Jock looked up as I walked into the room. "You okay, podner?"
"I will be," I said.
"I'm sorry," said Logan. "She must have been special."
"She was. Anything else on the bomber?"
"Maybe," said Jock. "The Witness Security Program director called back. It seems that Mr. Thomas lived in Orlando under an assumed name while he was in the program. He disappeared three years ago."
"Was Monahan the name given him by the feds?"
"No. He was Jared Buckhorn then."
"Where did he live?"
"He had a house on Primrose Street. He sold it when he moved. That's all the Marshals have on him. He dropped out of sight completely."
"Who did he sell the house to?"
"No information on that."
"Do you have an address?"
"Sure do," said Jock, and gave it to me.
I called Debbie again. She wasn't going to like this, but it was quicker than getting the county property appraiser out of bed.
"Babe?" I said. She had obviously been asleep.
"Oh, great, Royal. What time is it? Oh, five thirty. Forty-five minutes sleep is all I need. What now?"
"One more search. I think I know the answer, but I need you to confirm it."
"All right. What's the question?"
I gave her the address and told her I needed the ownership of the house.
"You want to take a bet on it being Circle Ltd?" she said.
"Nope. I'm guessing that's what you'll find."
"Don't hang up."
I heard her tapping on a computer keyboard. Then, "It's Circle Ltd."
"Does the corporation still own it?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, dear. Sleep tight."
"Go to hell, Royal," she said and hung up.
I returned the phone to my pocket. "That address is owned by the same corporation that owns the whorehouses and Blood Island. Fats may be there."
"Let's round up the troops and find out," Jock said.
Thirty minutes later Jock, Logan, and I were sitting in a government sedan in front of the Primrose Street house. The FBI agent was with us. An Orlando police SWAT team, dressed in combat gear, was about to enter the house. ATF agents with explosive sniffing dogs would follow them in. An Orlando fire department ambulance was parked down the street.
We waited. The night was easing into day. It was six a.m., and dawn had replaced the darkness. A light showed in the window of the house next door. The smell of brewing coffee wafted across to us. A cat ambled across the lawn, paying no attention to the strangers encroaching into its territory. Newspapers, thick with the Sunday ads, were lying on front sidewalks. People were sleeping in, but soon they would be up and coming outside for their papers. We needed to be finished before then. Nosey neighbors could easily get hurt if there was a shootout, or worse, an explosion.
The SWAT team moved with an unexpected suddenness. The front door was battered open by a ram held by two officers. The men crowded into the house, yelling "clear" as they went from room to room. Two ATF agents and their dogs went through the door at a fast walk. The whole operation took about a minute.
The SWAT commander came out of the house, looking relaxed, and walked over to our car. "The house is clear," he said. "The ATF guys say there're no explosives in the house. We found a fat guy asleep in the master bedroom."
Jock smiled coldly. "That's good news, Captain. We'll talk to him in the house. Restrain the fat man, and clear all your guys out."
"I'm the team commander," the officer said. "I can stay if you like."
Jock shook his head. "That might not be good for your career. Get your men out."
The captain went back to the house, and soon the entire group was huddled on the sidewalk across the street. Lights had come on in more of the houses, and uniformed Orlando police officers were going door to door, reassuring the residents that everything was under control.
Jock, Logan, and I went into the house. Fats Monahan was sitting on a sofa in the small living room, his hands cuffed behind his back, head down, staring at his lap.
"Morning, Fats," I said.
He looked up, surprise written on his features.
"Matt," he said. "Thank God. These officers have me mixed up with somebody else."
I laughed. "I want you to listen to me very closely, Albert Thomas," I said.
He blanched at the sound of his name. Blood drained from his face. He knew at that moment that his life was finished. He'd spend the rest of it in jail.
I knelt down in front of him, my face even with his. "We're not cops," I said. "We don't care if you live to walk out of here or die where you sit. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Tell me who and where the bomber is."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I pulled my dive knife from its scabbard at my ankle and stabbed him in the shoulder. He screamed. I heard boots hitting the sidewalk at a run. One of the cops on his way.
Jock moved to the door to intercept the officer. He crossed his hands, plains down, like a baseball umpire signaling safe. "We've got everything under control," he said.
Fats was groaning, looking at me, his face wrinkled in terror and pain.
"Fats," I said, "I'm going to butcher you alive right in this room if you don't start talking."
"Okay," he said, his voice strained. "I don't know where Joshua is."
"Is Joshua the bomber?"
"Yes."
"When did you see him last?"
"At midnight. He came here to get his vest."
"What's his target?"
Fats stared at me, his eyes a bit glazed. "Listen, don't stop this. We're going to save Western Civilization."
"By killing Christians?"
"They'll be martyrs. They'll go to heaven immediately. It's God's way."
"I don't get it," Logan said. "Why kill your own people?"
