Keeper

by Greg Rucka

  Crowell was climbing back into the Cadillac, his head low. Police tried to reach him, failing, pinned in by the rushing crowd.

  It was as if Crowell’s troops had spurs driving them. They threw themselves against the opposing line, the cops, and the clinic building like amphetamine-keyed lemmings. Young kids, just children, were pushed forward into the crowd by their parents, urged to rush the clinic, and some were crying, clinging to their mothers or fathers. Another first-floor window broke.

  The doors were holding, nobody was getting inside. The pro-choice line had regrouped and reformed, and was now forging a reinforced cordon, pressing the antis away from the building. With their success, the police seemed to get the upper hand, too, and the massive push turned into fractured fits and starts, kamikaze missions flown by apathetic pilots.

  The Cadillac had pulled away, now replaced by emergency vehicles, police cars, an EMS rig. The initial threat was gone, already, but it had been replaced by the death rattle of the assault. Some still resisted passively, and some seemed not to have been involved at all, serenely holding their signs and repeating their rain-soaked litany of hope and salvation.

  Entering the clinic was out of the question. Thirty or forty people were still crushed against the door or on the stairs leading to the entrance. I tried to spot faces, again seeing the bushy beard, now ex-bushy beard, as he was dragged by two uniformed officers to the first paddy wagon.

  “Hey, stud, can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  Bridgett Logan was beside me. Her hair had been flattened by the rain, and it clung to her face, making her skin seem almost alabaster pale, and her eyes vividly blue. She smiled at my reaction to her, holding the cup out.

  The heat from the cup warmed my hands. My fingers looked like flesh-colored raisins, and they began to hurt as I popped the tab on the cover, sipping. The coffee was hot and sweet, a lot of sugar, no cream.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s awful sweet.”

  “You’re a sweetie.” She was drinking hers black, the top off the cup, and side by side we surveyed the street together. After a while she said, “How long you been here?”

  “Little before Crowell arrived. You?”

  “Little after him. Lost him, figured that meant he’d be coming here, booked back. I’m parked at the back of the clinic. Missed Crowell’s speech, though. Made it just in time for the floor show.”

  “You should have heard the monologue. He managed to remove any guilt the SOS crowd might have had about protesting the same day that Katie Romero died.”

  “Oooh,” she moaned, wiping raindrops from her face. “That man just makes my knees go to water.”

  She drained her cup and crumpled it, and we walked back on the sidewalk, getting against a doorway for shelter. Looking over at the stairs, I saw what the problem was with the entrance. Six people had chained themselves together, wrapping links about their necks, then looping the ends around the banisters on either side and locking them with the standard Kryptonite locks. Bolt cutters just don’t work on those things. A couple of uniforms were talking to the group, trying to persuade them to surrender the keys. Then one of the officers went to get the bolt cutters anyway, probably to use on the chains.

  “How’d you get here?” Bridgett asked. I told her. I even told her about Barry. When I was finished she asked, “You knew that he hadn’t chambered that round, right?”

  “No.”

  She bit her lower lip, eyes narrowing. She shook her head, once, then said, “Where are the letters?”

  “Stuck to the sidewalk by that diner. They were a writeoff anyway.”

  “With the rain, yeah. I’ll call Lozano, straighten him out,” she said. She dropped her crumpled cup in the trash can on the comer. “So, you figure that Crowell’s friend Clarence was going to call somebody with that radio of his after he made his bomb threat and tell them exactly when to rush?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figure. The attempted break-in last night was probably to make the threat more serious.”

  “They would have gotten inside while everyone was trying to get out. Nice job, fighting the good fight.”

  “It’s not good,” I said. “It’s just a fight.”

  She began searching her pockets and I remembered I’d bought the tin of Altoids with her in mind. I fished it out of my pocket and handed it to her. She took it, saying, “Cool. These things are great.”

  “Don’t let it be said I don’t think of you.”

  After sucking on an Altoid for a few seconds she crunched it between her teeth and said, “You’re proabortion, right?”

  “I’m more pro a woman’s right to choose.”

  “One of those,” she said.

  “One of those what?”

  She sighed. The mint was gone and she took out another one. “Sensitive-fucking-men. Whatever you want, honey. Whatever works for you. It’s your choice. Of course it is. Has been all along.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Men have been behind this thing from the start. It’s always been a woman’s right to choose. That’s obvious, and that’s not the problem. That’s not what it’s about for men.”

  “So what is it about?”

  “Look at Crowell. Look at John Burt, and his boot camp for pregnant mothers in Pensacola. He takes half their welfare checks to cover expenses, you know that? What do you think it’s about, stud? It’s all about power over women. It’s all about the fact that men believe they have the right to give women the choice in the first place. That’s all it’s ever been fucking about.” She tossed the mint into her mouth, then said, “Hey! Look at that, the door’s clear.” She started across the street, her head high in the rain.

  “That wasn’t a rush,” Sheldon said. “That was a goddamn riot.”

