Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Instantly, Canelli holstered his revolver, reached for his handcuffs and grabbed the subject’s arm, ready to clamp on a hammerlock.

  “No. Wait. Don’t.” I stooped, picked up the spear and threw it deep into the trees. Then, drawing a deep breath, I stepped back from the suspect, signaling for Canelli to do the same. Still kneeling, the guard was rocking from side to side, groaning softly through tightly clenched teeth.

  I moved again to the window, and looked inside. The cultists were quieter now, listening intently to Justin, who had dropped to his knees on the platform, eyes cast upward. I could see his mouth working, but I couldn’t make out his words.

  Should I stay with my original plan—try to con him into a car and then down to the Hall?

  Or should I call for reserves, and take him out by force?

  As I stood irresolutely in the shadows of the trees, listening to the murmuring of Justin’s voice mingling with the sound of crickets, I again felt displaced, time-warped into an alien land where hostile forces were controlling me.

  I heard Canelli clearing his throat, and saw him looking at me obliquely. The message: we should make a move. He was right. Win or lose, I had to make a decision.

  I jerked my head toward the guard as I spoke to Canelli: “Let’s go inside and do it, just like we planned. Bring him.” And to the guard I said, “If you give me any more crap, I’ll cuff you and take you downtown and book you for assaulting a police officer. But if you wise up and cooperate with us, I’ll forget the charge. It’s your choice. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Staring up at me blankly from his kneeling position, he didn’t respond. His eyes were clearer now, unblurred by pain.

  “The lieutenant’s giving you a break, asshole,” Canelli said, jerking the cultist to his feet. “If you had any brains, you’d say thanks. That’s if.” He shoved the guard toward the corner of the building. “Go on—move it. And no noise, either.”

  Under the portico, I took the walkie-talkie and advised Culligan that we were entering the premises. Then, mentally crossing my fingers, I tried the front door. It opened to my touch. I swung it wide, and stepped into the dimly lit entry-way.

  Two booted, belted, Mayan-helmeted guards stood with arms folded across muscular chests, staring impassively at me. They stood on either side of the entrance to the long, dim corridor that led to the back of the house. The black woman, Anya, stood between the two guards. Each of the guards had propped his spear against the wall beside him. Overhead, an old-fashioned hanging oil lamp guttered softly. No one spoke, no one moved.

  Then, from the ballroom, I heard the chanting begin again:

  My—ah My—ah

  In—Tu—Tami

  I turned to Canelli, standing watchfully beside the disarmed guard, close beside the door. “You can go,” I told the guard. “Remember what I said.”

  Moving with his legs close together, he walked across the foyer; without looking at the helmeted guards or the black woman, he disappeared into the darkness of the long, empty hallway. At the same time, the sound of the chanting was rising…rising…

  …then falling, finally fading into silence.

  Anya stepped forward, meeting me in the center of the foyer. Her face was impassive as she said, “What did you tell him, Lieutenant, that he should remember?”

  I took a moment to consider before I said, “He thought we were prowlers, outside. He gave me a little jab with his spear. It was understandable, under the circumstances. I told him that I wouldn’t press charges, if he didn’t give me any more trouble.”

  Listening to me, staring thoughtfully straight into my eyes, she gestured to a far corner of the entry hall. “I want to ask you something,” she said, walking away from me and sitting on a Victorian bench built into a small alcove. Signaling for Canelli to remain at the front door, facing the two implacable guards across the foyer, I followed her into the alcove and sat beside her.

  “Why’re you here, Lieutenant?” she asked. “This is the second time today. Why? What’s happening, anyhow?”

  Asking the question, her voice had slipped into the soft, liquid patois of the ghetto. Her cool, haughty stare had suddenly hardened, become street-corner-savvy.

  Picking up the cue, I countered, “Why’re you asking?”

  “Because Justin’s not normal. And I think it’s got something to do with you.”

  “How do you mean, ‘not normal’?”

