Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  The book was not in any of the drawers in the night stand or taped beneath them; it wasn’t hidden under his mattress. His dresser drawers just held clothes. I walked the floorboards, but they were securely nailed down. No hiding places there, but why would he need to hide it? There was nothing else in the room but a cane back chair, a small TV pushed into a corner and an old lamp. I reached over and turned the lamp on, but it barely gave off enough light for even me to be able to read by. I wondered how Pop managed. I glanced at the wooden crucifix hanging over the bed, but if Jesus knew where the datebook was, he wasn’t saying.

  My hand was on the knob to the closet door when it flew open and a blur of gray and green barreled out at me, knocking me backward, sending me crashing to the floor. I landed hard, the back of my head slamming against the floorboards, dazing me. The room was so small that my torso and legs landed inside the room, and my chest and head in the hall. I lifted my head to identify the blur. It was a man with wild eyes. I tried scrambling up, but before I could, rough hands fastened around my neck, squeezing hard. Dark face, strong hands. Skull cap. Dirty jacket. He knelt on top of me, his weight pinning me down, his knees hemming me in.

  At my back, my gun pressed against my right kidney, but I had no chance of getting to it. The immediate problem was breathing. I struck out at him, my fists bouncing off his chin, his cheek. My eyes began to water, my vision grew cloudy. I had seconds, if that. At least two hundred pounds of crazy now stood between me and a good, deep inhale. An image of my first two-wheel bicycle flashed before my eyes. I loved that bike. It was red with white fringes on the handlebars. Funny where your mind wanders when you have a crazy man sitting on your chest, and your lungs are crying out for oxygen.

  The wild man grunted as he bashed my head against the floor again, sending white-hot stars dancing behind my eyelids. “I won’t let you get me!” he shrieked. “Tell him! The evil bastard!” I threw an elbow to his stomach, then his throat. No effect. The man was rock solid. I slugged him in the jaw, jamming my knuckles. No effect. His hands gripped tighter around my throat. “I saw. I lost my candles. You can’t have me!”

  I dug my thumbs hard into his eye sockets, kicking out with my legs to try and buck him off. When he yelped and let my neck go, I gasped for air, coughed uncontrollably, and scrambled away from him, only to have him recover too quickly, grab me by the foot, and drag me back. I kicked wildly, twisting away, flipping over on my back so he couldn’t disarm me. There is no greater indignity than getting shot with your own gun.

  I landed a solid kick to his solar plexus, then skittered away again, diving for the bed, sliding under it, rolling up on the other side to use it as a buffer. He stood, a massive tree with legs and arms, and headed for me, tossing the bed aside as if it were nothing, roaring like an animal. I drew my gun, my fingers fumbling on the grip, but before I could raise it to aim, he was on me again, knocking it away, sending it spinning under the night table beyond my reach, but thankfully, beyond his, too. We both lunged for it at the same time, knocking over the lamp, stretching, clawing, both of us desperate to get to it first.

  Chapter 19

  We met in a tangle just inches from the Glock, both of us pawing for it. I elbowed him again. He punched me in the head, stunning me again, but there was too much adrenaline flowing through me for me to give way. If I did, I was dead. I kneed him in the groin, which gave him something else besides the gun to think about. It also gave me enough time to grab the gun and roll away.

  I didn’t want to kill him, not in Pop’s room, not on the day of his memorial, but I would if it came down to him or me. I scrambled to my feet, turned, and assumed a shooting position—knees flexed, one foot forward, arms out, sights to the eyes—but he wasn’t where he’d been. He was halfway out the door, running like a maniac. He bounded down the stairs, his heavy feet sounding like the hasty retreat of stampeding buffalo. I took off after him, the room spinning, my legs wobbly, tumbling down the steps, seeing double as two of him cleared the bottom riser and tore out the front door.

