Andrew Klavan - The Identity Man

Shannon nodded at her. She went unsteadily to the stairs.

"Mommy!" the boy called after her.

"I'll be right there, sweetie," she mumbled. "Stay with Grandpa."

She went up the stairs quickly.

Shannon heard the bangers' cars start up outside. He heard them roar off into the night. He moved away from the old man and the boy. He yanked the punk gangster to the door and kicked it shut. Now it was quieter inside and they could all hear the cartoon music filtering in from the back room.

"You know what I'm thinking," Shannon said in Super-Pred's ear.

"Come on, daddy," said the boy.

"I'm thinking of killing you. It'd be good."

The punk trembled in his grip. "Come on, man."

"Come on?"

"Yeah, daddy. What the hell, you know?"

"Yeah, well… maybe this wasn't your idea."

"It wasn't. I swear."

"I know it wasn't. Fact, I know whose idea it was."

"So you know. So don't kill me, man. What the hell, right? It's like I had no choice."

Shannon shoved the gun in his chin even harder. He spoke in his ear through gritted teeth. "You had a choice."

"Don't… don't…"

"I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you say the name. If it's the right name, I might let you live. If you lie to me, you'll be dead a second later."

Super-Pred couldn't think that fast. He tried to weigh the dangers. He stalled for time. "She your girl, is that it?"

"Shut up. Mention her again, I'll blow your balls off. Tell me the name."

"Ramsey," said Super-Pred. He could hear his own death in every word Shannon spoke. He could feel his feet hanging over the pit of death. "The cop. The lieutenant. The Brick they call him. He big. It's like he say it, you gotta do it, man. You gotta."

"He told you to come here, do this."

"Yeah, man, swear."

"He say why?"

"Just said do 'em, daddy, didn't give no reason."

The stair creaked and Shannon glanced over to see Teresa coming down. She had pulled on a pair of jeans and a gray army sweat-shirt. Her cheek was swollen and bloody. Shannon wanted to hold Super-Pred up in front of her so she could watch while he pulled the trigger.

Teresa went to her father and her son. The old man had gotten hold of a chair arm. He had pulled himself to his feet. Now he was bent over, helping the boy up, too. "Come on, son, come on." The boy rose slowly, clutching his stomach.

Teresa reached them. She put her arms around the boy and murmured to him.

Shannon turned his attention back to Super-Pred, breathing hard. "If I let you live," he said, "can you get a message to Ramsey?"

"Yeah, daddy, yeah. Sure, I can get a message to him easy. Tell him anything you want."

"Tell him we can deal. Him and me. You understand? Tell him I have what he wants and we can deal for it. I get my payoff, I leave town, he'll never see me again."

"Yeah. Yeah. I can tell him that, sure," said Super-Pred.

Shannon glanced over at Teresa. She was standing with the boy clutched against her. Her father leaned on her shoulder for support, wiping blood from his face with his hand.

Shannon gestured with his head toward the dining room. "Take them into the kitchen and wait for me," he told her.

Teresa shepherded the boy to the door. The old man went with them, his hand on her shoulder.

Shannon waited until they left the room. Then he said to Super-Pred, "You tell him what I said. Tell Ramsey I'll be in touch and we can deal."

"Okay, okay, I'll…"

Before Super-Pred could finish, Shannon drew back his arm and stabbed the butt of the pistol into the punk's temple. The kid collapsed in his grip, unconscious. Shannon let his collar go and dropped him to the floor.

That was that. Shannon stood, looking around the place, breathing hard. The smell of gasoline was nauseating. The comical cartoon music tinkled and banged in the next room-pathetic. The punk lay still at his feet for only a second. Then he began to stir and groan. Shannon sneered down at him. The image of Teresa struggling on the dining room table flashed in his mind. He had stopped himself from thinking about it before, but now it came to him. He forced himself to stop thinking again. He needed Super-Pred alive to deliver his message.

He stepped through the door into the dining room. The other thug lay dead on the floor in there. He lay on his back beside the dining table, his arms splayed, his mouth open, his eyes staring. That made Shannon feel a little better. He was glad he'd gotten to kill one of them at least.

He crossed the room quickly. He went to where the angel altarpiece lay smashed near the kitchen door. Without breaking stride, he stepped over the wreckage and went through to join Teresa and her family.

He brought them around to the front of the house, leading the way, holding the gun out before him with one hand and keeping the other on Teresa's arm. He led them to her car, a gray Ford, in the driveway. He stood guard as the three of them got inside. He opened the door-and just as he was about to lower himself behind the wheel, he heard a ragged scream from inside the house. It was a scream of unholy rage and frustration. It barely sounded human-barely even sounded animal to Shannon, but more like something subnatural, like some sound effect from a horror movie. As Shannon paused to listen, it came again, and then there came a string of terrible and Tourettic curses howled at full volume. There was a crash, another crash, the sound of glass shattering. Shannon saw Super-Pred stumble past the window as the gangster hurled a chair across the room in his fury. A light must have broken, because the front room flashed and went dark. Then, a moment later, there was another sound-a deep and airy utterance under the boy's raving-and a new, weirdly lightless light raced up over the walls, swift, giddy, and explosive, as if it were the living expression of the gangster's malice. He had torched the gasoline and set the house on fire.

Shannon got in the car and started the engine. As he backed out of the driveway, the blaze seemed to leap up around the white shingled house on both sides like two enormous red hands rising from the earth to grab hold of the place and drag it down.

At the same time, Super-Pred staggered out into the night, a small black figure against the great, red, rising flames. He had a gun in his hand and was firing wildly at the darkness as he went on screaming curses.

Shannon saw all this in the rearview mirror for another second or two. Then he guided the car around the corner, and there was nothing of it visible behind him but the orange glow against the blue-black sky, and that was quickly fading.

It was only one more of over fifty fires burning just then across the night city. SHANNON DROVE ON through the dark streets. The old man sat beside him. Teresa sat in back, cradling her son in her arms.

"You all right?" Shannon asked the old man.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. Where're we going?"

"How about you back there?"

"We're okay," said Teresa.

"Where're we going?" Applebee said again.

"I know a place," said Shannon. "Just hold on."

Then he drove in silence. He darted glances here and there, watching the street for danger. He caught the eyes of gangsters who looked up to check him out as he passed. He caught the eyes of whores and hustlers looking to deal. The scenes back in the house kept flashing in his mind. The bangers holding Teresa on the table. He was furious and ashamed, and he wished he had killed them all. It wasn't his fault this happened, he told himself. It was this guy Ramsey's fault-and Foster's fault, too, the seedy federal bastard who'd set him up. But it didn't matter what he told himself. He felt as if it was his fault anyway. He felt he had come to Teresa and her family and brought this down on them. It didn't matter how it happened. He felt as if it was all because of him.