Reckoning (An American Ghost Thriller Book 2) Page 15

  “You’d do that?”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep us together and happy. And as it stands, my husband isn’t too happy. I get that. So let’s think about how we can deal with it.”

  Mahoney put down his empty coffee mug and embraced his wife. “You’re too good for me.”

  “Enough. Get some fresh air. And get yourself moving. I’m convinced that’s part of your problem. You don’t exercise enough.”

  Mahoney knew she was right. He was wrapped up in his own little world, oblivious to what was going on around him. “Maybe you’re right.” He pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Be good. And relax. You’re home.”

  “I know.”

  It felt good to get out of the apartment, but his head was still swimming with thoughts and fears. He felt trapped. Claustrophobic. He headed down the street and up to the High Line, built thirty feet above street level on an old rail line. People lounged on wooden benches, some staring down onto the streets below. He could see New Jersey across the Hudson. He walked and walked along the green corridor, an oasis in what was a grimy part of town just a couple of decades earlier. Now it had been reborn.

  He felt the cold November air rouse him from the virtual stupor he’d been in over the last twenty-four hours. He wondered what he should do. Should he believe what Stone had said about not telling a soul? Should he trust Stone at all? The whole idea was so ridiculous it was laughable. Why the hell would he trust an assassin? A man who’d been hired to kill him.

  The more he thought about it, the more he began to feel the doubts and fears creeping back into his thoughts. His mind flashed to images of Stone staring back at him in the bar in Toronto. The fear that had begun to eat away at him then still hadn’t subsided. Stone wasn’t there, but yet he was. He’d burrowed his way into Mahoney’s head. He felt as if the fear was clouding his judgment. Maybe it was.

  He walked the length of the one-and-a-half-mile route. It felt good.

  Mahoney didn’t want to go back home yet. He needed to be by himself, let his thoughts clear. He got off the High Line and walked a few blocks to Billymark’s. It was a classic rough-around-the-edges dive bar not far from Penn Station. It was filled with postal workers, a few construction workers, and Chelsea locals as usual. A couple of young women were playing pool.

  He ordered a Miller High Life and sat on a stool.

  The bartender was wiping the surfaces. “Haven’t seen you around for a little while, Mark.”

  “Been out of town.”

  “Working on a story?”

  Mahoney took a gulp of his beer. “This and that, yeah.”

  The bartender’s name was Benny, and he was a good guy. Mahoney was usually more than happy to engage in conversation. As a journalist, that was what he did. He talked to people. Found out what was going on. But that afternoon, his thoughts were elsewhere.

  Benny seemed to sense that. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Mahoney often disappeared to Billymark’s for an hour or two when he was in town, usually on the weekend. He hadn’t been in for almost a year. But the familiarity of the old place, the pictures of the Beatles above the bar, the griminess, it felt strangely reassuring. The guys at the Times nowadays didn’t frequent bars the way they used to. As a young reporter, he’d enjoyed drinking with Jimmy Breslin. He was a tough, brilliant reporter and not afraid to drink hard.

  Mark had lost count of the number of times he’d listened as Breslin had talked about riots, about growing up in Queens, about all the underappreciated people in the city, the men and women who did the dirty jobs. The people like Benny who didn’t want to achieve or even strive to achieve. Even if they did, he was interested in those on the periphery of the city. Those not striving to be something or someone. They just worked to survive. To live. To keep their head above the water.

  Drinking in Billymark’s reminded him of his old life, before he headed up to Canada. He began to think how he’d scribbled notes sitting on the same barstool when he had first started out on the investigation. It was a phenomenal story. And he was finally close to understanding the machinations of those who’d ordered the killing of Senator Brad Crichton. He’d started writing his story for the Times a few months earlier. But now the story was growing arms and legs. And every day, every word he wrote, it became stranger and more frightening. Now the story was seeping into his family life. He was becoming the story, or at least part of the story. He wasn’t immersed in it anymore. He was being engulfed by it.

  That wasn’t a good thing.

  Mahoney nursed the cold bottle between his hands as he turned and watched the girls playing pool for a few moments. They were laughing and joking, knocking back shots. Maybe they were from a local college, maybe just passing through, it didn’t matter. In bars like the one he was sitting in, everyone had a story. About their life. And their loves. And their hopes and dreams and fears for the future.

  Mahoney drank his beer, thinking of heading home. He felt slightly detached. As if his life had come apart at the seams. He was used to structure. But now, in the last twenty-four hours, his ordered world had been shattered.

  A second chilled bottle of beer was placed in front of Mahoney.

  “What’s this?” he asked Benny.

  Benny pointed to some construction workers at the end of the bar. “They thought you looked a little down, thought you needed cheering up.”

  Mahoney forced a smile and lifted the bottle, toasting them. “Thank you.”

  The biggest of the construction guys picked up his beer and walked over to Mahoney. “You OK?”

  “Not having a good day. Lot of stuff going on.”

  “You wanna join us for a drink?”

  “Thanks, but I’m just going to enjoy this drink and get back to my wife.”

