“I’m telling you, he’s coming around. I just saw him blink,” a voice said from close by. Footsteps approached.
“Yeah? Let’s see,” the other voice said, and something hard prodded my broken rib. I gasped involuntarily, and jerked away. “Shit, you’re right, Millie. Get him up.” They grabbed me roughly by the arms and hauled me into a chair. A spike of pain rode up my side, from hip to armpit. I opened my eyes, and the world started sliding. I squeezed them shut and opened them again. And again. Things steadied.
I was in a kitchen. It was a medium-sized, rectangular room, with a door and two windows at one end, a passage into a dark hallway at the other, and all the kitchen stuff massed on the long wall in between. The fittings were circa 1960-something: pea green cabinets, orange countertops, speckled linoleum floor, appliances the color of old mustard. Yellow roller shades covered the windows. A dim, ugly light came down from a fixture overhead.
I was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair, near a square wooden table. Three cardboard boxes took up most of the tabletop. They were open, and I saw bulky manila envelopes inside. The counters were bare except for an uncapped gallon bottle of vodka, an ice tray, my gun, my cell phone, and some plastic handcuffs, the disposable kind they use for mass arrests. Mills’s briefcase was resting against the dishwasher.
“Yo, earth to Johnny! You in there, pal?” Trautmann snapped his fingers in front of my nose. He was wearing jeans and a black Metallica T-shirt. He had a highball glass in his hand and a big automatic under his arm. His hands were huge, and the red scar on his forearm seemed to glow. There was tape across his nose and bruising under his eyes, and he made me think of the Vandals sacking Rome. He raised his glass and took a big swallow.
Mills stood behind him. He looked a thousand years older than the first time I’d seen him, and his steady stream of chatter had gone dry. His eyes were shadowed, and the bones of his face seemed very close to the surface. His lank hair fell forward over his forehead. He crossed his arms on his chest, hugging nothing. He looked at Trautmann and me like we were zoo animals out of our cages.
“How you feeling, Johnny? Not so hot, I bet.” Trautmann chuckled and took a swig from his glass. He was right. Besides the pain in my side and the dizziness, twitches still jerked through my arms and legs, my eyes were jumping around in my head, and nausea was rippling through me in waves. Worst of all, my brains were Jell-O. My attention kept wandering, like an energetic drunk on a street full of bars.
“Got your wires all jangled up, huh? Sparky will do that.” Trautmann picked something up off the kitchen table and flipped it end over end in the air. It looked like a long, black flashlight, but instead of a lamp at the end, it had a wide, flat head, tipped with two pairs of metal fangs. He caught it and pressed a button and a blue ribbon of electricity arced across two of the fangs. A stun gun.
“Not exactly street legal,” he said. “It cranks way higher than what the cops can use. Really eats up the batteries, though. But don’t worry, I got plenty on hand.” Then he made a sudden, grunting noise and feinted at my chest with the stun gun. I didn’t move, but only because I was processing things too slowly to be startled. Trautmann laughed massively.
“Who’re you working for, anyway—the widow Welch, maybe? Pierro? I think it’s Ricky, but Millie doesn’t buy it. Tell me I’m right, Johnny.” I looked at him but said nothing. Trautmann smiled. “Any friends of yours out there now?” he asked. “Your buddy, Neary, maybe? I’m betting no. I didn’t see anybody, and I’m pretty careful. And you’ve been in here long enough that anybody outside would be good and worried by now. Would’ve come to take a look maybe, or called the cops. But it’s all quiet out there. I figure you for the lone wolf type, anyway. Am I right?” I kept looking at him, and kept quiet.
“See,” he turned to Mills, “you can take a lesson from this guy. He’s a prep school faggot like you, but he doesn’t piss his pants. In fact, I was reading up on Johnny, and it turns out he’s a real trip.” Trautmann drained his glass and went to the kitchen counter to fill it again. He poured liberally from the vodka bottle. He was putting it away pretty quick, and I thought maybe he was drunk, but he was such a head case it was hard to tell. Mills gnawed his lower lip and looked at Trautmann.
