Hell's Kitchen

by Jeffery Deaver

  Pouring a very small glass of the jug wine, Pellam tuned in again to Louis Bailey. The man was ebullient and couldn’t stop talking about the case, while in a dim corner of the freshly painted office Ismail, in his tricolor windbreaker, sat leafing through an old, limp comic. He was wearing his new Nikes.

  “I’ve got to meet somebody,” he called to Ismail. “And you should be getting back to the Outreach Center.”

  “Yo, inaminute, cuz.”

  One of McKennah’s personal secretaries had called earlier and asked if Pellam would like to attend the ceremony. He’d declined but agreed to stop by at nine; McKennah, it seemed, had a memento the developer thought Pellam might like. Pellam assumed it was something from historic Hell’s Kitchen, maybe unearthed when the foundation for the Tower had been dug. Pellam, die-hard Winnebago dweller, didn’t have much interest in collectibles. But he supposed there was also the chance it was a nice check – for blowing the whistle on Corcoran’s girlfriend or taking such stunning footage of the illegal daycare center.

  He stood. “Let’s go, Ismail.”

  The boy yawned. “I ain’t tired.”

  “Time to go.”

  The boy stretched and walked to Bailey, slapped his palm. “Yo, homes.”

  “Holmes?” the perplexed lawyer asked. “Well, goodnight, Watson.”

  Ismail frowned then said, “Later.”

  “Yes, well. Later to you too, young man.”

  Pellam and Ismail stepped out into the darkness of Thirty-sixth Street. The crowds were inside the tower by now and the limos were parked elsewhere. The sense of emptiness was strong, Bailey’s being the only remaining residential building between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. McKennah’s choice to build his castle here hadn’t magically turned this neighborhood into populated civilization.

  Across the street the construction site itself was obscured by bunting and banners, which fluttered in the hot night breeze. It was dark, cordoned off. The only sound was the faint music from the theater.

  “Empty, huh?” he asked.

  “Whatcha say, cuz?”

  “The street. Empty.”

  “Straight up.” The boy yawned again.

  They passed a large bulldozer, parked where Ettie’s building had stood.

  “What’ll happen to the block now?” he mused.

  Ismail shrugged. “Dunno. Who care?”

  They walked toward the theater, where McKennah or his assistant was going to meet him. It was an attached building, not part of the Tower itself, and it rose eighty feet into the air above a sleek, glassy entranceway filled with marble and granite. A sort of Egyptian motif – colors were sand, maroon, green. The lobby was empty now; the festivities were underway.

  As he passed the construction site surrounding the theater he peered at the landscaping. No grass had been planted yet but this evening the dirt was covered with AstroTurf and studded with redwood planters containing palms trees. Pellam paused.

  “Whassup, Pellam?”

  “You go on to the YOC, Ismail. I’ve got to meet somebody.”

  “Naw,” he whined. “I’ma hang with you, cuz.”

  “Uh-uh, time for bed.”

  “Shit, Pellam.”

  “Watch the language. Now get going.”

  His round face grimaced. “Okay. Later, cuz.”

  They slapped palms and the boy walked slowly east. The too-big basketball shoes flopped loudly as he reluctantly headed toward the uptown street. He looked back, waved.

  Pellam slipped through a gap in the fence and walked over the spongy fake grass.

  What is that?

  He looked more closely at what he’d seen from the sidewalk: The workers had anchored the potted plants to the handles on the exit doors, looping heavy rope through them. He supposed this was to keep the locals from walking off with the vegetation.

  But the effect of what they’d done was to tie the fire doors shut.

  And to tie them shut pretty damn tight – with coils and coils of thick rope. Of the twenty emergency doors only one wasn’t tied closed. It was slightly ajar. From it came the mute sounds of applause and laughter and the solid thud of bass from the musicians. He walked to it and looked inside.

  The doors didn’t open onto the theater itself but into a fire stairwell that, Pellam guessed, led up to the theater and the loge and the balconies. The corridor was dark, except for the bulbs in the exit signs glowing eerily. The interior doors were chocked open and he caught glimpses of red velvet seats and walls and maroon carpet.

