Blood On The Sun
Page 20
There was someone sleeping, or trying to sleep, in one of the two bunks behind Shelton. The man in the bunk was covering his eyes with his left arm to keep out the sun.
The air-conditioning had been turned down to save money, or perhaps the system was overworked. It must have been about ninety degrees in the cell. The dampness and heat had brought out the worst of the smells of the cells- long-dead cigarettes that lingered, human sweat that was a cacophony of alcohol and lingered for days, essence of vomit, and the hint of something or someone who had died.
The heat had laid out the man on the bunk, but Shelton was not sweating; not a spot of perspiration darkened his prison uniform.
"Ever read this?" asked Kyle.
He held up the book, The Conquest of Happiness by Bertrand Russell.
"No," said Danny.
Kyle opened the book, found what he was looking for and read: "Life is not to be conceived on the analogy of a melodrama in which the hero and heroine go through incredible misfortunes for which they are compensated by a happy ending. I live and have my day, my son succeeds me and has his day, his son in turn succeeds him. What is there in all this to make a tragedy about?"
Kyle closed the book, held it up and said, "Thank you."
Danny nodded.
"You like to take a look at this when I'm finished with it?" Kyle said.
Danny said, "Yes."
* * *
At five p.m. Detective Donald Flack, hands at his sides, stood in front of the isolated cell in which Drew sat on the lone cot, looking at the wall. He did not acknowledge the presence of the detective.
Flack's ribs stung with sudden pain unless he walked slowly and didn't move his arms too much. Even a deep breath caused him to wince. The pain was worse than it had been during most of the time since Drew had run into him. The ribs were bruised, but some of them were the same ones that had been broken by another killer on a day as cold as this one was hot.
Neither man spoke. There was nothing more to say. Flack had come only to show that he had not been hurt by Drew's rush at him in the shop. The detective, stone-faced, looked at the man who had come very close to killing him- and there was little doubt that Drew would have killed him if he had taken a shot. The man was an assassin who, if he were to be believed, had murdered thirty-seven people. Flack believed the big, paunchy man with a monk's large bald patch and graying hair. Flack remembered how quickly the man had moved in his shop to take down both Rossi and Flack.
Drew didn't seem to notice Flack. He might have been faking it, but from the look on the prisoner's face, Flack thought that the man was crawling into himself. Flack had seen it before, but he knew it wasn't always safe inside that shell. One multi-murderer had told him about going into the shell but being driven back out by the sound of an ocean of agonized voices.
Drew smiled almost to himself and reminded Flack of someone else: Norman Bates.
After five minutes, Flack walked away slowly, hiding the pain in his chest.
Drew was thinking in Korean, trying to remember the name of the labor leader he had killed in Thailand. He did not know why he felt the need to remember, but he knew it was not because of guilt. If he were to find peace for even a short time, he would have to remember. If he were to remember, he would be able to meditate, but he couldn't. This had never happened to Evan Drew before. He couldn't control it. If only he remembered the man's name, he could go back to his meditation. He could see the man inside the restaurant. The man had been laughing, chopsticks in hand, when Evan Drew had shot him through the window.
The name suddenly came to him, but the relief he hoped for didn't come. He now had to know the exact number the man had been on the list of his killings.
* * *
At five p.m. Stella Bonasera sat in her living room, a glass of iced tea in her hand, the air conditioner turned up.
She looked at one of the paintings on the wall. George Melvoy had admired her paintings. He had intruded, changed the meaning of her space forever. She felt no anger. Melvoy was getting better, but he was going to suffer, at least until the Alzheimer's erased the memories of loss and pain.
She didn't want him to suffer. He was a proud old man who had suffered enough in his life. He didn't need Stella's anger. He didn't need Stella's forgiveness. She looked at the painting that she knew Melvoy had moved slightly when he brought the poison.
Stella had bought the painting in Antwerp two years ago. The painting was bright, a black road with thick fields of yellow flowers growing on both sides, the sun just setting in the distance; a glowing object was moving toward the sun, which would never set. You couldn't tell by looking at the painting, but the glowing object was a human being.