  We looked out the broken reception window onto Amsterdam where the rain was falling in waves. Now and then the crackle of police radios carried inside, over the voices and traffic from the street. At our feet glass shards peppered the black-and-white linoleum, and when any of us moved the pieces cracked and popped. Paint, red, tacky and bright, streaked and puddled on the walls, furniture, and floor.

  Scott Fowler was speaking in low tones on one of the phones at reception, talking to his supervisor. He had nodded at me once when I came in, but that was it.

  Two paddy wagons were outside, prisoners being transferred from one to the other. After the second was filled, a uniform slammed the doors shut and locked it up, thumping the side of the vehicle. It started down the street. I watched the officer walk to the other wagon, now empty, kneeling down near the driver’s door to say something to the man who had locked himself to the drive shaft. The gag was getting old; Randal Terry’s people had perfected the inventive application of Kryptonite bicycle locks and drive shafts in the late ’80s. Someone would have to drill the lock off the man, a dangerous job, considering he had locked himself around the neck. If the drill slipped, the man was dead. Hard to tell if the protester was brave or just stupid.

  Lynn Delfleur hung up her phone and said to Sheldon, “Someone should be out to fix the windows in a half hour.”

  “Fine. I don’t think anyone else will try to come inside,” he said. To me, he added, “You told us this would happen, that we needed screens instead of bars.”

  “It would have been too expensive to remove the bars and install grilles,” I said.

  He shook his head. “It’s cheaper to just replace the windows.”

  I shrugged.

  Fowler hung up the phone and said, “Atticus? Let’s talk.” Then he headed through the door into the staff lounge. I followed him, and Bridgett followed me.

  When we got inside he shut the door and looked at Bridgett. When he tore his eyes away from her, he looked at me expectantly.

  “Special Agent Scott Fowler, this is Bridgett Logan,” I said, feeling very Emily Post. “She’s with Agra and Don-novan Investigations, and is being retained by the clinic to pursue an independent investigation
.”

  “Pleasure,” Fowler said, offering her his hand.

  “Charmed,” she said, then crunched her latest Altoid at him.

  He lingered on the grip, I thought, but then let go and said to me, “Romero’s safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s she holding up?”

  “Not well.”

  He frowned sympathetically, then pulled a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. “Came this morning. The original should be in D.C. by now.”

  I took the paper, unfolded it, then set it on the table so both Bridgett and I could read it.

  Another letter.

  DOCTOR OF PAIN—

  WILL YOU CRY LIKE THEY CRY?

  WEEP LIKE THEY WEEP?

  BLEED AS THEY BLEED?

  WAIL AS THEY WAIL?

  DO YOU KNOW THEIR PAIN?

  YOU WILL KNOW THEIR PAIN.

  YOU WILL KNOW THEIR PAIN.

  I WILL HAVE JUSTICE.

  And again, no signature.

  “And nothing on the envelope or letter, I assume?” Bridgett was scowling.

  “Not so far,” Fowler told her.

  “This would’ve been sent when?” I asked.

  “Local postmark,” he said. “Stamped day before yesterday. I know what you’re thinking, and I agree. It looks like it’s by the same author that wrote the one Romero got at her home last night.”

  “Still wants justice,” I said.

  “This was probably sent the day after that other one. I’m sure they’re sequential.”

  “There was another one like this?” Bridgett asked.

  “It wasn’t in the file,” I said. “Never had a chance to copy it. It came last night to Romero’s apartment, and Scott here took it straight to the Bureau. But the same phrase was used, that bit about having justice.”

  “Probably from the shooter,” Fowler said. “Nothing from the lab on that one, either, unless you want to hear about the paper type, so on.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  Bridgett ran her fingers through her wet hair, ruffling it back behind her ears. “You think that the fellow who shot Katie just did it on the spur of the moment?”

  “Huh?” Fowler said.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes my way, then back to Scott. “If the guy who wrote this is the shooter, then he took the shot on Katie as opportunity, maybe thinking that she was her mother. Because if he had planned to shoot Dr. Romero this morning, Dr. Romero never would have received this letter, right? Because she would be dead.”

  “She’s right,” I said.

  Scott’s brow creased slightly. “I suppose. Or Katie was the intended target all along.”

  “That makes no sense,” Bridgett said.

  Fowler’s eyes never left her face. He might as well have been holding a sign asking Bridgett to have her way with him. “Well, perhaps the author knows the shooter,” he said.

  “Or he may be entirely independent, another nut entirely,” I said. “We’ve got nothing to connect Katie’s murder with the guy who wrote this.”

  “So, no clue as to the identity of the writer,” Bridgett said.

  “I’m working on it,” Fowler said.

  I folded the letter again and handed it back to him. “Anything else?”

  “Federal marshals are on the way here,” he said. “And they’ll want to take over the security on Romero, as well.” I shook my head. “After the conference.”

  Both of them looked at me like I had just fallen out of the sky, complete with halo and harp. “You’re joking, right?” Fowler asked.

  “No. She’s devastated right now, and I won’t rotate new personnel in on her while she’s grieving and disoriented. I assume the marshals will be at the conference, and I’ll be happy to liaison with them, but they’re not taking over my principal until Felice is ready for the change.”

