Part 2: Executioner's Song

I sit in the car, the sounds of the outside world muffled and numb. It looks different in the daylight, almost noble. It fits its former owner: Senator by day, conspiratorial slime by night. The light blinded the onlooker from the underlying darkness.

The mansion looked about as I had left it, though the blood had been washed away, and shattered windows covered with transparent plastic. Remnants of police tape still cling to the wrought iron gate, the yellow stripes crisscrossing the black bars and making me think of hornets and pain.

I expect a trap.

I can't find a reason to care.

Walking up the main path, flashbacks of Cleaners and gunshots appear with every footstep. I shake them away. The only residents now are three expensive cars sitting in the driveway. One has a plate reading N.Y. Law and something inside me twists slightly along with my mouth.

Lawyers. I hate lawyers.

I stop and listen to the calming silence that only money can buy in a world of violence and strife. I look at the door to the place and a familiar itch resurfaces on my trigger finger. The door opens. A serpent's smile.

"Ah, Mr. Payne."

"Doubleday." It's not a question. The used car salesman scent reeks from the guy like a quart of cheap cologne, and there was something behind the eyes that told me that his personality was just as flammable. But for the time being he was all handshakes and grins and it's all meaningless to me.

He leads me through the mansion, giving the dime tour while extolling the virtues of its deceased owner, as if I was some rube homebuyer looking to take on a fixer-upper. I think to shut him up with a glare but the old instincts are kicking in, and I tune him out, checking the corners and sniper positions I'm already familiar with.

There is never a way out.

We go through a door not riddled with bullet holes and into a study. Cherrywood desk, and three chairs in front of it. Two are filled: a man, a woman; she older and draped in black, distraught, he younger and in gray and looking bored. The loving family. They turn as we enter.

She stops sobbing.

He stops looking bored.

They both sneer at me.

It's always good when a family can find common ground.

Doubleday motions for me to sit, and I shrug, ending up next to the Lady in Black. The only sound in the room is the lawyer's split-lipped grin tightening around too-white teeth. He sits.

"Well now. Mr. Payne, let me introduce Mr. Woden's surviving relatives. This is Mrs. Valerie Woden, Alfred's sister, and Mr. Lawrence Woden," Doubleday pauses for effect, "Alfred's son."

The tension rises but I'm stone. I nod to the kid and he nods back like accepting some challenge I didn't give him. I just glance back. A gauntlet's been tossed but I'm not sure by who or why. Doubleday takes back our attention by clearing his throat.

"Ahem. Well then. As you all know, pursuant to Mr. Woden's wishes, you have all been named as beneficiaries to his estate. The instructions I was left with will begin first with a reading of the relevant section of the Will. I have copies of the full document for each of you upon the conclusion-"

"Just get on with it!" the kid snaps. Snotty accent. Probably got his Pampers wet coming across the water from Oxford or something. Doubleday looks like he's been slapped in the middle of a pick-up line.

"Mr. Woden, your father left strict instructions regarding this procedure, and I will see them met. In another moment, you will have the information regarding the distribution of his estate."

The kid folds his arms, dejected and impatient like the brat he is. Beside him, the sister just looks sad.

"Now then. The Will." The Lawyer opens a file folder and reads the thing in a voice that reminds me of a church sermon. "Being of sound mind, I, Alfred J. Woden do hereby bequeath the particulars of my estate as follows: to my beloved sister, Valerie, I leave all the collected artwork stored within the private vault in Paris, France; ownership of all jewels in the Woden family collection; and the sum of $500,000."

The Sister bursts into tears, sadness or happiness I can't tell. The Son is tapping his foot and looking angry.

"To my son, Lawrence, I leave my private collection of vintage automobiles; the summer house in the Hamptons; my private yacht; and the sum of $500,000."

To say that the kid went into shock would be an understatement. Someone must have hit the "repeat" button, because all he can mumble is "But…but…but…." But…he's cut off when the Lawyer goes on, and then it's everyone's turn to gape. Including me.

"And finally, to Detective Max Payne, I leave the entirety of the Woden Mansion: all associated properties, and all contents therein."

Save for Doubleday, who was getting his commission regardless, I wasn't sure whose jaw hit the floor the hardest, but it was followed by the Son raging, the Sister practically screaming, and the Lawyer looking oddly pleased.

As for me, I felt like I was looking down the barrel of a gun.