Cross

minute of this.
    “Trip down memory lane for me.” He gave a running commentary as he proceeded. “Who says you can’t go home again? Know who said that, Junior? Ever read any books? You should have. Too late now.”
    He pulled into the Dunkin’ Donuts on Eighty-sixth and transferred Maggione into the rented Ford Taurus, which was basically a piece of shit, but at least it wouldn’t be noticed on the street. Then he put handcuffs on Junior. Tight ones, police-issue.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Maggione snarled as the cuffs bit into his wrists.
    Sullivan wasn’t sure what Junior meant—the changing of the cars, the fire-bombing, the next half hour or so? What?
    “You came after me, remember? You started this whole thing. Tell you what, I’m here to finish it. I should have done this when we were both kids.”
    The don got red-faced and looked ready to have a major coronary in the car. “You’re
crazy!
You’re a
lunatic!
” he screamed as they pulled out of the lot.
    Sullivan almost stopped the car in the middle of the street. Was Junior really screaming at him like he was hired help?
    “Hey, I’m not going to argue with you about the state of my mental health. I’m a contract killer, so presumably I’m a little crazy. I’m supposed to be crazy, right? I killed fifty-eight people so far.”
    “You chop people up into little pieces,” said Maggione. “You’re a loose cannon, a madman. You killed a friend of mine. Remember that?”
    “I fulfill my contracts on time, every time. Maybe I’m a little too high-profile for some tastes. But hold that thought—about chopping bodies into little pieces.”
    “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not that crazy. Nobody’s that crazy.”
    Amazing to see how Maggione’s mind worked, or didn’t work. Still, Junior
was
a stone-cold killer, so he had to be careful.
No mistakes now.
    “Just so I’m clear on this part,” Michael Sullivan said, “we’re headed to a pier I know on the Hudson River. Once we get there, I’m going to take some art photos for all your goombah pals to see. I’m going to give them a clear warning I hope they’ll understand about leaving me and my family alone.”
    Then Sullivan put his finger to his lips. “Don’t talk anymore,” he said. “I’m almost starting to feel a little sorry for you, Junior, and I don’t want to feel like that.”
    “What do I care what you feel like,
ahhh,
” said Maggione, on account of Sullivan had stuck him in the belly with a switchblade knife, stuck it in to the hilt, then pulled it out slowly.
    “Just for starters,” he said in a weird, whispery voice. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
    Then the Butcher took a little half bow. “I am
that
crazy.”

Chapter 101
    SAMPSON AND I WERE BACK inside his car waiting for the Butcher to return to the house in Montauk. We were down to counting the minutes. Sooner or later he had to come back; only it hadn’t happened yet, and Sampson and I were tired, cold, and, frankly, disappointed.
    A pizza delivery guy from Papa John’s showed up at around seven thirty. But no Sullivan, no Butcher, no relief in sight, and no pizza for us, either.
    “Let’s talk about something,” said Sampson. “Keep our minds off food. And the cold.”
    “Been thinking about Maria again while I’m sitting here freezing my ass off,” I said as we watched the long-haired pizza guy come and go. The thought had crossed my mind that Sullivan might use a delivery like this to get his wife a message. Had that just happened? Nothing we could do about it.
But had it just happened?
    “Not surprising, sugar,” said Sampson.
    “What happened the last couple months dredged up a lot of the past for me. I figured I’d grieved enough. Maybe not though. Therapist seems to think
not.
”
    “You had two babies to take care of back then. Maybe you were a little too busy to mourn as much as you needed. I remember I used to come over the house some nights. You never seemed to sleep. Working homicide cases. Trying to be a daddy. Remember the Bell’s palsy?”
    “Now that you mention it.”
    I’d had a disconcerting facial twitch for a while after Maria died. A neurologist at Johns Hopkins told me that it might go away or go on for years. It lasted a little more than two weeks, and it was kind of an effective tool on the job. Scared the hell out of perps I had to question in the cage.
    “At the time, you wanted to catch Maria’s killer so bad,