  Then something on the wall of the corridor caught his eye. Stepped closer. He saw that it was a rumpled sheet of paper – a map of the west side of Manhattan. It looked familiar and a moment later Pellam understood why. It was similar to the one they’d found after the fire in Bailey’s office. The one on which Sonny had marked all his fires.

  Only on this map the last target wasn’t the Javits Center; it was McKennah Tower.

  Suddenly Pellam’s eyes stung and he caught a whiff of astringent fumes. Like the cleanser in Bailey’s office several days ago. He remembered smelling it just before the light bulb exploded.

  But of course it wasn’t cleanser at all. It was that homemade napalm. And here was its source, right in front of him: Four drums of the stuff. They lined the wall. The tops were off.

  A noise behind him.

  He turned abruptly.

  The young blond man stood with his head cocked. A mad smile was on his face and his eyes danced in the reflected light from the Tower.

  “Joe Buck,” he whispered, “Pellam, Pellam. I’m Sonny. It’s so nice to meet you at last.”

  The Colt had already cleared Pellam’s belt and was half-cocked when Sonny swung the long wrench and connected with Pellam’s forearm. The bone gave with a crack and the blow was so hard it laid open a large patch of skin. Blood flew. And Pellam, eyes rolling back in his head, collapsed back into the tunnel, gasping, hitting his head on the side of an oil drum, which rang, muted, like a bell on a foggy day.

  Sonny set aside the wrench and slipped Pellam’s gun into his waistband. Then, from his pockets, he took a pair of handcuffs.

  And a cigarette lighter.

  THIRTY

  Pellam’s first thought: There’s no pain. Why doesn’t it hurt?

  It’s loose. My arm’s loose…

  Blood flowed from the gash on his arm.

  Sonny, a caste mark in Pellam’s blood on his forehead, bent down, fishing in his pocket. He emerged with a small silver key for the cuffs. His hands shook. His wispy hair floated around his head like water.

  Why no pain? Pellam thought, staring at his shattered arm.

  “If you’re wondering who was in that lawyer’s office,” the crazy young man said matter-of-factly. “That was your friend Alex. The snitch-bitch. Wheeled him from my place in an oil drum – bent him nearly double. Now that was an unpleasant trip for him, I’ll bet. And left him under the tanning lamp. Had to get all you faggot cowboys off my back.” He opened one latch on the cuff.

  Sonny nodded toward the theater. “This’ll be the last one. Come on, front row seat.” Sonny grabbed Pellam by the collar and pulled him to his feet. “We’re going out together, Joe Buck, fucking Antichrist… You, me and about five thousand other good folk.”

  He kicked an oil drum over and the soapy liquid flowed through the corridor and into the theater itself. The second drum followed.

  “This is my juice,” he said matter of factly. “I invented it myself. See, you couldn’t do this with gas alone. Gas is shitty. Low flashpoint, big flare, cool fire, and then it’s over with. I knew this pyro one time…” Sonny began to unlatch the second ring of the cuff. His hands shook badly. He paused, inhaled deeply. While it nauseated Pellam the smell of the liquid seemed to calm Sonny down. He began working on the cuff again. He continued. “He used gasoline. Thought he was soooo cool. One time he had this job on the third floor of an old tenement. He takes two five-gallon cans up, douses the place and breaks a lightbulb so when the
guy comes in and flicks on the light up he goes. Then he starts going through the guy’s drawers, looking for jewelry or something. What he doesn’t realize is that gas vapors’re heavier than air and while he’s fucking around upstairs the gas fumes are flowing down to the basement. Where there’s… guess what? Ta-dah… A pilot light in the water heater. I think they found part of his skeleton.

  Pellam choked. There was probably a hundred gallons of liquid flowing into the building. Pellam remembered what Lomax had told him about the Happy Land fire. A mere gallon of gas had turned the place into an inferno.

  “Let’s go, Midnight Cowboy.” Sonny touched Pellam’s shattered arm. The bone shifted and, at last, a searing jolt of pain shot up into Pellam’s shoulder and neck and face. In pure reaction he lashed out with his left palm, catching Sonny in the jaw. It was a weak blow but it caught the young man by surprise and he stepped back a few feet.

