“But you never came to see me.”
Søren didn’t say anything. Kingsley hated him for that silence.
“You weren’t planning on seeing me ever again, were you?” Kingsley asked.
“I thought about seeing you again,” Søren said. “I wasn’t sure if I should. For the obvious reasons.”
“Your little girl got herself in trouble, and that’s what it took to bring you back to me? How can I hate her?”
Søren nodded. It looked as if he had something else to say. Whatever it was, he decided against saying it.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Søren said. “I’ve been up all night, and it looks like you have, too. We’ll talk more after we’ve both had some sleep.”
“Good.” Kingsley was so relieved to hear he’d see Søren tomorrow, he was almost ashamed of himself. He could have cried from relief. “I have a car. It can take you home.”
“It’s fine. I have a way back.”
“Please, don’t tell me you’re taking public transportation. I can handle the vow of celibacy better than that.”
Søren laughed—a joyful new morning laugh. Joyful? He hadn’t expected joy. Søren was happy in his new life? That was good. Kingsley wanted him happy. At least one of them was happy. Better than nothing.
“I promise, no public transportation.”
Kingsley followed Søren out on to the sidewalk. From the two-foot gap between his town house and the house next to him, Søren wheeled out a black motorcycle—a Ducati.
Kingsley whistled.
“If this is standard-issue transportation for Jesuits, no wonder you joined.”
“It’s a bribe, actually,” Søren said, pulling on a leather jacket and zipping it up. He slipped his white collar out of his shirt and pocketed it. Just like that, Søren ceased looking like a priest and became himself again in Kingsley’s eyes.
“Priests take bribes?”
“We have a long history of it. Ever heard of indulgences?”
“My entire life is an indulgence.”
“I’m starting to see that,” Søren said, looking the town house up and down. “But this bribe was my father’s doing. He assumed—wrongly—that I’d drop out of seminary so I could keep it. Jesuits hold all property in common. If I accepted the bike and stayed in seminary, I’d have to give it up to the order. They often sell large expensive gifts and use the money for more important things—like food and books.”
“What happened?”
“I told my superior at the province. He told me to take the bike, become a priest and let my father go to hell. That’s the sort of spiritual counsel I can live with.”
“Your father must hate you.”
“Almost as much as I hate him.”
Søren started the engine. Before he could drive off, Kingsley stepped in front of the bike.
“Don’t forget the favor. Don’t leave me again,” Kingsley said.
“Again? You seem to be forgetting something,” Søren said.
“What?”
Søren looked him deep in the eyes. And in those gray depths Kingsley caught a glimpse of something. Fury—old, cold, but still burning.
“Eleven years ago, I didn’t leave you,” Søren said. “You left me first.”
And with that, Søren put on his helmet, revved up his bike and rode off into the street.
Funny. Kingsley had forgotten that.
He had left Søren first.
6
THE THINGS KINGSLEY DID FOR LOVE. Kingsley took a breath, walked up the steps into the Eastside Rif le and Pistol Range. He was on time, but Robert Dixon was already there. Dixon caught Kingsley’s eye, nodded at him, then raised his pistol and shot six bullets into the target. Kingsley stood safely behind him and watched. Dixon could shoot. Kingsley had to give him that. Six bullets, six hits. He’d peppered an erratic circle around the target’s heart.
Dixon, aged forty and looking every day of it, took off his earmuffs.
“Your turn,” Dixon said to Kingsley. “Impress me, and I’ll hear you out.”
With another sigh, Kingsley put on his earmuffs and safety glasses, aimed his 9mm and shot six rounds into a fresh target. Two in the head between the eyes, two in the heart and two in the groin just to make Dixon think twice.
Kingsley pulled off the earmuffs, turned around and faced Dixon.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Dixon asked.
“French Foreign Legion.”
“I thought all the French military knew how to do was surrender.”
“You’d be curtsying to the Queen of England if it wasn’t for the French.”
“What do you want? A thank-you note?”
“Just a favor. We’ll call it even between France and America then.”
Dixon looked him up and down. “Let’s go talk. Keep your hands off your gun.”
“Your idea to meet at a shooting range,” Kingsley reminded him.
“I shoot better than anyone I know.”
“Not anymore.”
“I’m pretending I don’t know you,” Dixon said. Kingsley didn’t blame him for that.
They left the shooting lanes and found a quiet corner near the lockers. Dixon pulled on his jacket, stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited.
“I need your help,” Kingsley said.
“You’re fucking my wife, and you come to ask for a favor. I almost admire that.”
“I wouldn’t have to fuck your wife if you weren’t too busy fucking your wife’s sister.”
Dixon’s eyes widened. Kingsley smiled.
“Go on,” Dixon said. “What do you need my help with?”
“A girl was arrested in Manhattan last night. She’s being charged today with five counts of grand theft auto.”
“A girl?”
“She’s f ifteen.”
“We better throw in a charge for driving without a license then.”
“You’re funny,” Kingsley said, and mentally put two bullets in Dixon’s head. “I need the charges dropped.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“How much to make it happen?”
“I can’t get the charges dropped. That’s a big fucking red f lag, and I’m not prepared to wave it.”
“Can you get them reduced? I want to keep her out of doing any time.”
“Who is this girl?”
“Friend of a friend,” Kingsley said.
“You have friends who are friends with fifteen-year-old girls?”
