Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  Tower nodded.

  “I’ve got to get her transported,” Hoagland said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and hurried to the driver’s door. Within another moment, the ambulance’s engine fired to life and it lumbered forward. Tower watched the flashing lights atop the large, white box approached Post, slow, then turned right and disappear down the hill.

  2303 hours

  Chisolm followed Gomez and Cert out of the bushes and onto the sidewalk. His uniform was soaking wet, but he ignored the chill. Cert charged eastward along the sidewalk. Gomez loped along behind him while Chisolm sprinted to keep up.

  About twenty yards from the intersection, Cert stopped. He dropped his nose lower toward the ground, sniffing urgently. Chisolm stopped and drew in deep breaths while he waited. The street was clear of foot traffic. There were no cars. He glanced over his shoulder. There was a single house up the street without any exterior lighting. Other than that, all was clear.

  The dog seemed to be wandering in a large circle, searching for scent. He whined again, but even Chisolm could hear that the sound was now frustration, not eagerness. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.

  Gomez didn’t give up. He worked Cert up and down the sidewalk on both sides of the street for several minutes, trying to pick up the scent. They always returned to the same point on the sidewalk, where the dog finally sat down and let out an angry, mournful howl.

  “Shit,” Chisolm finally muttered.

  Gomez sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “He must have jumped in a car, Tom. That’s the only thing I can figure happened.”

  “Shit,” Chisolm repeated. He realized that meant the car that Kahn had seen was probably the suspect. He raised the radio to his lips. “Secure the perimeter,” he said.

  “Copy,” the dispatcher replied. “Secure the perimeter.”

  The two men stood on the wet sidewalk, brooding. Cert whined, his tone suggesting that he commiserated.

  We almost had him. The thought throbbed in Chisolm’s skull. We almost had him and it’s my fault he got away.

  Gomez knelt next to Cert and rubbed the dog’s head. “You did a good job, boy,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Shit,” Chisolm said a third time. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  2304 hours

  At first, he’d fought the terrain, blasting through the bushes and bouncing off the trees. The water from the bushes he forced his way through soaked his clothes to the skin. That coldness jarred him enough. He put aside the absolute ecstasy that hummed through his body and tamped down the rage that was seething and bubbling beneath it. Instead, he focused on his escape.

  Instead of blindly running, he dodged and slipped around trees and bushes. That sped up his progress considerably. When the hillside steepened, he leaned forward for balance, even using his hands to pull himself along.

  He kept his ears piqued for the sound of pursuit, but for some reason it fell off almost right away. Had he outrun them? Outrun the police? That surprised him, but it made him smile in spite of the cold and the darkness around him.

  He hurried forward.

  He burst out the bushes and onto the street near his car. Without hesitation, he sprinted to the car, got in and started the engine. Then he sat for a moment, thinking.

  Which way to go?

  The police weren’t stupid. They had radios. There would soon be cop cars all over the neighborhood. What would they be looking for? Probably a man on foot. But they had seen his car when he drove by. Would they remember it and make the connection? Did they write down his license plate? Take his picture?

  He decided in an instant, flipping a quick U-turn on the small street.

  It was too narrow for a complete turn, so he bounced up onto the sidewalk with his front tire. Once he was pointed back east, he drove forward. He paused briefly at the stop sign, then crossed Post and continued east at the speed limit.

  He frowned as he drove. If they had his license plate, they’d soon have his address. Going home could mean walking into a trap.

  This wasn’t something he’d planned for. He never imagined his own home as a danger. Home was his sanctuary. He’d have to trust it was still safe.

  Drive home. Throw his clothes in the washer. Shower. Think of an alibi.

  If the cops came, he’d bluff. That was the only play he had right now. Later, maybe he could come up with a different plan for another time, but for now, he’d bluff.

  His frown turned into a scowl. Did they have his picture?

  Did that bitch get a look at his face?

  He shook his head. It was too dark. She didn’t see him.

  He reached Atlantic Avenue and turned left. Two blocks later, he turned off his headlights and cruised quietly up the street. His block was still. Most of the lights inside the small ranchers and brick single story houses were turned out for the night. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting out on the front porch. No one would notice his stealthy approach.

  He pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. Before exiting the car, he took several deep breaths. Then he went inside.

  2310 hours

  Officer Paul Hiero turned onto Atlantic just as the order to secure the perimeter came over his radio. He frowned, knowing that meant the K-9 track had failed. Which meant the suspect had escaped.

  He cruised slowly northbound along the residential street. Most of the lights inside the houses were turned off. Outdoor lights burned over the front doors of almost every porch. The occasional flicker of a television behind curtains told him that some people were still awake, but the majority of people in the neighborhood had already called it a night. That didn’t surprise him. The neighborhood consisted largely of retired folks and working class families. The retired folks went to bed early because they were old. The working families had either school or a job to get to in the morning.

  Hiero sighed. This was a waste of time. There was no way a scumbag rapist would live in a neighborhood like this.

  Nonetheless, he drifted along the street, watching for any pedestrians or anything suspicious. There was nothing, just as he expected.

