Last Dark Place

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Li held up his right hand, palm out about six inches from Hanrahan’s face.

  “You do,” said Li. “Master Hongzhi tells us that humanity will soon be erased by aliens from space. To take one’s place in heaven, one must accept certain truths.”

  “I know it won’t do any good,” said Hanrahan, “but I’m going to say it anyway. You are a goddamn lunatic.”

  Hanrahan’s cell phone played the first seven notes of “Danny Boy.” He considered ignoring it, but didn’t.

  “Hanrahan,” he said, eyes on Li.

  “Father Murph, where are you? You all right?”

  “Fine, Rabbi. Be there in a little while.”

  “The alter cockers have a question of theology they want you to settle,” said Lieberman.

  “When I finish with what I’m doing,” he said, “I’ll be happy to take care of it.”

  “You’re in a hurry?” said Abe.

  “I am, Rabbi,” said Bill. “See you soon.”

  He hung up.

  “You are not Jewish,” said Li.

  “I am not.”

  “Yet you talk intimately with a rabbi.”

  “I’m open-minded.”

  “No, you are not. Would you like me to tell you why I called Iris and you?” Li said, unperturbed.

  “Tell it fast,” said Hanrahan.

  There was a distinct, demanding throbbing in his forehead now.

  “In Master Hongzhi’s view, the races are not to be intermingled. Mixed-race children are symptoms of society’s decline. Each race has its own particular ‘biosphere,’ and whenever children are born of a mixed-race relationship, they are ‘defective persons.’ Heaven itself is segregated. Anyone who does not belong to his own race will not be cared for.”

  “You are definitely nuts.”

  “No, it is true. I am revealing the secret of heaven to you as it was revealed to me,” said Li. “You are a Catholic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you believe a man named Jesus was created by your single God and by believing in him, simply believing, you will go to heaven?”

  “Something like that,” said Hanrahan.

  “Miracles, saints, walking on water?” said Li. “And an old man in Italy is spoken to by your Jesus and tells you what to do, how to behave, what to think? And I am mad?”

  “I’m not here to talk about religion,” said Hanrahan. “I’m here to tell you that if you call again, either one of us, I’m going to throw you out a window.”

  Li closed his eyes and then opened them.

  “Then as the wheel turns inside me, I shall levitate as Master Hongzhi says that I can.”

  “Levitate? Float?”

  “Your saints levitated. The Master has seen your own David Copperfield levitate.”

  “I’ll kill you if you threaten my wife, my child.”

  “Warn, not threaten,” Li corrected. “Have you ever killed?”

  “Yes,” said Hanrahan.

  Li looked into the detective’s eyes, waited a beat, and said, “Yes, you have.”

  “No more calls,” said Hanrahan. “Stay away from us.”

  “I am trying to save you,” said Li. “Are you not ordered by your church to try to save those who do not believe by converting them to your truth?”

  “I’m not a priest,” said Hanrahan.

  “And I am not a priest,” said Li. “But I wish to save my cousin and stop the birth of a—”

  Hanrahan reached out, grabbed the lapels of Li’s robe, and pushed. Li fell backward, foot up into Hanrahan’s stomach. Hanrahan tumbled to the floor onto his left shoulder. When he looked up, Li was standing, smiling.

  “Master Hongzhi teaches very ancient martial arts,” he said.

  Hanrahan got to one knee, his bad knee. It hurt, but not enough to keep him from standing. He had a strong desire to pull out his weapon and shoot the smiling, self-satisfied man in front of him. Instead, he leaned over to rub his sore knee as Li said,

  “If you—”

  But he didn’t finish. Hanrahan shot his head upward into the chin of the smaller man. He heard a cracking sound. The shock flashed through Bill’s head. He looked up. Li had staggered back, blood dripping from his mouth.

  “Take a step toward me and I shoot your sorry ass,” Bill said.

  Li’s eyes were watering. His mouth opened to speak, but the pain was too great.

  “I think your jaw’s broken,” said Hanrahan. “Turn the wheel and make it better and when it’s healed, don’t call us.”

