One to Go (39 page)

Through Eva's intercession, he'd also been offered a full-time position at PDS. Much lower pay, much lower prestige. Now he was meeting Eva to discuss his options.

Tom waved for the waitress, then turned his attention back to the front of the restaurant, expecting Eva. Instead, Castro's bulky form filled the doorway.

He approached Tom and sat, not waiting for an invite. Tom shivered, and instinctively leaned back.

“How's it going?” asked Castro.

“Fine.”

“Janie?”

“Fine.”

“Eva?”

“Fine.”

Castro smiled. Then turned to the TV. Tom followed his lead. The image of the cathedral had been supplanted by footage showing Masterson, in handcuffs, being led into the second district police station by two uniformed officers. Tom noticed the red ribbon cutting across the upper left-hand corner of the screen screaming the words:
DC Sex Murder Political Scandal!
Sex, murder, politics, and scandal. The cable Nirvana.

Bat Masterson got his stripe.

“How's the case going?” asked Tom.

“He's fighting it. Admits to the affair, says Zigler was an overzealous subordinate who committed the murder in an attempt to please the boss. Says he had no knowledge of it.”

“Will it fly?”

“We linked the silencer to Masterson. Guthrie's singing like a bird. Pillow talk. Apparently, Bat confided in her what happened after the fact. That, combined with your and Eva's testimony, will sink him.”

Tom nodded, but couldn't help feeling his conversation was
beyond surreal. He was sitting here talking to a cop who'd made an arrest that would clear Tom of a serious crime. No problem, except for the teeny-weeny fact that the cop was some kind of frigging avenging angel.

“Uh, the name the Chad thing called you? Afriel? Googled it. Afriel's the name of the angel of light whose mission is to safeguard young life.”

Castro didn't respond.

Tom thought, in for a dime, in for a dollar. “So, is that you?”

No response.

“In fact, you can get a fiber-stone replica of the angel, Afriel, for your backyard pond for only $99.95. The picture doesn't exactly look like you. Young, cherubic, and a lot thinner.”

The last comment elicited a small smile.

“I suppose the reference to a dead wife, that was all bullshit.”

Castro didn't respond, but there was something in his eyes that suggested there might've been some distant truth to the story. Did angels lie?

“Do you wonder, Tom, why I erased the memories of Janie, Eva, and Matthew, but not yours?”

Tom didn't know how to answer, so he remained silent.

“You were directly or indirectly involved in the deaths of four people. Your revelation to Rosie that you knew of her lesbian relationship led to her death and, with your active assistance, the death of her husband. You goaded Reece Mackey to poison himself with alcohol. True, you killed his brother, Willis, in self-defense, but you'd set up Creek for the fall, and that Willis was the first to walk through your cell door was merely a matter of bad timing.”

Tom couldn't help himself. “And what was I to do? Let my daughter die? Allow her innocent soul to burn in hell for all eternity just so the Mackey boys could continue their lowlife criminal enterprises? You're telling me that's what your boss wanted?”

“Gino wasn't a lowlife.”

Tom's voice softened. “I know. Look, if I'd thought taking my own life would've—”

“Your memory wasn't erased because you need to know—not just suspect, not just think there may be a possibility, but truly
know
—there will be consequences for your actions, both good and bad. Probably not in this life, but thereafter.”

Tom gulped, his throat too dry to respond.

“But the good news is, you're young and have the time, if you so choose, to atone.”

“How? What do you want me to do?”

“Do good.”

“Like what?”

He got up from the table without responding.

“One question,” Tom said. “Can I ask one question?”

“You can ask.”

“Emma Wong, Gino, Rosie. Have they been rescued from—?”

Castro smiled. Was that a slight nod? He turned toward the door just as Eva entered. He exchanged a brief greeting, then exited the restaurant.

She approached quickly, gave Tom a fast kiss, and sat down. “What did Castro want?”

“Just letting me know Bat's going to fight the charges, and we'd probably need to be witnesses.”

“Poor Jess.”

“Yeah. Also, can't help but feel bad for Zig. I believed him when he said he didn't intend to shoot her. Blind ambition got him killed.”

