“Dr. Galloway,” Javi said as he caught her eye. “Catherine, are you hurt?”
The gun poked her in the throat again.
A reminder. She closed her eyes and licked her lips.
“I’m fine,” she repeated carefully. She flicked her eyes down, and when Javi followed them, she peeled her fingers away from her side for a second. Blood oozed from a deep divot cut out over her hip. Black stippled her T-shirt where blood hadn’t soaked in to cover it. The wound didn’t look immediately life-threatening, but it didn’t look good either. Galloway squeezed her fingers back down again. Her voice was low and steady, almost hypnotically calm. “I don’t think he wants to hurt anyone.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. This is all just some sort of misunderstanding.” Javi tilted his head to catch the attacker’s wandered attention. “My name’s Special Agent Javi Merlo. You can call me Javi.”
Strands of Galloway’s pale hair, the dishwater blonde leeched to white under the shadows and flashlight, caught on the attacker’s chapped lips as he panted.
“Get me to introduce us, establish social… expectations,” he said with a ragged laugh that turned into a cough. “Basic programming. That what the Feds are teaching you now? Pathetic.”
No, Javi affirmed to himself, not a stupid man.
“So you know what’s going on,” Javi said. “I still need something to call you.”
The man blinked hard, and the point of the knife scratched over Galloway’s throat. She pinched her lips together and closed her eyes.
“You don’t need to… to… call me anything. I know what you’re doing. Friends, that’s what you need, and I still have ’em. Still have some fucking friends. Still. And they told me. They told me what you’re trying to do to me. I did what I was told, goddammit.”
He tightened his arm around Galloway’s throat as he ranted. His teeth, behind the rough lips and matted beard, were stained with disuse but straight as good dentistry could buy. The drawl of Cloister’s voice murmured in Javi’s ear, “I know, that matches the description of a lot of homeless men.”
“Andrew,” Javi said. “Andrew Macintosh right?”
For a second the man focused. Life on the streets—booze and grief, hot sun and cold nights—had worn away the smug smirking lawyer from the party photo, but the sudden sharpness on his face conjured him again.
“You’re the one, then,” Andrew said. “I did what I was told. I sent everything I was asked to. Why… why did you do this? What did I do? I did my job, that’s all. It was my fucking job. I never made anyone do shit. Never. Never!”
He shoved Galloway to the side—she gave a startled yelp as she hit the door and slid to the ground—and lurched toward Javi. He jabbed the gun at the air like a pointer.
“If you want me dead, do it,” Andrew yelled, spit in stretched, clotted strings at the side of his mouth. “You got everything else, you fucker!”
He lunged at Javi, quicker than he looked, and fired wildly. The recoil jerked Andrew’s arm up violently and threw off his aim. The bullet hit Javi’s Kevlar at an angle, just above the FBI logo, and skidded up to scrape over his shoulder. It hurt with a hot, dull sting like a burn, so it probably wasn’t serious.
Javi ignored the ache of it and grabbed Andrew’s wrist. He dug his fingers in on the pressure points and twisted to lock the arm. It should have put Andrew down on his knees to avoid a dislocated elbow. Instead Andrew let the joint pop with a crackle of cartilage and tendon that reminded Javi queasily of a chicken leg and let the gun slip through his fingers as he threw himself forward. He drove his shoulder into Javi’s stomach, just under his breastbone, and they staggered backward.
“Merlo?” Frome demanded in Javi’s ear. “Now?”
Javi hit the bumper of a Mercedes and slid off. He rolled onto the ground with Andrew in a tangle of arms, legs, and strangled, furious curse words. Andrew flailed at him with swollen-knuckled fists and knees.
“They’re gone. They’re dead. I won’t tell anyone. I never told anyone. I knew they wouldn’t believe me. They never believed me,” Andrew ranted incoherently, his breath foul and chemical sharp. He grabbed a handful of Javi’s hair and tried to smack his skull into the ground. “Why’d you hurt her? My Jessie. She didn’t do fuck to you. It was me. I did it. I don’t know what, but I did it! Me. Not her.”
Javi braced his arm under Andrew’s jaw and pushed him back. He could feel his gun under his hip, but if he drew it, he’d have to shoot. Andrew Macintosh was never the sort of man to back down, not in court or in a fight, and if he was willing to punch through a broken elbow, that hadn’t changed.
A wildly aimed knee caught Javi in the gut. He grunted, the taste of bile in the back of his throat, and twisted to throw Andrew off him.
“Macintosh….” Javi rolled to his feet and kicked the gun under one of the cars. Last time Macintosh saw Janet, she still went by Tommy. He thought it was his wife who came looking for him. “She’s not dead. She’s upstairs in the hospital. That’s why Dr. Galloway was here. She’s here to help her.”
Sweat stood out in greasy droplets on Andrew’s face as he struggled onto his knees. He shook his head, matted gray hair wild as it unraveled around his face.
“Lies,” he spat. “You told me to lie. You lie. Lies and lies. You told me that you’d send them home—fair trade is no theft, you said, show me you love them—and then you said it wasn’t enough. You told me they were dead, and now you tell me they’re alive. My boys. My Jessie.”
He threw a wild punch at Javi and missed by an inch as Javi dodged. At some point in the scuffle, Javi had caught Andrew in the nose, and blood dripped down into his beard.
“Is Galloway out of danger?” Frome hectored in Javi’s ear. “Can I send the deputies in?”
“Not yet,” Javi said.
