her?”
“Uh…”
“Who killed the cop? Was that Linus, too?”
“Linus…”
“Is that a yes? Did Linus do it?”
He didn’t answer. I was losing him. I lightly patted his cheeks and then shook him by the collar.
“Come on, man, stay with me. Was that a yes? Fazio, did Linus Simonson kill the cop?”
Nothing. He was gone. Then a voice came from behind me.
“I think that would be a yes.”
I turned. It was Simonson. He had found the trapdoor and come down out of the house behind me. He was holding a sawed-off shotgun. I slowly stood up, leaving my gun on the ground next to Fazio’s body and raising my hands. I backed away from Simonson, stepping further down the hill.
“Cops on the payroll are always a pain in the ass,” he said. “I had to put an end to that pronto.”
I took another step backwards, but for every step I took, Simonson did likewise. The shotgun was only three feet away. I knew I’d be unable to escape its kill range if I tried to make a move. All I could do was play for time. Somebody in the neighborhood had to have heard the shots and made a call.
Simonson aimed the weapon at my heart.
“I’m going to enjoy this. This one’s for Cozy.”
“Cozy?” I asked, though I had already put it together. “Who the hell is Cozy?”
“You hit him that day. With your bullets. And he didn’t make it.”
“What happened to him?”
“What do you think happened? He died in the back of the van.”
“You buried him? Where?”
“Not me. I was sort of busy that day, remember? They buried him. Cozy liked boats. They gave him a burial at sea, you could say.”
I took another step back. Simonson followed. I was walking out from beneath the deck. If the cops ever showed up they could put a bead on him from above.
“What about the FBI agent? What happened to Marty Gessler?”
“See that’s the thing. When Dorsey told me about her and what the plan was, that was when I knew he had to go. I mean, he was -”
The shotgun suddenly pointed skyward as the foot Simonson had put his weight down on went out from under him. He took a classic pratfall, landing on his back. I was on him then like a wild man. We rolled and fought for control of the shotgun. He was younger and stronger and quickly was able to hold the top position. But he was an inexperienced fighter. His focus was on controlling the struggle rather than on simply overpowering his opponent.
I had my left hand wrapped around the snubbed barrel while the other was gripped at the trigger guard. I managed to squeeze my thumb into the guard behind his finger. I closed my eyes and an image came to me. Angella Benton’s hands. The image from memory and dreams. I channeled all my strength into my left arm and pushed. The angle of the gun shifted. I closed my eyes and depressed the trigger with my thumb. The loudest sound I have ever heard in my life roared through my head as the shotgun discharged. My face felt like it had caught on fire. I opened my eyes and looked up at Simonson and saw that he no longer had a face.
He rolled off of me and an inhuman sound gurgled from the pulp that had been his face. His legs kicked like he was riding an invisible bicycle. He rolled back and forth as his hands balled into fists as tight as stones, and then he stopped and went still.
Slowly, I sat up, registering what had happened. I touched my own face and found it intact. I was burned from the discharge gases but otherwise I was okay. My ears were ringing and for once I couldn’t hear the ever present sound of the freeway below.
I saw a glint in the brush and reached for the object. It was a water bottle. It was full, unopened. I realized that Simonson had slipped on the water bottle I had knocked off the deck a few days before. And it had saved my life. I twisted the cap off the bottle and poured water over my face, washing away the blood and the sting of the burn.
“Don’t move!”
I looked up from my position and saw a man leaning over the deck railing, pointing another gun at me. The moon reflected off the badge on his uniform. The cops had finally arrived. I dropped the bottle