Marked (Callum Doyle 3)

by Jackson, David

  There’s also a confession about how he screwed Doyle. Paying a guy to beat him up. Jumping through the door. Telling LeBlanc he had seen Doyle sucking faces with Laura Marino when he hadn’t. Sending a note to Megan’s father. There’s even a full admission of guilt concerning the murder of Alyssa Palmer.

  This isn’t one long monologue, of course. There are some intermissions. Some comfort breaks for the benefit of the audience. Interludes filled with screaming and yelling and pleading and some incoherent rambling, all set off nicely by the occasional nerve-grinding whirr of an electric drill and its change in tone as it burrows deep into flesh and bone.

  What’s interesting is what’s missing, and it takes Doyle a while to realize the recording has been edited by Nicole. There’s no mention of Lucas Bartok, even though Nicole must have got the whole story from Proust. And the reason there’s no mention of Bartok is that Nicole was protecting Doyle. She found out about Bartok’s role, all right, but leaving any mention of him on the audio would have exposed Doyle to investigation too.

  Silently, he thanks her for that.

  The calls start coming in eventually, as he knew they would. Earlier, he’d put in some calls of his own. Told the cops to check out both Nicole’s house and Proust’s place.

  He hears what he expects to hear. That Proust is dead. That Nicole is dead. That the bosses want him to come into the station house right away so that he can tell them what the hell he knows about this mess.

  He’s sobered up since the call from Nicole, and so he drives across town. When he gets to the station house, the atmosphere is decidedly hostile. He gets the impression he’s being blamed for everything. He almost expects to be frisked for a power drill.

  They march him into the captain’s office, where the commander and Lieutenant Cesario, both of whom have undoubtedly been dragged away from pressing social engagements, grill him about his involvement. How is it, they want to know, that everyone connected with this case – the case that was assigned to you, Detective – ends up dead? How is it that, even though you’ve been taken off the case, you still seem to be very much the focal point of all this mayhem and massacre?

  He tells them. Says what he’s already said before. That this is all the result of Proust’s plan to discredit him backfiring. He listens to the patronizing hums and harrumphs of his superiors, sees their expressions of disbelief. And it’s only when they seriously start to get in his face – only when their own faces become red with fury as they start tossing out hints about possible disciplinary action against him – that he produces his trump card.

  A memory stick. Containing the audio file of Proust’s confessions to Nicole. Confessions that fully confirm Doyle’s version of events.

  And suddenly, miraculously, the captain wants nothing more to do with this conversation. He’s glaring hotly at Cesario. Cesario is looking sheepish. Doyle is feeling just a little bit triumphant, and in his mind there’s a huge fat finger being flipped at these two men.

  The captain ends the meeting and empties his office of visitors so that he can steam off his embarrassment in private. In the hallway, Cesario accosts Doyle.

  ‘I’ll need to listen to that recording,’ he says.

  Doyle tosses the memory stick to him. ‘Knock yourself out.’

  Cesario examines the stick as he mulls over his next words. Maybe building himself up to apologize, thinks Doyle.

  Says Cesario, ‘You know I did what I had to do, right? I had to take you off the case.’

  So much for an apology.

  ‘Did you? Or could you have just listened to me?’

  ‘There are rules. Procedures. You disobeyed an order. My order. Maybe if you hadn’t gone at Proust the way you did, none of this shit would’ve happened.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe he would’ve beaten the rap. Just like he did last time.’

  Cesario shakes his head. ‘This is not a good outcome. Whether you were right or you were wrong about Proust, it doesn’t make this a good outcome. A whole family dead. A man tortured to death.’

  ‘I know it,’ says Doyle. ‘I know it.’

  He turns and starts to walk away, but Cesario calls after him.

  ‘You’re back on duty tomorrow. Four o’clock. Don’t be late.’

  Doyle keeps on walking.

  He sleeps well, despite the absence of his family. Mental exhaustion, probably. Doesn’t get out of bed until almost nine in the morning.

  He showers. Eats a large breakfast. At 9.45 there is still no sign of Rachel, and it’s really starting to hurt. He needs to talk to her. Needs to clear the air.

