Dead Center ac-5

by David Rosenfelt

  I run up the steps, realizing as I do that I’ve never been in this building. It’s possible no outsider ever has. But there’s no one to stop me, and no one could stop me if they tried.

  The large double doors are closed but unlocked, and I open them and rush in. I think I hear someone behind me in the street yelling, “Hey!” but I don’t know who it is. I leave the doors open in the hope that they’ll follow me in; I can use all the help I can get.

  I enter a lobby area, though it’s narrow enough to be classified a hallway. I don’t see anyone, but directly in front of me are large, ornate double doors, probably fifteen feet high. I don’t know where I’m going or what the hell I’m doing, so I stop to see if I can hear anything. All I hear is silence.

  I get the idea that I’ll call Laurie’s cell phone and see if I can hear it ring in the building so I can determine her location. It’s a good idea but impractical, since I left my own cell phone in the car.

  I can think of two options at this point. I can stand here in the hall like a jerk, or I can rush in through those doors like a jerk. If I let my natural cowardly instincts take over, I’ll stand here. Instead I listen to my head, which tells me I have to go in.

  I open the doors and cautiously step inside. The scene is stunning. I’ve entered through the side of what looks like a church, with rows of bench seating under a ceiling at least four stories high. There is a balcony above me which probably contains seating as well, but I can’t see it from this vantage point. A large chair, almost like a throne, is to my left in the front, facing the area where the congregation would be sitting.

  But it is what is behind the throne that would take my breath away, had fear not already done so. A wheel, covered with symbols that are unintelligible to me, towers over everything. It has been described to me as a large, carnival-type wheel, and while that’s technically true, it’s a ludicrously inadequate description. It is majestic and stunning and overpowering.

  “Well, if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes.” The voice to my left belongs to Parsons, and as I turn, I’m not surprised to see that he is pointing a gun at me. About fifteen feet from him are Laurie, Wallace, and two servants, none of whom seem to be armed. Parsons is in control here.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing here?” I ask, since I can’t think of anything else to say.

  Parsons laughs a short laugh. “You want the official version? Your girlfriend and I came to question Wallace, but he resisted violently, and shots were fired. They were all killed; I’m the only one to make it out alive. Sorry, but you didn’t make it either.”

  “You’re a cop,” I say. “You know the forensics people will take the place apart. There’s no way you can pull it off.”

  “Sorry, Sherlock. I’ve got the whole thing choreographed. I’ll be able to fit you in easily. Now, go over there in the corner and keep your mouth shut. It’s showtime.”

  I make eye contact with Laurie, but there’s no sign that she has any more of a solution to this than I do. I move toward the corner as told, and for a brief moment I’m close enough to make a grab for Parsons’s gun. I let the opportunity, if there was one, slip away.

  “Okay, Keeper-Man,” says Parsons. “Spin the wheel.”

  “I will not,” says Wallace.

  “Oh, but you will. When this is over, it’s not going to be in that position.” He points toward the top, which seems to be the starting place. It is the one area without symbols. “You’re going to spin it, and it’s going to tell you to violently resist.”

  “I will not,” Wallace repeats.

  “Then your servants have ten seconds to live.” He moves the gun slightly to the left, so as to point in their direction.

  Wallace considers this for a moment.

  “Now,” says Parsons.

  Wallace nods with resignation, walks over to the side of the wheel, and pulls down a large lever. The entire wheel seems to groan for a moment and then starts to turn. It is an amazing sight, though one I am not in the mood to fully appreciate.

  After more than three rotations, it comes to a halt. Wallace looks up at the symbols on which it has landed, and a peaceful smile broadens across his face.

  “What’s so funny, Keeper-Man? What does it say?”

  “It instructs us to keep calm. It tells us that we will prevail.” His voice is so serene and confident that there is no doubt he believes what he is saying.

  “Is that right?” Parsons asks. “Well, I got news for you. Your prevailing days are over.”

  Without another moment’s hesitation, Parsons raises the gun, points it at Wallace, and fires.