  “You shit.” He shoved Pellam against the wall.

  On his knees Pellam scooped up a handful of the napalm, splashing it into Sonny’s face. It missed his eyes but splashed on his mouth and nose and he stumbled backwards, screaming in pain. He dropped the cigarette lighter, which Pellam grabbed. He started for the young man. But Sonny was madly pulling the Colt from his belt.

  “Why did you do that?” he cried. He sounded incredulous. His cheek was bright red. His mouth was swollen. But his eyes were clear and brimmed with madness. He lifted the pistol, pulled the trigger.

  Pellam turned and stumbled through the door.

  Sonny wouldn’t have realized that the gun was single action. You had to cock it before you could shoot. In the delay Pellam staggered outside and shouted for help.

  There might’ve been a person at the end of the block, looking toward him. He wasn’t sure. He tried to wave with his good arm but felt the gritty kiss of the ends of the broken bone in his other. Nearly fainted. Pellam shouted again but in his haze he couldn’t tell if the person – if anyone was actually there – heard or noticed him.

  Sonny spit the chemical from his mouth and followed. Glancing back, Pellam had an image of a white face, slits of blue eyes, the white hand holding the black pistol. White hair, dancing like smoke.

  Oh, man, that hurts. He gripped his arm tighter and stepped into the middle of the street.

  The twin eyes of a car flicked toward him. The vehicle approached and then paused. Choosing not to see him, the driver stared ahead with the uncomfortable distraction of someone late for a dinner party and sped on.

  Pellam continued away from the theater, back toward the Tower itself.

  A wave of pain flowed through him. Sweat flowed. Every jar of his boots multiplied the agony. He wanted to pause, just catch his breath.

  Don’t stop. Keep going.

  A glance behind. Sonny was stumbling too but he was gaining on him. Pellam assumed he’d figured out how the gun worked. In a minute or so he’d be close enough to shoot. Pellam ran through an alley toward the back of the Tower, speeding over glints from bits of foil and bottles and syringes. Crack vials. The sparkle of ground glass smoothed into asphalt.

  The blond man’s feet sounded behind him.

  Crack.

  A bullet shattered the window of a deserted tenement.

  Another shot.

  Somebody might hear and call the police.

  But no, of course not. Who’d pay any attention? This was just the soundtrack to an average night in Hell’s Kitchen. Ignore it.

  Keep walking, eyes down, people would be telling themselves.

  Stay away from the window.

  Come back to bed, lover…

  It’s a white man’s world…

  THIRTY-ONE

  Pellam staggered out of the alley, turned into the middle of Thirty-fifth Street. He was now a block away from the theater and its festivities, and this street was even emptier than Thirty-Sixth.

  The only motion he could see was moths beating themselves to death on the heavy lenses of street lamps.

  The sound of rock music was faint. At least, he thought, he’d led Sonny away from the people in the theater. The guests would smell the liquid and evacuate the building.

  Pellam cocked his head and found himself in the middle of the street, on his knees. Looking back, he saw Sonny, lips blood red and puffed up from the chemical, getting closer, the handcuff dangling from his wrist. Pellam stood and struggled again down the street, which was in shadow, like the boarded-up tenements and the construction site and the alleys. He came to the fence that surrounded the base of the Tower and slipped through a gap in the chain-link gate.

  Here, in the construction site, he’d be safe. It was very dark. Sonny’d never find him mong the construction sheds, stacks of lumber and plywood, compressors, equipment, scaffoldings decorated with red, white and blue bunting. Plenty of shadows in which he could lie. Plenty of vehicles to hide under.

  Places where he could stop running and lie down, stop the terrible pain.

  He staggered to a small metal shed and climbed into the murky space beneath. Sonny approached. The chain link fence rattled once. Did the young man just test it and pass on? Or did he enter? No, no, he slipped inside too. His footsteps were nearby.

  The steps passed very close.

  “Hey, Joe Buck… Why’re you running?” He sounded perplexed. “We’re going together.” The jingle of the handcuffs. “You and me.”

