The Thin Edge

by Peggy Townsend

  It took Aloa only a second to make her decision. She tapped in Quinn’s cell number.

  “Where the hell are you?” he answered in greeting.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Aloa said. “You need to get backup and go to the Jungle right now.”

  “Are you trying to piss me off even more?”

  “No, listen. The guy with the snake boots, the guy who was at the Sacrificial Lamb church? Well, he’s there right now. At the Jungle.”

  “How do you know? Is that where you are?”

  “No, but I got a call about two minutes ago from a woman who is. I helped her out a little and gave her my card. She said the snake-boots guy was watching her. He was standing near a tent that belongs to some guy named Peacock. You need to hurry.”

  “You’re not playing with me, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So where do I find this Peacock?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but I know where the woman who called lives. She’s in the middle of the camp. She’s got a blue tent with a green beach chair out front and probably some kid toys. She has a little girl. She’s about two years old.” Aloa heard the squeal of Quinn’s chair and guessed Quinn was already up and heading out his office door. “She said she’s too afraid to come out, but the guy with the snake boots isn’t far from her. Go in by the dumpster on the east side, across from that big concrete wall. Make a right turn and then go left for a while. You’ll come to an old washing machine, then go right for about fifteen yards. It’s near there. You don’t have much time.”

  “Hang on,” Quinn said to her. Then: “Lighthall, you come with me; Burt, you get a couple of squad cars to meet us at the Jungle. We’re picking up a suspect. No lights. No sirens.”

  He was walking now, his voice hitching with each stride. “So where are you? Erik called and said you ran off.”

  “I had some things to check out.”

  “You better not be with Hamlin.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you know where he is?”

  “I don’t.” Technically that was true.

  “I’ll call you later,” Quinn said and disconnected.

  Aloa quickly redialed Keisha’s number. “Come on, come on,” she muttered.

  No answer.

  She left a message saying help was on the way and thumbed off her phone. She wished she had a way to get to the camp, to make sure Keisha and her daughter were OK.

  She’d stuffed her phone in her jeans pocket and begun pacing across the huge kitchen when an idea came.

  Half a minute later she was wearing her denim jacket, her pack slung over her shoulders, and standing next to the gleaming, black-and-chrome BMW R 1200 GS motorcycle in the garage.

  The more than five-hundred-pound bike was a lot heavier and more powerful than the old Honda CB-350. It was like the difference between driving a Volkswagen Beetle and a race car.

  She’d found the bike’s key hanging in a cupboard next to three expensive helmets, one of which fit. She’d slipped on the headgear, gave a pre-apology to Barbara’s late husband, and started the bike’s engine, which came alive with a throaty growl. She’d pressed the garage door opener, spent a few minutes getting acquainted with the bike, and, finally, pulled out onto the street, her fingers tight on the handgrips.

  The thing was a beast, almost effortlessly powerful. The engine purred and the ride was smooth. She steered it through the city toward the Jungle, sweat dampening the T-shirt under her jacket, her eyes searching for drunken men who might stagger out in front of her and her ears listening for trucks that might not stop in time. She knew the old saying that it was good to get right back in the saddle, but this wasn’t just getting back into the saddle, this was riding a whole new horse.

  What kept her going were thoughts of Keisha and her daughter. Both of them were in danger, even if Snake-boots didn’t realize Keisha had seen him drag off Elvis. Keisha was a mother who used drugs and, if Snake-boots was wandering the Jungle looking for people to punish, she would have stood out. The cult’s members were their own judge, jury, and executioner, and she guessed they would delight in making Keisha pay for the sin of endangering her child. Aloa thought of the evil way the victims had died and felt a shiver in her belly.

  She made the last turn and slipped the BMW between two parked cars a block from the homeless camp. She tore off the helmet, walked a few steps, then, thinking of little Destiny in her pink jacket, began to run.

  She swerved around a tattooed man pushing a baby stroller stacked with bulging garbage bags and pounded past a Muni stop. A few yards from the tent city, a barefoot young woman with long blonde hair sat against an old storefront, oblivious to the world while she slid a needle under one of her toenails.