  As he picks up his cellphone, it rings in his hand. He stabs the answer button.

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Cal? It’s me. Tommy.’

  He tries to smother the disappointment. ‘Hey, Tommy.’

  ‘I, uhm, just a quick call, okay? We, uhm, we heard. About what happened, I mean. About the recording.’

  ‘Tommy, it’s okay.’

  ‘No. No, it’s not okay. I didn’t believe you. I wanted to, but I didn’t. The way it looked . . .’

  ‘You weren’t the only one, Tommy.’

  ‘I know. But that doesn’t make it any better. You were my partner. I should have trusted you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I shoulda made it easier for you to trust me. Don’t beat yourself up about it, all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Okay. I just thought you should know. And if you ever want to work with me again, I’d be proud to.’

  ‘Sure. I’d like that. Take it easy, Tommy.’

  ‘You too, Cal.’

  Doyle hangs up. He looks at his phone and smiles. Tommy’s a good kid. He had the guts to call. Doyle imagines there are a few others in the squad who will be too embarrassed even to look at him when he clocks on again later.

  He almost drops his cellphone as it bursts into life again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Doyle. Remember me? It’s Sven. Mr Bartok would like to meet with you.’

  Whaddya know? It’s actually stopped raining.

  Doyle sits in his car in the alleyway, looking up at the sky. The clouds are still ominously gray, but at least they’re not as incontinent.

  The expectation here is that he will be pissed upon from a different source. And he’ll have to lie there and soak it up. This moment had to come. Proust might be out of the picture, but no way is Bartok going to miss out on his chance to control a detective. This meeting is where he makes that clear. This meeting is where he tells Doyle that his life will never be his own again.

  Doyle gets out of his car. Locks it up. Strolls over to the side door of the nightclub and thumbs the buzzer.

  The square-shaped goon who opens the door wears an ugly grin of superiority. An expression that says he regards Doyle as his bitch now. He beckons Doyle inside with a twitch of his fingers, and it’s clear that he will tolerate no demurral.

  Doyle steps into the dimly lit utility room and pushes the door closed behind him. The thug scowls at Doyle, then moves closer to him. He raises a hand and slaps Doyle hard across the face. Then a second hit, a backhand to the other cheek. He moves back slightly, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, Well? What are you waiting for? You know the score.

  Doyle reaches slowly under his jacket. He pulls out his nine-millimeter and presents it to the man, butt first. The guy will be expecting to frisk him too, of course. He will be expecting to do whatever he wants with this lowlife cop who has crossed the divide. What he won’t be expecting is any trouble from this pathetic loser who has forsaken all rights to any respect.

  Doyle decides it’s time to give him trouble.

  As the man reaches out for the gun, Doyle hands it over. He hands it over into the man’s face. He hands it over so hard there is the crack of bone as the man’s nose shatters. Only the man doesn’t seem to have managed to accept the offering yet, so Doyle has to try handing it over again. Several times, in fact. Always into his face. Smashing bones and teeth and lips and flesh and
cartilage. Until there is only raw glistening redness, and the man lies senseless on the floor.

  Doyle moves quickly, taking the man’s gun, then binding his wrists and ankles with Plasti-Cuffs. He moves to the end of the hallway, preparing to sneak in on whoever might be on the other side of the door. But he’s too late. He hears noises of somebody approaching.

  Doyle sees a mop sitting in an empty bucket. He takes the mop and moves to one side of the door.

  The door opens.

  ‘Hey! Eddie! What the fuck are you—’

  There is a whipping of air as Doyle brings the handle of the mop down on to the outstretched gun hand, followed by a snap of bone, a scream of pain and the clatter of the gun as it hits the floor.

  Doyle pulls the mop back, then swings the handle into the man’s face. It connects nicely, reshaping the target’s nose to match his buddy’s. The man reels backwards into a wall, then bounces off it, coming at Doyle like a truck with no brakes. Doyle gives him the handle again, end-on this time. There’s a crunch as it punches through teeth, and the man crumples to the ground, trying to hold back the geyser of blood gushing from his broken mouth. Doyle gives him another whack across the cranium for good measure, then sets about trussing him up. To stop the man calling out, Doyle pushes a balled-up handkerchief into the bloody hole in the man’s face, then binds it into place around his head with duct tape. As he does so, he realizes he could probably have got to this position by simply pointing a gun at the man after disarming him. But it wouldn’t have been as satisfying. Right now, there is a boiling inside Doyle that he needs to release.