  What happens next probably takes no more than two seconds but seems to play out for me in slow motion. One of the servants, seeing Parsons about to fire, launches himself in front of the Keeper and takes the bullet in his upper chest.

  As the servant falls to the floor, Parsons raises the gun again, but a tree trunk comes out of nowhere and knocks it out of his hand to the floor. It turns out that the tree trunk is a forearm, and the forearm is attached to Marcus Clark.

  Parsons makes a dive for the gun, but Marcus is closer, and he kicks it across the room toward Laurie and the others. Laurie picks it up as Parsons gets to his feet, and she points it at him.

  Marcus turns to her and says, “No.” Somehow he is at his most eloquent in a crisis.

  Parsons is now on his feet and facing Marcus. He has about six inches and thirty pounds on Marcus, plus he has his army elite training to fall back on. He comes at Marcus with a karate kick and connects with the side of Marcus’s head. Marcus blinks it away, but it had to have hurt.

  Parsons launches another kick, which again connects with its mark. Marcus still seems clearheaded, but I’m not sure I could tell if he weren’t, and I’m getting worried.

  “Laurie, shoot the son of a bitch!” I scream, my only contribution to this entire episode. But Laurie ignores me, still pointing the gun but not pulling the trigger.

  Parsons comes at Marcus again with still another kick to the head, but this time Marcus just reaches his hand up and seems to pluck his ankle out of the air. Parsons screams in pain as Marcus raises his arm, his hand locked around the ankle.

  Parsons’s head and shoulders hit the floor with a sickening thud, but his leg is still up in the air, with Marcus’s hand around it in a death vise. I can see Marcus’s fingers tighten even more, and through the sounds of Parsons’s screams I can hear his ankle bones cracking.

  Laurie and the other servant rush to pull Marcus off him, but I don’t join in. It flashes through my mind what this man has done.

  “He killed Calvin, Marcus. He broke his neck with his bare hands. And he killed those kids.”

  I can see this register on Marcus’s face, and he increases the pressure on Parsons’s ankle, which by now has the consistency of overcooked capellini. I should be embarrassed to admit that the man’s agony is music to my ears, but I’m not.

  Calvin, this one’s for you.

  Laurie is screaming in Marcus’s ear: “Marcus, that’s enough! That’s enough!” She yells it over and over, until finally he lets go.

  Wallace is leaning over the servant who was shot, and with Laurie pointing a gun at the writhing Parsons, I rush outside and scream to the people in the street that we need an ambulance.

  It seems that within moments the room is filled with medical personnel, as well as Findlay and state police. Both Parsons and the wounded servant are taken off, with Parsons wearing handcuffs as he lies on the stretcher. Laurie checks and tells me that the servant took the bullet in his right shoulder and should recover.

  It’s maybe an hour later that the room starts to clear out, and Laurie and I walk to the door. I take a final look back at the wheel.

  It was right.

  We prevailed.

  • • • • •

  TARA IS WAITING in the car when I get there. I know that she’s pissed to be treated like a dog, and she’ll never buy the story that I locked her in for her own sa
ke. I give her a couple of biscuits as a peace offering, and though she takes them, I doubt I’ve heard the last of this.

  I drive to Laurie’s house, let myself in, and wait for her to finish the myriad of interviews and paperwork that will follow today’s chaos. We’ve both agreed that after what we’ve been through, we deserve at least one more night with each other.

  I am emotionally exhausted and fall asleep on the couch within minutes. Laurie’s entering the house wakes me, and a check of my watch indicates that I’ve been sleeping for three and a half hours.

  Clearly exhausted herself, Laurie comes over and lies down next to me on the couch. I wouldn’t describe it as a hug exactly, it’s more that we just hold on to each other.

  After a while we both fall asleep in that position. Laurie wakes me up at about two-thirty in the morning, takes my hand, and leads me into the bedroom. We make love, then sleep until eight in the morning. The entire time she’s been home, I don’t think we’ve said ten words between us.

  It’s not until we’re having breakfast that we talk at all about yesterday’s events. Neither of us really wants to relive it, so there isn’t that much to say.

  Laurie has concluded that Calvin was most likely not trying to reach her when he called the station on the night he died. She thinks he was calling Parsons, who was in the process of setting him up to be killed.

