Flynn smiled at me. He buttoned his coat up to his neck. He placed both hands in his pockets. We all had our hands in our pockets. I stole a glance at Hawk. Hawk’s eyes were almost sleepy.

“The girl knows I killed her mother,” Flynn said.

I nodded.

“Couldn’t be helped,” Flynn said. “She was a stupid gash.”

I watched his face. I didn’t see much.

“Doesn’t mean jack shit without a witness,” Flynn said.

“Nice to have a buddy like Tom Connor.”

“I’ve known him since he was a kid at Old Colony,” Flynn said. “Don’t take offense at this stuff. Take the girl, tell her to shut the fuck up, and we’re good.”

Flynn pulled off a leather glove and offered his hand.

I looked at his hand. I looked to Hawk.

“You want to tell me what makes you two shitbirds any better than me?”

“How much time you got?” Hawk asked.

Flynn laughed.

“You want to count bodies with me, Hawk?”

Hawk just stared at Jack Flynn with his sleepy eyes.

“How about you, Spenser?” Flynn said. “How many have you killed?”

Flynn’s cell rang, and he took it. He placed it back into his pocket and nodded. Snow continued to fall. His feet crunched on the steps as he shifted his weight.

“Okay,” he said. “That was Gerry. He’s got Theresa Donovan with him.”

“I thought it was going to be Connor.”

“You think a federal agent is going to put himself in the middle of this shit pile?” Flynn asked. “Only thugs like us get down and dirty. Guys like Connor watch from the grandstands.”

“Connor doesn’t know what team he’s on.”

Flynn watched me. He nodded. “You know,” Flynn said, “don’t be so sure.”

I looked to Hawk. Hawk stared at Jack Flynn. I was getting the impression he didn’t care much for him.

“Where’s Mattie?” I asked.

“Safe.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“She’s close.”

“Then let’s see her.”

“You want her, you meet me at the Sully Square Station in thirty minutes,” Flynn said. “No cops. No Hawk. You go to the inbound ramp. Mattie will be on the train. You get on. I get off. But if something goes wrong between now and then with the Donovan girl, all bets are off.”

“I’m starting to feel like Will Kane,” I said.

Flynn didn’t hear me. He’d already started back down the steps and to the street. The black SUV pulled up, and Jack Flynn crawled inside. The SUV drove off. A dark green BMW followed a few beats later.

“Don’t like it,” Hawk said.

“How do you think I feel?”

“You think Quirk and Boston PD have Gerry?”

“Yep.”

“You think Flynn will find out in the next thirty minutes?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“Even if he don’t, you know Flynn ain’t gonna play fair.”

“I do.”

“And if I go down into the T station with you, they’ll spot me.”

“You are a big personality.”

“That leaves you up shit creek.”

“Not my favorite creek.”

“Now, ain’t this more fun than fishin’?”

61

Sullivan Station was a glorious monument to the Boston transit authority, a slapped-together heap of concrete, wires, and steel below Interstate 93. The T ran aboveground on the north side of the river, and I stood on the inbound platform, waiting for the next train. Snow fell heavier now, and there was talk of canceled flights tomorrow at Logan. There was a lot of wind. I thought about getting a shot of whiskey to warm me. Sully Station wasn’t South Station. No bars or boutique cafés.

More snow fell. I waited. Nearly nine o’clock now.

Somewhere in the busted-up concrete-and-steel overpass pilings and general urban mayhem, Hawk was out there. We’d improvised a plan, which was often the way we worked, and now we waited. Hawk had a rifle aimed on that platform. Hawk was watching. I could feel his presence, and that gave me comfort.

Forty minutes had passed since Bunker Hill. The T had come and gone countless times. I kept a good ten feet between me and the train.

At forty-five minutes, another T rambled in from Wellington Station. In the third car, I spotted Mattie. She wore the same blue puffy coat and school uniform as she had the day before.

Two men were with her.

They were Flynn’s boys. A Hispanic male and a scruffy old man.

Mattie’s eyes were very big when the doors opened with a hiss. The Hispanic man ushered me forward with a rapid hand motion. I walked slowly. I looked in each direction. I studied the other T cars. I peered up to the thick concrete stairwells.

With my hand on the .40-caliber, I stepped inside.

I winked at Mattie.

“Here you go, fuckface,” the old man said.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I asked.

“Fuck you,” the old man said. His teeth were very crooked, his breath an epidemic.

“Wow,” I said. “I guess lackeys don’t get the dental plan.”

The Hispanic man tried to glower at me. I winked at him. The glower turned to confusion.

He and the scruffy old man stepped off the train. The train doors closed.

The men remained on the platform as we headed back to the city.

The T bustled and jumped along the track, light flickering past us. A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire separated the tracks. Security lamps spotted portions of a far concrete wall lettered with crude but clever graffiti.

“You okay?” I asked, gripping the overhead rail.

“Sure.”

“They hurt you?”

“Nah,” Mattie said, still sitting very still, her fists clenched on her lap. “Couple of dickless retards.”

“You give them too much credit,” I said. “You see Jack Flynn?”

She nodded. I watched the train car as we talked. An old woman in a mustard yellow coat read the Globe. A couple of black teens took turns rapping freestyle. A gray-headed vagrant took swigs from a bottle.

We slowed as we reached Community College Station.

The two black teens got off. A slouchy kid in a Levi’s jacket with a sherpa collar got on, a backpack slung over a shoulder. He was listening to an iPod and wore an inward smile, enjoying the music.

The vagrant continued to take a swig from the bottle. I almost asked him for a nip.

Doors closed and we moved underground, under the frozen river, whirring and jerking. We rambled through darkness and strobes of white light. I sat down beside Mattie and put my arm around her. She smiled, exhausted. Her body relaxed against me, and tears flowed silently down her face. I don’t think she knew she was crying. I decided not to tell her.

“What did Flynn say to you?” I asked.

“Nothin’.”

“You say anything to him?”

“Plenty.”

“Feel good?” I asked.

Mattie smiled. “You bet.”

“Theresa Donovan will testify against Flynn,” I said.

“We’ll see,” she said. “I don’t believe she’d say shit if her mouth was full of it.”

We soon came out from under the river and into the North Station. We’d head on to South Station. Hawk would meet us at the platform in case anyone followed.

The slouchy kid got off. The old woman got off.

The vagrant left, and sadly took his bottle with him. Two men in their twenties wearing skully caps and thick, dark coats got on board. My hand dropped from Mattie and felt for the S&W as they turned. Both sat at the rear of the train, not once looking at us. The effort of not looking gained my attention.

“Where we headed?” Mattie said.

“A safe place until Flynn’s picked up.”

One of the skully boys caught my eye. He had a stylized beard cut to make it appear he was too cool to shave.

I nodded. He looked away.

“You won’t find him,” she said. “He’ll walk. Even if he makes it to court, he’ll walk. No one gives a shit about my mom.”

“That’s not true anymore.”

I watched the boys. They rested their elbows on their knees and studied the ground between their feet like a couple ballplayers at the ready.