Those Who Walk in Darkness so-1

by John Ridley

  Rysher had nothing to say.

  Tashjian had quit drawing lines on his hand, was listening intently. He wasn't bored anymore.

  Literally Soledad was gripping the edge of her seat.

  "You really going to make me step this all out?" Gayle said to Rysher.

  Rysher picked up a pen off his desk, kind of played with it some. He replaced it. That's all he did.

  Turning to Soledad, Gayle leaned in toward her, lowered her voice, reducing Rysher and Tashjian to a supreme state of nonrele-vance. Every bit of her body language said: Never mind the boys. It's just you and me, babe."Do you know what this is about, this little witch-hunt? It's not about using a gun that wasn't approved. It's about using a gun they didn't approve years ago."

  Soledad's look was: I don't follow.

  Gayle smiled an" of course you don't" smile."First day on the job, what do you do? You murder a metanormal."

  "I didn't murder that thing. I enacted an Executive—"

  Gayle waved her off."Semantics. You took him out, a particularly nasty piece of business this metanormal you enacted an Executive Order on. Your weapon, the bullets: They work. How many cops' lives do you think would have been saved if they'd" — head ticked toward Rysher—"started using your gun when they first got your specs? But they didn't. They had the facts, they had your work and they ignored them because they didn't want to queer their money deal. They took thirty pieces of silver over people's lives. So after you take out the metanormal, some ass-covering's got to be done. They've got to make it seem like a big thing that you broke regulations. Start an IA investigation, start digging around in your background. Start planting speculation about whether or not a black woman can handle the job. Maybe you're not just a bad cop. You're incompetent. Maybe you're a crazy bitch too, with all kinds of psy-chodrama."

  Everybody looked over to Tashjian. Tashjian'd made a sound like a laugh.

  Again, Gayle to Soledad: "Smoke and mirrors; they make enough noise about you being useless, nobody asks about your gun. Except you're not useless. You're not a hysterical little girl. Out on your own, on the street, regulation side arm, you put down another metanormal. All of a sudden you're just about a hero. All of a sudden if somebody doesn't do something, people are going to be throwing you parades, and you and your gun're going to be front and center again. So what does somebody do?" Talking to Soledad, looking at Rysher, Gayle gave it to him with both barrels: "He tries to pin a cop's death on you, the lousy little weasel."

  "Who do you think you are, coming into my office—mine—and accusing me—"

  "Did I use your name? I don't think I used your name. Somebody open a window. It's getting guilty in here."

  Muscles so tight Rysher could barely move his jaw."That you would even believe you could question my integrity. I have spent more years in this department, protecting citizens, fighting those freaks than you have ever—"

  "Freaks? That what you call them?"

  "That's what they are."

  "Really? And are black criminals niggers? Hispanics spies? You know, even in trying times, political correctness has its place."

  "I've got a name for you. It rhymes with cunt."

  Gayle's smile in reply said his slap had no sting."You sit there pretending to be a man of law and order, but your stripes don't hardly fit. This really how you want to do things? You want me to start making the rounds to the media?"

  "And, and do what? Talk about your, uh… it's nothing, but, uh…"

  "You're stammering."

  "It's speculation."

  "Journalistic careers are made on speculation. All those twenty-four-hour cable news channels? They got a lot of time to fill, and they know how to speculate the hell out of something. I know the LA Times'll eat this up. I'm betting they can speculate you from behind that chair right onto the street."

  With all the admiration Tashjian owned: "You have to like this one. You really have to like her."

  "Thank you," Gayle said to Tashjian. To Rysher: "At any rate, this is your last chance."

  "My last…!"

  Soledad thought if he could, if he could get away with it, there was a very real possibility Rysher'd yank out the service piece he hadn't drawn in some eight years and open a hole through the center of Gayle's head.

  Rysher's counter was simple."What kind of speculation are you going to get out of the fact O'Roark" — back to O'Roark—"was carrying an unauthorized piece?"

  "Actually she was field-testing a new side arm under the auspices of the Governor's Office and the state police." Gayle took docu-ments from her bag. She held them for a second, for one dramatic beat like she was holding a loaded gun. She tossed the documents onto Rysher's desk. The slap of the paper to wood catching everyone like a thunderclap.

  And for a long moment, even in the smallish office, the noise seemed to echo off.

  Gayle noted, she noted with the glee of someone who enjoyed handing another person a fatal beating: "Yeah, that governor. Our governor. All approved. Retroactively, but, you know…"

  On the top document: the official seal of the state of California. It was unmissable. It was also, very much, undeniable.

  "Thi—this is a municipal matter." Rysher, not even looking at what lay before him. Afraid to look at it, same as a guy facing a firing squad would rather take a blindfold than see what's coming."It's outside the governor's purview. It's not his concern."

  "The governor's purview is the state of California. His concern, for the minute, is that no more citizens get killed."

  "And you don't think that's my concern? We've just lost four men."

  "He lost a wife, two sons and six hundred thousand people. You want to give him a call and talk about loss?"

  No, Rysher didn't. No right-minded person wanted to compare losses with Harry Norquist.

  Flipping a hand toward Rysher's phone, Gayle asked: "You want to give him a call and tell him why you're going against his orders?"