  “How did you know it was Parsons that was behind it all?” she asks.

  “The pieces all fit, but it wasn’t until I got your message that I tried to fit them. After listening to how Drummond and everyone else in that town talked and felt about Wallace, I just didn’t believe that Wallace was a crook.”

  “Richard Davidson was instrumental in my getting this job instead of Parsons,” she says. “I wonder if that played into all this.”

  “It certainly could have. Who has jurisdiction over the investigation now?”

  “The FBI is coming in, because the smuggling was from Canada,” she says. “They’re going to turn Center City upside down to find everyone involved. The people living there don’t know what they’re in for.”

  “They’ll survive it, and in the long run nothing will change. They believe what they believe.”

  She nods. “I know. Madeline’s ready to go back to live with her mother.”

  “Where’s Marcus?” I ask.

  “He just left. Had you told him to stay and watch over me?”

  I shake my head. “No, and that’s not what he was doing. He was still watching out for me, and when I came back, so did he.” I raise my glass of orange juice in a toast. “To Marcus.”

  “To Marcus,” she agrees, and we drink the toast.

  “Actually, it’s lucky he was here,” I say. “If not, I might have killed Parsons with my bare hands.”

  She smiles. “Andy, coming back like you did was incredibly brave. And incredibly loving.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” I say. My ability to receive compliments hasn’t shown much improvement, probably because I haven’t had that many opportunities to work on it.

  We’re silent for a few moments, since we both realize that another wrenching moment is approaching. “I think we’re about to break the indoor record for painful good-byes,” she says.

  “I know,” I say, but then I shake my head. At this particular moment my mind has no idea what’s coming next; it’s like my mouth is on its own. “No, I don’t want to say good-bye again. Been there, done that.”

  “Andy…”

  “No,” I interrupt. “Hear me out. I’m going back, and you’re staying here, but you can spend your vacations back East, we can meet for a hell of a lot of weekends, and I’m going to come here whenever I have time. It’s not like I have a lot of clients.”

  “That’s true,” she says.

  I continue, since I feel like I’m on something of a roll. “So we try it. We do more than try it… we make it work. And it keeps us at least somewhat together.”

  She nods. “And being with you part-time beats the hell out of being with you no-time.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “This will not be easy, Andy.”

  I nod and wait for her to continue.

  “But it will be worth it,” she says.

  “Good. Now we just have to work out the details. What about seeing other people?” I ask, sounding a little like a high school freshman in the process.

  She shakes her head. “No way. It’s you and me, buddy boy. Rita Gordon will just have to deal with that.”

  Did she really just say what I thought she said? “You spoke to Rita Gordon?”

  “I speak to everybody back there,” Laurie says. “That’s my home also. Those are my friends.”

  “And she told you about…” I end the sentence there, since I have no idea how to finish it.

  “No, but I read through the lines.” I know what she means: Rita’s lines are really easy to read through.

  “Tell me the part again about how being with me part-time beats the hell out of being with me no-time,” I say.

  She ignores that. “Andy, we love each other. Let’s just hold on to that for now. Okay?”

  I have never been as okay with anything as I am with that.

  ACCLAIM FOR DAVID ROSENFELT’S PREVIOUS NOVELS

  SUDDEN DEATH

  “Rosenfelt’s usual pleasures: a twisty plot, sparkling courtroom scenes, and a thousand wisecracks.”

  – Kirkus Reviews

  “Rosenfelt scores another touchdown… He’s in the game to stay… Andy Carpenter’s wit seizes the reader’s attention.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  BURY THE LEAD

  “A clever plot and breezy style… absorbing.”

  – Boston Globe

  “Exudes charm and offbeat humor, sophistication, and personable characters.”

  – Dallas Morning News

  FIRST DEGREE

  “Entertaining… fast paced… sophisticated.”

  – Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

  “Entertaining.”

  – Cleveland Plain Dealer

  OPEN AND SHUT

  “Splendid… intricate plotting.”

  – Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Engaging and likable… The action is brisk.”

  – San Francisco Chronicle

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