  He took a step toward the door, turned to look at Li again, and repeated emphatically, “Do not call us.”

  Bill closed the door gently behind him. He was reasonably certain that he had not heard the last of the fanatic. He would try to talk to Iris’s father, but he didn’t think that would work. He had seen too many followers of cults and mad leaders to think that anyone could change the mind of a true believer.

  He went down the stairs thinking that there might well come a time soon when he would have to kill Jon Li.

  Sean O’Neil got to the Clean Cut barbershop just as Monty was picking up the newspaper in front of the door.

  “Detective O’Neil,” Monty said, tucking the newspaper under his arm and opening the door with one of about thirty keys on his chain. “Early bird. We’ve got no early bird special.”

  Monty chuckled at his joke as he turned on the fluorescent lights. He looked at O’Neil, who was taking off his jacket. His holster was clipped to his belt. Sean O’Neil was not smiling at the barber’s wit.

  Monty took off his sweater and brushed off his barber chair. The lights above pinged slowly to life.

  O’Neil sat in the chair.

  “Looking a little P and O’d this A.M.,” said Monty.

  “Having a bad morning,” said O’Neil. “Cut it like always.”

  “Like always,” said Monty.

  “So, any inside stuff you can tell me about the world of crime so I can have material for the day?”

  “Don’t feel much like talking this morning,” said O’Neil.

  “I’ll talk,” said Monty, starting to work on O’Neil’s hair. “You know Wayne Czerbiak?”

  O’Neil grunted, thinking about the interrogation of Berg and Hanrahan’s upstaging him.

  “I told you about him yesterday, on the phone. Or was it the day before.”

  O’Neil didn’t bother to grunt.

  “Says he has a gun,” said Monty, combing and cutting. “Says he’s going to shoot someone today.”

  “The sign painter? The one with the goofy smile?” asked O’Neil without really paying attention.

  “How many Wayne Czerbiaks you think there are in Chicago?” asked Monty. “I mean, who come in here?”

  Monty smiled. He was at his best and it wasn’t even nine in the morning yet.

  “I think he has a gun,” said Monty. “His father, you remember his father? Nice man. Strict. Old World, but a nice man. No sense of humor, though. Wayne’s too far the other way. Smiles at everything. Never know if he thinks what you’re saying is funny. Know what I mean?”

  “I know,” said O’Neil.

  “Goofy kind of guy,” said Monty. “Might be he means it.”

  “Okay,” said O’Neil. “Where does the dumb Polack live?”

  “He’s not Polish,” said Monty. “Hungarian or Czech or something.”

  “Monty, where does he live?”

  “Over on Troy, a few blocks down. Sign in the window says ‘Czerbiak’s Signs.’ Can’t miss it. You going over there?”

  “Just finish the haircut.”

  Hanrahan arrived at the T&L to the greeting of Herschel Rosen who called out, “The Irish Republican Army has arrived. We can get our answer.”

  “What’s your question?” asked Hanrahan, sitting across from Lieberman and putting down the folded newspaper he had brought with him.

  There was nothing in front of Abe but a cup of coffee. He had finished his omelet, eaten slowly, fifteen minutes earlier
.

  “It’s about immaculate conception,” said Rosen.

  “It’s overrated,” said Hanrahan.

  The alter cockers laughed.

  “Enough,” said Hurwitz, the retired psychologist who, at the age of eighty-three, was the oldest of the alter cockers, a position of no particular esteem but some respect that he seldom exerted.

  Maish brought a cup of coffee and placed it in front of Hanrahan.

  “What’s the special?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Three eggs any way you like, flank steak, Terrell’s special fries, coffee, onion bagel, and convivial conversation and kibitzing, four dollars.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Hanrahan. “Eggs scrambled and soft.”

  Maish moved away and Hanrahan looked across the table at his partner.

  “What?” asked Hanrahan.

  “What? You look like you want me to say your shirt is blue and not white so you can shove it down my throat is what,” said Lieberman.

