Kindness Goes Unpunished

by Craig Johnson

  “Yes, but it’s not as easy as that. There are access points here at Valley Green, Rex, Thomas Mill Road, and Wises Mill Road on the other side.”

  I studied the light green section of the map where Wissahickon Creek curled its way north and west. “What’s this dotted line along the creek?”

  Katz adjusted his glasses and placed his chin on his fist. “That’s Forbidden Drive.”

  I examined the relatively innocent-looking road. “Why Forbidden Drive?”

  Gowder and he both looked at me like I was an idiot. Katz spoke slowly, just to make sure I got it. “Because you’re Forbidden to Drive on it.”

  “Oh.”

  Henry and I looked at each other; we were thinking the same thing.

  16

  The Indian chief Tedyuscung was neither a chief nor an Indian, but he sat as a memorial to the Lenape who first occupied the area anyway. This particular rendition of Chief Tedyuscung was actually the third to occupy the rock overlooking Wissahickon Creek. He was over fifteen feet tall, with a hand at his brow to shield the sun so that he could watch the departure of his people who had seen the white man’s writing on the wall and had moved to Pennsylvania’s Wyoming Valley, of all places. His nose was broken and his peace pipe was missing, but the nobility of royalty was still there. Lesser beings had made their pathetic bids for immortality by scratching their initials in his sides, but he forever looks west and does not move. I took a tip from his book, and neither did I.

  I had picked a small outcropping of rocks to the west of the chief and was huddled at the base of a black oak with the rain dripping off my hat and into my lap. The showers had started around ten-thirty and continued to drench the place for the next hour and a half. I had confiscated a hunting poncho from Cady’s place, one that I had given her years ago, and it was doing a pretty good job of keeping me dry except for my boots, which were beginning to squeak whenever I moved my toes.

  It was dark, but I could still make out the profile of the big chief, and it wasn’t hard to see Henry in him, just as I’d seen my friend in the Indian statue at Logan Circle. The giant Indian was looking toward me but beyond to a place where I hoped to return. I watched as the sheets of rain fell between us, and I allowed my eyes to adjust for the thousandth time to the momentary blindness caused by the brief flashes of lightning and my ears to recover yet again from the thunder.

  The outcropping provided a clear view of the area, of the trail leading up from below, the cut-off to the statue, and Tedyuscung himself. Other than the leaves, which blustered with the periodic wind, the only movement had been when I had stretched my legs from underneath the poncho more than an hour earlier, an event I had now convinced myself had blown my concealed observation.

  I had been here for four hours, but William White Eyes or, more importantly, Toy Diaz, may have been here for five.

  I thought about the course of events that had led me to wait for an informant and a killer in this small, tree-shrouded ravine in Fairmount Park as it crept up on midnight. Other than the obvious obligations of the law and its enforcement, I was here because I was attempting to save William White Eyes’ life in repayment for his saving Cady. I was here because of Jo Fitzpatrick and Riley, and because of the two men sitting in a Fairmount Park Services truck parked at the barricade near Valley Green Avenue, one of whom had saved my life in a bus station only two nights before. And, I was here because of Toy Diaz and what he had done to Cady, Vic, Osgood, and Devon.

  Somewhere in the distance, the synchronic circles of our pasts had tripped a domino, and the steady whirr had grown till it now drowned with the roar of contingency. I knew he would show as surely as the dark rain was falling around me, just as my aching legs knew they would receive no quick relief.

  I listened as the unsteady clop of horse’s hooves made their way up the broken trail behind me. At first I thought it must be Henry, who had grown tired of waiting, but the Bear’s patience could rival that of the marble chief, so I assumed it was finally William White Eyes. The sound was faint at first but slowly grew with each step until the horse stopped on the trail to my left, only a dozen feet away.

  I listened as his mount situated a hoof forward for an even plant and expulsed a deep exhale into the moist, cool air. The vapor from its breath clouded for a moment in my peripheral vision and then misted in long trails with the prevailing eastward wind.

