by B. A. Morton
Molly crouched in the corner, hands clamped over her ears, eyes tightly closed. Connell hadn’t time to do anything but bar the door. He pushed Joe away from him.
“Joey, sit next to Molly. I want you to get real close and cover your eyes.” The little boy scooted across the boards on all fours and wrapped his arms tightly around Molly. “There’s going to be a lot of noise. I don’t want you to worry. It’s just grownups getting jiggy. You know, Joe, like when you don’t get your own way and you start throwing stuff around?” He pushed the heavy desk in front of the door and crouched behind it, listening, waiting for the unmistakable creaking that would announce that Porter had followed them up the stairs.
He checked his watch. Where was Marty, or Gerry, or the army of cops that Gerry had promised would sweep in and save the day? At this rate, Frankie would have picked up his delivery and made his escape before they made it across town. He strained his ears and thought he detected the faint sound of sirens, but couldn’t be sure, and even if he were, couldn’t guarantee they weren’t destined elsewhere. In this town it seemed you couldn’t go two blocks before a patrol car cut in front of you.
He raised himself above the cover of the desk and looked through the broken window. A bullet narrowly missed his head, shattering what was left of the glass and showering him with shards. He dropped to the floor and shook his head to dislodge the glass. It was no good. They were pretty much trapped and it wouldn’t take long for Porter to climb the stairs and force his way in. He scanned the small space, looking for options, another way out, anything that would forestall the inevitable. The office was a mess with broken furniture and shattered glass, the ceiling sagging and stained brown with damp. He studied the patch where the roof membrane above had obviously failed. Constructed in the same way as the walls, with corrugated iron, many of the sheets had dislodged and fallen to the yard below. Connell pulled a chair beneath. If the ironwork was missing, then it should be possible to break through.
It didn’t take much. A few well-aimed blows brought the flimsy ceiling down on his head. He flexed his hand, shook out the pins and needles, and wiped his bloodied knuckles on his pants. The hole was wide enough for them to squeeze through. Sunlight beckoned them.
“Molly, sweetheart, I know you’re scared, but we have to move. There’s a bad man on his way up the stairs and we have to climb up and out onto the roof before he gets here. Do you understand?”
“I told you, my dad would come save us,” said Joe proudly. He pulled at Molly’s hands, freeing them from her ears. “I said my dad is here to save us from the bad men.”
Molly lifted her head, opened her eyes and looked straight at Connell. He expected confusion and fear but instead she regarded him calmly and then, surprisingly, reached out her hand and slipped it in his.
“Good girl, Molly. Come on. Let’s get ourselves out of here.”
He heard the sirens as he lifted Joe and heard Frankie’s furious bellow a moment later. He ignored them both as he pushed first Joe and then Molly through the makeshift hatch and onto the warehouse roof. “Do not move,” he called to them as he stepped down from the chair, crossed the office and took one final look through the window.
Porter ran for his car in a futile dash for freedom. He couldn’t hope to escape with the area surrounded by cops who were pretty much sick of being jerked around and hell bent on getting an arrest. Perhaps he realized it because, as the giant warehouse doors shuddered under the weight of steel rams, Porter skidded to a stop. Trapped, he scanned the space, running out of options and time, flicking his gaze between gun and car, a resigned expression settled on his face. He was beaten and he knew it. But Porter, being Porter, had no intention of going quietly. Connell watched impotently as he turned slowly and across the expanse locked eyes with him. He shrugged, spread his arms wide and smiled.
“Come on, Tommy,” he taunted, “shoot me if you dare.”
Connell’s hand tightened on his own gun. He felt his gut twist as blackness struggled to be free. It would be so easy. How could it be wrong? He was the good guy after all. Even so, he hesitated, distracted by Joey calling frantically from above, by movement on the creaking stairway. He couldn’t focus. Porter or Frankie? Could he take out both and still get the kids to safety? Could he actually pull the trigger?
Porter shook his head. “Too slow, Tommy. You’re going to regret it.” He raised his gun, swung his arm and his aim away from Connell, and fired.
