Trophies and Dead Things

by Marcia Muller

  Uh-oh, I thought. “Go ahead.” I leaned back and whacked my head on one of the bed’s brass posts. Rae saw my predicament and tossed me a pillow.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m not complaining, you understand. You’re a great boss. It’s just that . . . the other day when I was out in the field? It really felt good. And it made me realize that I’m not sticking to my original game plan. Shar, I’d like to take on more work, build up my hours to the point where I can get my own license. And I want to get firearms-qualified. I think it’s time.”

  I felt a wrenching: chick leaving the nest. In Rae’s case getting the license would surely motivate a departure. For one thing, she was too bright and talented to remain at All Souls doing my scut work; for another, that was the game plan she referred to. I couldn’t blame her for wanting more than a relatively small salary, a pile of debts, a room that wasn’t really a room, and a bathroom one flight down that she shared with numerous other people. And I certainly wouldn’t stand in her way.

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “I haven’t really been giving you as much responsibility as you’re capable of handling. Tomorrow we’ll look over what we have on tap, an I’ll assign more to you.”

  She smiled, pleased and relieved. Then she studied me over her bent knees. “You don’t look too happy about this.”

  “I’m glad that you’ve progressed so far in such a short time. In a way, it’s a compliment to me. But I’ll miss you. I’ve come to rely on you. Besides, who am I going to play gin rummy or take long lunch hours with?”

  “Miss me? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I thought you’d want to go to a better firm.”

  “Shar, that was before, when I had Doug dependent on me for everything. I don’t need as much money anymore. And I love All Souls as much as you do. In a way, it’s like the family I never had.” Rae had been brought up by her grandmother after the early deaths of her parents, and the grandmother by her own admission, hadn’t relished her responsibility.

  I said, “Do you realize that’s one of the first times I’ve heard you refer to your ex without ‘the asshole’ appended to his name?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m growing up.” There was a knock at the door. She called, “Come on in.”

  Hank entered, looking drawn and weary. He glanced at Rae’s hair and said, “Jesus, you look like you’re wearing a greasy fright wig.”

  “Perhaps, but tomorrow I will have sleek auburn tresses. And you will still look like you’re wearing a used Brillo pad.”

  That coaxed a smile out of him. “Touche.” To me he added, “I’m ready to go home now, if my secret-service woman will deign to accompany me.” In spit of the light words, his tone was tense.

  I grabbed the popcorn bowl and stood. “Let’s go.”

  Rae got up too, and removed the bowl from my hands. “I’ll take that. I want to check and see if there’re any good late movies on the tube.”

  Together we trooped down two flights of stairs. Ralph and Alice followed, taking an occasional tumble, refreshed from another attempt at ripping the place to shreds. In the hallway Rae said good night and herded them toward the kitchen.

  Hank already had his coat on. I collected my bag and jacket from Rae’s office. When I came out, he was standing by the door. I said, “Wait a minute,” and took out the .38.

  Hank’s eyes moved to it, and he swallowed. The possibility that the sniper might wait outside was tangible to him now. I asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just stay here tonight?”

  “. . . Can’t. This case I’m trying is important. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “All right, then. Stay put while I take a look around.”

  I opened the door and went out onto the front steps, gun ready. The fog was dense and still. Through it I could barely make out hazy lights in the houses on the other side of the little park; its few shade trees and trash dumpster were deep in mist-laden darkness. I stood for over a minute, watching and listening. Nothing moved, and the only sounds that came to my ears were those of a normal late evening in a quiet neighborhood.

  Finally I stepped back inside and said to Hank, “It looks okay out there, but what we’re going to do is make it obvious that there are two of us. My car’s in the driveway, and the passenger door is unlocked. Don’t hesitate or look around, just get in and slouch down. We’ll drive to your place and pull right into your garage.”

  “What about my car?”

  “We’ll just leave it here. I’ll pick you up in the morning so you can get it before you have to be in court. Hopefully this’ll be cleared up by tomorrow night.” I opened the door again and stepped back onto the porch.

  Hank hesitate a few beats before he joined me. Behind him I saw Rae watching us, backlit against the kitchen door.

  Outside, everything was as still as before. I scrutinized the park once more. Hank close the door behind us, I started down the steps, putting my body in front of his. But for some reason he moved to my left. “Hey!— ”

  And then the branches of a tree at the edge of the park moved. Rippled, even though there was no breeze. I moved back in front of Hank, yelling at him to get down.

  There was a whine. The pillar next to me splintered. A wood fragment grazed my cheek s I heard the gunshot.

  Hank froze.

  I hit him with the full weight of my body. Knocked him against the far railing.

  Another whine. Another report. Hank grunted and tumbled down the steps.

  I slide after him. Flattened my body on the pavement. No more shots. Nothing.

  I moved my hand toward Hank. Touched something warm and wet. Brought my fingers up in front of my eyes. Blood.

