Cordelia straightened, stiffly, and cased herself. Her body hurt worse than ever, but sleep had done her head and heart some good.
While she’d dozed and dreamed about revenge, something in her broken chest had changed. Not her ribs, not a muscle or an organ, but something deeper and more vital. It had turned hard and crooked, like a fracture healed up wrong.
The Ospies had killed Tory. The Ospies had taken the Bee. The Ospies had driven Malcolm Sailer to swallow a bullet. Cordelia wished he’d saved the lead; she would’ve liked to put it square between Caleb Acherby’s eyes.
And who said she couldn’t? Maybe not right away, and maybe not on her own. But she had time, and she knew people. Running for Ari had put her in touch with all sorts—money launderers and gunrunners and folk in every seedy trade imaginable. Not just small-timers, either.
They’d be nervous, sure, and rightly so. Her own smashed face was reason enough. But they had no love for the Ospies, and Cordelia had talked punters around to some wild schemes. Maybe not so wild as this, but what did she have to lose?
Her life. But she’d given that up for gone sometime yesterday, under the thin man’s steel-toed boots.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Cyril didn’t have a lot of time to plan, and the options available were limited. What he did come up with was half plot, half prayer—inelegant and brutal.
Night came more quickly than it would have a month ago. Summer was waning. Outside the window, the sun sank behind the iron fences of Loendler Park, and the cherry trees on Talbert and Blossom. The flowers were long gone, and the leaves had lost their springtime vibrance. The season felt tired. Cyril felt tired. He was relieved, in a way, to be bringing the whole mess to a close.
Even after sunset, he waited. Best to let his watchers grow weary, lose their edge. Besides, if a call came through and no one was there to answer it, he’d have the hunt after him sooner than he wanted. They played another hand of cards. He was getting sick of cutthroat.
Around half past two, someone rang and said they were ready for Cyril at the Warehouse.
“Let’s have a toast,” suggested Cyril, as Moore and Massey got ready to go. Both of them wore heavy nine millimeters in shoulder holsters. The guns shifted against their chests as they thrust their arms into the sleeves of their coats. “To my last night of freedom. Possibly, of life.”
“A toast?” Moore laughed. “Why can’t they all be like you?”
“We’re on the job,” said Massey, nervous.
“Shut up, Mass. One shot won’t kill you.”
“Bend your knees a minute,” said Cyril, nodding to the sofa. “I’ll be right back.”
In his office, he poured three glasses of whiskey. Two of them got a spoonful of potassium cyanide, which Moore hadn’t found in the liquor cabinet because Cyril disguised it in a sugar bowl. He always drank his liquor neat.
Back in the parlor, he offered the glasses around. Cyril said something inane about dying cleanly, and then they drank.
When Moore and Massey lay on the carpet, white vomit leaking from their mouths, Cyril went about his business. He changed into one of his winter suits—the charcoal gray would blend better with the shadows. It was too warm, but it wasn’t permanent. His old service pistol and matching suppressor were in the spare bedroom with the rest of the weapons Moore had gathered in his security sweep. Cyril took Moore’s shoulder holster and fit his own gun into it, then pocketed the suppressor. The false ID papers he put inside his waistcoat, pressed against his ribs. The letter he folded crisply into a small square and tucked into his ticket pocket. From beneath the washroom sink, he snatched a bottle of peroxide, and stuck it in a paper sack.
The city was quiet as an abandoned film set—curfew, he realized. There would be a curfew, after yesterday’s riots. Well, good: no one to see him in the streets.
*
Finn lived in a row house off of Clifftown Road, north of the boring end of Princes Street—near the terminus of the Ionidous line. He’d looked it up earlier in the telephone directory. The neighborhood was shabby but clean, and mostly free of riot damage. Nothing up here to loot or deface. But lots of windows, and no black cars. Finn’s tail would be indoors somewhere, with a good view of the street. Fine. Let them see Cyril walk in. They wouldn’t get a good look at his face, even with binoculars. Not at this time of night, with his hat pulled low. He was just some sculler coming home late.
With the sack of bleach under one arm, he walked up to the door and reached for fictitious keys. Feigned surprise. Patted his lapels, as if looking in the pockets of his waistcoat. Finally, he pressed the buzzer for Finn’s flat. Pressed it again. On the third, extra-long buzz, he got a sleepy answer.
“Sorry about this,” said Cyril. “I, uh … I seem to have forgotten my keys.”