Mariah Stewart - Dead End

“Connor, there was no team in Santa Estela that had been sent in to work on the child-slave trade.”

“He must have been working for another unit then, because he told me-”

“Listen to me. He was working for me. He’s always worked for me, and only for me. There was no op. He was there to keep an eye on the rebels, to keep the political situation stable.”

“John, you’re wrong. They closed it down that night, he told me they did. There’s a whole file on this, he wrote a report-”

“Did you see it? Did he show you the report?”

“Well, no, but he told me-”

“Connor, we’re talking about the man who may have killed your brother. Why are you defending him?”

“I can’t believe any of this. The Brendan I knew-”

“Just how well did you know him?”

Connor had paused to take a deep breath.

“If any of what you’re telling me is true, I’d have to say I didn’t know him at all.”

There’d been talk after that of a memorial service to be held the following week.

“You might want to think about coming home for it, Connor.”

“I don’t have to think about it. I won’t be there.”

“I can arrange for you to come home.”

“That bastard.” Anger had started to take over. “The bastard. How could he have pulled the trigger on Dylan?”

“Well, like I said, he might not have realized he was shooting Dylan. It was dark, you were supposed to be there with Aidan that night. I don’t think Dylan was the target.”

“You think he wanted to kill me because I’d seen him in Santa Estela? You think he was part of that, selling truckloads of children? There’s no way he would have been involved in something like that, John.”

“Think it through. Why else would he have been there? We know there was no op to shut it down, so if he wasn’t shutting it down-and we know he lied to you about that-he must have been part of it. It had to occur to him that sooner or later, you would ask about that, and there was the danger that you’d figure out what was going on.”

“You really think he was involved in the trafficking?”

“I think he had to have been. And he had to know that sooner or later, you would be asking about how that all went down.”

“I did,” Connor had said softly.

“What?”

“I did ask. A week or so ago. I left a message on his answering machine, asking him what happened.”

“Why? What made you think of it?”

“Annie was asking me about Santa Estela. She knew I’d been there, and her new guy, that detective from Pennsylvania, had a murder vic who might have had ties to Santa Estela.” He had stopped to recall exactly what Annie had said. “I think it was more than one vic, young girls, and there was a question about some tattoos.”

“Did you tell Brendan that Annie had been asking?”

Connor closed his eyes, trying to remember what he’d said on the message. “Honest to God, John, I don’t remember if I did or not.”

There was silence while each digested what had been said.

“Is there a chance that Brendan wanted to kill Annie because I told him she was asking questions? Jesus, John, I don’t know.”

Before he hung up, Connor had asked, “How’s my dad doing? Have you spoken to my uncle Frank?”

“I spoke with your brother. Maybe you should give him a call. There was some talk about who would be the pallbearers.”

“Well, they can count me out. No fucking way.” The anger resurfaced. “Son of bitch murdered my brother, I’m going to carry his casket? How could Aidan even consider it?”

“I don’t think Aidan is thinking about honoring the dead as much as he’s thinking about honoring the living.”

Connor had let that sink in. Regardless of what Brendan might have done, his father-Connor’s uncle Frank-would be devastated at the loss of his son. To lose a son under these circumstances would be humiliating for a man-a family-who had served the Bureau long and well.

“Call Aidan, Connor,” John had said. “And if you change your mind about coming home, just let me know. I’ll clear it.”

“Don’t expect to hear from me.”

Connor had hung up and had gone to the balcony to look out over the water, his eyes stinging with tears. He’d had a hell of a time processing the information he’d received. His cousin had wanted to kill him, but shot and killed his brother instead. Then he himself was shot and killed while apparently planning on killing Annie.

What the hell had happened to his world?

He thought of Brendan as a young boy, almost a decade younger than Connor. He’d been the quiet one, the one who always held to the background. There’d been a time when he and Dylan had been adversaries of sorts, but that had long since passed. No, he couldn’t believe that Brendan could have fired that shot. Brendan, who had sobbed as he’d carried Dylan’s coffin down the steps of St. Bernadette’s Church, Brendan, who had comforted Connor’s father as well as his own.

Connor had started drinking after the conversation with John, and hadn’t stopped. Unfortunately, the whiskey hadn’t made him drunk, hard as he’d tried to silence the voices in his head.

He had called Aidan and berated him for even considering bearing Brendan’s coffin.

“It’s not for him, Connor,” Aidan had said. “It’s for Uncle Frank. And for Dad. You remember how Dad leaned on Uncle Frank through Dylan’s-”

“Yeah, I remember.” Connor had cut him off. “But this is different. This is the bastard who killed Dylan. Of course he thought he was shooting me.”

“That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?” Aidan had said. “You’re feeling guilty because Dylan took the shots that may have been for you.”

Connor had tried to respond, but couldn’t get words out.

“Con, no one is ever going to blame you for not dying that night. Jesus, Con.”

When Connor still did not reply, Aidan had said, “Look, come home and be with us through this. Dad needs you, Uncle Frank needs you. Mia, Andrew… shit, Con, I need you.”

“Sorry, little brother. You do what you want. But I’ll have no part in it.”

“If you change your mind-”

“I won’t change my mind. Give everyone my love, though.”

And with that, Connor had hung up.

There were lights from the boats that still came and went in the small harbor, even at this late hour. Connor stood by the rail, watching, wishing he was on one of them.

Maybe tomorrow, he told himself. Maybe tomorrow he’d take a boat out. Maybe he’d just keep it going until it ran out of gas. And then, maybe he’d just slide overboard and let the water take him where it would.

He went back into his room, picked up the phone, and called downstairs for another bottle.

“How about if I just meet you at the cemetery?” Evan rolled down the window of the rental car he’d picked up at the airport and cursed himself for not checking the air-conditioning before he’d gotten onto I-95. Now he was stuck in a massive traffic jam, the temperature had risen into the high eighties already, and the fan was blowing warm.

“That’s fine, Evan,” Annie told him. “The church is going to be packed to capacity, if the number of cars already in the lot is an indication.”

“I’m surprised that so many people came out for him, a disgraced FBI agent.”

“It’s for his family. His dad has ties that go back fifty years. He and Dylan’s dad were very highly regarded in the law enforcement community. Yes, there’s certainly a lot of embarrassment, but at the same time, there’s been a lot of support. I’m really not surprised that so many people are here to pay their respects to Frank. And to Andrew, and Mia. And the others.”