  “I mean that, ever since his stepsister got murdered, he’s been a different person. That’s understandable. But today, he’s been—” She frowned, searching for the phrase. “He’s been unreachable, almost. Way, way out.”

  Studying her, I tried to decide about Anya. Was she a true believer, like the rest? Or was she in it for what she could get? Counterpointing the question, the sound of chanting began again. If the disciples were inside, chanting, why was she in the lobby?

  If Justin’s hair was long, and the heads of the faithful shaven, why was Anya’s hair worn natural, close to her head?

  Finally I decided to say, “What are you—his manager? Is that it?”

  Her answer was a small, knowing smile—our little secret. Suddenly I decided that I liked her, and could probably trust her.

  As if to confirm it, she said, “That’s about it.”

  Smiling in return, I said, “You’re worried about your meal ticket, then.”

  She thought about it for a moment before she said, “There’s nothing wrong with being a manager. People like Justin—talented people—they need managers. Someone once said that if you want to succeed, you should find a need and fill it. Which is what I did.” As she spoke, she turned to face the entrance to the hallway. “It’s over,” she said. “The meeting’s over. He’ll be out in a minute, probably.” Then, softly, she said, “Remember, Lieutenant, Justin is—fragile. So be gentle with him.”

  “If I can,” I promised, “I will.”

  She was on her feet now, moving to stand expectantly at the entrance to the dim, empty hallway. Moments later, the hallway suddenly filled with robed figures, each moving silently away from us, along the corridor. Each of the figures moved with downcast eyes, hands folded. At each doorway, a few figures turned off until, finally, the corridor was once more deserted. Except for the faint sound of shuffling feet, they could have been phantasms from the mythological netherworld of Hades: creations of the imagination, not flesh and blood.

  Behind me, I could hear Canelli muttering something unintelligible.

  And still the guards stood like figures carved in stone, utterly motionless. A moment later, Justin appeared in the hallway. He was turned away from us, following his wraithlike followers down the hallway.

  I cleared my throat, ready to call to him, when he suddenly turned to face us. His features were completely composed as he walked slowly closer. Passing the guards, he said something I couldn’t hear. One guard turned and disappeared into the hallway darkness. Listening carefully, I heard the guard’s footfalls grow fainter, finally silenced by the closing of a door.

  At the entrance to the corridor, the other guard now held his spear with the butt planted beside his booted foot. The broad, gleaming blade was angled forward, toward us. I saw Justin exchange a long, intent look with Anya, who was to my right. I couldn’t see the woman’s expression—and I couldn’t read Justin’s.

  Moving to stand directly beneath the oil lamp hung from the ceiling, Justin spoke in the same vibrant, compelling voice that he’d used earlier, exhorting his followers:

  “Is this your last trip here, Lieutenant?”

  Uncertain how to answer—uncertain what he meant—I decided to counter with a question:

  “Is it convenient for you to come down to the Hall of Justice with us? There’ve been new developments in your stepsister’s murder. We think you can help us.”

  It was a speech that I’d mentally rehearsed a dozen times during the past hours. And probably precisely because I’d rehearsed it, the words sounded false
and stilted.

  “You’ve found out who murdered Rebecca.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “We’re not sure,” I answered. “But the information you gave us—your vision of how Sally Grant was murdered—helped very much. But we need something more from you. A statement.” It was a spur-of-the-moment improvisation. Was it convincing? I couldn’t decide.

  Justin stood with his arms folded, head slightly averted. With the lamp directly above him, his face was in shadow, his features unreadable.

  “I’m glad I could help,” he said finally. He let a long, deliberate moment pass before he said, “But we can talk here.” He gestured toward the dark hallway. “In my study.”

  I shook my head. “No. Not here.”

  “Why not here, Lieutenant?” I could hear an ironic, patronizing note in his voice. Suddenly I felt ineffectual, vulnerable.

  And just as suddenly, I realized that, together, Friedman and I had made a tactical mistake. We should have sent a patrol car for Justin, casually requesting him to come down to the Hall, ostensibly to help us.

