All this work, Tommie lamented. The time and effort and personal risk that he expended—all of it wasted. The strain was so powerfully toxic that it killed within hours, and it rendered a victim unconscious long before that. The weapon was too powerful, period. This vile germ was hardly slower than using a shotgun.
The only priceless moment was the look on Friar John’s face when Tommie bludgeoned the boy to death in his presence. The sweetest things never last. Tommie was discovering that terror was much better than pain for motivating a victim. It was certainly more entertaining for him.
After all of this, it was not going to be enough to merely kill The Bastard. Tommie needed to terrorize him first, then utterly destroy him. His simple existence was a claim on Tommie’s wealth. The destruction of his father’s bastard son would be an exorcism.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LATER THAT DAY
RANDALL BLACKBURN PICKED HIS WAY along the broken sidewalk. Every step carried him past crowded temporary dwellings and lean-to tents that served to replace the buildings of the Bar-bary Coast district. The neighborhood had been decimated when the fires swept through. Citizens’ committees clamored for changes to the district, and a sea change of public image for the entire district seemed inevitable.
Strangely, little had changed so far. Familiar faces swirled all around him in the darkness, popping in and out of the lantern light and the campfire shadows. True denizens of the bottom-dwelling existence had gravitated back to the old Barbary Coast area like homing pigeons. No matter what happened to the real estate itself, the location, location, location, was still near the ships. The ships brought cargo, and many times the cargo included alcohol. Sailors needed somewhere to blow off steam and get rid of their pesky money. And so it continued to propel an ongoing dark party that randomly rotated through the neighborhood.
Blackburn was the lone, wandering force of order for the district, the cold point of contact where the law’s carriage wheels met the cobblestone. At least until the eventual day when the powers that be finished the neighborhood’s transformation.
But tonight he felt his energy sagging even though he had several hours left to go. The destruction of nearly everything all around him seemed to be a lesson that his efforts on behalf of justice were wasted in the law. The civic powers that controlled him and paid his wages could be dethroned with a single shaking of the earth, but the low criminals displayed a resistance to change that rivaled rats and roaches. The Barbary Coast denizens triumphed at the art of survival by learning to live off of garbage.
In a small tent less than ten yards away, he caught a clear view of some poker player turning over the table, grabbing up the pot and fleeing into the darkness. It took another second or two before Blackburn noticed that his own feet were not moving. He was perfectly capable, but in that brief moment of decision, it was the same petty thief who had fled from him a thousand times before. Easy to chase down, difficult to beat into submission, time-consuming to arrest, and pointless to rehabilitate. They were chipping away at Blackburn’s life, one street fight at a time.
He watched for another moment while the thief fled with the howling players hot behind him, then he turned and walked away. “Bastards,” he muttered.
Bastards. He walked away with blinders on and left them to work out their own difficulties. What was he doing? In the days before the quake, his self-delusion was much easier to maintain amid the red-lighted windows, loud piano music, and raucous laughter of the Barbary Coast’s fake hotels. The doomed women in their gowns and layered makeup looked so much better under the tinted gaslights of the old dance hall atmosphere. Now, most women’s desperation was plain in their ragged appearance and their aggressive, angry manner. Makeup was seldom seen. Quick contact in its most base form was all that their clients could expect.
Blackburn bumped into them in the shadows under stairways, stepped over them rutting like pigs in back alleys, arrested them when they did it out in full view, and ignored them on any other oc- casion. Nothing stopped it. The word was out, hanging over the city like a dark cloud, worming its way into the brains of anyone with nothing else to anchor down their life.
His energy dropped again. It was hard to walk. It felt useless. He stepped into a lean-to “bar” with two small tables, both occupied, and rapped his nightstick on the nearest one. The two men seated there promptly got up and hustled away. He sat down and motioned for the barkeep to bring him a beer, then he turned his back to the outside world and asked himself once again what the hell he was doing.
Yet here he still was, on the Barbary Coast beat.
This is what they think of you.
His disgust and resentment burned so deeply that the beer glass was empty before he knew it. His parents had not brought him up to risk himself in this way. How would he explain it to them, when he could no longer explain it to himself? As a “guardian of society,” who was he actually protecting?
His original goal of working his way up to the rank of detective seemed like a bad joke to him, now. Chasing down thieves and arresting wife beaters was never going to bring him the sort of action that moves an officer up the ranks. His beat could kill him at the drop of a hat, but it wasn’t going to get him any glory.
And of course, somebody up there knew that. As for the city mucky-mucks he took orders from, reports were coming into City Hall of officials whose mansions were not covered for earthquake damage, so they set fire to their own homes, which all had fire insurance as required under the law. Entire insurance companies were now teetering on the brink of bankruptcy while these hogs were helping to collapse the system so that they could build themselves bigger mansions next time.
What was he doing? Life had slapped him to the ground so hard during his rookie year that it had been hard not to take it as a direct repudiation from God. In a single day, his wife and infant daughter disappeared, leaving him haunted by the sense that if he had cho- sen some other line of work, their deaths would not have happened. And yet after almost ten years of burying his grief and his rage in his dedication to his work, this is where it put him: seated in a nasty, smoke-stained tent that served as a temporary tavern of the crudest possible nature, drinking alcohol on duty, right out in the open among the very people he patrolled every night. And so what?