  “Sorry,” said Hanrahan. “Tough morning.”

  “Apology accepted. Want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe. Later. I’ve got a favor.”

  “To give or get?” asked Lieberman.

  “Get. I’d like you to talk to a suspect,” said Hanrahan. “I think you’ll get further than I would.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Father Murph.”

  “No, I know my suspect, Rabbi. And we’re running out of time if we’re going to keep a cop from getting crucified.”

  He unfolded the newspaper, placed it in front of Lieberman, and pointed to a story at the bottom of the front page.

  “You know Hugh Morton?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Slightly,” said Lieberman. “Good man. I met his wife once, too.”

  “We’ve got one of guys who raped her and broke her arm,” said Hanrahan. “Says he killed his two partners. Confession stinks. Morton stays on the front page and the suspect list at least until we lock it down.”

  “And?”

  “If we don’t lock it down fast, Morton’s going to be on the evening news with hints that he killed the two rapists. The public will be on his side. The mayor won’t be able to erase the publicity.”

  “Tell me about it,” Abe said and while they waited for the steak-and-egg special and while Bill ate it and while the alter cockers argued, cackled, predicted, and prodded, Hanrahan told the story.

  O’Neil walked up the six concrete steps of the small brick house with the sign in the window. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again and tried the door. It wasn’t locked.

  He opened the door about six inches and called Wayne’s name.

  No answer.

  What the hell. He went in. The place was clean, neat, but it didn’t look like a home. The area where there should have been a living room was an open workspace with a huge table covered with piles of board and rows of paint, pens, pencils, rulers, and books. All neat. All orderly.

  “Wayne, you here?” he called, moving through the workroom toward a room in front of him. He pushed open the door. A kitchen. Spotless.

  O’Neil moved to his left to another door. The door was closed. He knocked. No answer. He opened the door and stepped in.

  There was a single bed, neatly made. A dresser, its top flat, clear, polished. A table with a black-and-white television on it a few feet from the bed and an old armchair in the corner.

  Sean O’Neil saw none of this. What he saw was a huge full-color photograph of a young man in jeans, a T-shirt, and a cowboy hat. The young man was playing a guitar. His mouth was open and if it weren’t for the guitar, you could swear he was being tortured.

  In neat white letters across the top of the poster were the words Commemorating the short brightly burning life of Lee Cole Carter. Died at the hands of his admirer Wayne Czerbiak on this date of …—”

  There were two dates. One was neatly x-ed out in blue. Next to it in fresh white was today’s date.

  14

  PARKER LIAO WAS ON a mission. It had an upside and a downside.

  The downside was that he was doing it as a favor for Mr. Woo, which meant it was an order. The reason Parker owed Mr. Woo a favor was that Mr. Woo had, with the help of the Jewish policeman named Lieberman, prevented a gang killing that would have resulted in the embarrassment of Liao and the Twin Dragons, not to mention the possibility that young Chinese men would most surely have died in an exchange of fire with the Puerto Ricans.

  The upside of Liao’s mission was that it gave him the opportunity to do what he did best.

  There were two members of the Twin Dragons with him, one on either side, both dressed in black suits, black Tshirts. Parker Liao wore the same.

  He knocked at the apartment door.

  Jon Li opened it. He was now wearing tan slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with button-down collar and no tie.

  Their eyes met. Li smiled. Parker Liao did not.

  Parker Liao and Jon Li were approximately the same age and height. The two men behind Liao were younger, just a bit shorter.

  “You know who I am?” said Liao.

  “I know.”

  “You know why I am here?”

  “I know.”

  “And you will make no more calls, have no more contact with Mrs. Hanrahan.”

  “Miss Chen,” Li amended.

  “Mrs. Hanrahan,” Liao repeated.

  They were still standing in the doorway of the apartment.

  “I will do what I must for the spiritual deliverance of my cousin,” said Li.

  “There is no more to say,” said Liao. “If you contact her in any way, you die.”

  Li smiled and stepped back to let them in.