  I had shallowed my breathing so that it didn’t show in the cold of the spring storm and, with the appearance of the horseman, I was lucky I remembered to breathe at all. I listened as his weight shifted on the horse’s back and looked at him as he searched the surrounding area. After a moment, he nudged the bay forward, and they continued around the appropriately shaped horseshoe corner of the trail and approached the Indian statue. William White Eyes wasn’t wearing a poncho or a jacket; he was naked, except for a loincloth that appeared to be perilously attached around his hips, and his body, as well as that of his horse, was painted with the multicolored geometric patterns and red streaks of a Dog Soldier.

  William glowed in the limited light of the hillside, and if Toy Diaz was out there, there was no way he could miss him. I watched as the pale young man, who was decorated for battle, stopped, pivoted, and looked around; he didn’t see me.

  It was possible that Diaz was not there, that the evening would end with me convincing William White Eyes to fill in all the gaps in the story and with the police rounding up Toy Diaz in a nonviolent interaction, so that I could take my daughter, my friend, my deputy, and my dog and go home to Wyoming. It was possible, but not likely.

  Diaz had displayed a knack for cleaning up the loose ends of his operations by the most expedient and merciless means. You didn’t get where he got by sending thank-you cards; you got there by being the biggest, meanest son-of-a-bitch in the Valley of the Shadow of Death or on Forbidden Drive, as the case may be.

  William rose, threw a leg off, and started to slide to the ground on the opposite side of the horse. I scanned the hillside but nothing moved. I could continue waiting, but I needed to get him out of here.

  I stood on stiff legs and teetered there for a moment; William had stopped his dismount and stayed on the horse; he was still looking at the statue. I couldn’t lose him this time. I stood there, sure that the crunching of my knees and the rustling of the stiff, plastic poncho would turn his attention toward me, but the constant washing sound of the rain against the trees must have drowned me out. The horse had heard me and was looking directly where I stood, his far eye circled with red paint. I waited, scanning the hill to see if there might be any other response from anywhere else.

  Nothing.

  I took half a step to the edge of the rock ledge and looked at him. I was now a good fifty feet distant, and I didn’t want to spook him; he was on horseback, and I’d never catch him. “William?” He turned in the saddle, and I could see the line of his profile in the flash of lightning to my right. “It’s Walt.”

  This time he heard me. “Sheriff?”

  “Yep.” I stood there waiting as he turned the gelding toward me.

  “I guess you got my note?”

  “I did.”

  He looked around. “You’re alone?”

  I cocked my head. “Pretty much.”

  He nodded and even in the distance, I could see him gnawing on his lip. “Devon hurt her.”

  “I know.” I circled around in the direction he’d taken to get to the statue. “And I owe you an awfully big favor for getting help.”

  He laid the reins to one side as the horse turned toward the trail. “I didn’t kill him.”

  I waited. “I know that, too.”

  The horse shifted his weight, so I stopped. He watched me for a moment and then asked, “How is she?”

  “Improving.” I started to take another step and then thought better of it. “Her eyes are open, and she’s responding.”

  He nodded and shifted the reins. “That’s good news.” I waited as he watched me. “I guess
this all seems kind of weird to you, huh?”

  I figured, why lie? “A little.” I gambled on another step and, in three more, I could block his retreat to the path, at least as well as a man afoot can block a man on horseback.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m more at home here in the park than in the city.”

  “I was hoping that would be the case.”

  He shifted his weight on the gelding as it planted a hoof in anticipation, the circled eye still on me. If William White Eyes didn’t know what I was doing, the horse did. “I don’t know how much you know about me.”

  “Quite a bit, actually.”

  He nodded and looked down at his hands. “Cady told you?”

  “No, I’ve made a case study of you lately.”

  He nodded some more. “I wasn’t sure what I should do next, but I thought you might have some ideas.”

  “Well, the cops want you, but they don’t want to kill you.” I took another step. “It seems to me you’ve got an awful lot of information they need.”

