Mean Business on North Ganson Street (34 page)

“Sounds like a dog army in there.”

Bettinger flanked his partner, holding a plastic bag, which was one of a dozen that he had retrieved from the grocer down the street. Wendell was not home, nor was he answering his phone, and the closest pet store was thirty-five minutes out of the way (and possibly out of business). Breaking into the dog handler's home was the quickest and surest way for the policemen to acquire an ultrasonic whistle.

Again, the big fellow raised the battering ram.

“Don't let it fly open,” advised the detective. “We don't want them getting out.”

“I'm bein' delicate.”

Dominic swung. Wood cracked, and the canine clamor crescendoed. The big fellow set down the siege device, tore off the doorknob, and tossed it into the bushes.

“You ready?”

Bettinger nodded, kneeling.

Dominic poked the door with an index finger. A barking head launched through the opening, teeth gnashing, and the detective covered it with the shopping bag. The hood was then attached to the confused beast's collar by a piece of duct tape.

Blinded by cheap plastic, the bewildered animal attacked a receipt.

“That's ridiculous,” said the big fellow.

“Definitely.”

“Ain't gonna suffocate, is it?”

“No.” Bettinger walked the animal into the yard. “Plenty of air.”

A barking head that belonged to a German shepherd appeared in the opening and received two shopping bags. As the detective guided the hooded beast from the brownstone, the big fellow looked inside.

“The others are in the detention center.”

The policemen walked through the doorway, entering a turquoise kitchen that smelled like wet hay. On the far side of the room, three mutts barked from the insides of large wire cages.

Dominic shook his head. “Doin' time.”

“There's a main kennel area?”

“He converted the garage.”

“Let's.”

The big fellow led his partner across the kitchen and down a hall to a reinforced metal door. Paws scratched the other side of the barrier as if it were an instrument in a jug band.

Bettinger undid the locks, turned the handle, and pushed. Warm air and dog smells spilled into the hallway.

The detective looked through the opening. Inside the garage was a large stainless-steel kennel that had four compartments. Sleepy German shepherds sat in two of the cells, while a pair of beagles and something fluffy that looked like a four-legged monkey patrolled the grounds.

Bettinger walked into the warm enclosure and started to sweat. It seemed as if the most comfortable room in the entire state of Missouri was inhabited by dogs.

“My ex-wife got one.” Dominic pointed at a Teutonic prisoner. “But bigger.”

The detective approached a metal supply cabinet that was big enough to be a fat man's coffin and opened its door. Inside were bottles, jars, and a series of posts from which depended various clippers, scissors, collars, chains, and dog whistles.

Bettinger took all of the lattermost instruments.

The policemen departed the room and retraced their steps up the hallway. As they neared the kitchen, the detective handed half of the whistles to his partner.

“We only want the ones that're completely ultrasonic.”

“Ain't they all?”

“Some produce noises people can hear.”

“Sure as fuck don't wanna be blowin' those in the Heaps.” The big fellow waved at the caged animals as he passed through the kitchen. “Good luck gettin' parole.”

The policemen returned to the snow and blew whistles as they circumnavigated the building. Wendell's dogs and others that were much farther away responded with a chorus of barks and woofs. Seven tests identified three entirely ultrasonic instruments.

Bettinger and Dominic approached Tackley, who was inside the silver car listening to local talk radio. A gun sat in his left hand, and his window was ajar.

“Here—” The detective handed one of the selected whistles through the opening. “Anything on the news?”

“The roads will be impassable in about an hour.” The mottled man pointed to the backseat. “There's an extra ballistic vest.”

“I've got one. And a mask.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “A ballistic mask?”

Bettinger nodded, thinking,
If it were a regular mask, Gordon would still be alive
. His eyes began to sting.

“Remember that grocery where they found Elaine James's body?” the big fellow asked as he circumvented the front of his car. “In Shitopia?”

“On Ganson Street.”

“Yeah.” Dominic opened his door. “That road goes all the way to the Heaps.”

“Got it.”