  Such a waste, Aloa thought even as she rounded the corner to find Quinn’s unmarked car just pulling into a parking spot near the huge concrete wall that bordered the Jungle. The doors opened and Quinn and Lighthall stepped out. Lighthall was a big-boned woman with broad shoulders, untrusting eyes, and an attitude that, Aloa had heard, earned her the nickname Kick-Ass Kate or Kicka for short. She wore a dark pantsuit and a duty belt with a gun at her waist.

  Aloa sprinted toward them.

  “Hey! You,” Lighthall barked. “You stop right there.”

  “What the hell, Snow?” Quinn said.

  Aloa skidded to a halt, ignoring both the order and the question. She pointed toward the tent city. “You have to get in there,” she said. “Now.”

  “We’re waiting for backup. They’re three minutes out,” Quinn said.

  “But you don’t understand,” Aloa said. “The woman? The one with the kid? She saw Elvis kidnapped. The guy with the snake boots dragged him out.”

  “Jesus, Snow, you might have mentioned that a little earlier,” Quinn said.

  Lighthall folded her arms across her ample chest. “And just who are you?”

  “A journalist. I work for Novo.”

  The detective turned. “Really, Quinn?”

  “Relax. She’s all right.”

  “I never met a reporter that was all right,” Lighthall said, but she must have known not to push Quinn further because she pressed her lips together and gave only the slightest shake of her head.

  “Listen. We have to go. Now. If he knows she’s a witness, he might kill her right there.” Aloa pointed to the hive of fragile shelters and broken lives that was the Jungle. “He’s got a knife.”

  Quinn frowned. “The witness saw it?”

  “No, but if he used a knife to slit his victims’ throats, it makes sense he’s got one now.”

  “How about you leave the analysis to us,” Lighthall said.

  Quinn turned his gaze on the camp.

  “There are a lot of people in there,” Lighthall warned. “We should wait for patrol.”

  He seemed to weigh a decision. He turned to Aloa and pointed. “Her tent is over by that pillar?”

  “Close to it.”

  “We can’t risk waiting,” Quinn said. “Lighthall, you go in from the south, by that old truck. Come in slowly. We don’t want to spook the guy and have all hell break loose. We want to keep this as low-key as possible.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Lighthall said.

  “I’ll come in from the north. If you see him first, keep an eye on him. Maybe he won’t do anything until patrol gets here.” He turned to Aloa. “Description?”

  “Tall, about six feet. He’s wearing jeans and a black jacket and those cowboy boots. Sunken cheeks. Dark eyes. No facial hair.”

  “Got it,” Quinn said.

  “Lighthall, you radio the cars. Tell them we’re going in.”

  Then to Aloa: “You wait here.”

  “But—” Aloa said.

  “But nothing,” Quinn said.

  “Yeah, don’t move,” Lighthall said and touched a hand to her duty weapon, reminding Aloa who had the power.

  Aloa watched the two detectives head out, her nerves firing, her mind rem
embering the little girl who loved to dig in the dirt.

  She looked at her jeans and at her Timberlands, got a pair of sunglasses and the pink beanie out of her pack, and put them on. She hoped the snake-boots guy wouldn’t recognize her and that she would look like that blonde girl on the street, somebody who might come into the Jungle looking for a fix.

  She glanced right and left and walked toward the camp.

  A dog barked. A grimy, bone-thin man in torn pants curled motionless in the gutter. Aloa prayed he was only passed out and not dead.

  She squeezed past a tent spray-painted with a swastika and entered the Jungle, the warmer weather intensifying the pungent smell of garbage and feces.

  Wary eyes watched and she reminded herself not to walk with long strides as she usually did, but to play the part of a slightly dope-sick user. She hunched her shoulders and dug her hands into her pockets.

  “Whatcha need, baby, ’cause I got some of it right here,” called a male voice. “I got it all nice and warm here in my jeans. Come on, baby.”