  When he reached Garland, he stopped for the stop sign. He lifted the radio mike and spoke into it. “Baker-127, clear of the call.”

  “Copy, Baker-127.”

  He turned right and headed back east to Baker Sector.

  FOURTEEN

  Tuesday, April 23rd

  Day Shift

  0611 hours

  Tower stood in his kitchen, staring at the small cactus in a coffee cup that was on the windowsill. That cactus was his sole contribution to the flora and fauna life in his home. All the rest came with Stephanie as she slowly moved in. As he sipped the strong coffee from his own cup, he ran the events of the previous night through his head.

  He tried to work up some anger toward Kahn for not breaking perimeter to go after the car. Or at Chisolm for directing him not to. But in the end, he knew it had been the right decision. Besides, he’d been too worried about MacLeod’s injuries to even be aware of the track. It wasn’t until she’d been shuttled off to the hospital that he turned his attention to the activities around him.

  He took a long sip of the brew in his cup. The bold blend overwhelmed his mouth with taste. As he swallowed and enjoyed the after-scent of the coffee, he decided that even if there had been mistakes made by the officers, it had been his task force. He should have foreseen the mistakes or prevented them. Or had a better plan.

  The cactus on the windowsill looked dry. He supposed that was the cactus’s nature, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out and dribbling coffee over the top of the spiky bulb. The steaming hot liquid washed down the green cactus and darkened the dry earth beneath it.

  A shuffling sound arose behind him.

  “John, what’re you doing?”

  “Watering the plants,” Tower said evenly.

  Stephanie brushed past him toward the cupboard containing the coffee cups, leavi
ng a trail of bed-warmth from her body in her wash. She poured herself a cup and sidled up next to Tower.

  “You didn’t get in ‘til late last night,” she said.

  Tower grunted and took another sip.

  “You should have woken me,” Stephanie said, giving him a gentle nudge with her hip.

  Tower sighed. “I was exhausted.”

  “What happened? Did you catch the guy?”

  “Nope.” Tower reached out and dribbled some more coffee onto the cactus.

  Stephanie watched him. Then she said, “You know, some people believe that plants can feel pain. You could be burning the hell out of that poor cactus.”

  “Those people are idiots,” Tower remarked. He gave the cactus one last splash of coffee. “Besides, cactuses are tough.”

  “Cacti,” Stephanie corrected.

  Tower sighed again, a tickle of irritation going through him. “Thanks. Are you getting into crosswords or something?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Tower drank the last of his coffee. He thought about pouring himself another cup but hesitated. He should get to work. Of course, he knew what was waiting for him there.

  Questions.

  And Lieutenant Crawford.

  He poured another cup.

  “I saw your sister yesterday,” Stephanie said. “Little Ben sure is cute.”

  Tower smiled in spite of himself. His nephew was a cute kid, and he was proud of the boy. He didn’t know if he’d ever have kids of his own, but somehow being an uncle to Ben made that concern less worrisome.

  “Thought that’d make you smile,” Stephanie said. Then she assumed a mock pout. “Although, it’d been nice if the prospect of waking me up for sex had done the same thing.”

  Tower leaned over and kissed her temple. “I really was exhausted, babe. And I had a bad night.”

  Stephanie leaned in and nestled into his chest. “Well, I’ll tell you what. When you have bad nights like that and you’re tired, wake me up anyway. I’ll make your night better. And I’ll even do most of the work.”

  Tower kissed the top of her head. “Okay. You got it.” He kissed her head again, pausing to smell her hair. “Thanks,” he whispered.

  In that moment, it didn’t matter to him that Crawford was probably already waiting to chew his ass at the office. Or that the Rainy Day Rapist was getting the better of him. For those few seconds, it didn’t even matter that Katie MacLeod was up at the hospital. All that mattered was the scent of her hair and the closeness of her body.

  “Thanks,” he whispered again.

  0630 hours

  He sat at his kitchen table, staring down at his uneaten breakfast. The reality of his near capture the previous night settled in after he’d slept for a few hours. He’d been foolish to attempt something with no plan. And to risk doing it without his ski mask was doubly foolish. What if she’d seen his face?

  The entire scenario played itself out behind his eyes. Spotting her while driving by. The rush to grab her. The quick response of the police. Her rebellious words-

  Fuck you!

  — once he had her in the wooded area rang in his ears. So did the beautiful sound of his fist slapping into her face. The memory of the sweet limpness of her body afterward still made his fingers and palms tingle hours later.

  But he forced his mind to ignore that for a moment. He worked on the events some more, thinking things through. He supposed it was possible, though not probable, that there had been police officers that close simply by chance, but he doubted it. And one of them had called out a name.

  “Katie,” he breathed.

  If they knew her name, then they knew who she was. So that meant she was with the police. Or she was police. Probably a decoy.

  Yes, he decided. That was it. He’d fallen for a decoy.

  The idea made him grind his teeth. Still, even with all their planning, his unplanned actions had won out. He’d escaped, leaving behind a limp body. Not a dead body, granted. But a limp one was pretty good for the time he’d had to work with.

