Chapter 11
Calloway
First a chandelier, now a gargoyle. Someone is trying to kill me, and they seem to think I’m an idiot.
Xander’s logic after the chandelier was clean. The Vulture was the target, Calloway. You were just in the splash zone. It made sense. Vinny collected enemies like stamps.
But this morning’s performance was less subtle. The gargoyle didn’t just fall; it was aimed. The shower of stones missed my head by inches. Once is plausible deniability. Twice is a declaration of war. And when someone declares war, you go to family.
My family meets at the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Club.
I nod to the doorman and head straight for the library wing, ignoring the dull conversations of lawyers and politicians.
I find the specific volume of Dante’s Inferno on the third shelf and pull. A soft click, and the bookcase whispers open onto a spiral staircase.
The world upstairs thinks secret societies are for old men in robes, plotting world domination over cigars.
The Hemlock Society is a different beast. We are a family of killers with a code: no random bloodbaths, no innocents.
We hunt the monsters the justice system won’t touch.
Rapists, abusers, the corrupt. We are the karma people wish worked faster.
Justice, Hemlock-style. Family, but with more body bags.
The familiar chill hits me as I descend. At the bottom, I place my palm against the scanner. A green light flashes, the steel door unlocks, and I enter the chamber.
“Pretty Boy arrives,” Thorne says from his chair at the head of the table. He raises his glass of scotch, and the light catches the thin white scar across his knuckles. “Good to see you.”
“Always a pleasure,” I say, sliding into my seat. Perfect lumbar support, my design. I pour two fingers of bourbon into the crystal tumbler.
“Before we get into all the doom and gloom,” Lazlo says, lifting his glass like he’s about to make a toast, “New riddle. What has two asses and kills people?”
The room goes still. Ambrose blinks. Darius sets down his drink. Xander rolls his eyes.
“What?” I say.
“Assassin,” Lazlo finishes, grinning around at us.
No laughter. Only the faint tick of the old clock overhead.
“Tough crowd,” he mutters into his whiskey. “You people wouldn’t know comedy if it stabbed you in the kidney.”
Ambrose clears his throat, a sound designed to command attention. He leans forward, his solid frame straining the seams of his tailored suit. His dark hair is a precise military cut, and the ink of a tattoo peeks from beneath his cuff as he adjusts his jacket.
“If I may, gentlemen,” he says, “Target acquisition protocols dictate we establish a clear perimeter. My Delta Force unit in Mogadishu employed similar tactics during Operation Eagle Claw.”
A smile touches my lips. Ambrose’s military career was cut short, but his earnest belief in his own war stories is a charm we all indulge.
Darius lifts his glass. “Fascinating,” he says, swirling the amber liquid. “I must have missed the chapter in military history where Eagle Claw took place in Mogadishu instead of Iran.”
Ambrose gives a dismissive flick of his wrist, as if swatting away a gnat of historical fact. “Classified location change. Need-to-know basis only.”
“Remind me,” I say, positioning my glass at the perfect angle on the coaster, “What are we discussing?”
“The Matheson case,” Thorne says, his cool gray eyes sweeping the table. “The pharmaceutical executive who’s been watering down cancer medications. Three children died last month.”
Ambrose’s jaw tightens, his knuckles white on his cane. “By Churchill’s whiskey glass,” he mutters, the absurd curse delivered with the gravity of a death sentence. “That man needs to be neutralized. Now.”
Lazlo leans forward, his eyes bright with a manic energy. “I can do it tonight. His security system has a three-second delay. I timed it.” He pauses, scratching at his wrist. “Though I might have to postpone if this rash is symptomatic of necrotizing fasciitis. WebMD says—”
“It’s a watch tan,” Xander says without looking up from his tablet. “You mentioned working a double shift in the sun yesterday.”
Lazlo examines his wrist with renewed interest. “Huh. That makes more sense. Still, the flesh-eating bacteria incubation period—”
“Before we diagnose Lazlo with his fourth terminal illness this week,” Darius cuts in, steepling his fingers, “let’s focus.” He leans forward, his lawyer’s gaze sweeping over each of us. “This court requires proof before passing sentence. So, what do we have?”
Xander turns his tablet. On the screen, a grainy photo shows Matheson handing an insulated cooler to a man in a hoodie. “He built a perfect digital fortress,” Xander says. “But the handoff must happen in the real world. I brought him down with a traffic cam.”
Darius leans forward, a look of pure, predatory admiration on his face. “That’s almost poetic.”
Thorne gives a single, decisive nod. “A verdict, then. Xander, vulnerabilities?”
“His home security is a child’s toy,” Xander says.
“Lazlo,” Thorne commands. “Make it look like a heart attack. You’re up.”