Connell figured Porter hadn’t really intended to hit the gas tank. After all, only a moron would initiate a situation that not only exploded the car, but almost brought the unstable building down on his head. But then again, Connell also figured Porter must be lacking a brain cell or two to have aligned himself so comfortably with Frankie, and he was already dressed for a funeral. Either way, the smug look was wiped from the man’s face as he was flung back by the blast. Flames erupted from the car, catching at the dry timber framework. The whole building rocked perilously with the force of the explosion before settling back at least ten degrees out of kilter. The building groaned under the weight now placed on the misaligned structure. Connell felt the boards beneath him shift, and with a final glance at the burning car, he scrambled for the hatch and hauled himself up and out through the makeshift skylight.
Struggling to his feet, he found Molly and Joe crouched in a tight embrace. The roof stretched out beyond them, tilting alarmingly from the blast. Underfoot, the deep grooves in the corrugated iron made any movement difficult and dangerous.
He picked Joe up, the child clinging monkey-like, small arms clasped tight around his neck, skinny legs around his waist. He took hold of Molly’s hand, squeezed it reassuringly, and together they made their way gingerly across the uneven surface.
“Don’t look down, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Just look straight ahead or close your eyes if you need to. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
The noise of the sirens was loud now, the yard filling with vehicles. In the distance he caught a different sound, the unmistakable clamor of the fire-tender. Someone had spotted the fire. He hoped they’d also spotted him. People were running, uniformed officers taking their positions. Someone was shouting above the din and he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He didn’t have a free hand, didn’t have time to stop. He had to get to the end of the roof before the building collapsed in a heap.
Molly tripped and he stumbled as he gripped her hand, frantically seeking purchase on a surface made more treacherous by moss and weeds. Unbalanced by Joe’s clinging weight, he righted himself with difficulty. As he waited for Molly to do the same, he felt a dull thud in his shoulder. The force propelled him forward, scrabbling, sliding, and finally lurching onto his knees. He clung to Joe desperately. White hot pain almost sucked the life out of him. He fell again and this time it was Molly who pulled him up and kept him there. Her hand in his, lending what little strength she had.
He shoved her in front of him, his hand on the back of her collar, shielding her with his body, bracing himself for another blow, another hit. Muttering words of encouragement through gritted teeth, he kept them moving forward. A second bullet hit the roof inches from his feet. A third sent sparks flying and Joe began to sob. Connell stopped, overwhelmed by pain, energy sapped, adrenalin fighting for supremacy. His heart pounded, he dragged in a breath. He could hear shouting from the yard, the roar of the fire below, and above it all, an unmistakable voice bellowing at him across the roof. He turned slowly, lowered Joe to his feet, and stepped in front of both children.
“What do you want Frankie?” His voice was fractured, he winced as he spoke and pain radiated from his shoulder blade down his left arm. He drew a breath and raised his right hand. The gun trembled.
Frankie stood just ten yards from him, his own gun raised and aimed. “You just couldn’t leave well alone, could you, Tommy?” Frankie snarled, his composure and attire both tarnished by the blast. “I offered you money. You could have been a wealthy man but you
just wouldn’t give it a fuckin’ rest, looking at things that you shouldn’t. You couldn’t take a warning, could you?”
“Just doing my job, Frankie, same as you. Difference is, I’m on one side of the line and you’re on the other.”
“You think you are, Tommy, but you and I both know that if it came down to it, you’d be tempted, just like the rest of us. Tell me you haven’t got a dark side hidden away somewhere. You can’t, can you?”
Connell grimaced and felt his dark side fighting hard to get out. He exhaled, tried to get a handle on the pain and ignored the warmth of his own pooling blood. “Frankie, this isn’t about me. There’s a yard full of armed officers down there. Porter’s blown you out. Your shipment is gone and we have a witness ready to stand up in front of a judge. Killing me won’t make a deal of difference to the outcome. Be a man, accept you’re beaten and let’s all get down off this goddamn roof.” He swayed, locked his knees and recovered his focus.
“You’re forgetting something, Tommy. You were warned that if you insisted on meddling, you’d lose a child. Looks like you’re going to lose two now.”
