Chapter 68

68

Cushing opened his eyes.

The phone was ringing.

The empty bottle in his lap rolled to the floor with a crash as he leaped up from his chair by the bedroom window.

He scooped the phone off the floor.

"Martin, bad news," Frank said. "Jodi didn't make it. She's dead."

"What? No! That can't be right. No," he said.

"You're in shock, Martin. Just breathe. Take a deep breath."

"But I thought you said—"

"There was an accident," Frank said.

The reality of it hit. What he had done to Jodi was like a black void opening up inside of him.

He had done this. He was a murderer. He had murdered his wife.

Why had he called Frank?

Why?

A sound came out of him. A keening.

"That's good, Martin. Cry it out. Cry it out."

He couldn't think straight.

"She and the New York investigator had a cop helping them to get out. There was a shoot-out between him and our people. Jodi got hit in the cross fire. Probably by this cop. There was no pain. She didn't suffer. It was instant."

"No," he moaned. "What am I going to do? Where is she? I need to go there. I—"

"I'll take care of everything, Martin. Take a sleeping pill. Knock yourself out. You need to sleep. When you wake up, I'll call," Frank said and the phone went dead.