Bettinger walked to the charcoal gray pickup truck and climbed inside. The ballistic devil mask, bulletproof vest, and additional silencer-equipped semiautomatic that he had taken from the killer were all on the bench cushion, bundled up in a blue towel. Atop these items, the detective set his whistle, which was made of stainless steel and surmounted by a morose English bulldog.

The silver car rumbled, exhaling steam, and rolled forward. Bettinger started his engine, shifted into gear, and followed Dominic and Tackley into the blizzard.

 

XLVII

Dark Gray

Nature assaulted the city of Victory. Snow covered exposed surfaces, and for most of the detective's journey through the downtown area, he saw very little except the red taillights of the silver car that he followed. Both vehicles were able to traverse the five inches that had fallen (the sedan had chained tires, and the pickup truck had deep treads and helpful elevation), but the blizzard had arrived in full and would continue to roar until the roads were impassable.

The policemen knew that they had to beat the weather, and thus, they drove at a speed of fifty miles an hour across the frozen accumulation. Any car that got in the way of the two-vehicle convoy received high beams and honks.

Driving east on Fifty-sixth Street, Bettinger saw Claude's Hash House, Baptist Bingo, and the pillbox, which looked like a Siberian outpost. Windshield wipers shoveled powder across the glass, and overhead, the violescent sky glowered, exhaling snow.

The silver car's taillights grew larger and slid together, which was what happened whenever Dominic slowed down and turned. Bettinger braked and dialed his wheel clockwise, following his partner north.

As the convoy progressed up the avenue, the violescent sky darkened. It was not quite ten in the morning, but already, it looked like dusk.

The detective traversed five blurry miles on this road, and as he began a sixth, he saw the parking lot of a long-abandoned shopping mall. Beside the curb sat three snow-covered cars that were all the same exact same size and shape. Spinning police lights shone atop the trio of inert lumps, turning the landscape red and blue.

It was not hard for Bettinger to guess the fate of the officers who had driven these vehicles.

He tried not to think about what was inside the cooler.

Fifteen minutes later, the convoy entered the Toilet, where the divine eraser was steadily removing vandals' signatures and advice. Nobody was outside.

Something crackled underneath the truck's left tires, and the detective knew that he had just turned a pigeon into squab tartare.

The taillights of the silver car shone, grew, and slid together. Bettinger braked and dialed the wheel counterclockwise, following Dominic onto a cross street. A couple of blocks later, the convoy navigated another turn and was again proceeding north.

Snow fell.

Shortly after ten thirty, the detective passed the cat that had been nailed by its head to a telephone pole. The creature no longer possessed a body.

“Christ.”

The pickup truck lurched, fishtailing, and Bettinger lifted his boot from the gas. Gradually, the truck slid to a stop.

The detective dialed the wheel counterclockwise, hoping that the new angle would put some dry powder underneath the tires. He tapped the accelerator. The engine rumbled, and the truck lurched from the furrow.

Snow covered the windshield and was shoved aside by the wipers as the detective caught up to the silver car.

The convoy sped north. For twenty minutes, Bettinger pondered his wife's surgery, his son's death, and Sebastian Ramirez.

Eight inches of powder were on the ground when the silver car fishtailed.

The vehicle slid across the road, spattering snow, and slammed against an embankment. There, its spinning tires flung slush.

Bettinger braked and rolled down his window as he neared the marooned car.

Taillights flashed, and soon, Dominic emerged from the sedan, holding two big black squares in his right hand. “Floor mats,” the big fellow shouted when he made eye contact with the detective.

Bettinger parked the truck, grabbed his rugs, and walked outside. Snow needled his scalp as he walked toward his partner.

“As if things ain't bad enough already.” Dominic wiped violet precipitation from his face. “Fuckin' goddamn weather.”

The policemen put a floor mat under each of the tires and withdrew from the vehicle, dusting themselves. Inside, Tackley scooted behind the steering wheel, shifted gears, and accelerated. The silver car surged out of the slush, jettisoning rugs and ice.

Bettinger returned to his truck, buckled up, and followed Dominic west until they reached Ganson Street. There, the convoy turned right and headed north.

