Rough Justice (24 page)

I didn't plan to give them time.

I drove on. There were no lights burning anywhere. What houses there were, set in behind the trees, were just black shapes, hulking. For the most part, the woods went back and back without a break. Soon, though, the dirt road gave way to pavement. Lawns appeared between patches of forest. The road opened up a little. I started to pick up some speed.

I seemed to be heading east. I thought I might pick my way through the back roads to Connecticut. Take a crack at the Merritt Parkway or maybe travel down on 124. The cops didn't have the manpower to cover me everywhere. They'd have to guess or spot me by chance. So far, it looked like I was outguessing them. I drove for a long time. Got onto the parkway, headed down toward the border. My luck held.

I smoked steadily as I drove. I smoked and watched the road and watched the mirror, looking for cops. I might have had a chance with them now, might have been able to explain, even prove my case. But it wasn't good enough, not with Watts after me. One night in jail might be fatal. A week on Rikers Island, I was dead for sure. I had to get one last answer. Then, if I could reach the
Star
, if I could convince the People Upstairs of the truth, if I could surrender to the cops with an army of lawyers surrounding me—then I just might be able to keep myself alive.

It was possible. It seemed possible, at least. But with every minute, the percentages shifted a little further against me. The more I traveled, the more chance there was some quick-eyed cop would nail my car. The more time went by, the likelier I'd make a mistake. As I rolled down into New York again, as the low cities of Westchester grew up along the road and as the night traffic grew thicker at the edge of the Bronx, my nerves began to heat up again. My eyes would not stay still. They flicked from the mirror to the pavement to the shoulders where the cops hide sometimes. I kept waiting for the sound of the siren, the whirl of the lights.

It did not happen, though, until after I hit the FDR. I shouldn't have gone that way, but I decided to risk a fast trip downtown and brave the heavier patrols. I stuck to the center lane, traveled just a little above the speed limit. By now, I was gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. I didn't even dare to glance behind me anymore, afraid of what I'd see. The colored lights of Queens sparkled on the East River. The East River flashed by …

And then the lights burst over my rear window. The siren gave a whoop. I looked up to see the cruiser bearing down on me at full speed.

I hit the gas. The Accord lurched forward. The cop car had already pulled into the left lane. In another second, it was right beside me.

In a second more, it had sped past. Its siren screaming, its lights whirling round, it headed south on the FDR, until it rounded a bend and vanished from sight.

I eased my foot down on the brake. I eased my body back against the seat. The pulse in my throat almost choked me. I swallowed it. I drove on, to the exit at Forty-second Street.

There was no place to park near River City. I didn't have time to look around. I drove straight to Cooper House and stopped the Accord right out in front, blocking a fireplug.

I stepped outside. The night was cool and pleasant. The air was soft and spring sweet. There was traffic enough down on the avenue, but up and down the hill, everything was quiet. Only a bum, at the top of the road, shuffled through the sewer steam, heading toward the local park. I left the car behind me, crossed the street. Approached the towering limestone castle for the last time.

The front doors were closed. The heavy wood, laced with iron, looked impregnable. The two windows to the drop-in center were within reach, though. They were shut, but I didn't think they were rigged with an alarm. There was a security guard inside, after all. He was the one to take care of break-ins.

I moved underneath the windows. They were about six feet off the ground. I could get my hands on them, my fingers on the glass. I gave one of them a push upward. I got nowhere, it was locked. I moved to the second, shoved up against the glass. It budged. I got under the sill and pushed it up as far as I could reach, about halfway.

I grabbed hold of the ledge. I tried to haul myself up. A sword of pain went through me. I gave a short cry, fell back to the pavement. My back: it had been wrung like a damp rag. I reached around to feel it, trying to catch my breath, coughing. Slowly, the pain eased to a dull throb.

With a low grunt, I stepped forward to try the window again.

Once more, I grabbed the ledge. I hauled up. Every muscle in my body was stretched and weary, coursing with fire. My jaw hurt—from when I'd slapped into that wall earlier. And my back now went ominously numb. I dragged myself up until I could throw an elbow over the ledge. I grabbed the window frame. Tried to bring my knee up. It slipped off, and the pain of the stone chipping my knee nearly made me fall again.

The next try did it. I got my knees up, balanced precariously on the ledge. I caught hold of the half-open window and shoved it up the rest of the way. There was a screen beyond it. I tested it—pushed at its frame gently.

The thing just gave way. It fell right into the room. The edge of the frame hit the floor with a thud. The screen toppled over, banging once against a chair before it landed.

I followed the frame into the room. The second I touched down, I heard the footsteps running toward me from the hall. I dove to the floor. Scrambled behind an easy chair. Pulled my knees up, trying to make myself small.

The door to the drop-in center opened and the guard looked in.

He was an old man, a black guy. A sad face of hanging flews, like a basset hound. He did not open the door all the way, but peered in through a crack. He switched on a flashlight and slowly started to pass its beam around the room. Over the tatty furniture, the bulletin boards, the pictures on the wall. Starting at the far corner. Moving toward me.

I sat there, legs pulled up, eyes pulled wide, my breath deafening in my ear. I watched as the beam approached the old armchair that hid me. It gleamed on it for just a second. It did not hesitate. It passed on.

I let out a breath of relief. Then the beam hit the fallen screen.

It stopped. The light held on the screen and I saw the old guard's eyes narrow. Then the light moved on. The guard withdrew his head. The door closed softly.

I grabbed hold of the chair, struggled to my feet. I stumbled across the room until I fell against the door. I pressed to it, listened through it. I heard the old man's footsteps fading away. I turned the knob and pulled the door open a little. I peeked out.