  “We don’t wish your hospitality,” said Liao.

  “I thought it might be more private and personal if your people were to beat me in my home rather than the hall.”

  “You are Falun Gong,” said Liao.

  Li closed his eyes and bowed his head and then looked up again.

  “You are therefore a madman,” Liao said. “Beating would almost certainly please you.”

  “You could break my legs,” said Li. “Or my hands? No, better, you could cut out my tongue.”

  “Thank you for the helpful suggestions,” said Liao. “But I prefer things be kept simple. You stop or you die.”

  “Mr. Woo sent you.”

  Parker stood, hands folded in front of him, and said nothing.

  “Mr. Woo is the self-appointed protector of my cousin Iris Chen. He is a thief, a murderer, a dealer in crimes against the chosen people.”

  “The Jews?” asked Parker.

  “The Chinese,” said Li. “And even with his crimes it would have been better had he married my cousin and that she have his baby. But then, Mr. Woo is a very old man.”

  “He is,” said Parker. “And I think it likely you will never be.”

  Li shrugged.

  “I am to stop trying to convince my cousin to have this unclean child aborted or I shall die. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be said,” Li said, reaching to close the door.

  Parker held his left hand out and placed it on the door to keep Li from shutting it. The Twin Dragon on Parker’s left stepped into the apartment past Li, careful not to touch him.

  The man strode to the wall, took down the photograph of Hongzhi, and brought it to Parker. Li watched. He seemed curious and amused.

  Parker turned the frame around, removed the photograph, slowly tore it in half, and handed it to Li.

  “It’s just paper,” Li said. “I shall get another one.”

  The three Twin Dragons left and Li closed the door.

  Parker Liao said nothing. He had failed to intimidate the madman. Parker regarded all religion as distasteful. It was one of the very few things he shared with the Communists in China.

  Parker had no doubt that Li would call Iris Chen again. He had no doubt that he would have to kill the smiling little bastard. There would
be no satisfaction in doing it or having it done. For death to be meaningful, one must care about his life.

  “He’s upstairs now,” said Richie the doorman. “Just missed him. He won’t stay long, never does.”

  “I’ll wait,” said Wayne.

  “Gonna shoot him today,” said Richie.

  “Gonna shoot him today,” Wayne repeated.

  “Little camera?”

  “Yes,” said Wayne.

  Richie had been three years ahead of Wayne at Lakeview High. They hadn’t been friends. They hadn’t been enemies. All they shared was the fact that neither participated in anything at school. Not football, baseball, basketball, wrestling, the photo club, the collectors club, the herpetology club, the Young Republicans, nothing.

  Wayne had painted all the signs for school dances, elections, meetings, none of which he attended. Everything he had created had been thrown away or washed away by the wind, rain, and time. All these years since he barely graduated, Wayne had continued to do the signs for homecomings, graduation, the Methodist church rummage sale, the community flower festival.

  Reasons, Wayne thought as he waited for the elevator, reasons he could have given had he been asked about what he planned to do in a few minutes:

  Lee Cole Carter had been against the war with Iraq. He was unpatriotic.

  Lee Cole Carter had done nothing for the very neighborhood in which he was born.

  Lee Cole Carter took the Lord’s name in vain in his songs.

  Lee Cole Carter fornicated.

  Lee Cole Carter was planning something big and evil. Wayne wasn’t sure what it was, but it was clearly spelled out in his songs. Well, maybe not so clearly, but it was there.

  Lee Cole Carter had one of those smug I’m-a-star faces that let you know he thought you were a dust mite and he knew something funny and embarrassing about you.

  Lee Cole Carter’s death would make Wayne famous for a little while. He’d be interviewed by Diane Sawyer just before the weather on Good Morning America.

  Lee Cole Carter’s death would put Wayne in prison forever and he’d never have to make another decision again about much of anything. Maybe they’d let him paint signs till the arthritis got him the way it had gotten his father. Did they need someone to paint signs in prison?

  These were all reasons he might give. One or two of them might even be right, or maybe not.