“I have interesting friends.”
“I didn’t know you had any friends, Edge,” Dixon said with a wide grin. Kingsley put two more bullets in him—center of his chest this time. “Or do fuck buddies count as friends these days?”
“Are you going to help her or not?” Kingsley asked.
“I’ll consider it. What’s her name?”
“Eleanor Schreiber. She lives in Wakefield, Connecticut.”
“Schreiber? Yeah, they’re looking for the father right now. They want her to roll on him and anyone else she can.”
“She’ll roll on him.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I put my job on the line helping a fifteen-year-old girl get out of going to juvie for multiple counts of car theft, I want to know the story.”
“Fine. Short story. An old friend of mine is a Catholic priest now. Her priest. He asked me to help her. I owe him a big favor. This is the favor.”
“You’re friends with a priest?”
“Trust me, no one is more shocked by that than I am.”
“Is he fucking her? The priest?”
“What?” Kingsley asked. Did Dixon already know something about Søren?
“It’s all over the papers,” Dixon said. “Every damn day there’s a new story about a Catholic priest fucking some kid. Boston’s exploding. Phillie, Detroit, Chicago… I get caught helping a priest with the underage girl he’s fucking and—”
“He’s not fuck
ing her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m fucking her,” Kingsley said, coming up with the quickest cover he could think of.
“You’re fucking her?”
“I went to visit his church. I saw her. I fucked her. I thought she was eighteen.”
“You thought she was eighteen,” Dixon repeated.
“Oops.” Kingsley shrugged.
“Now this is making more sense to me. I can’t see you doing a favor for a friend out of the goodness of your heart. I can see you fucking a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Guilty as charged.” Kingsley raised his hands in mock surrender. “She’s looking at hard time. Can we get her community service?”
“You want her out of juvie so you can keep fucking her?”
“Not easy to fuck through iron bars. Possible, but not one of my kinks.”
Dixon went quiet. Kingsley waited. He couldn’t stand being around this man another thirty seconds. Dixon did favors all the time for the mafia and still went to church with his wife and kids every fucking Sunday.
“It’s not my case, but I can make something happen,” Dixon finally said. “There’s a judge who’s soft on teenage girls. Gives them community service in most of his cases, even violent ones. If I grease the wheels of justice, we can make it one of those cases.”
“How much grease?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“Done,” Kingsley said, not even bothering to negotiate. He didn’t negotiate where Søren was concerned.
“That was easy,” Dixon said. “You must really like this little girl.”
“Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point,” Kingsley said.
“What was that?”
“I said, yes, I really like this girl. Call it destiny.”
“Let’s hope my wife doesn’t find out about you and your little destiny. She likes you.”
“Let’s hope your wife doesn’t find out about a lot things,” Kingsley said with a smile. “I’ll send someone to your house later. Or maybe I’ll just drop it off next time I’m there.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“My mother was a saint,” Kingsley said. “I’m the only bitch in the family.”
He patted Dixon on the shoulder and walked past him. As soon as he was out of the front door, he stopped, leaned back against a brick wall and closed his eyes. He breathed for ten whole seconds as the tension left his body. These pissing contests never got easier. Dixon was stupid and powerful, and it was a terrifying combination in an enemy. Why did he even have enemies anymore? Wasn’t he supposed to be retired? Isn’t that why he’d left France, left the job, taken the money and run?
Then again, he was only twenty-eight. Who retired at twenty-eight? And if he wasn’t making trouble for someone, then what was the point of getting out of bed in the morning?
Kingsley rubbed his forehead, felt the weariness in his bones. He needed a better reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
Kingsley walked four blocks and found a pay phone.
“It’s me,” Kingsley said when Søren answered. He spoke in French. No need for names.
“What’s the verdict?” Søren asked.
“She’ll get community service. Good enough?”
He heard a pause on the other end, and Kingsley lived and died in that pause. Just like old times.
“Thank you,” Søren said. “That is more than I’d dared to hope for.”
“Let me ask you something. If I hadn’t been able to help your little girl, what would you have done? What was Plan B?”
“I think she and my mother would get along quite well.”
Kingsley shook his head and laughed to himself. “I’m glad I could save you from the necessity of kidnapping a minor and transporting her across international borders.”
“Kidnapping is such a strong word. I prefer the term rescuing.”
“You really love her.”
“You will, too.”
“What’s so special about this girl you’re willing to commit felonies on her behalf?”
“Truth?”
“Truth,” Kingsley said.
“She reminds me of you.”
“That’s why you love her?” Kingsley asked, hoping the answer was “yes” but knowing it wasn’t.
“That’s why I’m trying to help her.”
Kingsley heard the pointed note in Søren’s words.
“I don’t need help,” Kingsley said.
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes,” Kingsley said, and hung up the phone.
As he walked away, he had a f leeting thought.
What was the penance for lying to a priest?
7
April “HIT ME,” KINGSLEY SAID AS HE TAPPED THE TABLE. “I’m not going to hit you,” Søren said.
“You have to do what I say. And I say hit me.” Søren glared at him. Kingsley glared back.
“You have an ace and an eight,” Søren said.
“Which means I have nine or nineteen. I’m calling it nine.
Hit me.”
“You want another card because you want to say ‘hit me’
to me as many times as possible tonight.”
“I’m not disagreeing with that.” Kingsley tapped the table
again. “Hit me.”