  I raised my head to stare at him. He lay very still, and the pavement around us was already staining red.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Frantically I felt Hank’s neck for a pulse. It was there—weak and erratic.

  Someone at the top of the steps shouted something about calling 911. Then Rae was kneeling beside me, grasping my arm. “Oh, Jesus—is he alive?”

  “Yes—barely.” I shook off her hand and stood, scanning the park. A figure was running uphill from its apex, barely visible in the thick mist.

  The bastard had waited to make sure he’d hit Hank!

  Rage welled up in me—cold, controlled, purposeful. I glanced at Hank, saw Jack and Larry were with him no. Doing more for him that I could. Doing more than I had. I felt as if I were viewing the scene through a polished pane of glass—one I wanted to smash into jagged, glittering shards.

  I gripped my gun so hard my fingers hurt. Then I began running uphill, too, just as the sniper disappeared into the mist.

  The sidewalk was uneven and steeply canted. I stumbled and banged into a car that was parked across it. A couple who were cautiously descending toward the commotion at All Souls saw my face, then my gun, and gave me a wide berth. I ran to the top of the grassy triangle, where I’d last spotted the fleeing figure.

  Higher up, the fog was even thicker. It dimmed what lights were on in the surrounding houses, made the familiar terrain alien, confusing. I stopped to get my bearings.

  Several narrow streets converged at the top of the park, then fanned off in different directions. He could have strolled down any of them like an ordinary pedestrian, perhaps intending to return as a bystander to the chaotic scene below. The thought heightened my rage, which was already burning dangerously high—directed outward at the sniper, but also inward at myself for failing to protect Hank. I hesitated, damping it down, peering through the shifting grayness.

  Diagonally from where I stood was one of those little wooded areas that dot Bernal Heights—a mere strip of land covered with fir trees. I studied it, then moved slowly across the intersection, gun raised.

  A tall figure darted from the trees’ dark shelter. I shouted for him to stop. Would have fired, but then he vanished again. Lights flashed on in a nearby house; their rays showed him fleeing uphill, on the steepest section of
Coso Avenue. I went after him.

  The man—he ran like one—took the steps that were cut into the sloping sidewalk three at a time. I raced along on the pavement beside them. I could hear his gasping, wheezing breath now. His feet slapped the concrete in counterpoint to mine. From behind me came excited voices and distant sirens.

  He overshot the intersection with Prospect Avenue and kept climbing. Beyond the iron railing bordering the steps were houses; across Coso was a long lot enclosed in a high wooden fence and then a cliff face—some fifty or sixty feet of sheer rock. He kept on climbing the steps, but then two figures appeared at the top of the hill, their outlines blurred by the fog. Their voices carried—young, strong, male. I yelled for them to stop the running man.

  He whirled. Hesitated for only an instant, then darted across the street. Looked from side to side, then disappeared into a two- or three-foot gap between the high fence and the cliff face. The young men whirled too—and vanished over the hill.

  Cowards!

  I sprinted across Coso. Stopped and flattened my body against the fence next to the opening. My breath came hard, blood roared in my ears. I tried to listen, but could hear nothing from the gap behind the fence.

  A trap? Was he aiming his gun at the opening?

  After a moment I inched along and peered down there. The fog was trapped in the narrow pocket—waist-high and thick as smoke from a brush fire. It moved sinuously away from me and trailed off into the darkness.

  I still could hear nothing, not even a telltale pant or wheeze. Finally I slipped around the corner, staying flat against the fence. The ground was rocky and uneven; I tested it carefully with my foot before I took each step. Ahead was total blackness. It was as if I were entering a tunnel that had no end.

  And then I heard something: the snap of a branch. I moved along more quickly, and my foot banged into a heavy object. It rolled and thumped into the fence.

  More branches snapped and cracked. Then there were thrashing noises, stumbling footsteps.

  I felt along the cliff face with my left hand, moving quickly toward the source of the noise. Now I could make out a stand of brush whose uppermost branches were outlined against the sky. It appeared to completely block the narrow passageway. When I neared it, I smelled the sharp odor of anise.

  The thrashing noises were more distant now. I took my hand of the cliff face and parted some branches. The brush was dense, impossible to see through. On the other side of it footsteps slapped on cleared ground. Running again.

  I plunged into the brush, batting aside branches, fighting through tall weeds. Vines caught at my legs and ankles; blackberry thorns scratched at my bare hands. I tripped over a rock, caught myself on the limb of a fir tree, my fingers coming away sticky with sap. Then I burst free of the wild vegetation and came out on a cement path.

  There was a concrete retaining wall to my right now—perhaps four feet high. Roofs peaked on the other side of it. Several houses away, the cliff jutted out and formed a dead end. The man was scaling the wall down there.

  I couldn’t see him clearly enough to risk a shot. As I raced along the path he disappeared over the wall. Then there was the loud clanging of metal.