  The sun’s glare hit me like the blast from a klieg light, blinding me for a moment, flooding my eyes. The loud murmur of many voices told me that the service was over. I tumbled out into the courtyard and ran toward the front of the church, my head pounding, squinting into the sun. A crowd milled around on the front steps of the church, and the man I was chasing shoved his way right through the middle of it, soliciting rude remarks and shocked expressions. I holstered my gun. I wouldn’t need it. If he’d had a weapon, I would be dead now. My throat burned, my airway felt constricted. “Stop him!” I weaved in and out of the crowd, eyes on the fleeing man ahead of me. “Move! Watch out! Move!”

  The stunned crowd parted, but no one stopped the man. As I ran, I could feel blood trickling from my forehead. I kept running. I cleared the crowd just as the man barreled across the street and disappeared into the gangway of a row of pale, squat apartment buildings. I dashed into the street, narrowly avoiding getting mowed down by a car. The driver lay on his horn, and the noise bore through my brain like the assault from a hundred rusty spikes.

  I heard Whip’s voice behind me and multiple sets of feet bringing up the rear, but I didn’t stop to look. I raced ahead, jumping over garden hoses and sprinklers, tripping over uneven sidewalks. My head throbbed; my eyes were trained ahead, scanning the parking slots and gangways, searching frantically for the man who’d tried to kill me.

  “Freeze! Police!” a woman barked from behind me. I stopped running. “Hands up! Turn around!” My eyes desperately searched the lot, but the man I’d been chasing was long gone. He’d slipped into some nook or cranny and disappeared into shadows like a wisp of lazy smoke, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I stood still and waited for instructions. “Hands up! Face us! Slow!”

  The female cop had been joined by her male partner. It sounded like they had been joined by a crowd. I raised my empty hands. I turned around slowly. The cops had their guns pointed at me, and behind them stood a gallery of onlookers from the memorial. I checked for Farraday and Weber, but luckily they were not among the spectators.

  “I’m a PI,” I announced to the cops. “There’s a gun in my holster. I’ve got a valid FOID card, and my PI license is up to date.”

  The cops were hyperalert, cautious. I didn’t blame them. Whip and Barb stood well back, both winded from running after me and poised to jump in and assist if needed. Practically everyone in the crowd had a cellphone camera trained on the scene. Cummings was there and Father Pascoe, stiff and sanctimonious in his starched vestments. I could tell he was going to make a stink about my trespassing in the rectory. The triumphant smirk on his pinched face gave it away. And Anton Bolek, standing off to the side, his eager, hateful eyes taking it all in. Again, what the hell was he doing here? I stared at him until he turned and walked away. There was something there, something for later. Turning back to the cops, I sighed and resigned myself to an afternoon of questions, red tape, and complications. Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed.

  * * *

  It took three hours to convince the police that I was not John Dillinger on a rampage. Since I hadn’t technically broken into the rectory, they couldn’t get me for breaking, only entering. And since the church crowd witnessed the crazy man bolt out of the house with me in hot pursuit, they went along with my version that I, Cass Raines, being nothing if not civic-minded, spotted the rectory door ajar and went to investigate, thereby encountering a strange man hiding in a closet. I engaged said crazy man; a fight ensued and was followed by a very public, very well-attended foot chase that ultimately led to my current predicament.

  Did I know the man? No, I did not, I told the cops. Did I take anything from the residence? On my honor, I did not, I responded, giving them the Scout’s salute. The blood on my face and the bruises around my neck were evidence of the conflict, and they also got me a little sympathy, so when they ran my credentials and found that I was, indeed, an investigator in good standing, my paperw
ork was current, and my gun had been legally procured, I was allowed to leave without charges. I had the feeling that Father Pascoe had come down to the station just to see them lock me up, but, thankfully, he left unsatisfied.

  It had been a rough day, made more so by the fact that I was still without Pop’s datebook. Where could it be? Had someone gotten there before I did? Was it the crazy man? Why did he think I was after him? Who did he think sent me?

