“Henry Sexton’s backup files and notebooks.” Brody smiles with triumph. “Another excellent return on my investment at the Examiner. Now, no matter what the paper might print, no one will be able to substantiate the stories. And the FBI will never see them.”
Behind me, Regan says, “The Examiner’s scanned copies of those files are being systematically erased as we speak.”
Caitlin’s face now has the blankness of a condemned prisoner. She looks like she could scarcely string two thoughts together; I can hardly credit that she made the crack about Royal’s bootlegging past only seconds ago.
Brody nods to Regan, who presses his pistol against my spine. Then Brody lays a hand on Caitlin’s shoulder. “We’re going to step through this door over here, darling. Last one on the right. Nothing to worry about.”
How have we come to this point? Death stands behind us, and death waits before. In this situation, many people simply allow themselves to be led forward, grasping whatever extra seconds of life they can, until they get the bullet in the neck, or the gas, or whatever end has been devised.
I will not die that way. Better to fight here and force them to kill us both than to endure some depraved game like the one Brody forced on the two women from his insurance company.
I’m tensing my legs to hurl myself back against Regan when Caitlin says softly: “All right—I’ll tell you.”
Brody stops in mid-stride and turns to her. “What?”
“The witness. I’ll give you his name.”
Royal glances back at Regan, who shrugs.
The firing range door opens, and the two guards walk quickly to the staircase at the opposite end of the room. After they’ve gone, Brody looks at Caitlin and says, “I’m listening.”
Caitlin looks so shamefully resigned that a terrifying notion comes to me. Has she known the real name all along? Has she forced us to endure this in an effort to protect Henry’s witness? The “friend” who held his silence for forty-one years? With a rush of clarity I understand how she could justify such a thing. If she believed we were going to die no matter what, better to die saving the one man who might someday send Royal to death row for his crimes. Only now that we truly stand at the threshold of the abyss, she can’t resist the hope that giving Royal what he wants might spare us terrible pain, if not our lives.
Brody leans toward her like a Hollywood vampire, his cold eyes burning into hers, searching for deception. “Don’t lie to me, child. You’ll burn if you lie.”
Her chin is quivering, and when she speaks, two wheezing syllables emerge, but I can’t make them out. Neither can Royal, because he leans still closer and says, “Once more, dear.”
As the last syllable leaves Brody’s lips, Caitlin catches his shoulder and spins him against her with feline quickness. The bright steel of Pithy’s razor flashes beneath his chin as she lays the blade against his throat.
Regan knocks me aside and tries to get close enough for a shot, but Brody throws up a hand to stop him. As would I. Gone from her eyes is the dull glaze of a moment ago. Now they glow with green fire, and she holds the straight razor against his pulsing throat with the sure hand of an executioner.
“Get back,” she warns, her voice like a second blade. Her eyes drill into Regan’s. “Give Penn your cell phone. If you don’t, I’m going to lay open his windpipe and sever his carotid.”
Regan looks to Brody for guidance.
“I’ll paint this fucking floor with his blood,” Caitlin promises.
When Royal starts to speak, Caitlin slices his neck above the jugular. A dark rivulet of blood rolls down to his shirt collar. “The phone, moron,” she says, tucking her head behind Royal’s for protection. “Do you recognize this blade, Brody? The handle says ‘A Lady’s Best Friend.’ Sound familiar?”
The old man looks almost hypnotized by her words.
“Nobody’s giving you a phone,” Brody rasps, his eyes regaining focus and confidence. “Randall, put your gun to the mayor’s head.”
Regan presses the barrel of his Glock against my right temple.
“Count to ten, then blow his brains out.”
Caitlin’s jaw is set tight with purpose, but I see doubt in her eyes. Even if Regan can’t see the same, I sense that she’s already lost the initiative. At least she tried—
“I’m counting to five,” Caitlin snaps, before Regan even starts counting. “Then it’s hog-killing time. ONE—”
“What do I do?” Regan cries, his Glock scraping against my temple.
For the first time I see fear in Brody’s eyes. He knows there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered animal.