Consumed

“It’s their bed. They gotta lie in it.” He turned his cigarette around and stared at the lit tip. “Listen, I got a favor to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“Talking about hands and all. I could use an extra set out at the farm tomorrow. I don’t have many good working days left on the property, and I could finish what I started if I had another hauler for the debris, another person on the saw.”

Anne followed his example and inspected the star-shaped tip a Phillips head. The idea of being outdoors, conquering a tangle of brush, having something with an easy start and finish was exactly what she needed. But Danny was always a complication.

“I’d really appreciate it,” he said.

She thought of her mother. Sundays were church, lunch with her girlfriends, and usually a movie and tea. Lots of people, public places, busy, busy. There was a chance that she might feel compelled to stay home to be polite, though.

“Can I bring Soot?” Anne asked abruptly.

Chapter 35

To Vic Rizzo, fall Sundays were sacred, and not because he was religious. He was as lapsed a Catholic as a man could be, much to his mother’s disgust and heartbreak. No, if he was lucky enough to get the Lord’s day off of rotation, he worshipped at the altar of ESPN, prepared to do nothing but veg in front of the TV and work the remote around college and pro ball games.

Seeing no one. Talking to no one.

Just sitting on the ratty couch across from his concave screened paradise, breaking only to re-beer and re-chip.

His apartment was a one-bedroom, one-bath in a converted triplex just five blocks down from the 617. He was on the middle floor, over an old couple who had the ground level, and the seventy-two-year-old owner who was on the top. It was a quiet place, and he helped everyone take their garbage to the curb, and shoveled snow, and fixed all manner of minor problems around the building.

He kept his more . . . hardcore . . . pursuits well away from his home. Then again, he didn’t want his identity or his address known.

That was why he always wore masks.

With a groan, he lowered himself down on Old Faithful and extended his stiff leg out onto the beat-to-shit coffee table. Turning on the remote, he was ready to watch the Pats game from the day before that he’d DVRed and then transition to the LSU/Bama game—

The knock on the door was loud, a single pounder that clearly came courtesy of a big set of knuckles.

Putting the recording on pause, Vic reached under the cushion next to him and palmed his nine. “Who is it.”

Not a question. More like a warning.

“It’s your boss.”

“Tom?” Vic released the hold on the gun and sat up. “Hold on.”

He groaned as he got to his feet, although that was a function of not just his bad shoulder and the sore leg, but because his vibe was being ruined.

When he opened the door, he frowned. Chief Ashburn looked like he’d been pulled through a thorn bush backward, his face weary and drawn, his mouth a tight line—as if he didn’t want to be here any more than Vic wanted to welcome anybody into his crib.

“What the hell happened to you?” Vic demanded.

“You got a second.”

“For what?”

“I need to talk to someone.”

Vic stepped back. “I’m not a good listener, I give shitty advice, and I have all the compassion of a hunting knife, but sure, by all means, let me be your therapist.”

The chief brushed by him. “You got a real way with charm, Rizzo.”

“Call me Hallmark.”

As he shut them in, Tom looked around and then went over to the sofa. “I see you used the same decorator we did back at the old stationhouse. Cheap meets fraternity. Good call.”

“At least I’m comfortable in both.” Vic limped back across to the couch. “Have a seat.”

Tom parked it, then got back up and took the gun out from under the pillow. “Your security alarm got a registration?”

“Nope.” Vic resettled, extending his legs once more. “And no serial numbers, either. You gonna write me up.”

“Nah.” The chief handed the weapon over. “Paperwork bores me. Just don’t shoot anybody while I’m here.”

“Roger that.” Vic tucked the gun under where he was sitting. “Let me guess, this is about Damnit. What’s he done now? Is Chuckie P. quitting? Or did the asshole pick on Wedgie again?”

Tom focused on the TV. “This the Pats game from yesterday?”

“Don’t tell me who wins.”

“I didn’t see it, either.”

As the guy fell silent, Vic hit Play because the quiet was grating. “So what’s on your mind, chief.”

It was much more comfortable with the chatter of the commentators, the distraction making whatever was going on with Tom less intense.

Kinda.

“I need to your assessment of the department,” Tom said in a low voice. “Like, how we’re functioning both within our units and as a cohesive whole.”

A commercial for Buffalo Wild Wings came on and made Vic hungry.

“I think we’re good,” he said. “I mean, we do fine.”

Tom looked across the sofa. “How do you think I am at my job as chief. That’s what I’m really asking you.”

Vic didn’t bother to hide his surprise. Probably couldn’t have anyway. “In what way?”

“How I handle personnel issues. People. Problems.”

See, this was why he liked to spend his Sundays by himself. No, wait, that didn’t go far enough. This was why he liked to be alone, period.

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “You’re great.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

Vic rubbed his face and wished he had a drink. But it was a little early for beers.

And as the chief waited for a real answer, he knew there was only one way out of this conversation.

“The guys all look up to you.” Vic put his hand up to his chief’s face. “You asked me what I think so I’m going to tell you. You are respected greatly. You’re a natural leader. I mean come on, you’re responsible for the biggest bunch of crackpot adrenaline junkies on the planet, and you manage to keep us all alive and focused and mostly in line.”

“Do you think people feel like they can’t come to me with their shit?”

“Yeah. I do. But you can’t be friends with people you manage, and you want to try to keep Damnit on an even keel without screaming in his face? Unless you’re hitting with a frying pan in the face, I don’t think you’re gonna get far.”

“But maybe there’s another way.” Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with the mayor.”

“A one-on-one with Mahoney?” An image of the tall, authoritative woman came to mind. “She’s something else.”

“She served my ass to me on a plate.”

“That’s hot.” As Tom shot a lot over, Vic shrugged. “What. It’s the truth.”

“She’s an elected official.”

“So I’m not allowed to notice her as a woman?”

“No. You’re not.”

Ahhhh, so it’s like that, Vic thought with a smirk.

“Lemme get this straight, chief,” he said. “You have one conversation with Mahoney and now you’re thinking we’ve got to wipe each other’s asses or some shit? Come on. We’re firemen, not in community theater. Besides, do you want to get into the ins and outs of disputes over parking spaces, things left in the refrigerators, and who used whose towel in the shower? Hell no. And ’scuse me for mentioning this, but remember last year, when you gave up yelling for Lent? You lasted three days and had to go to confession because you called Damnit a cunt loud enough for his dead grandmother to hear it in her grave.” He looked over at the guy. “You got a bad history with impulse control, chief. But what you do not have is a problem doing your job well—or a problem with helping the rest of us stay on track.”