“You should see his press clippings, Millie. Next to naked pictures, it’s some of the best shit I’ve found on the Internet—a fucking hoot. It turns out Johnny used to be a cop, somewhere up in North Bumfuck, New York. About three years back, he’s carrying water for the feds and the state cops, who’re in his neighborhood working a serial killer.” Trautmann looked at me. “Dead broads in New York, Vermont, up in Canada. What, eight or ten stiffs in all?”
“Twelve,” I said. Trautmann whistled. He flipped the stun gun and caught it one-handed.
“Busy boy. So, Washington’s finest are on the job, sweating every fucking bear in the forest, I bet, and getting nowhere. But Johnny, here, he’s got a theory—some local guy he likes for the killings. So, he goes to the feds and the state boys, and he tells them all about it. And what happens? They blow him off. Think he’s full of shit, I guess, just some weird rich kid playing cops in the woods. Told him to shut up and stay out of the way. Which must’ve pissed Johnny off something fierce, ’cause he decided to become his own one-man task force, and he gets in this guy’s shit in a big way.” Trautmann swirled his drink around.
“But this woodchuck was even more of a psycho than anybody figured. After a couple months of having Johnny in his drawers, the guy flips out—flips out some more, I guess. And what does he do? He fucking offs Johnny’s wife, for chrissakes!” He chuckled and took another swallow.
“It was real neat. No knives, no sex, nothing like his usual act, just one in the eye with a .22 target pistol. But he made damn sure Johnny knew who’d done it. Left a shell casing with a nice clean print, palm print on a window, tire tracks, everything. And then he goes home and writes it all down, full confession with names and dates and stuff nobody but him could’ve known. And then he sits and waits for the cops to come and take him away.” Trautmann chuckled and went to the back door. He raised the shade and peered into the dark for a moment. Then he returned. He flipped the stun gun and caught it again.
“Except it didn’t quite work out that way, ’cause the first cop on scene was Johnny.” Trautmann laughed and emptied his glass. He set it on the kitchen counter. “I guess there were some . . . questions about what happened next. Some different versions of what went down. I know how that goes, pal, believe me. Anyway, the upshot is that when the cavalry arrives, they find Johnny and this crazy bastard. The guy’s dead, of course. Got like ten holes blown in him, and he’s got a gun in his hand, some cheap piece of shit with the numbers missing. Not too suspicious, huh?” Trautmann fished an ice cube out of his glass and put it in his mouth and crunched loudly.
“Johnny caught all kinds of shit for a while, most of it from that fat bastard Pell. Small world, ain’t it? But did he get all jumpy and start crying like a baby? No. He just shut his mouth and toughed it out. Held his water, til it was declared a righteous shoot. See, that’s a lesson for you, Millie. To keep your fucking mouth shut.” Trautmann laughed again and punched Mills not so lightly on the shoulder. Mills rocked back and steadied himself on the refrigerator.
I didn’t pay much attention to Trautmann’s story; it was basically the official version, and I’d heard it all before. Instead, I watched Mills. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, making a distracted box step over a small parcel of floor, and staring at Trautmann. Fear, anger, and disgust played unhidden across his face. And something else was going on too, something concentrated and furious, as if he were working elaborate formulas in his head. Trautmann checked his watch.
“Time flies, Johnny, and I got a little more cleaning up to do before I split. But don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk once we’re on the road.” A chill ran through my belly. Going anywhere with Trautmann was a bad idea, fatally bad. I nee
ded some time to clear my head, some time for Neary to get there.
“Where are you meeting him?” I asked. They looked at me, puzzled. “Where are you meeting Nassouli?” Mills’s puzzled look grew. Trautmann smiled.
“What the fuck are you talking about? You think that rat bastard Gerry is in this?” he said, with a sour laugh.
“Everyone thinks he’s pulling the strings,” I said. My voice sounded brittle and unfamiliar in my ears. “And that you two are the errand boys.” Trautmann guffawed.
“Hey, that’s nice. I like that. That motherfucker skips on me, he ought to make up for it somehow. Let that prick do me some good for once—let him take the heat on this. But between you and me, I don’t need fucking Gerry’s help, not when I got my boy here.” Trautmann laid a massive hand on Mills’s shoulder and looked at him, smiling large.