Connell felt the children behind him, Joe clinging tight to his legs, Molly pressed at his back, hands around his waist, cheeks wet with his blood. He couldn’t move, couldn’t avoid a bullet, couldn’t save one child, let alone two.
He felt his courage ebb and began to doubt his ability to turn this around. He thought of Lizzie and the final kiss they’d shared, and his gut churned with bitter regret. He dropped his head, his eyes drifted shut and his right arm began to dip. If Molly had sought a courageous lion, then she’d picked the wrong man.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
And a little voice whispered from behind. “You can do it. I know you can. You are kind and brave. You have to do it and I know you will. I’ve always known it.” Molly tightened her grip, transmitting her absolute belief in him through her hands. He felt a rush of adrenalin, of self-belief, and as Frankie squeezed the trigger, Connell steadied his arm and fired.
The moment hung, Joe screamed, Frankie smiled and Connell felt the ground beneath him shift. There was a smothering silence. Connell blinked slowly and dipped his head. Confusion overwhelmed him.
And then suddenly he was in fast forward. Frankie crumpled, his legs folding beneath him, his arms spread wide, his face a running flick-book image of shock, disbelief, fear and pain. He writhed and squealed as the bullet lodged deep in his gut. Connell froze, momentarily shocked at what he’d just done, at what Molly had said, at everything. He swung his gaze from the fallen man to the gun still hot in his hand. The building lurched, the giant timbers finally giving way with a deafening wrench, and Connell was yanked back to reality. He was aware of shouting and of Joe tugging frantically at his leg.
“Daddy, Daddy look!”
He turned to see the tip of a fire-tender ladder appear at the edge of the roof. A firefighter beckoned him urgently, and in a daze he scooped up Joe and pushed him into the fireman’s outstretched arms.
“Lizzie is waiting for you, Joe.” He pressed desperate lips against the boy’s hair and withdrew his shaking hands.
“I’ll be back directly for the little girl,” shouted the fireman as he gathered Joe in and began his descent. “Just sit tight.”
Connell nodded, relief numbing his pain. He couldn’t believe it was over, that he hadn’t messed up. He turned to pull Molly away from the edge, away from the drop, and came face to face with New York’s most wanted.
The man was just as he remembered him from Molly’s apartment. Unnaturally tall, his clothes draped his gaunt frame in a way that suggested they had once belonged to another. He stared unblinking, one brow raised, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in an amused expression parents keep for children whose misbehavior is more humorous than annoying.
“You came. You actually came. I knew you would.” There was a sense of wonder in Molly’s whispered voice. She stepped forward toward him, away from Connell. Beguiled, bewitched, whatever, he reached out caught her hand and held her back.
The man kept his gaze on Connell as he responded to the child.
“Of course I did, Molly. I wouldn’t let you down. But now you have a new protector, someone worthy of a page in your book. You hang on tight to his hand. We don’t want you taking a fall, not now.”
Molly nodded. Connell felt her draw closer but reluctance slowed her step. The man cocked his head approvingly.
“Hello, Tommy.” He held out his hand, long fingers, pale skin, yellowing unkempt nails. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. My name is Isaac. I’ve been hearing good things about you.”
His voice was familiar, the peculiar diction, the almost, but not quite, southern drawl. Connell stepped back, confused, drawing Molly with him.
“I wish I could say the same,” he muttered. He held tightly to his gun and to Molly, and Isaac allowed his own hand to fall, shrugging his indifference.
“Oh, don’t worry, Tommy. I know how you really feel about me, deep inside, where it matters. I wasn’t sure at first, I must be honest. I had you on my list but kept putting you off. He loves me, he loves me not. I wasn’t entirely clear which side of the line you were on. But dear little Molly, determined and dogged, kept me right. She has a nose for these things. She had every faith in you, Tommy, even when you lacked it yourself. She knew when it counted you’d step up to the plate. She couldn’t be in safer hands.”