  So now their little ploy had failed. He knew their game. He could stop what he was doing. Maybe even move to a different city and start over.

  The thought caused his jaw to clench even tighter. He didn’t want to be dictated to by the police. He’d never considered them as rivals before because he’d been so focused on his work, but now he knew that was exactly what they were. Rivals. Enemies. And there was no way he was going to allow them to beat him. Especially not some bitch cop who thought she could trick him.

  No. He’d stay. He’d just have to be more careful.

  The first thing he needed to do was get them to stop with the decoys. After that, he needed to finish the job with this Katie the Cop bitch. The prospect of that made his whole body tingle.

  Still, first things first. How to get rid of the decoys?

  He stared down at his uneaten blob of scrambled eggs. Next to the plate was the River City Herald, still folded and unread. His mind drifted to the letter V. had written-

  Was it really Victoria, he wondered. He thought so.

  — the day before. He recalled how good the letter made him feel when he realized that at any given time, Victoria or some other bitch like her was walking around afraid of him.

  He reached out and touched the newspaper. A thought struck him. He considered it for a few moments, liking the idea better and better the more he thought about it. Finally, he smiled.

  It would work, he decided. He lifted his fork and scooped up his lukewarm eggs into his mouth, gobbling down his breakfast. Then he rose from the table, found a coat and left the house in order to find a payphone.

  0707 hours

  Katie MacLeod stared up at the ceiling. The faraway beep of medical monitors seemed to echo down the quiet hallway. She imagined a four-foot bunny rabbit stepping lightly along on the red balls that each beeping sound created.

  Beep.

  Out her door.

  Beep.

  Down the hallway.

  Beep.

  Past the nurse’s station.

  She blinked. She took a deep breath. The sound of the air sucking into her lungs sounded like a hurricane.

  A small voice in the back of her mind screamed out, “You’re loopy, MacLeod. You’re doped up!” but she brushed the voice away with a giant light blue feather. The effort made her exhale, then swallow. That seemed to take five minutes. And it created another hurricane, followed by a waterfall.

  A stocky nurse bustled into the room. “How are we this morning?” she asked in a blasting, cheery voice that seemed harsh against all of the softness in Katie’s world.

  “Gooooood,” Katie managed to reply. She’d wanted to tell this loud, happy woman all of the secrets of the world that she’d discovered, but she didn’t know how to put those colors and sounds into words.

  The nurse glanced at her chart. “Mmm-hmmm. I’ll bet. Well, just so you’re aware, the doctor has ordered us to taper off your magic juice by noon.”

  Magic juice? Katie flashed to the women’s locker room at the police station. Chisolm’s rough hands digging into the little jar. The heat on her leg.

  Was Chisolm a doctor? Was he her doctor?

  Of course he was. That made sense. Chisolm took care of things.

  Chisolm was always there.

  Chisolm was a four foot bunny who could dance on red balls down any hallway.

  “The doctor will be in himself once your test results are in,” the nurse said. “Until then, you just rest, okay? We’ll check in with you every so often, all right?”

  She wanted to tell her that Chisolm could just make more magic juice if she needed it. He had plenty of beeps. And besides that, she had just figured out where God really came from. She couldn’t wait to explain it to Chaplain Marshall, who would be disappointed that Captain Jean-Luc Picard wasn’t somehow involved.

  “Goooooood,” Katie said.

  0714 hours

  Pam Lincoln rubbed her tired eye
s. Being the crime beat reporter meant a lot of late nights. Most police action that was newsworthy took place in the evening hours, so she was up monitoring her scanner. She kept her pager and cell phone at her bedside even after she turned in, just in case she got a call. Not only did she have a few officers who were willing to tip her to the events that might make the cops look good, there were a couple of disgruntled ones who let her in on the more scandalous occurrences as well. Plus she had half a dozen stalwart citizens from both sides of the pro-police/anti-police fence who also monitored the scanner frequencies. Not much occurred without her getting at least a whisper of it.

  Despite the need for late nights, her editor required her to be at her desk every day at seven sharp. He didn’t seem to care that her work carried her until at least midnight every night or that she was frequently woken up in the middle of the night to cover something big. He was an old school journalist who idolized two things: Walter Cronkite and a seven A.M. start time.

  Pam sipped her triple-shot vanilla latte through two skinny straws. She thanked the coffee gods for caffeine and the fact that there was a drive-through latte stand approximately every fifty yards in River City. Seattle may have been the birthplace of the 1990s coffee craze, but River City certainly embraced the notion.

  As she got her oral caffeine infusion, she reviewed her notes. There wasn’t much from the previous night.

  There’d been a violent domestic dispute in Browne’s Addition, but she’d already written up the brief paragraph on that story. Except for the names and the address, it could fit any dozen other domestic violence assaults she’d reported in the past three years.

  On the north side, officers were briefly in foot pursuit of a rape suspect, but that petered out before she’d been able to get to her car. The only real interesting aspect of that call was that an ambulance had responded. She wondered if the Rainy Day Rapist had struck again, but she doubted it. Captain Reott had assured her that she’d get a call any hour if there were any developments on that case.