  The construction guy grinned. “Story of my life. Enjoy your beer, my friend.” He patted Mahoney on the back. “Don’t worry, man. Tomorrow, whole new day.” He went back to his buddies, leaving Mahoney alone with the beer. He nursed it for a few minutes, before downing the rest quickly. He felt a rush to his head, a strangely numbing effect.

  Mahoney handed Benny a fifty-dollar bill. “Get the guys and yourself a beer.”

  Benny shook his head. “Are you sure?”

  “Get them all a beer. I’ll see you around.”

  Mahoney walked out of the bar into the chilly late-afternoon air. He’d been gone for a couple hours. But he felt slightly better than when he left.

  He took the long walk back to his apartment. The familiar smells, vendor stalls . . . He walked some more of the High Line and then headed home.

  Mahoney opened his front door and saw his wife was smiling.

  “Have you been drinking?” she said.

  “Stopped off for a couple beers.”

  “Guess who’s here?” she said.

  Mahoney’s heart nearly stopped. He shrugged.

  “A friend of yours from Toronto was visiting a friend nearby and decided to drop by. Isn’t that nice?”

  Mahoney’s stomach tightened and he felt sick. A feeling of dread washed over him. “That’s great.” He followed her into the living room.

  Sitting on his sofa, drinking a cup of coffee, watching Fox News, was Nathan Stone. “Mark, I hope this is OK. I thought I’d drop by when I finished my assignment.”

  Mahoney felt as if he were losing his mind. His sanctuary from the bustling streets of Manhattan. And now a trained assassin was sitting in his living room, as if he were an old friend. “Hi . . . This is a surprise.”

  “I’m not intruding, am I?” Stone said. He was a brilliant actor. Terrifying. His eyes were sparkling. “You said to drop by when I finished my work.”

  Mahoney nodded. “That’s right.” He turned to his wife. “This is great. Can I have a couple of minutes alone with my friend?”

  “Sure, honey. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m good
.”

  “Can I get you or your friend a sandwich?”

  “We’re good, thanks,” Mahoney said.

  His wife smiled and shook her head. “How about Chinese tonight?”

  “Sounds good.”

  She looked at Stone. “Would you like some too?”

  “Sure, count me in.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Nathan followed Mahoney into his study and closed the door behind them. He sat down on the sofa and looked around. “What’s on your mind, Mark?”

  Mahoney pulled up his seat beside Nathan. He leaned close and whispered, “What the fuck are you doing? Are you planning to kill us here? Is that it?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Mark. You need to lighten up.”

  Mahoney pushed his face up close to Nathan’s. “You leave my family alone.”

  “Your family isn’t in danger from me, I can assure you.”

  “Do not dare fuck with them.”

  “I have no intention of doing so.”

  “Those are the rules. Kill me. Discredit me. Do what you want with me. But do not lay one finger on my family.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Your word? Are you kidding me?”

  “I’ve given you my word. And I am a man of my word. Trust me.”

  “Except I don’t trust you, do I?”

  “Trust me, and you’ll live. But if you don’t trust me and start overthinking this, you’ll be dead meat.”

  “I want you out of here. Now.”

  “I’ll be on my way. But first, I need to eat. I’m starving.”

  They ate their Chinese food at the huge table in their dining room, much to Mahoney’s discomfort. His wife and the kids seemed impervious. Nathan loved the noodles, crab Rangoon, fried beef, and fried rice, gorgeous food he hadn’t eaten in he couldn’t remember how long.

  Nathan forked the beef and rice and shook his head. “This is wonderful.” He turned to face the kids, who were smiling. “When I was your age, trust me, I didn’t get food like this.”

  “Are you from Toronto, Mr. Stone?” Mrs. Mahoney asked.

  Nathan smiled and looked around the table. The children, who were both eating Cantonese seafood soup, and Mahoney’s wife, were smiling. By sharp contrast, the face of the New York Times journalist Nathan had been assigned to kill was waxy, his eyes hooded. “Where do you think I’m from?”

  One of the kids said, “Boston!”

  Nathan shook his head. “A bit closer than that.”

  Mahoney’s wife shrugged. “I can’t quite place your accent. There’s a slight twang to it. You know, like a Southern drawl.”

  “I get that a lot. I’ve lived down in Florida for a while, but no, I’m from New York City. You believe that?”

  The kids both shouted, “Yeah!”

  Mahoney’s wife said, “Were you brought up here, Mr. Stone?”

  “Call me Nathan. Born and bred. Lower East Side, Bowery. A different place than it is today.”

  “What exactly do you do, Nathan? I don’t think I remember Mark mentioning you.”

  Nathan looked across at Mahoney, who shifted in his seat. “Mark, do you want to explain, or shall I?”

  Mahoney cleared his throat. “Nathan does research and things like that for us.”

  “And you’re back in New York to visit family?” his wife asked.

  “Yeah, family, old friends, and I remembered that Mark gave me his address if I was ever in New York, so it was very fortunate that you all were home.”

  Mahoney stabbed some noodles. “Nathan, what are your plans while you’re in town?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping to see a show, maybe meet up with some old friends later. You want to join us?”