  A Sunday night visit by a lieutenant conveyed a different, more ominous signal.

  As if he could read my thoughts, he asked, “Are there just the two of you? Or are there more?”

  “Just us.”

  And, immediately, I knew that I’d answered too quickly. Even to my own ears, the reply sounded unconvincing.

  “Just you,” he repeated. Then: “Yesterday, you had me fingerprinted. And now, today, you ask me to go downtown, but you won’t tell me why. And when you ask me to come downtown, I feel that you’re lying to me. I feel that once I go there, it’s your will that I never come back to Aztecca.” He said it softly, almost dreamily.

  As he spoke, two helmeted guards emerged from the darkness of the hallway, taking up positions on either side of Justin with their spear butts planted on the floor next to their boots. One of the guards whispered to Justin, who glanced quickly out a window. I sensed Anya moving quietly away from my side.

  Three spears, two revolvers.

  At close quarters, the odds favored the spears. As if to confirm it, the third guard moved closer—and Anya moved another step away.

  Had they discovered our backup team?

  Did Justin know—sense—that he was a suspect?

  I couldn’t afford to guess at the answers.

  Speaking softly aside to Canelli, I said, “Call in the backup.”

  As he nodded and reached for his walkie-talkie, I unbuttoned my jacket, loosened my revolver in its holster and stepped purposefully toward Justin. I would take him into custody, give him his rights and take my chances getting out.

  As I took the first step, I felt a draft on the back of my neck. Instinctively dropping to a crouch and drawing the revolver, I pivoted to face the door.

  Two guards advanced on us from the open doorway. Each man crouched over a leveled spear. I raised my revolver, aiming at the closest man. “Hold it right there,” I yelled. “Freeze.”

  I saw the two spear points falter. At the same moment, behind me, I heard a short, stifled cry of pain, followed by a half-strangled obscenity. Wheeling to my right, I saw Canelli slumping to his knees. His face was strangely blank; his mouth was a prim, purse-lipped circle, innocently surprised. His eyes were glazed by shock. Blood covered the right side of his chest, and one of the helmeted guards stood with his blood-smeared spear angled down, poised for a second thrust.

  I aimed at the guard’s medallion and fired. He dropped his spear, staggered, fell to his knees beside Canelli.

  Canelli’s gun and walkie-talkie lay on the floor between them. As if they were reacting to an unspoken command, both Canelli and the guard began groping for the gun with awkward, halting fingers. Ten feet separated me from the gun. Shouting incoherently, I lunged for it. It was a deadly, desperate dance for three, executed in maddening slow motion. But I would be the winner. My free hand was sweeping across the floor, inches away from the gun butt…

  …when my head exploded in a blinding burst of pain as I began falling…

  …falling,

  crashing spreadeagled on the parquet floor.

  Twenty-three

  I FELT FINGERS PRYING at my right hand.

  Why?

  Why was I struggling against the prying fingers?

  It was the gun—my service revolver, a lump of steel, pressing into my chest as I lay face down on the hard wooden floor. My fingers had wrapped themselves around the gun.

  But other fingers were struggling against mine—clawing, tearing, ripping.

  Inside my head, the roar of pain was a fierce, howling demon.

  Desperately, I fought the ripping fingers, feebly thrashing my body from side to side. I could have been an animal—a wounded animal, futilely struggling against claws and teeth, slashing at me.

  I needed help.

  Officer needs help

  Code Twelve. Please God, someone send out a Code Twelve.

  But nobody would help me.

  Sandaled feet and robes that touched the parquet floor surrounded me, but no one would help.

  Braced for the effort, I gathered myself—heaved—teetered on my right shoulder…

  …then fell heavily on my back, still holding the gun, now clutched in both hands. Instinctively, I’d aimed the gun at whoever had tried to wrest it from me. Blinking, I focused on the face hovering disembodied above me, haloed by light from the hanging oil lamp.

  Justin’s face. Eyes wild. Mouth raging. Screaming: “Shoot him, Anya. Shoot him.”

  Anya…

  Moments before, I’d liked her.