  Rysher went back to handing out some quiet contempt.

  "I've got a direct dial. Let's make the call." Gayle was eager with her gloating."Let's do it. I promise you, all the favors I had to pull, the mountain I had to climb: He did not like having to get into this. I promise you more, he will not like having to explain things to you."

  And Rysher looked at what lay on his desk. He didn't pick it up, didn't read it. Didn't need to. From where it was, a few ex officio-sounding phrases jumped out at him, told Rysher plainly how things were. He was against a wall, hard and cold. He knew it. It was obvious all around. Still, Rysher kept looking for a way out.

  Soledad, real carefully, tried to give him one."I don't care about anything else. I'm willing to put aside what got us where we are. What I care about…" Mindful of Gayle, mindful people beyond Parker Center didn't know the full truth of things: "This is about what's going on out there right now; what we're all about to face down. I'm willing to let everything else go if it means no more good cops get killed. If I don't have to sit on the sidelines while—"

  "I'm not letting officers under my command run around with that," his contempt no longer quiet,"contraption!"

  "You let them run around long enough without it and all your cops got was dead." Before Rysher could cut her off, Gayle kept on with: "Just Soledad; that's all the governor's stipulating. A field test goes on, she keeps the piece, she's back on MTac." Gayle brought it all home with: "You act right, you can still get out of this with your pension."

  A threat heaped on the bargains and deals didn't matter. Rysher wouldn't convince."And you can just get out. I don't care if you do have the governor in your pocket. G Platoon is still mine to run. These are still my cops. I have a right to impla—"

  Rysher noticed, just then got around to noticing, that at some point during the squabble Tashjian had moved away from him. He'd moved to the other side of the room. The side with Gayle and Soledad and, in absentia but very much present, Governor Harry Norquist.

  It was done. Rysher'd lost without even being
aware of the moment the loss had occurred."The only… It was never about…" Right there's where he let it go.

  Gayle made a broad show of checking her watch."Well, I've got a Pilates class to make." She smoothly raised up, held out a hand to Tashjian."Very nice meeting you."

  Tashjian took her hand."You've got a way with things, Ms. Senna."

  "Gayle. Call me Gayle. Or just call me."

  She was not flirting with… Was she flirting with Tashjian?

  Soledad, off a shake of her head: "Jesus Fuc… Christ." Then she gave a little smile.

  Sitting, fuming, Rysher watched the exchange, watched how easily Gayle flowed among people. Rysher knew then, from first off, if he'd ever had a chance it wasn't one in a thousand.

  "Good luck to you, Soledad." And Gayle left the office.

  Soledad darted after Gayle, calling her lawyer's name.

  Gayle stopped, turned.

  "I just wanted to thank you for everything. I don't know if you want to… Why don't we go out and have ourselves a—"

  Gayle smiled."Don't thank me."

  "I mean it. I could have taken a lot, but them saying I had anything to do with what happened to Reese…"

  Still smiling."And I mean it too. Don't thank me. What I did, I did for my reasons; I did it because it serves me. I meant it when I told you that. But the next time you and I meet up we're not going to be sitting beside each other, and what I just did in there is nothing compared to what I'm going to throw at you and every other cop who lifted a finger against innocent people. Same as I did to your lieutenant, I promise I'll do to you."

  Gayle walked on. Talking while she moved, tossing back over her shoulder: "My office'll be in touch about your bill."

  You could say, and it would be the truth, that the governor of the state of California saved my life. Being a cop, an MTac, is all there is for me. I know in a way that sounds pathetic. I don't care. I'm wired the way I'm wired, my job is my life, that's the way it is. And, yeah, I have Ian now. Sort of. But neither of us knows for certain what we're really about. So if I didn't have my job, if I couldn't fight for the things I believe in…

  But that's what Harry Norquist was about: saving lives. He was flying back to San Francisco when Bludlust took the city hostage. Most people didn't even pay any mind to what was going on. Bludlust? Oh, Pharos will handle him. Nubian Princess'll take care of things. Scalawag will save the day.

  Harry Norquist wasn't depending on anyone else. Harry Norquist hopped the first plane from that Mayors' Conference in Washington to get back to San Francisco, to do… something. Like there was something he could do Pharos couldn't. Probably not. Definitely not. But unlike the rest of us, Harry Norquist wasn't satisfied sitting on his ass.

  He never made it back to San Francisco.

  Lucky him. If he had, he probably would've been among the 623, 316 who were killed when Bludlust's whatever went off.

  Unlucky him. Among those 600, 000-plus were one woman and two children who were Norquist's family.

  Guilt. Guilt like nobody ever knew. That's what Governor, then-Mayor, Norquist felt. He felt guilty because he wasn't there when his city needed him most. He felt guilty because early on, when Nightshift first appeared, Norquist made him welcome; deputized him, gave him special judicial powers, called him in on all the tough cases. Norquist thought he was doing some good for the city. He thought he was giving aid to a new breed of

  crime fighter and peacekeeper. All he was doing was making the rest of us lazy and putting power in the hands of a bunch of freaks. Easy to second-guess him now, but none of us saw things any differently. