Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

Connie was bent over, holding his side. “You are going to die for this.” He raised the blood-soaked Glock toward Alves.

A second shot.

This time Connie dropped the gun and stumbled backward, falling onto the hard turf.

Nearly thirty yards away, Sergeant Ray Figgs stepped out of the shadows and moved toward Connie, his gun pointed at Connie. Alves could see that Connie was barely breathing. A pool of blood was glistening in the moonlight. Figgs kicked the Glock away from Connie’s reach.

“How did you find us?” Alves shouted at Figgs.

“I’ve been watching him,” Figgs said. “I never bought that thing with Stutter Simpson and the.40. And ADA Conrad Darget is the only one who could have planted that gun.”

“Well, you could have got out here sooner.”

“I lost you when you came in close to the stands. I had to move slowly. I never had a very good angle. But I had no choice when he put the gun to your head. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Alves could feel his head spinning. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was how close he had come to dying. Maybe it was the knowledge of what Connie had done.

Figgs put his gun down on the bench and helped Alves to his feet. It felt good to have the blood flowing again.

Another shot went off.

Alves had never been shot before. The bullet hit his left arm, near his shoulder. It burned as if a red hot poker and been driven through him. Figgs pushed him down. Both of them managed to roll behind a steel trash can. Alves held his shoulder, trying not to make any noise. God, it hurt. He could see Connie up on one knee. He had a small gun in his hand. The two-shot derringer. Alves reached for his ankle, praying that his lifesaver was still there. He got a firm grip on his snubby. He handed the gun to Figgs.

Figgs stayed close to the ground. “Don’t move,” Figgs said.

“It isn’t supposed to end like this,” Connie called. “I have been chosen to do this work.”

“Drop the gun or I’ll shoot.”

“I can’t let you do this,” Connie said, struggling to stand and aim.

Figgs fired a shot into Connie’s chest and Connie fell onto his back. He didn’t move. Figgs walked over and kicked the derringer away.

Alves stopped to adjust the sling. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get his arm into a comfortable position. But he felt guilty thinking about his discomfort, considering what Mooney was going through. Alves continued down the corridor until he reached the cul-de-sac of recovery rooms in the ICU. He paused outside and watched Mooney lying with his eyes closed. Should he bother him? Would a visit agitate him?

Mooney opened his eyes. “What’re you, a Peeping Tom, skulking around outside people’s rooms?”

“Yeah. Actually, I got bored checking out the hot babe in the room down the hall who was getting a sponge bath from two sexy nurses. I thought it’d be more fun to watch a cranky, old-fart cop taking his afternoon nap.”

Mooney smiled. That was all Alves needed to get out of him.

“How’re you doing, Sarge? Hey, Leslie.” She was sitting in a chair by the window.

Mooney raised his thumb.

Not bad, Alves thought, considering Sarge had lost a section of colon and a chunk of his liver. And he’d lost a lot of blood. Those small-caliber bullets did more damage than a big gun.

“The twins are having fun feeding Biggie,” Alves said. “He’s quite the mac and cheese fan.”

Mooney almost managed a smile.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Alves said.

Leslie stood and came forward to give Alves a hug. “I could use a cup of coffee. I’ll leave you two alone, but no work talk. Doctor’s orders.”

Leslie hadn’t even disappeared down the hall when Mooney managed to ask, “What about Darget? Figgs was here earlier, told me what happened. Said Darget took two in the ten ring.”

“Connie’s in critical. Paramedics on scene said he was nothing but body parts.”

Mooney tipped his chin up, tubes and all. “Figgsy. From Department sharpshooter to barstool and back again.”

“Sarge, I shouldn’t be talking about the case. Leslie said you can’t have any stress. How about the Pats? Big game this weekend, huh? They’re saying it’s going to be a blizzard by game time.”

With his dry, raspy voice Mooney asked, “Execute search warrants?”

“Yeah. His house, office, parents’ house. We even hit his grandparents’ farm. We got the embalming table. Luminol came up positive for human blood, but that doesn’t tell us anything. Could have been there since the table’s funeral home days. There was no actual blood for us to test for DNA. Nothing much else in the house.”

Alves stopped talking and smiled. A young nurse with a big blond ponytail came in to check Mooney’s blood pressure, oxygen and temperature. The second she was out the door, Alves continued. “We didn’t find any trophies from the victims. I was hoping to find the suits, underwear, jewelry, something. No newspaper clippings or TV coverage. Darget kept a very neat house.”

“Car?” Mooney croaked.

“Hasn’t owned a car in a while. Got stolen a few years ago, just after we closed the Blood Bath case. Oddly enough, they found it torched down by Tenean Beach in Dorchester. Never bought a replacement. He’s been riding around in the DA’s office minivan ever since his promotion. We didn’t find anything in the van. But it wouldn’t matter if we did. Each of the kids he killed had been in that van when they got picked up for court by his investigators. He got to know each of them personally before he put two in the hat.”

Mooney gestured for the cup of ice water on the bedside table. Alves put one of the tiny blue sponges into Mooney’s mouth like a lollipop. It would be a while before Sarge would be enjoying his Schlitz. “Parents,” Mooney mumbled. “Grandparents.”

“Nothing at his parents’ house. His grandparents own thirty acres in Bridgewater. Used to be a working farm, now it’s pretty much overgrown. Grandmother is up there in years, but she still manages to take care of the house and all. Grandfather’s pretty bad with Alzheimer’s. Just stands there and shouts out passages from the Bible.”

“Evidence?”

“No. But we did find something interesting out in the woods behind the barn. An old oil tank with the top third cut off. Apparently, the old man used to burn brush and trash in there. He had a blower hooked up to it. Once he got the flame going nice and hot, he’d kick on the blower, and it heated up like an incinerator. It would eat up pieces of wood as fast as you could feed them in.”

“Bone fragments? Anything?”

“Been cleaned out. Recently. I asked the old woman when her husband last used it. Not for years. She said Connie was the last one to use it a few years ago when he came out to get rid of the ark.”

Mooney raised his eyebrows.

“You heard me right. She was embarrassed to tell the story. It seems as though grandpa had some mental health issues to go along with the onset of Alzheimer’s. The old man’s name is Noah Darget. Back in the mid ’90s, before the Alzheimer’s got too bad, he believed that the world would come to an end at the turn of the century. He was convinced that he was the Noah and that he had to build an ark. He starts building this monstrosity back behind the barn, but he never completes it. This half-finished mess sits out there for years, rotting away, until one day Connie volunteers to get rid of it for his grandmother. He tells her he’s got some construction debris from his house in Hyde Park and takes it back there in the minivan. He spends the whole weekend out there burning every last bit of that ark and his debris, with the old man watching. Then he hauls the remaining ash to the asphalt batching plant down the road.”