  Fowler threw up his hands. “Jeez, Atticus, you’ve been riding me for marshals since this damn thing started.”

  “I know, and I’m glad they’re coming in, but I want them kept away from her until I say otherwise. I’ll let you know when she’s ready for new people.”

  He didn’t like it and didn’t bother to hide it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “If that’s it, then I’m going to head back to Romero and spell some of my people for a bit.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll expect to hear from you later.”

  “You will.” I went for the door.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I heard Bridgett say.

  Outside, she said, “You want a lift?”

  I hesitated, looked at the rain, nodded. “Just make sure we’re not followed,” I said.

  “I can do that.”

  We got into her Porsche and she pulled out, the wipers sighing against the windshield. By my watch it was a little after six, and the traffic was starting to get thick. I realized that just by the very nature of how Bridgett drove, tailing us would be difficult. She ran lights for sport. With the rain, it was almost a contact sport.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “About?”

  “Those letters. You think there’s more than one person after her?”

  “I expect so. I have no idea how many people want her dead. Looking at that SOS crowd earlier, figure that all of them would love a shot at her.”

  “Not nice people,” she said.

  “Well, the SOSers, yeah, I agree. The problem is, they make all the other Right-to-Lifers look bad. They don’t deserve that. There are plenty of antiabortion folks who would like nothing more than for Crowell and SOS to dry up and blow away. He’s destroying their legitimacy.”

  “I don’t have a hell of a lot of sympathy for their plight.” Bridgett said it curtly.

  “They have a right to be heard, like anybody else. Crowell’s making that impossible.” '

  “Well, there’s the conference to give everybody their say.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  She didn’t reply, and we drove for another twenty minutes or so with both of us checking mirrors. Neither of us thought we were being followed. Still, she parked three blocks south of the studio, just to be safe.

  “I’ll call Lozano when I get home,” she said, flipping off the windshield wipers.

  “Find out what Barry said when you do.”

  “Planning on it.” Bridgett pulled a pad from her jacket pocket and a pen, and said, “Lemme have your number, stud.” I told her my home and pager numbers, and she said, “I’ll call tonight.”

  “I won’t be in until after midnight,” I said. “I’ve got to give my people some time off.”

  She nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

  I got out of the car. The rain had finally stopped. Bridgett pulled my door closed, raised a hand in farewell, and pulled away.

  I picked up three cups of coffee, some sandwiches, and two packs of cigarettes at the bodega on the comer, then went up to the studio and knocked loudly on the door. After a second I heard Dale shout, “Who is it?”

  “Kodiak.”

  The bolt turned and I heard the bar slide back and then he said, “Go ahead, it’s open.”

  When I ran the door back on its track, his gun was out, held in both hands, barrel pointing about maybe three or four inches from my feet. Dale nodded, released the hammer on his revolver slowly, and holstered while I shut the door again and looked around. It was dark in the studio, the only illumination from the street and the fixture in the bathroom. The light spilled out past the open door onto the floor. Natalie stood against the far wall, and her angle of fire would have cut me to flank steak if she had decided I was a threat. Rubin was standing in front of where Dr. Romero was lying on a blanket on the floor. She looked asleep.

  “Took you long enough,” Natalie said. “I was afraid Bridie might’ve hurt you.”

  “Bridgett, you mean? She frightens me,” I said.

  Natalie laughed.

  Dale sat on an unfinished stool in the near comer, an
d I handed the paper bag of groceries to him. “Coffee and sandwiches.”

  “You always did take good care of your crew,” he said softly.

  “Lord knows I try,” I whispered. “I want you both to go home, get some rest,” I told Rubin and Natalie. “Come back at midnight and relieve Dale and me.”

  Natalie nodded, and holstered her Glock. “She’s been sleeping for the last two hours or so,” she said, her voice low. “Hasn’t said much of anything, hasn’t eaten, hasn’t used the bathroom. Been smoking too much.”

  “All right. You might want to call Bridgett when you get home. She can fill you in on what all happened today,” I said.

  “I will.” She went to get her coat.

  I told Rubin, “Be careful when you eat. I ended up tasting the memory of Katie’s waffles.”

  He said, “I can’t get the taste of orange juice out of my mouth.”

  “It’ll pass,” I said.

  Rubin shook his head. “I’ve never seen death like that.”

  “No.” I was trying to think of something more to say, something that would make it better, when Natalie came back, smoothing her blouse and skirt.

  “I spoke to Felice about it,” Natalie said. “I don’t know if it took.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “It was my fault. You two get some rest.”

  Rubin nodded and Natalie shook her head. “You know that’s a lie.”

  “Not to Felice.”

  She just shook her head again, then went to open the door. Dale set down the bag and drew his weapon once again and I drew mine, squeezing the grip and feeling the gun cock. Nobody was outside, and Natalie and Rubin went through and I approached and slid the door back, locking it.

  Dale handed me a cup of coffee, saying, “You want one of the sandwiches?”

  “I’m not hungry. Just leave one for Felice.”