  * * *

  It was nearly seven when I got home, and everything on my body hurt. Whip, Barb, Ben, and I sat in my kitchen on the red vinyl barstools pulled up to the center island Monday night quarterbacking the last few hours. The stools matched nothing else in the room—not the wallpaper with yellow roses, the chrome appliances, or the kitschy rooster clock above the fridge that I bought from a street vendor in Ixtapa—but I liked how everything didn’t go together. I especially liked the clock. Its hour and minute hands were fashioned to look like the legs of the rooster, and they moved around the clock face marking the time, becoming particularly amusing at 3:45 AM and again twelve hours later in the late afternoon. Blue cotton eyelet curtains hung at the window over the sink, which faced the kitchen window in the building next door. The floor was a patchwork of alternating black-and-white tile. My head throbbed like a mother.

  From my refrigerator and cupboards, Barb and Ben had cobbled together sandwiches, a salad, fruit, and chips. It was an unimpressive dinner after such an inauspicious day. It hurt to open and close my mouth too wide or turn my head too far to the left or right, so I stuck with iced tea and small fruit slices that were easy to slide down my swollen throat.

  “You’re really not going to the hospital to get checked out?” Barb asked.

  I slid in a tiny wedge of pineapple. “Not necessary,” I croaked, my voice hoarse, raspy.

  “You’ve got a goose egg the size of Pittsburgh on the back of your head,” Whip said. “And a gash on your forehead. I’m not going to even mention the neck bruises.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. I reached for the bottle of aspirin in front of me and took three.

  “What the hell were you thinking?!” Ben asked.

  “When?” I asked.

  “From the time you woke up this morning and decided to break into a rectory.” Our eyes held. He shook his head. “You telling them about your civic-mindedness? A real Hail Mary. We’re cops, not morons.”

  “And the book wasn’t even there?” Whip asked, glancing nervously at Ben. I felt for him. He was sitting at a table eating a crappy dinner with a cop, a nun, and a PI. It was the beginning of a bad bar joke, and a situation no ex-con could ever prepare for.

  “Not in his office,” I said. “I didn’t have a chance to check the closet. For obvious reasons.”

  “You don’t think he killed Father Ray and that poor boy, do you?” Barb asked. “From what you said, it sounds like he could actually be a witness.” She shot a pointed look at Ben.

  I shrugged, then winced. My shoulders hurt, my chest hurt, everything hurt, including my pride. “I won’t know until I find him.”

  “I could make some calls,” Whip volunteered. “I know people.”

  “Or maybe we should let him find him?” Barb said, cocking a thumb in Ben’s direction. “I don’t think you should tangle with him a second time.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. My eyes hurt, too. “This, coming from you?”

  Barb smiled. “Coveys are bullheaded and scrappy, not stupid. That guy was twice your size.”

  I turned to Ben. “The techs found candles at the crime scene.”

  Ben eyed me skeptically. “And? It’s a church.”

  “He mentioned losing his candles.”

  Ben’s mouth fell open. “And you’re saying he came back for them? C’mon, that’s one hell of a leap, even for you.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to run the candles you found for prints. It might give us a name.”

  “So he’s some crazy dude with a fetish now?”

  “He was in the rectory,” I said. “In Pop’s room. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  Ben ran his hands through his hair. “Nobody knows what it is. You’ve got this thing all muddled up in your head, and you won’t let go of it.”

  “I’m not some idiot going off all half-cocked on a wild goose chase. The guy was in that church. I’m sure of it. He saw what happened. He said as much.”

  “Or he’s just crazy,” Ben shot back. “Out of his mind nuts.”

  No one spoke for a time.

  “All this and your old man, too, ” Whip said, shaking his head. “Strolling back now like he just ran out for smokes. That’s some brass balls right there.” He glanced over at Barb, made a face. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a nun now.” My grip tightened on my glass. In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten about my father. Almost.

  Barb’s eyes shifted from Whip to me. “What do you plan to do about him?” she asked.

  “I told him to get out of my yard. He got out. We’re aces.”

  Barb said nothing. I sipped. Ben assaulted his sandwich. Whip grabbed a handful of chips from the bag and began popping them one after the other into his mouth. “Where’s he been?”