No deduction here. The painter, Mary-Celeste Kouk, had told her. Mary-Celeste was emaciated and wide-eyed and wearing a pair of very worn jeans and a red shirt with long sleeves and a John Deere logo. Stella was certain the shirt covered the clear evidence of the painter's drug habit. Mary-Celeste set up her paintings on the banks of a canal next to a bridge.
"The painting comes with a secret," the woman had said. "That glowing orange dot was me. Now it is you."
Stella was on a long flight toward the sunset. She found comfort in this and the iced tea.
* * *
At five p.m. Aiden and her friend Karen Dukes, who worked in the ballistics lab, were having dinner at a Japanese restaurant on Second Street.
This was a rarity in both of their lives, a night out in which they could have ethnic food and go to a movie, a comedy. Neither woman could watch horror or superhero or street gang movies. They could eat slowly, talk about anything but work. Then they would see the movie. Aiden could not remember which Wilson brother was in it or who the other star was. It didn't matter as long as it was funny or even tried to be.
Aiden's motto for at least the next few hours was "Forget the day."
"What's that?" asked Karen when Aiden reached over to pick up her soup spoon.
Aiden looked at her hand. The first finger on her right hand was red and swollen.
"Splinter," said Aiden.
"It's in there?" asked Karen.
"It is," said Aiden, starting her soup.
"You should have it taken out," said Karen.
"I took antibiotics," said Aiden. "It should take care of a possible infection. If not, I'll take it out."
"You want it to stay inside you?" asked Karen.
"Yes," said Aiden.
"In the name of heaven, why?"
"To remind me of something," said Aiden. "The soup is good."
"Very," said Karen. "What's in your finger?"
"A very small splinter of bloodwood."
* * *
At five p.m. Jacob Vorhees was asleep in Juvenile Detention. He did not dream. He dared not dream. He had gone to sleep thinking not of his family, but of Rufus. Later, in the relative safety of a therapist's or social worker's office, he might be able to talk about what had been done, what he had done. For now, however, he could think only of the dog.
* * *
At five p.m. Danny Messer was home showering. He had been given two weeks' mandatory leave with pay and with the possibility of an extension.
He had to see Sheila Hellyer for half an hour every day for those two weeks. That was fine with him.
The tremor was gone. Hot water beat soothingly on his head and down his back. He heard himself humming, surprised that he was looking forward to the next two weeks.
He had promised himself that someday he would read War and Peace. Now would be a very good time, but then again, the Mets were opening a home series with the Cardinals tomorrow night.
* * *
At five p.m. Joshua lay in his hospital bed trying without success to understand what had happened to him. They had given him shots of morphine for his pain. Suddenly he experienced an epiphany. His way was not religion. He had served it badly and it had served him badly. It was not his calling. He needed a cause, a real-world cause, a new group of the devot
ed young around him. If Communism were the least bit viable, Joshua would have become a Communist at that very second.
Animal rights. That was it. He smiled and imagined all the abuse taken by cows, ducks, horses, chickens, turkeys, seals, whales, pigs, even fish. I'm a vegetarian, he thought. From this moment, I'm a vegetarian. He closed his eyes.
* * *
At five p.m. Jane Parsons and Mac Taylor were sharing a pizza at a hole in the wall with three tables. Most of the trade was pizza by the slice to go.
They had both agreed on double cheese, onions and anchovies.
There was a ceiling fan spinning and wobbling dangerously, providing almost no relief from the heat of the ovens, which added to that of the air coming in through the open door.
The plan was to finish the pizza and the Diet Cokes and get back to work. Jane had DNA orders piled up at least two inches high. Mac had the gun Evan Drew had used. He planned to send e-mails to Interpol which, in turn, would send the request to its 184 members around the world, asking if they had any unsolved murders from before eight years ago involving two shots in close proximity to the back of the head with bullets from a small-caliber gun.
Someone behind the counter was shouting to someone behind him to make a large sausage-and-onion to go. Jane and Mac were silent as they ate. Then, pizza finished, she put her hands together and touched them to her lips, saying, "Tell me about your wife."
Talking about Claire was not easy. Usually he simply didn't do it, but in this loud, hot pizza shop he began talking. He was surprised that it didn't hurt. He was surprised by Jane's attentiveness. He told her things that he had not told anyone, including himself, since 9/11.
Outside it began to rain and, for a few minutes at least, it was cool in New York.
Stuart M Kaminsky
***
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