  Doyle pulls his gun and moves to the door. He peeks around it, sees nothing. He steps cautiously into the interior of the huge nightclub, adopting a two-handed combat stance as he scans the area. There is no sign of anyone else down here.

  He hurries across the dance floor, his ears alert for the slightest noise, his eyes straining to pick out the subtlest of movements in the dark corners and recesses. At the foot of the metal staircase he pauses only briefly, then ascends two steps at a time. When he gets to the top, he moves silently up to the oak door to Bartok’s office. He halts for a few seconds, trying to calm his breathing. He puts his free hand on the doorknob.

  A quick turn and he’s in.

  Two men in here. Bartok at his desk. A few feet to his left, Sven lounging in a wing-back chair.

  Sven makes the first move. Jumps to his feet, yanking out his gun.

  Doyle was expecting this. Hoping for it, if truth be told.

  He shoots Sven. Low, in the gut.

  Sven drops his gun and falls back into his chair, staring down at the hole in his abdomen.

  Doyle turns the gun on Bartok, who is reaching for a drawer in his desk. Doyle fires again, deliberately wide this time. The bullet enters the shiny top of Bartok’s oak desk, sending splinters of wood spitting into his face. Bartok has a sudden change of mind about the drawer.

  Doyle strides over to Bartok. Spins him around in his chair, then grabs the back of the chair and wheels it out from behind the desk. Then he spins Bartok to face him again and puts the muzzle of his gun to Bartok’s cheek.

  ‘Don’t fucking move.’

  Doyle heads over to Sven. He kicks Sven’s gun away, and it goes sliding across the wooden floor to the far side of the room.

  Sven is still staring at his wound. The dark-red stain on his shirt is spreading rapidly.

  ‘Look at what you did,’ he says. ‘You fucking shot me, you motherfucker.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Snowball.’

  Doyle moves back to Bartok, whose crossed eyes are beaming death rays all over the room.

  Says Bartok, ‘Big mistake, you dumb mick. You are so fucked now.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Doyle. ‘Yeah? I’m fucked? I’m the one who’s fucked?’

  Doyle slams the butt of his gun into Bartok’s forehead, then he rakes the muzzle across his cheek, the gunsight gouging out a trench in his flesh.

  ‘Come here, ass-wipe.’

  Doyle grabs Bartok by the hair and yanks him out of his chair and onto the floor. He kneels down next to the spread-eagled figure and presses the gun to a point behind Bartok’s ear.

  ‘I’m pissed, Lucas. And I think you know why.’

  ‘What, because your squeeze took a tumble off a building before you could shaft her?’

  Doyle pistol-whips him again.

  ‘Right person, wrong reason. Try again. Does your boy Sven over there know? Why don’t you tell him, huh? Go ahead, tell Sven why it is I’m so pissed at you right now.’

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you do.’

  Doyle produces a pocket knife. Opens up its shiny blade and holds it in front of Bartok’s face.

  ‘You see that, Lucas? Your crazy fucked-up eyes see that?’

  ‘I see it. So what?’

  ‘So what? So what? This is what. This is fucking what, you sick bastard.’

  Doyle moves down to the other end of Bartok’s body.

  ‘See, before she killed herself, Nicole Hamlyn told me something. Something that Proust told her. About you, Lucas. It explained a lot. You didn’t just reach out to Proust. You didn’t just hear about what he was going through and offer to make a deal with a perfect stranger. You knew him already, didn’t you, Lucas? He was a buddy of yours from way back. Someone who could give you what you wanted, you sick fuck.’

  And then Doyle cuts.

  He cuts right along the leg of Bartok’s pants, from ankle to thigh. And then he rips the material apart.

  And there it is. The proof. On the back of Bartok’s calf.

  A tattoo of a skull and crossbones held within an ace of spades.

