Jake’s own eyes shifted to the Hoodie on the left, who also seemed to be plagued by cataracts, and then to the Hoodie on the right, whose face did indeed resemble that of the boy in the photo Carmen had given him. Something was off about all three figures, no doubt about it. They stood as still as statues, and when they did move, it was with machinelike efficiency. He felt their eyes on him, which caused his blood to curdle.
What’s wrong with these guys?
Focusing his attention on The Boy Who Might Be Louis, he said, “Louis Rodriguez?”
The boy’s sunken eyes did not blink, but his cracked lips parted.
It is him. No surprise there. Just means that Carmen was right on that score.
And as Jake studied Do-rag’s taut chest beneath his black vest, he realized what troubled him about all three drug dealers.
They’re not breathing. That’s why they’re so still. But that’s not possible…
All three of the corner boys were dead on their feet. Functioning. Selling drugs.
Black Magic.
Jake wanted to flee for his life, but with lightning like speed, Do-rag reached behind him, pulled a Glock from his waistband, and extended his arm straight out with the barrel turned sideways a foot shy of Jake’s face.
Fuck me! Jake raised both hands level with his head and took an automatic step back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa …”
Dead or alive, Do-rag had moves. And now he moved toward Jake, keeping the distance between them consistent as Jake stepped off the sidewalk and backed into the street. Hoodie One and Louis followed, maintaining their triangular formation.
“Okay, fellas, take it easy. I’m not a cop, and I’m not looking for trouble. I was just hoping to score a little Magic, but if you don’t want to help me out, that’s okay. I’ll just get into my car back there and be on my way.”
If I could just reach my gun—
Not a chance. Do-rag increased his gait, forcing Jake to walk backwards even faster. Jake wanted to look over his shoulder to locate his car, but he feared that any deviation from this new routine would provoke Do-rag into firing a round into his brain. And if he turned and ran, he could take a bullet in the back. Fear kept his eyes trained on the gun before him. Now where the hell was his car?
As if on cue, his left leg struck metal. Steadying himself with his right hand, he stepped over the curb onto the sidewalk and moved to the driver’s-side door. His focus kept switching from the barrel in his face to the countenance of the dead thing gripping the gun.
“I have to take out my keys, okay?”
Do-rag and his thugs stopped advancing, and Jake reached into his pocket and took out his keys. Using his remote control, he unlocked the car door and opened it. His heart skipped a beat when he spotted the glowing LCD screen of the camera taped to the dashboard. Praying this would not lead to more trouble, he slid behind the wheel, his movements slow and controlled. He felt completely at their mercy, which he doubted they had possessed even when they had been alive. Why should they have any now?
With sweat forming on his brow and his heart gaining speed, he closed the door. Resisting the irrational desire to lock it—what good would it do?—he inserted his car key into the ignition and started the engine. He wanted to see what his aggressors were doing, even though he suspected they continued to stand motionless, but once again, the pervasive fear he felt dictated his actions.
Instead, he steered the Malibu out of its parking space, pulled into the street, and sped toward the corner. Glancing at his rearview mirror, he saw the three figures walk lockstep into the middle of the street.
Fuck this and fuck you!
Jerking the wheel to his left, he executed a U-turn, and the Malibu’s front right wheel jumped the curb. As the car bounced back into the street, the corner boys stopped walking and stood frozen, except that Do-rag raised the Glock in both hands, aiming it at Jake, who swept the camera off the dashboard with his right hand, knocking it onto the seat beside him.
There’s no need to create evidence that can be used against me.
Then he stepped on the gas, and the car rocketed forward. Do-rag’s
Glock issued a muzzle flash, and a splintery white spiderweb appeared in the windshield even as Jake heard the gunfire. He steered left, avoiding the next shot, then right, slamming against a parked sedan in a shower of sparks. Then he plowed straight into the corner boys.
Hoodie One threw himself against a parked car and Louis dove onto the sidewalk, both of them dodging Jake’s trajectory. But the Malibu smashed into Do-rag, and the drug dealer disappeared beneath the car.