  I jammed my gun into my belt, grasped the top of the wall with both hands, and boosted myself up. For a few seconds I teetered on top; then I jumped, landing on the balls of my feet. Pain from the impact shot upward. I staggered, banged into the garbage can he’d upset.

  Lights were flaring up in the windows of the houses ahead of me; they illuminated the alley between them. The man was fumbling at the latch of a picket fence that blocked it at the street end. I shouted for him to halt. He got the gate open and disappeared onto the sidewalk.

  Gun in hand again, I went after him. A window opened above me and a man yelled something unintelligible. I kept going. When I reached the gate, it was still swinging violently and caught me hard across my lower body; I shoved it open and ran out onto what must have been Prospect Avenue, looking frantically from left to right.

  He was going uphill again, to the left, feet pounding. Dogs barked and more people shouted, marking his passage.

  On the other side of Prospect was another small wooded area. The sniper sprinted toward it. The porch light of the house next to it shone on him; briefly I made out jeans, a dark windbreaker, and a baseball cap. Then he disappeared into the misty shadows.

  I put on speed, throat aching with each breath, pain stabbing at my right side. When I reached the little grove the odors of eucalypti and conifers clogged my nostrils. I skirted the trees, following the sound of his footsteps.

  Beyond the grove lay a bricked parking area full of cars, then one of the little ladder streets that scale Bernal Heights—a wide set of steps, bisected by a waist-high iron railing, that descended to Coleridge Street. The sniper was running down it, his baseball cap flying off and longish gray hair blowing free. If I lost him here, he would only be a block from crowded Mission Street, where the buses ran at all hours.

  I started down the steps, yelling hoarsely at him, threatening to fire. He looked over his shoulder. Turned and raised his gun.

  I squeezed off a shot. It went wild, but the man stumbled, smacked into the iron railing. Dropped his gun. It clattered on the steps, bounced into the bordering vegetation. He righted himself, glanced over there, turned and fled.

  I shouted again. He kept going, leaped over the last few steps, and thumped onto the sidewalk. The impact jarred him; he went down on one knee.

  I stopped, bracing myself. Brought my gun up in both hands and fired again.

  The shot knocked him the rest of the way to the pavement. He landed facedown, then tried to crawl forward. I jumped off the steps and grabbed one of his arms. Pinned it behind his back. Sat on him.

  All up and down the street dogs barked and people peered from their windows or front porches. Voices babbled. I glanced along the block, panting, and realized we’d made the rough circle, were on the other side of the park that fronted All Souls. I couldn’t see the house clearly through the trees, but they were backlit by the red and blue pulsars of the police cars. The mutter and squawk of their radios was plainly audible.

  Beneath me, the man struggled. I yanked upward on his arm and he lay still. A woman was staring at us from the yard of the nearest house; she seemed incapable of speech.

  I shouted at her, “Go down to Coso, tell the cops I’ve got he sniper!?

  Without a word, she took off at a run.

  The man under me struggled again. I brought my gun up, jammed it into the soft spot at the base of his skill. “Lie still, damn you!”

  He went limp, acquiescent.

  My rage was spent now. I felt only a letdown, as if I had run a hard race and then found that the other contestants had never left the starting line. That, and a dull curiosity . . .

  I jammed the gun harder against the man’s skull. Took my other hand off his arms and grasped his longish, thinning hair. Yanked his head up so I could see his face.

  It was ordinary, as faces go. Fine-boned, with regular features and a bushy, untrimmed mustache. His blue eyes rolled in panic as they met mine; his mouth writhed in an unspoken plea. After staring at him for a moment I let go of his hair, and his forehead smacked onto the pavement. Shudders of pain and terror racked his body.

  Then I noticed the people who had gathered around me. They were silent, watching me guardedly; in the eyes of some I saw accusation. It was as if I, not the sniper, were the person to be feared.

  I turned my gaze toward the end of the street, where the pulsars of the squad cars stained the night red and blue. Let the people think that they might; I simply didn’t care.

  All that mattered to me now was whether or not Hank was still alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Anne-Marie and I sat in the fluorescent glare of the nearly empty waiting room at San Francisco General’s trauma center. Her face was pale and tense; her fingers twitched convulsively as they clutched at my hand. Hank was in surgery,
had been for quite some time. The bullet had entered the right side of his chest; the doctor had told us there was no way of assessing the internal damage until they did an exploratory.

  Greg had driven me here from All Souls, taking my statement on tape in the car. Ostensibly his purpose in coming was to interview the sniper, John Weldon—upon whom I had inflicted only a shoulder wound—but I knew that his major concern was for Hank. Reporters had arrived at the same time we did; Greg had given them a brief statement, but I’d refused to talk with them at all. Now they were gone, and Greg and Hank were both somewhere beyond a pair of swinging doors that gave admittance to the hospital proper. Anne-Marie and I waited alone.