"We're just going to kill enough to get the government off its ass and start killing Muslims. We need to root out the heathens."
"You're as crazy as the rest of them," said Logan.
"Fats," I said, "I'm going to stab you again. You can pick the spot."
"No, Matt. Don't you see? This is for us, for America."
I pulled back on the knife. "Where do you want it?"
"No, don't stab me again. I'll tell you."
"Martyrdom's not for you, huh?" I said.
"It's not my time."
"What's the target?"
"Lakeside Methodist Church."
"When?"
"Nine o'clock. The early service."
"Describe Joshua to me."
"He's about twenty years old, blond hair, six feet tall."
"What's he wearing?"
"Beige suit and blue tie."
"Where are the explosives?"
"A vest. Under his suit coat. My shoulder hurts like hell."
"Fats," I said, holding the bloody knife under his nose, "if you aren't giving me the right description of this idiot, I'm coming back for you. Your martyrdom is going to be preceded by more pain than you can imagine."
"I'm telling you the truth. Can I get something for this shoulder?"
Jock said, "Fats, did you kill the man Matt found at Pelican Man's?"
"I had to. He was some kind of government agent."
"How did you know that?" Jock asked.
"I didn't for sure, but we had to be careful. It's better to sacrifice one of our own than to take a chance on the whole thing going down the drain."
"Why did you leave him in the vulture pit?" I asked.
"That was Bartel. He liked to make a statement."
"Where did you find Bartel?" I asked.
"I didn't. The Rev sent him to me. Said he'd do whatever I needed done."
"That day in your bar? What the hell was that all about?"
"I knew you were going to talk to Wayne Lee. I tried to stop him before you found him, but he got by me somehow. I saw you and Logan go into the bar with him, and I saw you two leave. I waited until Wayne left to take him out. I didn't know what he'd told you, so I had to get you too.
"The next morning, I called Cracker and told him to get you to my place. Bartel was supposed to kill you in the bar downstairs, and then get out of there. He was late."
"And it cost him his sorry life," I said.
"Yeah," said Fats. "Another martyr. I'm really hurting here, Matt."
I waved at Logan, and he left to get the paramedics.
"Fats," I said, "the paramedics are going to help you out here, but if you've lied to me, they're going to give you back to me."
Fats just nodded his head.
"We've got less than three hours to find this guy," Jock said. "Any suggestions?"
The three of us were standing on the sidewalk in front of Fats's house. The SWAT team had loaded up in their black SUVs and gone back to wherever they came from. A few Orlando police officers had stayed in the area to calm the neighbors' fears. The ambulance had taken Fats for treatment at a clinic where the doctor wouldn't ask a lot of questions. He'd be held there until we were finished.
I felt sick to my stomach. I'd just stabbed a defenseless man, and I'd have done it again if he hadn't given me answers. Fats was a bloody and dangerous man who'd tried to kill me and my friend Logan. He'd killed poor helpless Wayne Lee, and he had no compunctions about killing a church full of decent people.
He had information that could save a lot of lives, and I knew that harsh tactics were called for-and even condoned. Especially by the people who would have died or lost loved ones if I hadn't acted. I did what was necessary, and I knew I would do it again.
In the process, I had found the beast that lived within me, and I wasn't happy to meet him. It didn't fit with my own view of myself. I'd killed men before, but every time, it was when they were trying to kill me. I had been a soldier in a war and, as terrible as that is, you can always justify your actions as discharging your duty to your country or just trying to survive.
This was different and, while necessary, I didn't think I'd ever have the same benign view of myself again. It was like losing a close friend. The Matt Royal I knew, the fun-loving beach bum lawyer, had died over the past few days, and had been replaced by a monster who was perfectly willing to shoot and stab people. I wondered if I'd ever find my old self again. I was glad Laura would never have to know this new version of the man she'd loved when she was young.
"Joshua could be anywhere," said Logan, bringing me out of my pitiful self-loathing reverie, "or nowhere."
Jock shook his head. "I don't think Fats lied to us. He was too scared of Matt's knife."
"Why don't we concentrate our forces at Lakeside Methodist," Logan said. "As thin as we are, we won't do much good for the other churches. It'd be too easy for the bomber to slip by. Are you familiar with the Lakeside Church, Matt?"
"Yes," I said. "In another lifetime, Laura and I were married in that church."
"Shit," said Logan. "I'm sorry, Matt."
Jock said, "What if we put our troops just around the big churches downtown? If the bomber smells a rat at one, maybe he'll just move on to the church in the next block. If we're wrong, we're going to lose a church any way you cut it."
"What do you think, Matt?" Logan said.
"Sounds like a plan. I think we should be at Lakeside. We can put sniper teams around the square. If we approach him, all he has to do is punch a button or something, and all hell breaks loose. We've got to get him before he has a chance to react. Are your sniper credentials still good, Jock?"
"Unfortunately, yes," he said. "So much for retirement."