It was still dark out while Tommie drove his one-horse rig up to the northern tip of the San Francisco peninsula. He steered the big draft animal down the rutted road leading to the rocky shoreline. The Pacific Ocean flowed into the San Francisco Bay through the narrow Golden Gate, and Tommie was parked near the narrowest part of the strait. The opposite shore lay less than a mile away, swallowed in the darkness and the fog. A relentless current of six or seven miles an hour swept everything before it into the bay when tides were rising, and then back out to the open sea when they drained back out.
With a little push, any floating object would either join the rush toward the bayside shoreline or disappear out to sea over the western horizon, all depending on the direction of the tides. At several points during the drive up, Tommie had found himself debating whether there was more merit in letting a body disappear at sea or causing a bold statement to wash up onto any of the Bay’s public beaches.
He appreciated the value of secrecy, living as he did behind veils of it, but he was repeatedly swamped by the giddy sensations that rushed through him when he pictured the unsuspecting beach-goers who might encounter his handiwork and vomit on the spot.
Humor won the internal debate.
He would dispose of the body while the tide was coming in, guaranteeing that Friar John would have himself one final opportunity to present his naked carcass to the view of small children.
Whatever was left of him by then, Tommie cackled. Given the cold seawater and nibbly fishes, he was still going to castrate his victim, but this time he would use Mother Nature instead of a heavy-bladed knife.
The darkened sea break was deserted at that hour, and he had no problem in avoiding detection whi
le he parked the buggy and stepped around to the back. He grabbed Friar John’s carcass by the ropes and pulled the fabric cocoon out and onto the ground. The water’s edge was only a few yards away at that point, but to get the body there he would have to traverse a row of jagged boulders and fist-sized rocks.
Tommie was wiry and fit, but he was smaller than his passenger by a good six inches in height and by thirty or forty pounds. There was no way to carry the load over that terrain. He would have to drag the cocoon by its ropes. That was just as well. To carry the thing any distance involved far too much close contact, given the virulence of the disease. There was surely no good reason to touch the thing. So Tommie put his strength into it and dragged his burden across the rocks, yard by gasping yard, until he was nearly at the water’s edge.
He squinted at the ground by the faint starlight and saw that the water was receding, but it was barely down from the high water mark. This tide would be headed back out to sea for hours and hours before it turned back through the Golden Gate and into the Bay. If he pushed the carcass in now, it would sail off and be lost to history. And a very funny joke would go untold.
Tommie wedged the cocoon tightly between two large rocks, where it would safely remain until the rising tide returned. Then the power of Nature herself would pry it loose and send it on its way. With just a bit of luck, the friar would be swept into the Bay and beached somewhere. Tommie sliced open the cocoon, so that Friar John could bid the world farewell in all of his bloated and rotting repulsiveness, pink and purple and red and black. It would be his very last opportunity to personally show the world what he had really looked like inside, all along.
Blackburn quit his shift at four A.M.for the first time in his life, feeling well assured that nobody would ever find out. His mood improved as soon as he walked away from his beat and started for the Mission Dolores. It was such a relief to be headed away from the human swamp of drunks and muggers and on his way to deliver good news to a deserving kid, he didn’t even feel anxious about how things might turn out—until he had the Mission’s cemetery gate in sight.
He stopped there, when the questions hit him. How was he going to do this? Build the boy up to it and spring it gently? Give it to him straight and let him decide whether or not to be upset on his own? How much protection did a young fellow that age need, anyway?
He quietly opened the gate and gently closed it behind him. He felt no urge to rush into things, now that he was there. He glided through the darkness toward the toolshed at the back of the property. When he drew closer, he saw that a lantern was shining inside the shed. The door was pulled open to allow a beam of light to fall onto the ground outside. In the shadows of the outer wall next to the door, he saw Shane sitting with another small person. The other one had the appearance of a skinny boy, but there was femininity to the posture and movements. She employed a theatrical array of gestures when she spoke, and the pair seemed to be engrossed in conversation.
They spoke quietly, whether out of respect for the dead or the fear of disturbing the resident priests. He realized that there was no reason to stand in the darkness and eavesdrop on them, the way his habits told him to do. So he continued toward them and only heard a few lines before they noticed his approach.
“Shane?” Blackburn called out. Both kids immediately whipped around to face him. He got close enough to offer a reassuring smile and wave. “It’s just me, Shane—Sergeant Blackburn. How are you doing?” He saw the girl regard him with mild curiosity, but Shane had that same trapped animal look again, even though he tried to hide it.
Both of them stood up, waiting for him to let them know what was going on. He decided to just plunge in and let the chips fall.
“I’m, ah, actually here with some news, Shane. It concerns you. And it’s good news, too.”
Shane looked as if he was wracking his brain for what sort of good news a police officer was likely to bring him. Blackburn realized that he wouldn’t care to be approached that way himself, so he decided to jump to it.