“That’s one thing about Mr. Mills, John, he does know his shit. Yep, it was a lucky fucking day when you found me going through those files, Evan.” Mills shrank away, as if he didn’t like being touched or having Trautmann say his name. Trautmann ignored him and looked at his watch again.
“You cool your jets, Johnny, I’ll be back in a sec,” Trautmann said, and he touched my arm with the stun gun.
Fireworks went off in my head, and my body wrenched fiercely, back and out of the chair. I was on the floor, twitching. There was blood in my mouth, and I realized I’d bitten my tongue. I was facedown again, but not out this time. Through half-closed, shaking eyes I saw Mills looking at me, expressionless.
“Come on, bud,” Trautmann said, “I got one more thing in the basement you can help with.” He guided Mills toward the hallway. Mr. Friendly. His hand was on Mills’s shoulder again, and I thought of Brian, the luckless guard at the Roslyn Meadows mall. And I knew suddenly that Mills was not coming out of that basement alive. Trautmann pulled open a door in the hallway and flicked a switch and a square of yellow light was thrown on the wall. He stood aside to let Mills pass and followed him down, closing the door behind him.
Shit. It was time to go. It was past time. I tried working my wrists around. I felt the hard bite of the plastic cuffs. They were cinched tight enough that my hands were cold and going numb. I got my knees under me and stood, too fast. The room took a tilt, and a heavy wave of nausea hit me. I squeezed my eyes shut until it passed. I went to the kitchen counter, moving quietly. My gun was gone, and so was my phone. Shit.
I went to the back door and turned around and worked the knob with clumsy fingers. I turned and pulled, but the door didn’t move. I took a closer look and saw a heavy sliding bolt, mounted about a foot from the top of the door, out of reach. Shit. I went into the hallway, past the basement door, to the front of the house. I was in a small, wood-paneled foyer. There were dark rooms on either side, and a dark, narrow stairway up. Straight ahead was the front door—with another heavy bolt set up high.
I went back to the hallway, to the basement door. There was a sliding bolt on it, too, at the same impossible height, but there was no lock on the knob. I heard voices on the other side of the door, but I couldn’t make out any words. I went to the kitchen, and, as quietly as I could, I slid my chair into the hallway, to the basement door. Working it with my feet and legs, I wedged it under the knob. It wouldn’t stop him, but it might slow him down a little.
I twisted in the cuffs some more, but there was no play; they were too tight for me to work my arms out in front of me. I went into the kitchen and looked on the table. Nothing there but the boxes. I looked inside them and saw only the manila envelopes. Each one had a name written on it in heavy black marker. I saw one with Bregman’s name on it. And I saw another with Pierro’s. Shit.
I went to the stove. It was gas, an old one with four burners and pilot lights instead of electric igniters. The black knobs were worn. Time to go. Past time. My cold fingers found the knob for the right front burner. I turned it up all the way and heard the whispered whump as it ignited. Then I clenched my teeth and reached back and put the plastic cuffs, and my wrists, into the flame.
I swallowed a scream and yanked them out again after a few seconds. I took a deep breath and caught a corner of my jacket between my teeth. I bit down hard and put my wrists back in. The pain was searing. I smelled burning plastic and something else I didn’t want to think about. And then I heard a cry of surprise and two gunshots from the basement. Shit.
I worked my wrists again. There was a little give, but not enough, and they hurt like hell from the burns. I heard movement downstairs— footsteps. I took another mouthful of jacket and put my wrists back in the flame. My teeth ground into the leather. The plastic smell was stronger, and I heard a sizzling sound. The pain was huge, molten, growing like a fiery balloon. And then my wrists came free.
Blood flowed back into my hands and with it more pain. I knocked off the remains of the cuffs and the shards of melted plastic. I went to the boxes and from the middle one fished out Pierro’s envelope. It was bulky, and there was something hard and plastic inside. I folded the envelope and shoved it under my belt, behind my back. I heard footsteps on the stairs. Shit.
I looked at the boxes and the forty or fifty yellow envelopes inside them, and the names written in black. I thought about Bregman and Lenzi and the poor bastards in Burrows’s stories. I thought about Burrows himself, and Lenzi’s wife, crumpled and crying by her front door. I grabbed the vodka bottle from the counter and emptied it on the boxes. The basement doorknob rattled and the door creaked. The chair slid a fraction of an inch and caught. There was a startled noise, a louder rattle, and a shove against the door. Shit.