Jake stomped on the brake and searched his rearview mirror for signs of movement. He saw Do-rag lying on his back in the street. The drug dealer rolled over, planted his palms on the asphalt, and raised his head, staring at Jake’s car.
Oh no you don’t! Jake’s temples throbbed. He refused to get tangled up in this kind of shit again.
Do-rag did a single push-up, which allowed him to stand. He still held the Glock, and as Hoodie One and Louis joined him in their triangular pattern, he raised the gun and fired it. The rear windshield turned into a pattern of white cracks.
Jake shifted the car into reverse, glanced at his side mirror, and floored the gas. The car lurched backwards, and the three figures grew larger in the side mirror. Jake heard a series of bangs against the rear bumper and trunk and saw Hoodie One roll clear across the street until his body collided with the curb. Then Do-rag came into view, lying once more on his back, his chest torn open and his rib cage winking at the moon, no blood glistening on the bone. Out of the corner of his eye, Jake glimpsed Louis crouching behind the sedan he had smashed against. Stepping on the brake, Jake waited.
Do-rag got to his feet and turned around, his ruptured torso grinning at Jake like a jack-o’-lantern. His legs buckled, and his shattered left arm swung at his side like a pendulum. Hoodie One stood as well.
“FUCK YOU!”
Shifting gears again, Jake sped forward even as Do-rag’s grunts lumbered toward him. Do-rag raised his Glock, but Jake smashed into him. This time the gun went flying. As the gangbanger disappeared beneath the car once more, Jake stomped the brake pedal. He didn’t wait to see Do-rag rise again; instead, he shifted the car into reverse and backed up at full speed. The car shook, and he heard a loud snapping sound.
Stopping the car, he glared at the crumpled heap on the street. Bones jutted out from pulverized flesh, and way too many joints undulated. Shifting the gear again, Jake revved the engine. Then the thing on the ground turned its faceless head toward him. Jake sped forward, aiming the front left wheel for the grisly mass perched between the thing’s shoulders.
Do-rag disappeared from view, and Jake heard a loud crunch as the Malibu shook. A sudden flash of light coming from beneath the car caused Jake to believe that Do-rag had fired his Glock one more time. But Jake had seen the dead dealer discard the weapon!
What in the world—?
As Jake sped away from the carnage, he looked into the side mirror. A sphere of tarnished light rose from the broken body in the street.
No no no no NO!
As Do-rag’s soul rose into the night sky, it darkened into a pustulant gray mass and disappeared.
Jake stopped the car again, jumped out, and gazed at the sky. He saw no sign of Do-rag’s soul, which had no doubt begun its journey to its ultimate destination. Jake’s knees wobbled. He had not witnessed such a light show since the demon Cain had claimed Old Nick’s soul in the Tower. The entire episode had left him wondering if he would continue to see souls leaving the bodies of those killed in front of him. Now he knew the answer.
Hoodie One and Louis approached Do-rag’s shell from opposite directions, and Jake turned to get back into his Malibu. The squealing of tires made him look up just as a black Escalade raced around the corner ahead of him, its headlights forcing him to squint. He dove into the front seat and shifted the gear without even reaching for the door. The Escalade bore dow
n on him. Stepping on the gas, he spun the steering wheel right. The Malibu jumped out of the Escalade’s path, but the SUV tore the open door from its hinges and flung it sparking across the street.
Steering his car into the proper lane, Jake craned his neck and watched the Escalade smash into Hoodie One and Louis, hurling them aside like department store mannequins. Jake stopped the car long enough to fasten his seat belt and glimpse the Escalade turning around. Then he saw Louis and Hoodie One return to their station as he sped away.
Jake raced northwest on Flatbush Avenue toward Schermerhorn Street, with the Escalade in hot pursuit. Drawing stares and laughter from pedestrians who noticed he had no door, he maneuvered around the traffic, and the Escalade did the same thing. Wind resistance filled the car through the open space, leaving him exposed and feeling helpless despite the seat belt and shoulder strap.
