Free One to Go by Mike Pace Page B

to stop this nonsense.
    Another glance at the clock.
Two minutes
.
    Tom turned off the safety and, using both hands to steady the gun, handed it to Gino.
    Gino wrapped his large right hand, a tough construction worker’s hand, around the grip. He stared at the gun, but his eyes appeared distant. He put his finger on the trigger and took a deep breath. “Don’t know if I got the guts to do it.”
    One minute
.
    Tom kept telling himself the man sitting in front of him beat an innocent woman to death with his bare hands. A life for a life.
    He gulped, his words just above a whisper. “You want me to help?”
    â€œYou’d do that for me?”
    Of course, I’d be pleased as punch to assist you. No, no, don’t mention it. Least I could do
.
    Thirty seconds
.
    Tom wrapped his hand around Gino’s trembling wrist as the man lifted the gun, pointing the shaking barrel at his temple. Tom wedged his index finger inside the trigger guard on top of Gino’s thick finger.
    Twenty seconds
.
    Gino looked up to him, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. “Tom, I just want to say—”
    Don’t you understand? There’s no time to hear what you JUST WANT TO SAY!
    Ten seconds
.
    He felt Gino’s finger tighten, but not fast enough. Tom closed his eyes and squeezed.
    The sound of the gun, amplified by the kitchen tile, reverberated through every cell in Tom’s body. Gino’s head crashed to the table. Tom jerked his hand away, and the gun fell to the floor. Tom couldn’t move. His entire body shook.
    Gino Battaglia was dead, his brains splattered across the tile floor. His sightless eyes stared up at Tom.
    He glanced up at the clock. Time of death: 11:59 p.m.
    Tom couldn’t stop screaming.

CHAPTER 15
    Tom was beyond exhaustion. The DC forensic team was finishing up; Gino’s body had been photographed in situ, then taken away. Tom had just finished telling the detective his story for the third time.
    The cop’s name was Percy Castro. Late fifties, overweight. If Tom had to describe the detective in one word, it would be “rumpled.” His clothing was rumpled, his thinning hair rumpled, and even his face appeared rumpled. Broad shoulders, huge hands, he was several inches shorter than Tom. His blue eyes, shrouded by heavy lids, signaled intelligence: this wasn’t Castro’s first rodeo.
    After calling 911, Tom had telephoned Gayle, and she’d come and taken the girls back to Arlington. Tom had made sure neither girl entered the house, but Angie sensed something was wrong. When she asked if her daddy was okay, Tom didn’t have the strength to lie, so he said that her daddy had decided to go see her mommy in heaven. When she burst into tears, he’d held the child tightly, not letting go until Gayle arrived which, fortunately, was five minutes before the cops.
    Tom knew there was no way he could eliminate microscopic traces of blood, so after pocketing his gloves, he actually smeared more blood on his clothes, and made a point of picking up the gun and setting it on the table. The gloves were not to cover fingerprints, but powder blowback—thank you,
CSI
.
    Castro gestured Tom toward the couch in the living room. As soon as Tom sat, he sunk so deep into the plush cushion his knees were almost at chin level. The cop took the straight-back chair oppositehim, creating a line of sight downward to Tom, and exaggerating Castro’s role as top dog.
    â€œSo, tell me what happened,” said Castro. The cop’s deep, ragged voice suggested he was or had been a heavy smoker.
    Tom had been smart enough to prepare and rehearse his story in his head on the drive over. He’d figured if he actually went through with the plan, he’d be too shaken up to concoct a cogent explanation on the spot.
    â€œI took Angie over to see Gino. When I was about to leave, Gino called me back to the kitchen and offered me a beer. He had in front of