not let that blind you. I want you to put him to work on the ranch, in the barns, and tending to those less fortunate. I want him to rise with the sun, and to brighten with it.
Please help me, Dan, please help my son. As you know, I made my fortune mining the depths, drawing forth from the earth to provide for my family and to allow others to provide for theirs. However, my keen sense of what lies hidden has failed me in matters personal. From the shadows, my reasoning would be that the reach of good men is often hindered. In contrast, I fear that harms reach has no bounds, and far worse invisible fingers.
All the best,
Family was important to Robert Prince. Life was important. He considered birth, death and after-life carefully. He slid open his drawer, took out his Bible and set it on top of the letter. He let his hands rest on the black leather cover, his fingertips on the debossed golden letters. All over the world, people were reading this same text and finding different messages.
Different messages.
Robert opened the Bible on a random page. He wanted to find the right words. Wasnt that all anyone wanted? To know... to feel... the right words.
2
Special Agent Ren Bryce leaned over the map that was spread out on a table in Wells Fargo in Conifer, Jefferson County. It was two thirty p.m., she was tired, her sleep had been haunted by the braless support-group lady with the insightful mind. She was haunted now by lunch smells tuna sandwiches and broccoli soup. There was also a hint of gasoline in the air.
I am on a losing streak, said Ren. Ive never felt less deserving of the title special... or agent. Today I have been an agent of zero. We could have our own true crime show The After-The-Fact Files.
Harsh, said Cliff. Were fifty miles from base camp... were not The Avengers.
Ren made a face. I like to think of us that way...
Well, I will always assemble wherever you are, said Cliff.
For twenty-five years, Cliff had been with the JeffCo Sheriffs Office, but, along with Ren and eight others, now worked for the multi-agency Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. Cliff had a gift for making witnesses and suspects believe he was one of them: weary, disgruntled, disappointed with life, put-upon by authority figures. He once told her that sometimes he felt they revealed their secrets to him because they believed he would bury the information out of solidarity. He managed to convince even the brightest felons that he operated under duress, and really, if he could just catch a break, hed be running free, happy and lawless. Cliff James warm, huggable, big-bear, chuckling, family-man Cliff, who cared about justice more than most could have missed a vocation as a Hollywood star.