Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

I tried to take three distinct breaths and I tried not to think about any kind of future whatsoever. There was no future. I tried to recall just what in God’s name had gone wrong along the way. How could I not have seen this whole thing coming? How could I not have suspected Pelton as he arrogantly robbed me of my corrections officers when I was already so poorly understaffed? How could I have been so naive as to think I could have singlehandedly removed every drug, every still, every needle and flashpan in Green Haven? How could I not have known that important people were making money off the drug and contraband trade? I had always been aware that some of the COs were on the take. But I never had imagined Pelton on the take. And here I was standing at the tree line trying to get a breath, blaming myself for something that was beyond my control. I had only tried to do my job.

If I had to guess where I made my mistake, I would say that I hadn’t made a mistake at all. I would say that Pelton had made the mistake when he’d appointed me super of Green Haven Maximum Security Penitentiary.

But now I was making a mistake by not getting back into the rented Impala and doing what I’d intended to do in the first place. The sooner I could locate Vasquez, the sooner I could get to the bottom of what had happened out there on Lime Kiln Road. And the sooner I could catch Logan and Mastriano in their lies, the sooner I’d be out of this mess. Of course it all depended on finding Vasquez, and then it all depended on him talking without killing me first.

By now I was breathing more comfortably so I walked back to the car and got in. The second I pulled out, I noticed a blue sedan pull up behind me, not exactly on my tail, but about three car lengths behind. The sedan was obviously the kind of unmarked car an undercover cop would drive, but there was no way to be sure. I tried to get a good look inside, but the glare from the windshield made it impossible to see anything but shadows and darkness. I tried instead to get a look at the plates. But even from that distance, I could see that there was nothing official about them, nothing indicating local or state police. But then, that didn’t mean anything either. The driver could still be an officer of the law and if I had spent any more time on that embankment, he would have pulled me over. For now, I had to maintain those steady breaths and the speed limit and not give this cop (if he was a cop) any reason to believe that I was anyone other than some jerk who had happened to stop by the side of the road to relieve himself.

Whoever and whatever he was, persistence was one of his finer qualities. After a few miles, he decreased the distance between us and practically pulled up onto my fender.

I adjusted the rearview to get a better look at him. Now I could see that it wasn’t a cop driving the sedan at all, at least not a uniformed cop. It was the overcoat man. How he’d managed to follow me all the way out to the Hertz office and back without my noticing was anybody’s guess. I knew then that he had to be a professional, and I knew there would be no getting around him. Especially if he worked for the law. I also knew I couldn’t pull a gun on him any more than I could blow him away.

My God, I thought, as I punched the gas pedal of the Impala, just who the hell can I trust anymore?

No one, a little voice inside my head told me. Not a fucking soul.

THE OVERCOAT MAN TAILED me all the way to the Athens exit. But after I pulled off and paid my toll, he was suddenly nowhere to be found. Ten minutes later I reached the outer limits of town. Things had changed in the short time I’d spent away. Now Athens was lit up with dozens of red and blue flashers from the cop cruisers and EMS vans that blocked off the roads. All along Main Street I could see the reflections of the flashing lights in the picture windows and storefronts of the two- and three-story crackerboxes that lined the main drag.

Yellow barricades had been set up around the perimeter of the downtown. I could only drive in so far before I had to turn the Impala around and cut across one of the narrow side streets that would lead me to North Water Street and the Stevens House. But North Water Street was just as congested as Main Street with cops, fire trucks, onlookers, and on-the-spot satellite crews.

I parked the rented Impala in the middle of the road because I couldn’t go any farther without running someone or something over. I took a quick look at the river. The Hudson flowed thick and gray-black on an overcast afternoon. A barge floated in a southerly direction toward Manhattan, pushed along by a red-and-black tug.

I got out of the Impala and walked along the sidewalk toward the corner of North Water Street. I moved on past the old buildings, some of them covered in wood-slat siding, others covered in rust-colored asphalt shingles made more for roofs than facades. Along the river, the tug pushed the barge past the glowing yellow light from the lighthouse.

I pushed and shoved my way in toward the front door of the Stevens House. I saw her then, in the very second that I broke through the crowd-Chris Collins reporting live via satellite for Newscenter 13. The same cameraman I’d seen inside Mastriano’s room at Newburgh General now supported a shoulder-mounted video camera and aimed it in the direction of Collins’s face. The camera was the only reason she did not get a look at me right off. She stood only a few feet away from me, with her back to the Stevens House entrance. The glow from the camera-mounted spotlight made Collins’s wide black eyes light up like big black marbles. Her hair was parted just to the left of center and hung down stylishly, curling below the ears, barely touching her narrow shoulders. She wore a bright red suit with matching blazer and miniskirt. Intent eyes stared into the camera, away from me, directly at her viewers.

Collins held the aluminum-tipped microphone to her mouth. The black head touched her red lips. I stepped back into the crowd before she had a chance to spot me. At the same time, the cameraman lifted his right hand, palm up. Like opening a switchblade, he snapped his index finger into position. He brought his arm down fast, pointed directly at Collins. Her legs went rigid, high heels pressed together, left leg bobbing just a little at the knee. Then everything about her went absolutely tight, absolutely rigid.

On the air.

“A significant portion of the mystery is solved this Thursday afternoon,” she announced, a slight smile growing on her strong, confident face. “Eduard Vasquez, convicted cop-killer and recent Green Haven escapee, has finally been found, but not alive. The slain body of Vasquez was discovered only moments ago by a group of law enforcement officials who’d received a tip from an anonymous caller who, it is alleged, recognized a suspicious, as of yet unidentified man driving the streets of Athens in a red Toyota 4-Runner.”

A team of paramedics hauled a stretcher out the front door of the Stevens House. One man at the feet, another at the head, two on each side. Vasquez’s body was on the stretcher, a dark red blood stain on the white sheet where it covered the face. You could see the imprint of his nose, lips, and sunken eyes. Cops in uniform followed the stretcher out the door.

“Vasquez appears to have taken a bullet at close range,” Collins went on, “with a heavy caliber firearm, sources told me just moments ago. But for now, that’s all the vital information police officials will offer. However, when asked to confirm rumors about whether or not Jack ‘Keeper’ Marconi met the description of the ‘suspicious man driving the streets of Athens,’ Martin Schillinger-the detective in charge of the Vasquez apprehension operation -refused to comment. What he was able to tell us is that Marconi does indeed own a red Toyota 4-Runner that fits the anonymous man’s description.”