  She ignored the crude heckler and kept moving. Her destination was a slapped-together hut made out of shopping carts and tarps. The hovel would give her a view of Keisha’s tent without being seen. She hunched next to it, praying its occupant was either out of commission or not home, and pulled the beanie a little lower on her head.

  A few people milled around the camp, but mostly it was peaceful. A moan came from a nearby tent, followed by a hacking cough. She let her eyes travel along the meandering path through the huts and tents and saw a dark sliver of someone leaning against a concrete freeway support about five yards from the tent where Keisha and her daughter lived. She looked more closely and could see the toe of a cowboy boot. It was him.

  “Come on, Quinn,” she muttered under her breath, counting the seconds in her head.

  Suddenly, there was movement in the tent and a loud wail.

  Snake-boots stood up straighter and stepped from behind the pillar.

  Ah hell.

  Snake-boots approached the tent with long strides. His mouth was set; his shoulders as taut as a bowstring. He stopped in front of the nylon shelter and gave a low whistle. The same one she’d heard outside Elvis’s tent.

  “Go away,” Keisha called.

  “I got something for you,” Snake-boots said and squatted, his hands resting loose on his knees.

  “I don’t want nothing,” Keisha said.

  “Oh yeah? I saw you using yesterday. I got a nice half right here. Just think how you’ll feel. Come on out. I’ll give it to you,” Snake-boots said.

  “You go away.”

  “Ah, come on out. You know you want it.”

  “I’m staying right here.”

  Snake-boots stood. “Listen, bitch. You can come out easy or come out hard. Your choice.”

  “Oh, like the way Elvis did?”

  Aloa swore under her breath.

  What was Keisha doing?

  Snake-boots seemed to rock back slightly at her words. “Hard it is,” he said and squatted again, pulling a knife from his left boot and slowly drawing it down the fragile nylon. One long cut and then another.

  Keisha screamed.

  “Nobody cares, Keisha,” Snake-boots said and drew another long cut in the tent. A muffled sob came from inside the tent.

  Aloa was up and moving before she knew she was going to do it.

  “You there, Keish?” she called, hunching with a hand across her stomach in what she hoped was a good imitation of a junkie.

  Snake-boots turned. She could hear a dog bark and shouts at the far end of the camp.

  Where was Quinn?

  “I need something, K,” Aloa said. “I need it bad. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Go get help,” Keisha shouted. “Call the cops.”

  Keep the ruse going. Give Quinn and Lighthall more time.

  “Come on, K.” Aloa moaned.

  Snake-boots rose. “Get lost.”

  Aloa stopped and wrapped her arms more tightly across her stomach. “Hey, maybe you got something? I’m feeling bad,” she said. “Real bad.”

  “I don’t have nothing for scum like you.” Snake-boots’s eyes were hollow and dark. He held the blade out from his side. “Unless you want this,” he said.

  The sight of the knife and the knowledge of what it could do to a body sent a pulse of adrenaline through Aloa.

  Flee, her heart warned her, but her brain told her to fight. The lives of a mother and her little daughter were at stake.

  Aloa straightened and saw the question in Snake-boots’s eyes.

  “I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you,” she said.

  Snake-boots frowned. His fingers tightened on the knife handle. He glanced over his shoulder. Everything appeared normal. He turned back to Aloa. “And why is that, bitch?” he asked.

  No sign of Quinn.

  “Because you’re about to get taken down,” Aloa said.

  “By you?” Snake-boots gave an ugly chuckle. “I’d like to see that.”

  He took a step toward her.

  A single scratched ski pole stuck out of a junk-filled shopping cart at her side and Aloa grabbed it. Her heart thudded in her chest.

  “Really?” Snake-boots said.

  “You’d better run. You don’t have much time,” Aloa said and raised the makeshift weapon, sending out a silent plea for Quinn to hurry.

  “It won’t take long to cut you,” Snake-boots said and stepped toward her.

  “And it won’t take long for me to poke your eye out.” Aloa held the pole like a spear.

  He gave a hard laugh and tossed the knife from his right hand to his left and then back again. “Just try, sweetheart.”