  “All over, apparently. Recently, St. Louis,” I said.

  Whip pulled a face. “That’s cold. You can practically spit on St. Louis from your back door.”

  It was close, wasn’t it? Close enough to visit, close enough to mail a letter from, close enough to be sent for if he’d had a mind to do so, which, obviously, he hadn’t. I could tell by Barb’s sympathetic expression that she also thought St. Louis was pretty damn close. I plucked a cherry tomato from the salad, avoiding her, my mind on candles and wild men. “The man I’m after is obviously homeless.” I was speaking to Ben, working my way back to talking. “He was dressed in an old Army jacket, and wearing a black skull cap. It looked like he hadn’t had a shave in weeks, and he smelled of BO and smoke. When I talked to George Cummings, he mentioned that a homeless man matching that description hung around the church regularly. He disappeared after the murders, now he’s back. I wonder if I can track him down through some of the local shelters.”

  Barb emitted a faint sigh, but said nothing about the change in topic. She would give me my feeble attempt to divert the conversation, I knew, but she was only biding time.

  “Homeless,” Ben sighed, meeting me halfway. “One of the cases I’m on now, the one I told you about? Some guy’s going around beating the crap out of them. Six attacks so far, and almost every night a new one. Whoever it is comes up on a guy, flashes a light in his face, rousts him, knocks him around, and then repeats the whole thing with the next unlucky fella down the line. The last vic took the beating, but suffered a heart attack during. He didn’t make it. Now we’re looking for a killer. We’ve got zero pattern—different nights, different times. I may be able to give you some coverage on the shelters. I’ll let you know.”

  I socked him gently on the shoulder. “Thanks.”

  He socked me back. “No problem.”

  Just like that we were good again.

  Barb groaned. “That’s horribly sad.”

  “Well, it isn’t good, and that’s a fact,” Ben said.

  “No one’s been able to give a description?” I asked.

  Ben smirked. “Sure. One witness swears it was Santa Claus. The people we’re dealing with aren’t exactly all there. Best we can do is keep at it and hope we catch a break before somebody else dies.”

  “What about the victims?” I asked. “Any pattern there?”

  “Homeless men. Sleeping rough. That’s it.”

  Barb folded her napkin neatly. “I hope whoever’s doing this gets the help he needs.”

  “Oh, he can get it, but it won’t change the fact he’s a nutball,” Ben said. “People don’t change, sister. They are who they are till the wheels fall off, take my word for it.”

  Barb tucked her napkin in beside her plate, giving it a finishing pat. “If I beli
eved that, Ben, I’d be out of a vocation.”

  “Maybe, but if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t last two seconds on the street. You got to go with what you’re given. A cop’s got no time for nuance.”

  “That’s why we run when you chase us,” Whip said.

  Ben stared at Whip, who’d been sitting quietly, pulling uncomfortably at his tie, hoping to avoid Ben’s close scrutiny. Truthfully, it was a strange dynamic going on. Cops by their very nature distrusted criminals, and criminals distrusted cops right back. Ben and Whip were sitting and eating together, and neither seemed comfortable with it. Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You been running anywhere lately?”

  I tossed a strawberry across the table at him. “Knock it off.”

  Barb crossed her arms across her chest, sat back. “All I’m saying is, people are almost always more than what they present. And change comes in big and small ways. Life has a way of forcing the issue.” Her gaze shifted to me. “Anyone can change, and everyone is redeemable.”

  Ben and Whip’s eyes locked onto their empty plates as though they were reading tea leaves hidden in the floral pattern. I found a spot on the wall across the room where the wallpaper was beginning to peel away. Maybe if I stared at it long enough, Barb would find something else to talk about. I flicked a look her way. She sat motionless, her arms still crossed, her gaze confident, infuriatingly sure and patient.

  “Redemption’s above my pay grade,” I said. “Not that anyone’s paying me these days.”

  “God redeems,” she said. “We forgive.”

  Ben shot up from his seat. “I’m going to the can.”

  And just like that he was gone.