  So why would she shoot me?

  Why?

  I heard her voice answering, but I couldn’t comprehend the words. With my revolver still trained on Justin, I turned toward the sound of her voice.

  I was staring into the muzzle of another revolver. It was a service revolver: a 2-inch .38.

  Canelli’s gun.

  From somewhere close beside me, I heard a soft, low moan. It was Canelli. Unmistakably, it was Canelli. I’d forgotten him. Bloody, wounded, I’d forgotten Canelli.

  Gritting my teeth, I drew my left elbow close to my body while I held the gun still aimed at Justin. Instantly, the room tilted, began to fall away. Inside my head, the roar of demons returned.

  But I couldn’t close my eyes.

  I would die, if I closed my eyes.

  And Canelli, too.

  So, panting with the effort, I rolled to my left, centering the weight of my body over the braced elbow. Now, slowly, I drew my right leg up.

  I was ready.

  Do or die, I was ready.

  Was it a joke? A bad joke?

  No.

  I pushed with the leg, heaved with the arm. While the room whirled wildly, I felt myself rising—rising—

  Suddenly, miraculously, I was sitting up. Splaylegged. Exhausted. But, still, sitting up. The room was tilting again, tipping, turning in a wobbly, sickening circle. But I was sitting up.

  Glad, and proud.

  No infant could have been more proud. Or no beetle, either, who’d managed to turn from his back to his belly. We were a team, the three of us: me, the baby, the beetle. Together, we would win. We would live.

  Momentarily, I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the room had steadied. I could look for Canelli.

  He was lying full-length beside me. His eyes were closed. His face was pale, glazed with sweat. But his chest was rhythmically rising and falling. He was alive. For a while, at least—for now—he was alive.

  The walkie-talkie lay close beside him. Smashed.

  The guard lay behind Canelli, to the left. Also with his eyes closed. Also with blood glistening on his chest.

  But also alive. Thank God. I’d killed too many men already. At night, in dreams, they raged around me.

  Close beside me, Justin and Anya were whispering. Justin’s voice was shaking, near hysteria. The black woman’s voice was cold, calculating.

  A
s I listened to them, I realized that my head was clearing. The howling demons had quieted, grumbling now.

  Still with my revolver trained on Justin’s medallion, I threw a quick glance around the foyer. The scene resembled the staging of some ancient Greek play. The actors—Justin, Anya, Canelli, me and the wounded guard—were surrounded by the white-robed chorus, standing silent as ghosts in a graveyard. On either side of the lobby door, spears raised, the two guards stood like costumed sentinels, guarding the gates to Hades.

  I returned my gaze to the black woman, still holding the revolver aimed at my chest. It was in her eyes that I would find the answers I must have. They were snapping black eyes, fixed on mine with fierce intensity. I’d seen those eyes before. On every ghetto street corner, in every dark doorway. They were the eyes of the enemy.

  So I was staring into the face of the enemy—looking for help.

  I knew I must speak quietly, without fear. With authority. “You won’t pull that trigger.”

  “You won’t either,” she said softly.

  “Not if I can help it.” As I spoke, a sudden sharp pain sliced at the base of my skull. Involuntarily, I put a hand to my head. My hair was wet and sticky. My fingers were bloody. Absently, I wiped my fingers across the parquet floor beside me.

  “What the hell is this all about?” she asked.

  “We’re going to arrest him for last night’s murder of Sally Grant.”

  As I said it, a quick, electric murmur swept the figures crowded together in the foyer. But a moment later, they fell silent. Their faces were frozen, unreadable. Their eyes were fixed on Justin.

  Were they waiting for a sign from him—a signal to attack?

  I turned to face Anya squarely. I saw her eyes flicker aside toward Justin, then come back to me. “Who’s Sally Grant?”

  “The woman he hired to have Rebecca Carlton killed. We’d found out about Sally’s connection to the murder, and would’ve arrested her. When he discovered that we knew about her, he killed her. He couldn’t afford to risk her talking.”