Brian Mcgrory - Dead Line

That was Jankle, only adding to the confusion of a complex situation, at least as far as I was concerned, though maybe not in Toby’s mind. Let’s review how many nuggets of interest were contained in that two-sentence declaration. We go back way too far, and Let’s figure out what we’re going to do about this. Well, okay, just two, but pretty significant ones.

Maybe it’s just me, but that doesn’t strike me as the normal way in which a federal agent would address the nation’s number one most wanted fugitive in a standoff where there’s a relatively innocent life on the line, meaning mine. How far back do they go, and why? Why would he work together to “figure out what we’re going to do about this?” One more question: What the flying fuck was going on here?

Of course, other questions nagged as well, such as, would a bullet from Toby’s semiautomatic handgun kill me immediately, or would I writhe on the ground first like a freshly caught fish on a cutting table? Is Jankle a good shot, or might he take me out by mistake while trying to shoot at Toby? Can I call my mommy, or would these two disapprove?

Toby replied, “Put the gun down and let me slip away into the woods and you’ll get credit for tracking me down before I somehow got out alive.”

There was silence between them, silence as if Jankle was considering this exact scenario, which made absolutely no sense to me, but seemed to have some plausibility for the two of them.

Jankle said, “And what do we do with him?”

He nodded at me as he said it. I took on the feeling of an unnecessary appendage, or like someone’s inbred, untrained terrier, an incessant nuisance, really stupid, something beyond dispensable.

“You don’t let him out alive.”

I cleared my throat, though it was my head that was the truly clogged part of my body. You don’t let him out alive. I was suddenly part of a deal, a bargaining chip, a negotiating point, that which was tossed back and forth in the ruminations of an awkward moment. Decisions could be made that were right or wrong, and regrets might come to haunt them later, but never me, for I’d be dead.

Jankle stared back at Harkins. At least, I think he was staring, but in the light, in my current frame of mind, these things were tough to tell. He said, “Shoot him right now and I’ll let you go.”

Harkins tightened his grip on the gun and pushed it harder against my temple. I could actually feel the tension in his hand, the tiny movement of the cold barrel against my skin. There was a long second, a gruesome second, when there was virtually no doubt in my brain that Toby Harkins was about to pull the trigger. I wondered if heaven had a grassy field where I could throw a tennis ball for Baker.

I felt the need to say something. My head, my life, my responsibility. There was no one else in this crowd who was ready to speak up for me.

“Toby,” I said, starting slowly, “the second you pull that trigger, Jankle’s going to shoot you dead right here. And it’s going to look like self-defense, because you would already have killed me.”

That seemed to register some, at least in terms of the tension in his hand. This was like one of those ridiculous dials that focus group members turn during presidential debates to express agreement or disagreement with a candidate. Say the right thing, Toby loosens his grip ever so slightly. Say the exact right thing and maybe he lowers the gun. Say the wrong thing and I’m dead.

I stood there, sweating even more, wondering about Jankle’s play, about their past, about my future, about whether I’d see the light of another glorious day.

Toby called across to Jankle, “Answer that. How do I know?”

“What are your other options?”

Jankle added, “Kill him or I’ll kill you both right now. He’s a worthless hostage. I’d rather see him dead.”

I kind of cleared my throat again, but had no idea what, if anything, I could or would say. If Jankle was trying to help me, he was certainly pursuing a perverted means. For his part, Toby neither tightened nor loosened his grip, though I could all but hear his mind whirring as he tried to calculate the conclusion of every possible scenario. Believe me, I was doing the same thing, but I wasn’t the one with any decision-making capacity at the moment.

Harkins said to Jankle, “You told me I’d be free for the rest of my life. That was your guarantee. I have that first meeting, that time we got together on the seawall, I have it on tape.”

“So do I,” Jankle fired back. “And I never told you that, at least not in the context of you reaching out to the fucking press.” He sounded angrier here, Jankle did, and he said, “What the fuck were you thinking, you little piece of slime.”

“Fuck you,” Toby yelled back, and I could feel the tension in his hand, in his whole arm, all over again.

This is not what anyone needed, this heavy dose of anger added to an already overwrought situation. Normally I’d be utterly fascinated by this dialogue, and truth be known, I was. But the big problem still remained that I couldn’t conjure a single scenario that ended with me walking away alive.

“I made you,” Toby said to Jankle. His voice was beyond strained, pocked by fright and frustration. I actually thought it was about to crack, and maybe him with it, which probably wouldn’t be all that good for me.

He continued, “I made you rich. I gave you more information than you could ever use. I made you a star agent. I gave you money and status and anything else that you ever wanted and needed, and you’re telling me that you’re going to kill me now?”

Jankle stood statuesque in the quiet dark. I could hear crickets chirping and leaves rustling and the sound of Harkins breathing, but nothing else.

Jankle, after a long moment, said, “Toby. I gave you freedom. I protected you. I flipped state cops and held back Boston PD detectives who were gunning for you. I let you run the city, unfettered. And when the indictments came down, I warned you to get out of town.”

At this point, both these clowns could have shot me in the head and I’m not sure I would have flinched or felt it. I was so caught up in the unfolding drama that I was losing touch with the reality of my impending death, drawn closer by every statement, every sentence, every word that was uttered in the dark. The two of them were acting like I was dead already, which was not, best that I could tell, a particularly good sign.

Still, the revelations were extraordinary. Basically, what they were saying was that Toby Harkins was a fully protected federal informant who ran a murderous crime syndicate with the full authorization of the federal government. The Feds also convinced the likes of Boston PD — meaning Hank Sweeney and probably others — to stand down on any arrest or investigation. In return, the FBI got what sounded like a boatload of information about other organized crime figures in Boston, and Jankle had achieved extraordinary celebrity by putting them behind bars. Being a reporter, I wanted to ask questions, most notably, which one of you gentleman killed Hilary Kane? But I sensed this wasn’t the exact right time to do it.

“So I’d say we’re even,” Jankle said, his voice marinated in contempt. “Wouldn’t you?”

Silence. Jankle said in a louder, more taunting voice, “So tell me, Toby, why’d you want to meet with a reporter?”

“I wanted to unload the paintings.”

Shouting now, Jankle said, “You wanted to confess that you were a federal informant, you dumb fuck. You were looking to rat on me in hopes of cutting some sort of deal.”

“Not true.” Harkins was outright panicked. His eyes were wide, his voice was shaky, and so was the hand that held the gun that remained pressed against my head. “You wanted me dead. You were trying to kill me.”