The hall was empty. The office door on the other side of it was ajar. Light filtered out of it, spilled in a cone across the tiled floor. I heard the plastic clicking of telephone buttons.

I hesitated. One second. Thinking that I might be able to get out now. To make it back to the
Star
. To take my chances with what I had.

But unless I had the story solid, I was through. Bush would suspend me. I'd be unprotected. And there'd be Watts …

I moved out of the drop-in center, crossed the hall to the stairs.

I heard the guard's voice behind me as I started climbing.

“Yes,” I heard him say softly. “Right away.”

I rose quickly toward the second-story landing. Tried not to think about the hurting as I went. I rose until I was standing in the center of a long carpeted hallway. To my right were two large doors with the word “Cafeteria” stenciled on one of them. To my left, were apartments, two on each wall. I went quietly down the hall toward them.

Scar's was first. There was a white card with his name typed on it in the slot next to the doorframe. That was One-A. One-B was the secretary, Laurie Wilson.

One-C was what I was looking for. The card there read “Mark Herd.” I stopped, took a deep breath. I knocked quietly.

There was no answer. A moment passed. Another. There was no movement from within. I knocked again.

At once, there was a murmur. “What? Who is it?”

“It's me,” I said. “Scar.”

“Scar?”

“Let me in, man.” I knocked again.

“All right. All right. Hold on. Jesus.”

I heard him shuffling toward me.

“What do you want? It's almost one.”

“Open up.”

There was another pause. One breath. Two. Three.

The lock snapped. The chain slid off. The door opened a crack and Mark Herd stuck his head out.

I grabbed the doorknob with one hand. I grabbed his hair with the other. Then I pulled the door shut.

28

The sound of the door slamming into his head was not a pleasant one. Then again, the experience wasn't all bad, either. For one thing, I kind of enjoyed the way his mouth twisted in pain, the way the gasp broke out of it. The way his eyes widened in fear. I could still remember the cold taste of his stiletto.

I pulled the door back, shoved him inside. Followed him into the dark room. He was reeling away from me, clutching his head with both hands. He moaned as he staggered against a chair. Then he tumbled down into it and bent double.

“How did you move the body?” I said. “Come on, punk, I haven't got much time.”

But Herd just sat doubled over in the chair, clutching his head. He was wearing a T-shirt and underpants, so I could see the sinews of his arms and legs tightening with pain. To the left, his small bed was a tumble of sheets and blankets. With that and the chair he sat in, there wasn't much room for anything else. The place was no more than a cell, with only a small window looking out over the back garden.

I took a step toward him, as menacing as I knew how.

“How'd you rig the overdose? What'd you use? When did you do it? This is the quiz, son, let's go.”

With a roar, he launched himself at me. His arms were knotted. His face was twisted and wild with rage. He was fast and he was strong and he was mean.

But he was young. I stepped to one side and drove my elbow into his temple. He staggered sideways, crashed into the wall. There was a poster hung there, a picture of some scary-looking guy with a guitar. Herd dragged it down with him as he slid to the floor.

“She couldn't have done it alone, Herd. Someone had to help her. What did you do with Mikki Snow's body?”

Slowly, Herd shook his head. He looked up at me from under heavy eyelids. His lips twisted in a sneer.

“You're dead meat,” he said.

Then, for a second, there was nothing in my mind but the red heat of rage. The next thing I knew, I had Herd's shirt gripped in my two fists. I had him lifted in the air and I was shoving him against the wall where the poster had been. His head bucked forward and back as I slammed him again and again. I was screaming:

“I'm not guilty, you piece of shit! I'm not going down for this, you hear? You're gonna tell me what happened. Tell me!”

Then there was a powerful arm around my neck. I was being choked, dragged back. I lost my grip on Herd and he toppled to the floor again. I strained against the force that held me. I pulled free. Spun around.

It was Sam Scar.

“Ho! Ho!” he said. “Cool down. You'll kill him!”

He stood poised, waiting to fend me off. He was wearing nothing but trunks, and the black wounds stood out on his muscular arms.

“I got about sixty seconds before the cops get here, Sam. He's gonna talk if I have to rip the words out with my hand.”

“Talk what, tell what?”

“He helped Celia Cooper move Mikki Snow's body. He helped her make it look like an overdose.”

Herd screamed up at me, the spit flying from his lips. “You stupid shit.”

“Leave him alone, Wells,” said Celia Cooper. “He had nothing to do with it.”

I turned and saw her in the doorway.

She was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her hands rubbing nervously at her shoulders. In rumpled pants and a billowing sweatshirt, her small thin body looked even more fragile than usual. The weary face looked wearier still. All the same, that aura she gave off, the aura of command—that remained with her. The minute she spoke, Herd, Scar, and I stopped and looked at her and waited for her to speak again.

“Baumgarten called me,” she said. “I figured you'd have it worked out by now.” She looked down at the floor and shook her head. “Why couldn't you just … leave it alone?”

“Because I didn't murder anyone,” I said. “And you did.”

Her shoulders lifted as she gave a tired laugh. “I wish I had your … simplicity. I wish things were as simple as you think. I never murdered anyone.”

“You killed Mikki Snow.”

Her eyes flashed up at me. “That was an accident … that was …” She couldn't hold my stare. “A necessity,” she said.

“Because she wouldn't leave it alone either.”

“That's right. That's right. And because she was simple, too. Because she thought I was good and that good people do good things and that everything works out for the best and … God knows what else.” She let out a long sigh. “And it's not that way, Wells. It's not that way.”