Connell shifted his gaze between them. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Tommy. Why, I do believe we share a philosophy, don’t we? Sometimes good men are required to do bad things to ensure that good prevails, and very often the most courageous of us are those that fear their own actions the most.”
He smiled at Molly and stepped away. “It’s time for me to go now, Molly. Remember what I told you. If you want something hard enough, you can make it happen.”
She pulled gently at Connell’s hand and he restrained her, suddenly scared that this strange beguiler would reach out a hand, crook his finger, and just like the Hamlyn piper, whisk her way from his grasp. And she would go with him, Connell didn’t doubt it. She watched him now, wide-eyed and hopeful.
“Shall I come with you … to Oz?” she asked.
“No, Molly, it’s time for you to go home, back to Kansas where you belong. I believe your grandmother is waiting. Isn’t that right, Tommy? And all thanks to you, I understand.”
Connell watched as Isaac took another step away. “I can’t let you go. You know that, don’t you?”
The sound of the returning firefighter drew Isaac’s attention. He gestured with a pale hand. “Molly, be a good girl and go with the fireman. Tommy will follow you down shortly. We have a few things to discuss.”
Connell bundled her into the fireman’s arms, relief at securing Molly’s safety tinged with doubt over his own. Isaac was a serial killer. He had stalked his victims and murdered them in the most brutal fashion, and yet there was something about him that had Connell doubting his guilt. He swayed and the guy on the ladder reached out and steadied him.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked as he saw the blood soaking through Connell’s shirt. “You’ve been hit. You need to sit down. The paramedics are waiting. I’ll be straight back up for you.”
Connell nodded vaguely and waved the guy away. He needed Molly as far away as possible. His head began to swim, blood loss clouding his ability to think straight.
“Tommy, Tommy!”
Connell swung back around, disoriented. His feet skittered on the moss-covered surface, arms wind-milling for balance. Isaac reached out and grabbed him, pulling away from the edge, from the drop. Connell shook himself free and raised his gun feebly. “I can’t let you go,” he murmured.
“Even though you’d like to?”
Connell forced a sour smile. Just like Luther, he was trying to get into his head. “Why would I want to let you go? Molly may think you’re some weird and wonderful w
izard, but all you are is a killer. You murdered eleven cops, ripped out their guts for fuck’s sake.”
The man nodded his agreement. “Eleven corrupt policeman who deserved to die. Take Musgrave, for example. I’m sure you agree that justice was served.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I have to take you in.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Tommy, where you’ve been fooling yourself all along. Believe me, it matters a great deal what you think. What you think is what makes you who you are. There’s only one way to stop me, Tommy. You have a gun in your hand. I won’t blame you if you use it … if you think that’s the right thing to do.”
“I can’t shoot you in cold blood.”
“Oh, but you could, Tommy. Don’t kid yourself. What did I just tell you? Even a good man can do bad things for the greater good.”
“Is that what you want? Is that what you’re trying to do? To goad me into losing my cool, so you can die in a hail of bullets, instead of in padded cell? And all the sick fucks who dream of killers will remember you?”
“Do you feel goaded, intimidated? That’s not my intention. You must do what you think is right, Tommy. We must always do what we think is right, even when other’s think us wrong.” He smiled. “Life is a bitch.”
“If you walk away, I’ll be forced to shoot.”
“I’m walking.”
Connell raised his gun, his grip overly tight, his trigger finger trembling. His whole body screamed with indecision and dilemma. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. He couldn’t shoot a man in the back. Yet he couldn’t let him walk away. Regardless of what he thought of the slain officers, or whether he considered that justice had ultimately been served, the man was a killer and had to be stopped. Pain overwhelmed him. His hand began to shake.
When the shot rang out, Connell’s eyes flicked open. Shock and disbelief coursed through him. Isaac, the lizard guy, the cop killer, Molly’s Wizard of Oz, lay in a heap before him. He stared in horror at the gun in his hand. His gut churned. Vomit forced its way into his throat. He turned away, sickened and dismayed at what he’d just done. Bracing himself with his hands on his knees, he sucked in a desperate breath and finally raised his head, to find Frankie propped on one arm, a sick smile on his face.