Dark rectangles that had once held doors or windows gaped on either side of the Shitopia street, and to the detective, the bleak area seemed no more hospitable with its snow makeover. Despair, violence, and defeat permeated northern Victory like nuclear fallout.

The silver car reached an intersection, circumvented an overturned van, and disappeared on its far side.

Seeing the obstacle, Bettinger applied his brakes and turned the wheel. Tires squeaked, and the pickup truck lurched, sliding across the powder directly toward the capsized automobile, which was less than fifty feet away.

The detective righted the wheel, hoping to gain some traction. Tires gripped fresh snow, and the truck shuddered.

Fifteen feet separated the vehicles.

Impact was unavoidable. Tightening his fists, Bettinger braked and cut the wheel.

The truck slammed into the overturned van, and the detective lurched. His seat belt snapped taut, bracing him as his vehicle skidded. The violet world receded.

Trailing slush, the truck slid across the intersection. The front bumper pounded a telephone pole, and the detective flew toward the windshield. His body jerked to a stop, and something cracked. A brush fire of pain flared across his left side, and instantly, he knew that the seat belt had fractured his ribs.

The truck was still.

A rope of snow dropped from a jarred telephone line and bisected the street.

Bettinger exhaled an unconsciously held breath, and pain shot across his damaged ribs.

Grimacing, he shifted into reverse and tapped the accelerator. Wheels flung slush, and the vehicle sank into the snow.

“Christ's—”

Tires screeched, striking pavement, and the truck lurched backward. Relieved, Bettinger slowed down, shifted gears, and drove north on Ganson Street. The silver car was no longer visible.

Snow covered the windshield, and the rubber blades faltered, straining against the thick accumulation.

Suddenly, the detective was driving an igloo.

“Junk.”

Bettinger dialed his windshield wipers off and on, and the slumbering blades awakened, clearing paths through the snow. The road ahead of him was empty, except for a falling pigeon that disappeared in a cloud of powder like a feathered meteor.

Leaning on the gas, the detective zoomed through an intersection and up the next street. Little red rubies that were taillights twinkled through the snowfall, and soon, he located the silver car, which was waiting for him at the end of the next block.

When a distance of ninety feet separated the two vehicles, Dominic continued forward.

Hail fell, rattling on the truck's windshield as Bettinger followed his partner north. The speedometer needle returned to the number 50 and did not sink. Slow progress was not an option.

The automobiles passed apartment buildings that lacked façades—a hive of exposed cubicles in which lay ruined toilets, sofas, mattresses, chairs, pipes, and doors. Each edifice was a five- to ten-story diorama of failure.

The convoy rolled through a score of intersections, continuing north across the abandoned terrain.

Thunder boomed, and the silver car's taillights glared.

Suddenly, Bettinger was speeding toward the back of Dominic's sedan, which had come to a complete stop. He raised his foot from the gas and dialed the wheel to the right, hoping to avoid the unseen barrier or pit that had stopped the other vehicle.

Snow peppered the windshield, and the truck swept past the silver car at a speed of forty-two miles an hour.

The path remained clear and solid.

Gently, the detective applied the brakes. The truck slowed and eventually stopped.

Bettinger toggled the gear, opened the door, and climbed outside. Shielding his eyes, he looked down the block.

The front of the silver car was below street level—a gigantic pothole (or something even deeper) had ended its journey—and the windshield was cracked. Doors swung open, releasing Dominic and Tackley.

“Fuckin' Shitopia,” exclaimed the big fellow.

Bettinger cupped his hands beside his mouth and called out, “Need some help?”

“Stay there,” replied the mottled man.

“Okay.”

Dominic retrieved a big green duffel bag from the trunk while Tackley claimed the cardboard box and tactical vests from the backseat. Together, they walked north.

Bettinger returned to the cab of the pickup truck, cleared room for his passengers, and sat back, waiting for them to arrive.

Outside, the winds whistled, and the violet snow turned white. A crosscurrent blew, skirling, and bright motes veered like wary insects.