Rough Justice

by Andrew Peterson

  “Come on,” I said again. “So she was trying to save Cooper. Trying to keep her out of trouble.”

  Baumgarten scratched his bald head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what she wanted. I kept telling her, I told her: it was Cooper’s idea. She came to me, made the offer to me. She didn’t have the money to go up against Sturgeon, so she asked me. I mean, she’s a savvy broad. I was doing her a favor, for Christ’s sake.” He lifted one hand. “Snow didn’t believe me. I told her, I said, ‘Go ask her. You don’t believe me? Ask her,’ I said. I said—”

  All at once, the siren seemed to break up and out into the night around us. The cop car had turned the corner onto Mountain Road. It was climbing toward Baumgarten’s house, coming steadily over the rough terrain. I started panting to the quick rhythm of my heart.

  Baumgarten’s eyes went back to the door. His mouth trembled. The sweat around it glistened. “I called Celia. I told her what’d happened. She said she’d take care of it. Mikki loved her, she said. I figured there was no … Wells, for the love of God, you’ll ruin my whole fucking family.”

  The words burst from him just as the red flashers appeared. As they passed over the dark and lit the trees outside. The siren blooped off. The cruiser was coming up the last stretch of Mountain Road. Its lights passed over the hedges.

  “Why did you call Mark Herd?” I hissed at him. My teeth started knocking together. “When you came to see me, why did you call Mark Herd?”

  Outside, I could hear the cop car slow. I looked over my shoulder. Saw the top of its flasher above the hedge that flanked the driveway.

  Baumgarten stared at me crazily. “Run!” he whispered. “Run!”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Please.”

  “Why’d you call him?”

  “Not Herd. Cooper. You can still get out of here. You can go. Go.”

  He pointed at the door behind me. I heard the first rustle of gravel as the cop car began its turn into the drive. For another instant, I fought the urge to break for it. Then I heard the gravel crunch as the cruiser started toward the house.

  “Run!” said Baumgarten again.

  And I did.

  26

  I bolted without thinking. I bolted for the door. Banged through it, out into the night. The police car was just starting down the long drive, heading forward to park behind Lansing’s Honda. The headlights were inching up toward me. I ran straight for them.

  I ran to the little car. Crouched down, hoping to keep the shadows over me, hoping to beat the lights. The breath broke out of my lungs as I slammed into the Honda’s side. I grabbed hold of the door handle, pulled it back.

  The coppers’ headlights hit me. The flasher blinded me as its red light whirled over my face. I tumbled out of the glare, into the darkness of the car. I had the keys out of my pocket somehow. I pulled the door shut, fumbling desperately to find the ignition slot. The key kept slipping over the surface of the dash. It wouldn’t go in. The lights grew close behind me.

  Then the bullhorn thundered. “Step out of the car! Step out of the car!”

  The key slid in. I turned it over. The engine gave a dull clunk, then growled and spun.

  “Step out of the car now! Step out of the car right now!”

  My rear window was all light. White light. Whirling red light. It flashed in my rearview. I had to squint it off.

  Keeping my car dark, I threw it into forward. Baumgarten’s Lincoln was a foot or two ahead of me. The cop car had moved up quick, locked me in behind. I wrenched the wheel over and hit the gas.

  The compact swung around, breathing by the Lincoln’s rear fender. I bumped off the driveway, onto the lawn. I careened across the grass, still turning, turning around.

  I saw the cops emerging from their car. I saw the black shadows of them in the whirling light. One on the far side, one near me. I saw them stepping to the side going for their holsters. I nudged the brake as the Honda kept spinning around over the grass. Now the lights were at my side window. Now they burned into me through the windshield. Now, through the windshield, I saw the two cops lifting their revolvers, leveling them steady in their clasped hands.

  I straightened the wheel out and hit the gas. I sped toward the cruiser, rocking over the broken ground.

  For one second, I saw the cop on the near side clearly. His clean-cut, young, and earnest face. His terrified blue eyes. I saw him try to keep his gun steady. Then he cried out and jumped out of the Honda’s way, rolling back across the hood of the cruiser. At the same instant, I threw the wheel over. The left tires lifted off the ground as the Accord swerved to avoid the cops. Again, I hit the gas, shot down the driveway, aimed for the opening between the hedges.

  And the other cop, the one on the far side of the car, opened fire.

  Glass crunched and shattered. I didn’t know where. Somewhere on the Accord I heard the sound as the bullet slammed into it. In the wild scarlet light from the cruiser, I saw the hedges rolling closer and closer to me. I pressed the gas petal as far down as it would go. The car bucked and punched out like a fist.

  The cop fired again and I heard a whine and a hollow thud as a bullet buried itself in the car’s metal. Then I was through the hedges, turning and turning on the rough road, gravel and dust spitting out behind me. I swerved until I was headed down the mountain—and then kept swerving, further and further around.

  I hit the brakes. Wrestled with the wheel. Hit the gas again. With a lurch, the little car began rolling forward. Down the Mountain Road, down from the rock.

  I turned the lights on then. I saw the road. It appeared to be falling away below me. I followed it, fast as I could.

  27

  By the time the cops came after me—by the time I heard their sirens start up again—I was off the rock and around the corner, heading away from the center of town. I saw a river wind out of the trees to my right. It ran past a house, tumbled over a waterfall. A dirt path opened on that side and followed the drop. I swung the Honda onto it, plunged down. Suddenly there was forest on every side. And darkness.

  I pulled the Accord over to the shoulder—more of a ditch than a shoulder. I killed the lights, the engine. I sat there and listened. The crickets, the frogs, the forest noises rose up loudly out of the trees. Above that, I could still hear the siren. But only barely. It was fading away. The cops had headed off in the other direction. I’d lost them, for a while.

  I glanced into the back seat, assessed the damage. A bullet had shattered one of the rear windows. The glass shards dangled from the frame, sparkled on the black seat cover. There was a jagged wound in the cover, too—a bullet hole. The yellow stuffing peeked out of it.

  I took my shoe off, reached back, and cleared the shards from the window frame to make the break look less conspicuous. I wondered where the other bullet had gone. I wondered what Lansing would say when she got a load of what I’d done to her car. I could imagine her face when she saw it. It would be like something out of a comic book, all sweat and gritted teeth and rolling eyes. Luckily, there was a good chance the cops would kill me before I had to deal with her.

  I lit a cigarette, took a long drag. Started the car again, and rolled off slowly along the rough dirt of the forest road. Now I had to make a plan, figure the odds for getting away with it. Offhand, I figured the odds were lousy.

  I didn’t think the cops had made my plates. Not with my lights off, not in that chaos. But they had the color and make of the car, that was certain. They might even trace it to Lansing if they put their heads together with NYPD. If I gave them time, anyway, they’d be able to spot me coming for miles.

  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 st
uck 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.