He made a sudden turn onto Schermerhorn, locked his eyes on the side mirror, and saw the Escalade follow. He had never been in a car chase, either as the lead vehicle or the pursuer. Checking the speedometer, he saw he was doing seventy-five in a forty, and the Escalade had no trouble keeping up. He made a right onto Adams Street, and the Brooklyn Bridge, outlined in lights, rose into the night a mile ahead.
Almost there, he thought.
The Escalade picked up speed, moving to cut him off.
Who’s in that vehicle? he wondered as he accelerated to eighty-five miles per hour. More of those things? Damned good drivers. He weaved around cars and trucks making late night deliveries. The Escalade lost ground but remained within sight. Jake cursed Do-rag for rendering his back window impossible to see through.
Ahead, the lights at the top of the suspension bridge were too high for him to see. With no toll required, he sped onto the massive bridge that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn. Like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn and die, Jake felt compelled to cross the East River and reach his home turf, the island called Manhattan. Below, a garbage boat smashed through the choppy waters. Noting the camera on the seat beside him, Jake reached over and ejected its high-definition video card, which he stuffed into his pants pocket.
With the Malibu’s engine roaring and wind whipping his face, he thought he heard a pop behind him. Concentrating, he heard a second pop. And then the back window shattered, and he heard a third pop.
They’re shooting at me! He ducked. Son of a bitch!
Horns honked around him, and the Escalade pulled up beside the Malibu in the next lane, like an unstoppable shark. The SUV’s rear window lowered, and Jake glimpsed the eyes of a dead man just a few feet beyond his front passenger window. He was older than the corner boys but just as dead. The dead man aimed a sawed-off shotgun at him.
Jake drew his Glock from its spring-loaded shoulder holster. The dead man fired the shotgun, blasting out the Malibu’s passenger-side window. Jake jerked the steering wheel left and then straight, fighting to regain control of the car’s trajectory, and fired three rounds from his Glock through the now empty window space.
At least one round struck the dead man in the forehead. His corpse convulsed like a marionette controlled by a puppeteer with multiple sclerosis, and his soul escaped through the bullet wound.
Head shots do the trick, Jake thought. He decelerated the Malibu, falling behind the Escalade, then moved over two lanes to his right. Speeding up, he pulled alongside the Escalade on its right-hand side and opened fire, his right hand laying the gun over his left arm for balance. His Glock’s ammunition punched holes in the Escalade’s doors and ricocheted off the tinted windows.
Bulletproof glass, he thought as Manhattan beckoned to him like a display case filled with diamonds. I gotta get me some of that if I survive the night.
The front and rear windows of the Escalade lowered on the passenger side, revealing two armed dead men staring at Jake. One held a handgun, the other an Uzi.
We definitely need stricter gun laws in this country, Jake thought as he depressed his Glock’s trigger and held it in the firing position. The close muzzle fire caused him to lean back in his seat as the reports struck the Escalade and its passengers. Their bodies rocked from side to side, but this did not prevent them from aiming their weapons at Jake with calm detachment.
The muzzle fire stopped, and Jake realized he had spent his ammunition. There was no way for him to reload while steering his car at eighty-five miles per hour with one hand, so he accelerated to ninety-five as heavy gunfire erupted from the Escalade, blowing out the window behind him. Jamming the hot metal gun back into its shoulder holster, he continued to increase his speed until it reached one hundred. He whipped around the cars ahead of him, switching lanes like a NASCAR driver.
Drivers honked their frustration at him, then slowed down or moved out of the way as the Escalade passed them with guns blazing.
Behind him, he heard a siren.
RMP, he thought. About time and way too late.
Looking over his shoulder, he spotted red and blue strobe lights streaking toward the Escalade.
They’ll never be in time to settle this situation.
A thousand lights from Chinatown and the Lower East Side illuminated Jake’s path as he neared the end of the bridge. Most of the other traffic had either stopped or moved aside, giving the Escalade ample space to catch up to him. Jake sped onto the street, praying nothing would cause him to slow down before he reached his target.
Come on! Come on!