  Mahoney was chewing his food and turned to his wife. “Honey, you mind if I spend a couple of hours with Nathan?”

  His wife rolled her eyes and smiled. “You just got home, and I feel like I’ve barely seen you.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. I just feel like hanging out for a little while.”

  “You guys,” his wife said. “It’s almost like you never grew up.”

  Mahoney looked at Nathan. “Is it OK if I tag along?”

  “The more the merrier,” Nathan said.

  After their takeout and some small talk, Mahoney got his jacket, pecked his wife and kids on the cheek, and headed out with Nathan. They didn’t speak until they got to the Westside Tavern.

  Mahoney ordered two large beers and they sat down in the back corner.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Mahoney asked.

  Nathan took a large gulp of the beer, which tasted good. He leaned in close, voice a whisper. “Listen, you fuck, I could’ve wiped you out twenty-four hours ago. And you’re still whining.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m supposed to be grateful for you turning up at my home? Where my family lives?”

  “I’m trying to save you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re only alive because of me. Without me you’d be dead.”

  Mahoney drank some beer, his eyes downcast.

  “So get down from your high horse.”

  Mahoney’s forehead was beading with sweat. “Do not visit my home or be in touch with my family again. Am I clear?”

  “Fine. Whatever. I have to say you’ve got a really nice family. Very sweet.”

  “Shut the fuck up about my family.”

  “Do you know how lucky you are?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Nathan drank some more beer. “Do you know where I’ve been?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “You’re a journalist and you’re not interested in what I did? Even when it concerns the Commission?”

  Mahoney’s gaze wandered around the bar for a few moments before he made eye contact with Nathan.

  “I want you to know that my action in not killing you has almost certainly signed my death warrant. Today I took out Clayton Wilson.”

  Mahoney rubbed his hands over his face. “Stop, I don’t want to hear that.”

  “I want you to know these things.”

  “So I’m now an accessory after the fact, as well as probably about to be assassinated? Well, that’s just great. Thanks for that. And who’s going to kill me now? You still penciled in for that?”

  “That’s enough. I’ve signed my own death warrant. I get that. And I’ll deal with that. You? The people who asked me to kill you were Clayton Wilson and his gang. That’s one down. Four to go.”

  “Oh, Jesus H. Christ, you have gotta be kidding me.”

  “Do I look like the sort of fuck who jokes? I want you to know that your only chance of making it through this is to hope and pray I can kill the rest of them before they kill us.”

  Mahoney’s hand was shaking as he lifted his beer. His gaze was darting around the room as if he was struggling to take it all in.

  “Take your time. Remember to breathe.”

  “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  Nathan grinned.

  “Well, you know what? It isn’t funny.”

  Nathan watched a couple guys enter the bar, sizing them up. Young, white, unshaven, slightly scruffy. Maybe college kids from NYU.

  “I can’t live like this. I just can’t. I feel like I’m having a breakdown.”

  “Do you want some advice?”

  “Advice? From an assassin? Gee, I’m not sure.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Mark.”

  Mahoney closed his eyes for a moment. “Advice. Yeah, sure. What?”

  “Listen very closely. I’m going to disappear for a day or two.”

  “Disappear? Disappear to where?”

  “I’m going to take care of business.”

  Mahoney turned away. “I don’t want to know.”

  “You need to know. Look, if you haven’t already figured it out, I’m not going to kill you. I’m trying to help you.”

  Mahoney just stared at him. “Why?”

  “I
don’t think you deserve to die. Besides, my sister is safe now.”

  “How?”

  “Clayton Wilson made it happen before I killed him.”

  Mahoney shook his head. “Shit.”

  “You need to move out of your apartment for a while.”

  “While you take care of business?”

  Nathan nodded. “I’d like you to take your family and go somewhere. A quiet place. A place where people don’t know you. A place not owned by you or in your name.”

  “My in-laws have a place.”

  “Where?”

  “An old colonial in the Hamptons near the beach.”

  “The Hamptons is good. Go there. Tell your wife and kids you need a break by the ocean.”

  “For how long?”

  “Take a week. Maybe two. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back.”

  “What exactly are you going to do? I mean . . . what the hell is going on?”

  “Like I said, I’m taking care of business.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I don’t kill the rest of the Commission, they’ll have you neutralized sooner rather than later. Me too.” Nathan pulled out Wilson’s cell phone from his jacket. “This belonged to the chair of the Commission.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I checked, and it’s got all the numbers of the other four. But I think there will be a lot of information on this phone. Perhaps incriminating evidence. Evidence you might be able to use if you play your cards right.”

  Mahoney stared at it as if transfixed at the prospect of what it contained.

  “Do not go to the cops, the Feds, or tell a soul about what happened. If you do, then all bets will be off and I will come back for you, and this time I won’t be trying to help. I never picked you as my target. They did. But if you cross me, be under no illusion, I will fucking delete you from the earth, so help me God.”

  Thirty-Nine

  It was dark and Berenger was sitting alone in his Toronto apartment, watching TV, when his cell phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “You don’t know me but I know all about you.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “I’m a friend of Clayton Wilson. My name is Richard Stanton.”