I pulled an envelope, wet with vodka, from the nearest box and touched it to the lit stove. It burst into flame. An angry bellow came from behind the door, and something slammed against it. The door shuddered wildly, and I felt the impact through the floorboards, but the chair held. I ran the burning envelope over the boxes, and flames took hold immediately. The fire was smoky and had a chemical smell.
There was another noise from the basement, a shout, enraged and unintelligible, and then the sound of gunfire, roaring around the room. The vodka bottle exploded, one of the boxes jumped and fell, burning, to the floor, the stove shook, and flames leapt from a gash in its front. Something tore at my cheek and my neck. Light from the basement streamed through three ragged holes in the kitchen wall. Time to go. Way past time.
I fumbled with the bolt. There was another crash, and I looked back through the smoke to see the chair splinter and the basement door fly open, and then I was out—down the back stairs, across the yard, into the snow, gone.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was a neighborhood of cops and firemen, and they knew the sound of gunshots and the smell of burning houses. They didn’t like either in their own backyards. I’d gone maybe a block, toward Hillside Avenue, when a local guy stopped me. He was still in uniform and looked done in, like he had just gotten off a long shift. His service piece was still on his hip.
I moved slowly and kept my hands in plain sight. I told him that Trautmann’s house was on fire and that there was someone in the basement, probably dead, and someone else inside or nearby, definitely armed. And I told him that if I didn’t sit down soon I was going to fall down. He seemed to recognize Trautmann’s name and did not seem shocked by the turn of events. He told me to sit on the curb. I was happy to do it. Windows and doorways all around had begun to fill with the curious, and a couple of big guys were approaching from down the block. I put my head down and thought about not puking, and tried not to shake. The snow began to cover me.
The night became a blur of flashing lights and squalling sirens. EMS arrived just behind the fire crew and three blue-and-whites. The techs shined lights in my eyes, picked the bigger splinters from my face, and dressed the wound on my head and the burns on my wrists. They said I needed X rays and returned me to the cops, who offered me a squad car to sit in. I got in back but left the door open, in case I had to throw up.
The smoke from Tr
autmann’s house drifted down the block and into the car and stung my eyes. I closed them and put my head back and listened to the squawks and chatter around me. From what the firemen said, the blaze had stayed mostly in the kitchen. It hadn’t taken long to control, but the room was pretty much destroyed. No one had yet found any bodies, alive or dead. At some point I dozed off.
The detectives woke me, two wrung-out looking guys in their early fifties. They made me get out of the car and show ID, then they asked me a lot of questions and got annoyed when I answered only a few of them. They put on a little theater for my benefit: one guy was Menace, the other was Earnest Concern. But they were tired, and it was a halfhearted effort, and we all knew it. They were just wrapping up, thinking about cuffing me, when Tom Neary arrived, picking his way through the crowd of vehicles, uniforms, and onlookers. Eddie Sikes and Juan Pritchard drifted in behind him. They looked like they’d been sleeping in their clothes.
They all showed ID, and Neary spoke to the detectives while Sikes, Pritchard, and I stood around. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit me while we waited, and I listed heavily to port. Sikes and Pritchard steadied me, and I sat back down in the squad car. Neary kept talking. The cops listened in silence, and eventually everyone started to nod. Then we all went to the station house. I rode with the cops; Neary and company followed. They didn’t cuff me and they didn’t search me, but there was nothing to be found now. The manila envelope was safe with Juan Pritchard, who’d tucked it deftly into the folds of his topcoat when I’d passed it to him.
The station house was small and too warm and filled with the smell of burnt coffee. We sat in a room of green painted cinderblock, in beige metal chairs at a beige metal table, and we waited. I drank a Coke and put my head down on the table. Neary shook me when the lawyers came: Mike Metz and an attractive, fortyish, black woman I didn’t know—a Brill lawyer. A couple of feds were right behind them. I didn’t recognize them, but the Brill people did.
JM01 - Black Maps Page 30