  “Toy Diaz’s account numbers.”

  “Yep.” I took the final step, William watching as I stood at the trail. He turned the bay toward the stone stairs and retainer wall where I could look him in the eye. “I’m not sure if Mr. Diaz is around, but I wouldn’t be surprised. We need to get you out of here.”

  “I’m the safest I could be, here.”

  “No, you’re not.” I looked around, acutely aware that we were not out of the proverbial woods. “I think they’ve been all over this park looking for you. I think the sooner we join my friends at the bottom of the hill the better.” I stepped back to block him from taking the trail behind us and gestured to the path below. I stepped around the bay and looked up at him. “I’ll go first; just in case.” I cleared the .45 from the poncho and looked ahead, where I hoped, if there was trouble, was the direction from which it would come.

  We zigged the first part and had just begun our zag when I thought I saw movement at the next curve. I stopped and studied the shadows of the trees in the black of the rain-soaked ravine, raised my arm, and stopped the horse on the rounded stones of the trail. “Whoa…” The bay halted and let out with a sigh that pressed hot breath on the exposed back of my neck.

  I had just about convinced myself that it was nothing when I thought I heard a sound like something moving. It was not discernable, just a sound that sounded different from the rest. I waited and then motioned for William to stay put.

  I eased down the path with the big Colt pointed in the direction of the movement and sound. Henry wouldn’t have left his position at the base of the hill, and the police were all stationed at the vehicle entrances of Wissahickon Park.

  I slipped a little on one of the larger rocks and caught myself before I landed on my ass or shot myself in the foot. I waited and then carefully approached what still looked like a tree. It was a tree.

  I shrugged and turned back, walking with the .45 to my side. There was no reason for me to climb the hill again, so I motioned for William to come down. He nudged the horse in response, and we were lucky he did, because that’s when the first series of shots ripped through the woods like the tearing of the muscles in your chest.

  The muzzle flash came from the trees above. Toy Diaz must have followed us. He made the mistake most civilians make with an automatic weapon—his shots were high and climbed—and, once again, if William White Eyes didn’t know what to do, the bay did; it ran like hell and straight toward me.

  I threw myself to the right and landed against one of the retainer walls as the bay passed me, with William unhurt and holding on to the horse’s mane and riding low against his withers. Another volley from the automatic dotted an unconnected blaze after him, kicking rock shards and sparks as it went. I rolled up on one shoulder and fired four rounds into the darkness behind us. There were no answering shots.

  Nothing.

  I stood and listened and hoped that William and his horse had arrived at the bottom where Henry could corral them. I kept the .45 pointed up the hill and hustled into the type of situation I despised.

  I ran up the path to the spot where I thought the shooter must have been. There were shell casings scattered across the trail and a muddy slick where someone had slipped and fallen. There was a dark liquid on the rocks. I smeared it with my hand and held it to my nose: blood.

  I looked up and down, still seeing nothing. I was at the end of a turn and I couldn’t see to the next segment of the trail through the foliage, but I knew it was there. Taking the direct route was a calculated risk, but the only hope I had was to cut the distance to William White Eyes before Diaz cut that same distance. I thundered over the hill and threw my arms up to block at least some of the branches from blinding me as I went, half-running, half-falling with all my momentum. I was top-heavy and could feel the weight of my upper body and arms pulling me forward so I flipped the safety back on the Colt before I toppled onto the path below.

  I struggled to my side, lifted up on one arm, and watched as a dark figure turned the corner ahead of me and disappeared. I could hear the clatter of horse’s hooves on the trail below; I was still a distant third.

  I heaved myself up and stumbled forward in another straight-line attempt at interception, feeling as if I’d run the gauntlet of tribal initiation. I finally gave up on protecting my face and pummeled my way forward like some refrigerator catapulting its way down the hillside after being thrown from above. I raised my head but couldn’t see anything.