  Aloa made as if to jab the pole at his head, but instead stabbed it toward his crotch, hitting him high in his inner thigh.

  He jumped back and grabbed his leg, cursing.

  Aloa stabbed again, but this time he grabbed hold of the pole handle before it hit him.

  “Gotcha,” he said and yanked the pole toward him, causing her to lurch forward. She caught her toe on a half-buried pipe and fell to her knees.

  She let go and scrambled backward. He was only a few yards in front of her.

  “Quinn,” she yelled, boosting herself to her feet.

  Snake-boots smiled and took a step toward her.

  She saw a plastic milk crate settled next to a faded tent, grabbed it, and hurled it toward her assailant.

  He batted it away and kept coming.

  She picked up a lawn chair and threw it. Next was an empty forty-ounce malt liquor bottle, which she chucked at him. It passed by his head with only an inch to spare.

  “You’re making me mad,” he said.

  She saw a rusted bicycle wheel and threw it.

  “That’s it,” he said and charged.

  Later, Aloa would wonder how she’d picked the only weapon that could stop a knife-wielding man. Without thinking, she grabbed a heavy Mexican blanket from a plastic chair and with both hands heaved it like a fishing net.

  Snake-boots raised an arm to ward off the covering, but it flopped over his head and draped across his knife hand.

  Aloa backpedaled.

  “Quinn,” she yelled again.

  Snake-boots cursed and flung off the blanket.

  His lips curled into a snarl.

  Suddenly, two arms were around his chest and Snake-boots was falling to the ground.

  “Police,” yelled Quinn, landing heavily on top of the suspect. “Drop the weapon.”

  Snake-boots grunted as he hit the dirt, then he heaved upward, lifting Quinn with him. He jerked onto his side and rolled, pinning Quinn beneath him.

  Snake-boots, his arms still restrained by Quinn’s grip, knocked his head backward, connecting with the detective’s mouth. Blood erupted and Snake-boots scrambled out of Quinn’s grasp. But the detective was quick. He thrust himself upward and tackled Snake-boots so the man fell backward.

  Quinn was now on top of Snake-bo
ots. “Drop the weapon,” he said.

  Snake-boots spit in his face.

  Quinn pushed a hand against Snake-boots’s chin so the suspect’s neck arched painfully. The other hand grabbed Snake-boots’s wrist and banged it against the ground.

  “Drop the weapon,” Quinn said.

  “Go to hell,” was Snake-boots’s strangled reply.

  Quinn’s answer was to again lift the wrist of the hand that held the knife and slam it hard against the ground.

  Once. Twice.

  The knife fell.

  Snake-boots roared, bucked, and freed one hand, then punched Quinn in the temple.

  Quinn’s head snapped sideways and Snake-boots threw Quinn onto his side.

  The two men rolled, punching and clawing.

  Aloa looked around for another weapon.

  The men smashed through a small blue pup tent and tumbled into a blackened firepit. Ash flew into the air. Snake-boots grabbed a stone and raised it, but Quinn parried with a punch to Snake-boots’s nose.

  Snake-boots howled and Aloa felt herself being shoved aside.

  “Outta my way,” Lighthall said, plowing over the smashed tent, grabbing Snake-boots by the back of the jacket, and yanking.

  Snake-boots fell backward, his eyes opening wide at the sight of the big, angry detective.

  He scrambled to his feet just as Lighthall reached across to her duty belt, pulled out a metal cylinder, and gave a flick of her wrist. With a sound that was a cross between medieval chains and a shotgun being racked, the cylinder telescoped into a steel baton with a mean-looking knob at one end.

  “Get down on the ground,” Lighthall said.

  Snake-boots froze.

  Lighthall twitched the baton and Snake-boots must have seen something in her eyes.

  He sat and put his hands up.

  “Roll onto your stomach. Hands behind your back,” she said.

  Snake-boots complied as Quinn got slowly to his feet.

  Lighthall grinned at Aloa. “And that’s why they call it a sit-down stick.”