“I can help create the artistic direction,” I add.
“Speaking of artistic direction,” Xander says, pulling up something on his tablet, “we need to talk about The Gallery Killer.” He slides the device across the obsidian table. The screen glows with a news headline: “NINTH VICTIM OF GALLERY KILLER FOUND.”
I can’t help the satisfied smile that spreads across my face. The composition is perfect. The lighting highlights the evidence of his crimes arranged around him.
“The publicity is becoming problematic,” Xander continues, bursting my bubble of pride. “My police contacts say the commissioner’s under pressure to make an arrest.”
My smile vanishes. “How much pressure?”
“They’ve assigned a task force,” Xander says. “Detective Ramirez is leading it. And she’s connecting the dots.”
“What dots?” I ask, a chill settling in my spine that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “I didn’t leave any dots.”
“The victimology,” Darius says, his voice taking on the precise, cutting tone of a cross-examination. “All targets connected to the art world. It’s a signature, Calloway. A clear, readable signature.”
“It’s a message,” I counter, my voice tight. “These men were predators who—”
“Cool it, Pretty Boy,” Thorne interrupts, his voice a low command. “No one is questioning your choice of targets. We’re questioning your methodology. It’s becoming recognizable.”
“But that’s the point,” I say.
“You need to go dark for a while,” Xander adds.
“What? No.”
“The Gallery Killer takes a vacation,” Thorne says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Effective immediately.”
He's only thirty-six, just four years older than me, but he speaks with the finality of someone who learned early that hesitation kills.
I stare at him, the reality of the words failing to connect. “You can’t be serious. It’s a series. You don’t cancel Van Gogh halfway through Starry Night.”
“A series the police are actively investigating,” Darius points out, his gaze unwavering. “Your artistic vision isn’t worth compromising this entire operation.”
“It’s not forever,” Thorne says. “Just until the heat dies down.”
I run a hand through my hair. “What will I do then?” The question comes out more plaintive than I intended.
Thorne shrugs, taking a sip of his scotch. “Take some photos, work, like all of us.”
“Legitimate work is the best cover,” Ambrose adds.
Lazlo leans forward with a manic grin. “Or you could just get laid. Seriously, Pretty Boy, I saw you at the gallery opening last week. You collected enough phone numbers to fill a phone book. For the love of God, just pick one and get your dick wet.”
I manufacture a laugh, a hollow sound I’ve perfected over the years. “Already did,” I say, reaching for my bourbon.
“Bullshit,” Lazlo says, pointing an accusatory finger. “Your left eyelid twitches when you lie. A classic parasympathetic response.”
He’s the youngest of us, but he thinks he knows everything about everyone. He’s right though. The numbers are wadded up in the pocket of my jacket somewhere. I never looked at them.
Ambrose leans forward, shaking his head. “Aristotle’s flaming chariot, man! If I had your supply lines, my dick would be permanently deployed. It’d need its own zip code.”
I force another laugh. “I assure you, I’m not lacking for company.”
The irony of being called “Pretty Boy” isn’t lost on me. This face. It’s the perfect bait. It was the perfect bait then, too.
They talk about sex as if it’s a pleasure. For me, it’s a pressure valve. A necessary mechanical act to quiet the noise in my head. There’s no connection, no intimacy. Just a brief physical release and the dirty feeling that follows.
“Well, whatever’s going on with your love life,” Thorne says, mercifully steering the conversation back to business, “The Gallery Killer needs to disappear for a while.”
“Fine,” I concede, grateful for the subject change. “I’ll postpone my plans for the next one.”
“Not postpone,” Thorne corrects. “Cancel. At least until this investigation cools down.”
I want to argue, but I know he’s right.
I nod, swallowing the protest rising in my throat. “Understood.”
Thorne looks around the table, a silent dismissal. The others shift, the tension of the meeting dissipating.
“One more thing,” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet scrape of a chair.
The movement stops. All eyes turn to me.
“I’d like to add a topic to the agenda,” I say, my voice flat. “The attempts on my life.”
Xander sighs. “Calloway, we went over this. Vinny had a target on his back the size of a billboard. It was a coincidence.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence,” I say, setting my glass down with a sharp click. “Because it happened again.”
The air in the room turns sharp and cold.
“This morning,” I continue, my voice low. “A gargoyle on my building shattered. It rained stone shrapnel large enough to cause a killing blow on the exact spot I’d been standing a second before.” I lean forward. “It wasn’t a random fall. It was a shot. They missed.”
Thorne’s hand, halfway to his mouth, freezes. His steel-gray eyes narrow into points of granite, locking onto me.
I meet his gaze, then sweep my own across the now still faces around the table.
“Someone wants me dead.”