  Doyle looks across at Sven. ‘You know what this means? It means your boss here tortures and rapes and kills young girls. A teenage girl called Alyssa Palmer. And my guess is a girl called Megan Hamlyn too.’

  He doesn’t know whether Sven has heard him. The man seems too engrossed in his own problems. He continues to watch the blood pouring out of himself, his head lolling to one side. But it occurs to Doyle that maybe Sven doesn’t care. Maybe he did things to the girls too. Maybe everyone in this fucking building was given a turn with them.

  Feeling sick with revulsion and hatred, Doyle stands up.

  ‘Where’s the video, Lucas?’

  ‘What video?’

  ‘The video of me going into Ruger’s house in Brooklyn.’

  ‘Fuck you, Doyle. You really think—’

  The shot reverberates around the room. Bartok screams with the pain of the bullet that has just gone into the back of his leg and blasted out through his kneecap.

  ‘The video, Lucas.’

  ‘The drawer, you fucking lunatic. The desk drawer. It’s still in the camera.’

  Keeping his gun trained on Bartok, Doyle backs up to the desk. He opens the drawer. Glancing down, he sees a video camera and the box containing the ring with his fingerprints on. He takes both items and drops them into his pocket, then approaches Bartok again.

  ‘This is the only copy?’

  Bartok mutters something that Doyle doesn’t catch. Doyle puts his foot onto the site of Bartok’s gunshot injury and presses down.

  More screams from Bartok, and then: ‘Yes. The only fucking copy. All right?’

  Doyle takes his foot away. ‘It better be, Lucas. I don’t want to have to come back here.’

  ‘You come back here and you’re a fucking dead man, you Irish cocksucker. In fact, you’re a dead man anyway. Nobody does this to Lucas Bartok. Nobody.’

  ‘Enough of the threats already, Lucas. You’re finished. I’m gonna make sure word gets around about what you do to little girls. Your reputation ain’t worth shit from now on. Crawl back under whatever rock you came from and stay there. If I ever see you again, if I ever hear you’re asking about me or anyone I know, I will kill you. I will make you experience the pain you dealt out to those girls, and then I will kill
you. Do you understand me?’

  Spittle flies from Bartok’s mouth as he releases his venom. ‘You don’t scare me, you little fuck. I’m coming after you, Doyle. I will personally rip out your liver and make you eat it, you fucking piece of shit.’

  Doyle sighs. ‘Then I better make sure I can hear you coming.’

  He blasts away Bartok’s other kneecap.

  When the screams die down he says, ‘I’ll be listening out for you on your sticks, Lucas. Come after me, that’s what you want. I’ll be waiting.’

  And then he leaves.

  She’s there when he walks through the door. He doesn’t expect her to be, but there she is. She’s in the living room, just standing and waiting and staring. The rawness of her eyes tells him she has been crying.

  ‘Rach—’ he begins.

  But she doesn’t let him continue. She races across the room and she wraps her arms around him and she hugs the breath out of him.

  ‘I heard,’ she says. ‘I know all about it. What that man said about you, it was all lies. I know that now. I’m sorry. I didn’t believe you when you needed me to, and I’m so, so sorry.’

  She starts sobbing then. Her body heaves against his as she lets out her remorse. He pulls her in close and absorbs her warmth and her love.

  A minute later she pulls away and blinks her twinkling eyes at him.

  ‘There’s something else too,’ she says. ‘I had a call from the school. The kid who says he saw Amy take the stationery stuff? Turns out he made it up. He put the stuff in her bag to get her into trouble. The school has talked with his parents about it.’ She sniffs. ‘So you were right about that, too. How come you’re always so right about things, Detective?’

  ‘I’m not always,’ he answers. ‘There was this one time when I thought I was wrong, but it turned out I wasn’t.’

  She laughs, and pulls him to her again like she never intends to let go.

  But while Doyle is trying to experience happiness and gratitude and relief, he’s also aware that a part of him is holding back.

  So he was right. About Proust, and about his daughter. Paulson, Nicole, LeBlanc and Rachel – all telling him how he got it right. All telling him what a good guy he is.