  Pellam opened his eyes and saw feet in tattered white shoes moving slowly over the gravel and dirt. One shoe was untied and the laces dangled gray and muddy. He thought of Hector Ramirez and the stolen Nikes.

  Sonny padded over the gravel.

  My blood, Pellam realized. He’s following the trail of my blood to my hiding place. But why hasn’t he found me yet? It was too dark, he supposed.

  Metal grated on metal.

  A resonating sound like a steel drum, a bell.

  Then, a gushing sound as liquid began flowing on the ground. He clutched his arm more tightly. What was Sonny doing?

  A second gush joined the first. Then another.

  A pause. Then a gunshot sounded very nearby. Pellam jumped in shock. There was a huge flash of light and Pellam realized that Sonny had opened drums of gas or diesel fuel in the construction site and set the liquid ablaze with the gun.

  What had been dark now became dazzlingly bright.

  “Ah, Pellam…”

  There, clearly visible in the shocking, yellow light, was the trail of Pellam’s blood, leading to his cave. Still, he remained where he was. No way, he thought, can I outrun him. In the fiery illumination he could now see Sonny prowling madly in the far end of the construction site, not far from the still-wrapped statue, looking for Pellam.

  Pellam felt heat from all around him. The burning fuel was flowing into the scaffolding and piles of wood, setting everything aflame. And two, no, three of the wooden sheds. Then another. A truck caught fire. Tires burst and melted amid vibrant orange flames and turbulent black smoke. Wood snapped like bullets and there were explosions as fuel tanks – gas and propane – cracked apart, firing hissing buckshot through the night.

  The whole site, half block long, was suddenly awash with fire. More trucks ignited. The sheds, stacks of wood and rich, dark paneling – destined perhaps for Roger McKennah’s penthouse – crackled and blazed. He saw timbers spontaneously sprout flames and the roiling hot wind passed the fire to pallets resting against the shed where he hid. Pellam scrabbled into a corner, away from the tempestuous inferno.

  The noise of the fire was like a subway train.

  At this moment – when the entire lot was enveloped in flames, when there was virtually nothing left untouched by the fire – a small half moon of red, white and blue bunting ignited. Unlike the massive tide of flame in the yard this scrap burned placidly. The hot, rising air carried it aloft.

  And it was this shred of patriotic cloth, not the gallons of fiery gasoline or stacks of blazing wood, that finally ignited McKennah Tower itself.

  The burni
ng scrap wafted onto a stack of cardboard boxes in the open atrium. The cartons began to glow then burn brightly. In a few minutes the flames were in the lobby, rolling over artists’ conceptions of offices, over the tall palm trees that had so astonished Ettie Washington when she watched them being delivered, over piles of linoleum and wallpaper, buckets of paint. More propane tanks, on parked forklifts and high-climbers, exploded, shooting shrapnel throughout the lobby and shattering the huge plate glass windows.

  Fire everywhere.

  The paper wrapping of the statue burned away but Pellam, stumbling toward the gate, still couldn’t make out what it was.

  Finally he could wait no longer. The flames were too close, the heat too much. He eased from his hiding space as the window of the shed popped out in a quiet burst and scattered scalding glass around him.

  Only one exit remained – the way he entered, though the chain link. Sonny knew about that. But there was nowhere else to go; the plaza and atrium were completely engulfed.

  As he staggered out from his hiding place and made his way to the fence he saw a rich glow in windows on the second floor of the Tower, then the third, then the sixth or eighth, then higher. The fire had been sucked quickly into the gullet of the building.

  Huge sheets of Thermopane windows burst, glass shards and black pellets of plastic rained down.

  He stumbled to the chain-link and still could not see Sonny.

  A stone of the heart…

  He managed to squeeze through the opening in the gate but one side sprung out of his grip and struck his broken arm. For a moment he passe out completely and then found himself on his hands and knees. He inhaled deeply and crawled away from the site into the middle of Thirty-fifth Street. Behind him was a tide of yellow flame and tornadoes of orange flame and spouts of hissing blue flame. Windows exploded and walls collapsed. Heavy bulldozers and sheds and dump trucks settled down to die.