Belson and I got down on our hands and knees and made our way over to the officers. Two more shots came from across the top of the building.
The Tobin Bridge stretched out long and tranquil behind the shooter, lighting up the night. Smoke filtered up from both sides of the mammoth brick warehouse. More companies started to arrive, and their sirens whooped and wailed below us. I could hear people shouting and see more hoses being pushed into the building while ladder trucks craned to the higher floors.
The shots stopped.
Belson quickly took a peek around the edge of the wall. He motioned for the uniformed guys. The shooter was gone. He’d run back down the steps, and back into the burning building.
“You want to follow him?” I said.
“Whatta you, nuts?” Belson said. “Screw him. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Glass nodded in agreement. We headed back to the fire escape well away from the worst of the fire.
Out on the Mystic, the fire boats had shown up and started to hose down and cool the top floors and roof. The dark old warehouse was alive with energy and light. With great speed, we took several escape ladders down to the ground floor. As we walked away from the burning building, firefighters rushed in the opposite direction, toward the flame and the danger. Red, white, and blue lights spun from the fire engines and cop cars.
Belson was out of breath and gagging on the smoke when we reached the lot choked with police and emergency vehicles.
“Maybe this will cure your cigar obsession,” Glass said.
“Wanna bet?” he said. He pulled a cigar from his coat and plugged it into his mouth as he walked toward a collection of cop cars.
“Jesus, Frank,” Glass said.
“God love him,” I said.
“I guess someone has to.”
Kevin had shot Johnny. Big Ray was dead, too.
Kevin walked into the flames as the water shot through the broken windows and fell down from the rafters. Firefighters aimed hoses in steady looping arcs, concentrating on the heaviest flames and the roof, where the fire had started to spread. Even after all of it, this was exactly where he wanted to be. He would’ve given anything to wear that jacket and helmet and be part of a Boston Fire company.
Maybe he could explain to them that he’d been trying to stop Johnny. Let everyone know that he’d been working on the inside to make sure that Zucco and Donovan were stopped before anyone else was hurt. Sure, he’d helped out on a few fires, but that had only been to gain their trust and respect, he’d say. He hadn’t known anything about Holy Innocents. And when those firefighters were hurt on Marlborough, he knew these guys had to be stopped.
Donovan was crazy, not a genius like he’d once thought when he held court back at the pastry shop. That was just talk. It was theory. This was real. Kevin could feel the heat burning his face and hands and smell the hair on his head and his arms starting to curl and smoke. This wasn’t like walking into an oven, this was like standing in the middle of a furnace. The coals burning bright and red, even the water raining down on your head was boiling. More than anything, Kevin wanted to be a part of it.
He looked to the firefighters and one of them turned a hose on him, knocking Kevin off his feet and sending the gun scattering. This wasn’t the way. He got to his knees but lost sight of them in the smoke. The firefighters returned to his view, his eyes watering and stinging, but then everything was just smoke.
He knew he’d die here. But maybe he’d be a hero when it all came out. They’d know who killed Johnny.
Mr. Firebug was dead. That meant something.
He crawled toward the heat and the flame. A big piece of wood, a crossbeam, dropped from the ceiling and pinned his legs. He heard the crack and knew one was broken. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe or feel anything, everything black smoke and gagging. He closed his eyes. He would die here. He would just lay down and fucking die.
But then he heard a groan and a pop and his legs still hurt like a bastard but were free. He turned onto his stomach, feeling weighty, strong hands around him. Someone was pulling him out of the bubbling hot water and the deep fire. Before he fell from consciousness, he saw the full, reddened face from behind a mask.
The name on his battered old Boston Fire helmet read J. MCGEE. CAPTAIN. “Come on,” the man said. “You dumb son of a bitch.”
59
I would have let him die,” Z said. “The guy helped kill McGee’s friends. He shot at cops. He burned your apartment.”
“A few character flaws never deter a true hero.”
“Did you ever charge McGee for the case?”
“Nope,” I said. “He’s helping me find a new place to live.”
We were sparring. It would be our last time for a while. Z was leaving Boston for Los Angeles in a week. His three years under my tutelage had flown by. As if to underscore the point, he worked a tricky combination: jab, cross, lead uppercut, and another cross. His cross was always substantial.