“All right. This is it, then. Hold on to your hat.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “You know, the interesting thing is that we’ve got whole insurance companies that are going into bankruptcy now. You know what that means? It means to fail. To go broke. Because so many people are coming up with every trick they can think of to make a claim that they’ve got no right to. But you, Shane, you never went to City Hall to check, and you never went to some attorney to look into it, and you sure never talked to the insurance company people. They told me.” Blackburn gave him an admiring smile. “You’re a bit young to deal with insurance people, but this gentleman here”—he handed Shane the business card for Attorney Gabriel Towels—“is a lawyer for the insurance company that covered Mr. Nightingale’s other properties.”
“Prop-properties?” Shane asked, uncomprehending.
“A couple of apartment buildings, a few other things. Anyway these people have figured it all out down to the last penny, and this man told me that you have a lot of money waiting for you. We aren’t talking about the kind of money that you go out and spend on a party or a bunch of clothing or things like that, either, Shane. This is enough to change your life all around. Now, he said it’s not enough to make you rich forever, but it’s enough to take care of you, if you’re careful with it.”
The girl leaned to Shane and whispered, “See it and read it.” Blackburn recognized her now as one of the kids from the orphanage.
Shane stared into space for a second, then turned to Blackburn. “There must be some mistake.”
Blackburn noticed that Shane did not falter, but decided not to mention it.
“Well, don’t say that so fast,” the girl cautioned. She glanced over at Blackburn and gave a little sigh, then smiled at him. “I saw you in the office because I used to get in trouble on purpose, just so they would make me clean in there and I could look for our files.”
“Excuse me?” he asked. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I’m Shane’s sister. They called me Mary Kathleen when I met you, but my real name is Vignette. And I finally found our file, the one for Shane and me, that proves we’re brother and sister. They were never going to tell us! Can you believe that? All so that they could adopt us out easier. You know, without a lot of kicking and screaming.”
“Ah. That’s why you’re here then.”
“… Obviously.”
“Good. All right. Good then. Now Shane, you need to go over and see that man as soon as you can. If you want to go later this afternoon after we’ve both had a chance to catch some sleep, I’ll come by and go with you.”
“Would that be soon enough?” Vignette asked, concerned. “Maybe we should get something to eat and go on over as soon as they open up.”
Blackburn laughed. “You can, but I bet it’s a good idea to have an adult with you who’s on your side.”
“Are you sure about this?” Shane quietly asked. He kept reading in his mind’s eye. “Are these people sure this is right?”
“City records prove you were formally adopted by the Nightingales.”
“I mo-mostly worked for them.”
“Doesn’t matter, they gave you their name. You’re legally a Nightingale and this money is your family estate.”
“A family estate.” Vignette repeated the words with solemn wonder. “A family estate. I think those are the most beautiful words I ever heard.”
“Sergeant Black-Black-”
“Just don’t say Blackie.”
Shane laughed and relaxed a little. “Sergeant, they would never leave me money.”
“Right. Interesting part, that. They don’t have a will saying that you can or can’t have it, or that anybody else can, either. Maybe it burned up with the house. That wouldn’t be a problem if the family had survived. But after the disaster, you are the Nightingale family, Shane. You’re it. And so it just doesn’t matter what anybody else wanted, anymore.”
He tried to make his own vision appe
ar inside their minds. “You could go to school. A great private school. You can both go. You can have decent lives.”
Shane’s face suddenly lit up so that it nearly glowed. His eyes darted back and forth for a moment, then he concentrated and asked, “I can share it with my sister, right?”
“I’m pretty sure that you can, pal.” He clapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Congratulations. Things are going to change.”
Shane stepped back to the toolshed and sat back against the wall, reeling. He rubbed his forehead with his palm, but this time he made no effort to speak.
Blackburn turned to the girl, Vignette, as she wanted to be called. She smiled at him, then turned away and dreamily looked up into the sky. The impact of the news made her shudder, even though her arms were wrapped around herself. Her teeth chattered while she stepped over to Shane and sat beside him.
“It’s like we just got permission to stay alive, Shane.” She squinted into the thought and nodded with a smile. “It’s a sign. I think it makes a lot of sense.”
Shane stared at his watch hanging on the wall, then turned to Blackburn and cleared his throat. “Do you think we could meet here at four o’clock this afternoon? I mean, would you come, Sergeant Blackburn?”
Blackburn noticed that this time Shane got through two entire sentences without stuttering at all.
Tommie felt strangely out of place while he drove his rig up the road leading to St. Adrian’s. He nearly always walked when he was in full dress and makeup, risking the beat cops for the joy of attracting predators. Here, sitting high up in the buggy seat in full splendor as an ersatz female, he felt uncomfortably exposed. The hour was now very late, the sea fog was thick. There was scant traffic on the streets at this hour, so he drove along in reasonable isolation.
When the first destination approached, he pulled the draft horse to a stop across from the main offices of the orphanage. The gas lines to light the streetlamps had not been reconnected yet in this neighborhood, so there was only faint moonlight to betray him. And in the moonlight, Tommie knew that he appeared to the world as a mere silhouette.
The Last Nightingale Page 19