“It's Washington.” She picked up the menu.

The waitress appeared.

“I'll have an iced tea,” said Eva.

Tom held Eva's gaze. “Make that two.” Her smile of approval was empowering. “I've decided.”

Eva studied the menu. “Good, what are you having?”

“No, I've decided on the job.”

She put down the menu. “And?”

The decision had been very easy. He believed for commerce to function, lawyers were a necessary evil, and some of the finest,
most ethical men and women he'd ever met had been corporate attorneys. Yet, he also knew he'd never been happier than when he'd been working with young kids. And young kids needed an advocate.

“One request. I'd like to be assigned to the juvenile division. Maybe if we can get these kids when they're young—”

“Request granted.”

“And, uh, those contacts, you know, from your brother's drinking situation?”

She squeezed his hand. “Second request granted.”

Tom couldn't stop grinning, and he couldn't take his eyes off her. She looked beautiful—her eyes, her face—a glow seemed to radiate from the air around her.
Like an angel
. He smiled at the thought.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

The waitress came with the tea. As she walked away, he said, “Probably should ask, what's PDS' policy on sleeping with the boss?”

Now it was her turn to grin. “We encourage it.”

Four thousand miles east, the
macchinista
engineer drove the train toward the tunnel as he'd done for what seemed like a thousand times before. The run from Monterosso to Vernazza along the rugged Italian coast was just the first leg for tourists connecting to the five Cinque Terre villages that sprouted like multicolored flowers from the rocky cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. One car was filled with children, including his own son, on the morning run from the villages to school in La Spezia, a large city at the end of the line.

The engineer entered the short tunnel; when he emerged, he would only have to make one switch to the western track, and then five more minutes into Vernazza. His phone vibrated, he pulled it from his pocket, and checked the screen. He'd quarreled
with his wife when he'd left for work, and he saw the message was from her. The train emerged from the tunnel. His eyes on the phone, he reached up to the control panel above his head and turned the knob as he'd done many times before.

Suddenly, he heard a horn blaring. He looked up to see the northbound train on the same track heading right for him.
Dio mio! He'd flipped the wrong switch!
He slammed on the brakes—
too late
. The sound of screams and colliding steel crescendoed in his brain—then blackness.

The engineer awoke nearly upside down. He glanced out the window to see two of the train cars, including the one carrying the school children, hanging precariously over the cliff, 300 feet above the roiling sea below. He crawled out of his seat and stumbled back to the first passenger car. It still remained upright, though off the tracks.

He moved as fast as he could past the rows of seats on his way to the children's car. He shouted to the passengers, “Quick, you must get off the train!” He paused. Something was wrong. None of them moved. Not because they were unconscious or dead; they appeared frozen in time. He checked outside the window. The whole world had stopped.
Was he dead? What about Mario? Dio mio. He had to get to him before the car tipped over the cliff
—

He heard a noise and turned.

A young tourist couple, cameras swinging from straps around their necks, walked down the aisle toward him.

They smiled and waved.

First, I'd like to thank my amazing agent, John Rudolph, and the folks at Dystel & Goderich.
Cheers
, John.

Using the word “family” to describe a business organization is greatly overused, but in the case of Oceanview Publishing, it's true. Many thanks to Bob and Pat Gussin, Frank Troncale, and the rest of the team for their wonderful support, and for welcoming me into the family.

Thanks also to Adam Rodriguez for his insightful early editing.

Given the story of
One to Go
, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the thousands of people across the United States who work in our criminal justice system. Prosecutors, public defenders, judges, bailiffs, court reporters, marshals, sheriffs, clerks, prison guards, and secretaries, just to name a few. Virtually none of the cases they handle make Court TV. And while a casual observer might conclude the daily processing of criminal charges through the system more resembles a heartless assembly line than the administration of justice, nothing could be further from the truth. All participants play their parts, toiling day in and day out to ensure that both the rights of the accused and the rights of the community are well-protected. While far from perfect, their tireless efforts continue to ensure that the American justice system remains the best in the history of the world.

M. P.              
West River, Maryland
2014