  The sounds of the chase were still below me. The cutback was not as lengthy this time, and I was able to arrive at the ditch alongside the main trail as Henry charged from the rock-walled path to the left; he was on one of the paints and was holding the reins of the bigger of the two horses for me.

  “Where are they?!”

  “They did not come this way.” He wheeled his horse toward the bridge farther down the hill. Mine balked and crow-hopped toward Henry as I holstered the .45 and attempted to get a hand on the horn, but the Bear held the leather straps steady as I mounted.

  In the best of situations, I am only a competent horseman and, after being beaten half to death by every tree in eastern Pennsylvania, I was lucky I even knew which way to face. Henry was already gone, and I felt the lurch of gathered horse muscles as the big mare shot from under me and surged toward the arch of the stone bridge. I grasped my hands around the leads and bounced forward, almost coming unseated at the first strike of her gallop. She was very fast, and she seemed to know where we were going. I assumed she would follow Henry, and the only thing I needed to do was remain neutral and allow her to take us where we needed to go.

  Hi-yo, Creampuff.

  The trail split in two directions on the other side of the bridge; the Bear had reined in his mount and was standing in the stirrups; he looked west and then east as my paint slid to a stop alongside him. I settled my rear into the seat and tucked my heels down for a better ride. “Well, hell…”

  He actually smiled as he turned his paint to the left, and they blew down the incline to the east, easy in the saddle and melding together in a rhythm of man and horse. Creampuff started to follow him, but I wrapped the reins and veered her to the right. I broke west and thundered down the ramp to Forbidden Drive as the rain continued to pummel me. The big paint’s gallop was steady and, after I got centered, I could see further down the trail to the periodic illumination of the dusk-to-dawn lamps, which were momentarily faked to darkness by the flashes of lightning.

  I dug in my heels and allowed the mare to have her head; in an instant I was around the far turn. I heard the terrible sound of the automatic again, like fibers being torn in cloth.

  I could feel Creampuff reaching out and grabbing the rough surface of the path and throwing it behind us. I leaned with her and missed a sign by inches, almost spilling the two of us on the rain-slick trail. Just around the corner, I could see that something was down and that Toy Diaz was warily approaching it. It was a horse, kicking and scre
aming in the pathway, with William White Eyes trapped underneath.

  The drug dealer could not catch a galloping horse, but the 9 mm had.

  The fickle streetlights chose that moment to burst into full illumination, and there was a sharpness to the edges of everything, a glistening, as Diaz stood to the side of the fallen horse, careful to stay clear of its kicking legs. My paint’s mean streak and mine kicked in in a last-second attempt to save William’s life, and I felt the surge as Diaz lifted his arm.

  It’s possible that he was so concentrated on the action that he didn’t hear me or that the echo of thunder in the ravine had deafened us all. Either way, by the time he heard us, it was too late. The big paint didn’t slow; she didn’t veer or misdirect her momentum. She simply ran right over Toy Diaz.

  He must have pulled the trigger on impact, but the rounds flailed emptily into the hillside to the left. There was a momentary muffling of the horse’s hooves, and her balance shifted just a little as I reined in and veered from the injured horse lying on the gravel.

  I thought I would come unseated when the paint reared and pivoted to the left. She stiffened her legs and backed away from the smell of blood and the screaming of the other horse. She wanted nothing to do with the scene in front of us and backed away into the trees along the creek bank.

  She reared again, and this time I wasn’t as lucky. I fell against the saplings that lined the Wissahickon as she went over backward, slipping on the wet gravel and falling to the side. I clawed my way to the left as she slid right and rolled. We both made it to the flat area of the trail at the same time, whereupon she turned left and disappeared away from the vehicle approaching from the direction we’d been heading, its revolving yellow emergencies strobe-lighting the shiny surface of the pebbled path.

  I pulled the .45 from the small of my back and clicked off the safety.

  Diaz had been thrown to the side of the trail; he still lay there, face down and unmoving. The shoebox-shaped automatic was there as well, where the horse and I had struck him, far out of reach even for a whole man.