John Kennelly
JOHN SAT SHOTGUN as Detective Hanlon drove them south on the West Shore Expressway. Through the darkness, John could make out two tanks of liquefied natural gas looming on the horizon.
Hanlon said, “Here we go.”
John looked at the tanks—rusted behemoths that had been decommissioned decades ago. They were nothing but an eyesore, and for years politicians had promised to tear them down and replace them with a shopping plaza and housing, but plans never came to fruition.
The tanks just sat there, getting rustier, like sentries on the side of the highway, guarding Rossville, which was mostly auto shops, industrial sites, and the recently closed Arthur Kill Correctional Facility.
Hanlon pulled off the expressway, and after a couple of turns, maneuvered the car down the dirt pathway. The sun was dipping below the horizon, the sky cast purple. They were surrounded by high weeds on either side, and before long John couldn’t even see the road behind them.
If this was the location Hanlon had in mind, it couldn’t be more perfect.
Paul and Daisy had rushed out so quickly—and given the information about the new photo, he didn’t blame them. The others wiped down the apartment, and Hanlon told John he had something to show him. So Kat and Susan took off for home, while Hanlon and John climbed into Hanlon’s aging Buick. They hadn’t spoken in the twenty minutes since they got in the car.
The whole way, John had to fight the urge to lash out, to call him an idiot, to chastise him and lecture him, even hit him. He knew it wasn’t smart to hit a cop, but he didn’t care. He was still angry. He couldn’t not be. This man had made such a stupid mistake that had cost them justice for their children.
But he needed him to complete the plan and get his revenge. That meant he would tolerate him.
Hanlon stopped the car in front of a large warehouse sitting on the water, the building a ruin of its former self. There was a gaping hole in one wall, up near the roof, and the windows were smashed and broken. The dock sticking off the back was collapsed into the inky bay.
They climbed out, and the LNG tanks practically loomed over them.
“This is it?” John asked.
“Used to be they had security guards,” Hanlon said. “But after two years, the guards hadn’t seen a single person on site, so they got let go. Most folks in the neighborhood don’t even know it’s here, and kids can’t cross the expressway to get to it.”
Hanlon led him toward the front of the building. They found a gunmetal gray door with a small window crisscrossed by security wire. It was sitting ajar from the frame, the knob broken off, a rusty padlock holding it closed. John looked around and found a cinder block half buried in the dirt. He pulled it out, brought it to the door, lifted it over his head, and brought it down hard. The lock snapped and fell to the ground, the door yawning open, everything beyond that pitch black.
The two of them stepped inside. It looked like the set of a horror movie. Dim light trickled in from the windows set high in the cavernous room, which was mostly stripped bare. The floor was scuffed and the guts of old machinery were pushed up into the corners. It smelled like motor oil and mildew.
Hanlon pulled a Maglite out of his overcoat and shined it around.
“What was this place, exactly?” John asked.
“Distribution, shipping, mechanical repair,” Hanlon said. “It was a multi-use facility. Too expensive to remediate, and the land is zoned industrial, so it’d be a pain in the ass to rezone it for homes. Nobody wants it.”
“Okay, so we have a space,” John said. “That’s a good start. But how are we going to do it? Shoot him?”
“Ballistics can be a tricky bitch,” said Hanlon. “I’d prefer not to. Knives are an option, but that’s a little personal.”
“I’d be happy to use my hands,” John said.
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
“Well, before we decide anything, let’s get the full lay of the land first,” Hanlon said.
So they cut wide circles around the space, looking behind gutted machines and old piles of wood. Hanlon even shined his flashlight up into the wooden rafters. Looking for squatters or inspiration, John couldn’t tell. But Hanlon was right. It was good to have a sense of the layout.
They reached a doorway leading to more rooms. John said, “I didn’t know you lost your son.”
“T-boned by a drunk driver,” Hanlon said. “On the passenger side. My wife and son were killed on impact. I made it out with a titanium hip that aches when it rains.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“What happened to the drunk?” John asked.
Hanlon turned and looked at him, unblinking, his face flat.
John was about to ask for clarification when he saw the answer.
Hanlon knew what it meant to take revenge outside the bounds of the law. He was the perfect man for this job, then. It almost made John respect Hanlon a little more, in the sense that they were kindred spirits. But he pushed the feeling aside. Anger, the dominant emotion of his life, took the wheel. John wondered it if would ever go away.
If killing Scott would help.
They passed into the new set of rooms, opening doors, checking in corners, scaring off rats. John wondered about the best way to do the deed.
The important thing was, he wanted Scott to suffer.
Drowning is supposed to be an incredibly painful way to die. In the days after John Junior was found, when John had stopped crying long enough to maintain his composure, he would sit in the basement with the lights off, and he would hold his breath, counting off the seconds until his lungs screamed for oxygen. His muscles tensed and body shaking.
He would breathe in, let the oxygen rush in, think about that incredible feeling of relief.
He would think about that relief never coming.
Of the pain getting worse.
And then he would cry some more, thinking about what it must have been like.
In the next room, the last one on the row, close to the bay now, both men stopped. Hanlon trained his flashlight around the room, revealing the details.
Along the far wall was exactly what they were looking for.
Perfect place. Perfect man. Perfect method.
John balled up his fists and smiled.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
“That works,” Hanlon said, nodding slowly.
Hanlon’s jacket vibrated. He reached into his coat and came out with his phone, pecked at the face of it. “Scott was spotted at a liquor store in Rosebank,” he said.
“How do you know that?” John asked.
“I have a Google alert set up for his name,” Hanlon said, placing the phone back in his pocket. He stood for a minute, looking up and away, and then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Staten Island Express Suites. That must be it. It’s right near there.”
“You think that’s where he is?”
“If I was a lawyer who wanted to hide the most hated man on Staten Island, it’s where I would put him. That’s not the kind of place where people worry about each other’s business.”
“Well then,” John said. “I guess that’s where we’re headed. I’ll start texting the rest of the group.”