Turning onto Park Row, he saw the thirteen-floor building in the distance across the street from City Hall, the Malibu’s headlights illuminating wooden police barricades. Only one entrance and one exit existed, both protected by giant steel plates and a tollbooth manned by uniformed officers, making an assault by vehicle impossible. The street had been closed to civilian traffic since 9/11, causing calamity with the traffic around Chinatown. Beyond the barricades and before the security booth, concrete barriers blocked the way.
Jake plowed through the barricade, splintering wood flying around his vehicle. The Escalade stayed on his tail, gunfire issuing from its interior. The RMP appeared behind the Escalade.
Damn it, Jake thought as concrete barriers came into view ahead of him. This security is going to kill me! If he stopped or slowed down, the Escalade’s occupants would kill him for sure; if he struck the concrete barrier head-on, he’d be crushed.
With no time left to spare, he stomped on the brake and jerked the steering wheel left. The Malibu spun sideways, its right side smashing into the barrier. The impact rolled the car over the barrier, and the Malibu spun side over side through the air. Gripping the steering wheel in both hands, Jake extended his arms, pressing his back into his seat.
The spinning car struck the asphalt on its passenger side. It rolled yet again, and Jake feared his body would absorb the impact through the gaping hole beside him. Instead, the car landed on its passenger side again, sparks flying from its metal skin. Then it rolled onto its roof, and as the passenger side caved in, Jake glimpsed the giant steel plate that protected the security booth speeding toward him.
An instant later, the expanding air bag obscured his vision and hurled him into darkness.
SIX
Jake heard liquid sloshing onto the ground as hands eased him from the car, his back sliding over the sidewalk. Gasoline fumes filled his nostrils, and his eyes snapped open, taking in the panicked expressions of two men towering above him. The younger of the two men wore a police uniform, the older one a sports jacket and a tie.
Detective, Jake thought. He heard a car door slam somewhere beyond his field of vision, followed by footsteps.
“Is he okay?” a woman shouted.
“He’ll live.” The detective sounded displeased by Jake’s survival chances.
“I’ve got to pursue that Escalade! Will you call it in?”
The male policeman said, “Get going. I’ll take care of it!”
Raising his head, Jake saw the PW running from behind. Short but fast. She ducked into her waiting unit and to
ok off, siren wailing.
The PO stepped out of Jake’s sight and spoke into his hand radio, calling for backup.
Jake stared at the mangled wreckage of his Malibu. The vehicle lay upside down on the asphalt, roof partially caved in, right side flattened, riddled with bullet holes. Gasoline poured out of the car’s ruptured tank.
So much for my second office.
“Can you stand?” the detective said in a gravelly voice.
Jake nodded. “I think so.”
“So impress me.”
Hard ass. Jake climbed to his feet. His left knee burned with pain, and his shoulder on that side ached. His head tingled and he felt nauseous. White powder from the deflated air bag covered his clothes.
“You need medical treatment?” said the broad-shouldered detective, who wore his hair in a military cut and looked about fifty.
Jake shook his head. He just wanted this night to end.
“You sure? It’s no big deal to have an ambulance check you out. Probably a good idea in case there’s a lawsuit down the line.”
“Don’t want one.”
“Suit yourself. Lieutenant Geoghegan, Major Crimes Unit. You just crashed your car into One Police Plaza.”
That was the idea, Jake thought. “Jake Helman.” He knew Teddy Geoghegan by his reputation: pure by-the-book NYPD.
“Who were those guys?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
“Really? Huh. Well, the officer over here is technically first officer on the scene, which makes me the investigating detective. If I don’t sound too happy about that, it’s because I was on my way out of here after pulling a twelve-hour shift. This sounds good for at least three hours’ worth of grief.”
Great…
Geoghegan gestured to the gate next to the security booth. “Since you’re refusing medical treatment and you wanted to drop in so badly, shall we get on with this?”
Sighing, Jake accompanied the detective past the booth and into Park Row. They walked to the center of police power together. A dozen men and women had already gathered outside the building, half of them in uniforms.
Desperate Souls Page 5