The sound is coming from the direction of Abraham’s Path.
A few seconds later, there he is.
There’s an old line I’ve always loved, the one about how heaven, if you make it there, is every dog you ever loved running to greet you. I don’t much like pondering the idea of heaven these days, and whether or not it even exists, for obvious enough reasons. And me the product of a Jesuit education.
But for just this one night the sight of my own dog running for me at full speed, tail wagging like crazy, barking his head off now, will do.
TWENTY-SIX
ROBBY SASSOON HAD PARKED his car at Brent’s, the little general store about a mile from her house, and walked back from there.
It’s about forty-five minutes, maybe a little more, since he gave the dog a good kick and sent him running out the back door before turning the place upside down.
This was just a warning shot tonight, without her having any idea who was the one firing it.
The kill shot for Ms. Jane Smith would come later, as soon as the boss gave the word.
One for her, one for her partner Cunniff. The ex-cop, and all-around pain in the ass.
Sassoon is standing at the far end of the block, hidden from their view by some high, thick privet in front of one of the other houses, when Cunniff shows up.
A few minutes later, the dog comes running, and then there he is slobbering all over her in the middle of the street.
What the fuck is this, a Disney movie?
Robby Sassoon watches as much of this heart-tugging reunion as he can take before he turns and starts walking back toward the main road, and where he left the car.
He has one more stop to make tonight.
This one will be even more fun.
Robby Sassoon gives a quick look in the back of the car athis new toy, and then heads west on Route 27, making sure to stay under the speed limit.
Not a night to get pulled over, and have some overzealous local flatfoot want to pop the trunk.
As he is passing through East Hampton, he turns on the radio, hits the button for the Broadway channel on SiriusXM.
Robby Sassoon loves a good show tune.
Let the games begin, he tells himself.
He looks in the rearview mirror and smiles back at himself.
Sometimes he enjoys his work so much he thinks he’d do it for free, even if that thought always passes quickly.
They’re playing a song fromSweeney Toddnow on his radio.
He knows it by heart, it’s one of his favorites, even though it doesn’t have much of a melody.
“Let the blood start to flow,” Robby Sassoon sings. “Come death and murder, those were his trade …”
He’s feeling a rush tonight. And now a regret.
He should have shot the damn dog.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JIMMY INSISTS ON STAYING the night. There’s a brief standoff between us on that, me telling him I’m armed and as dangerous as ever and that whoever did this isn’t coming back, at least not tonight.
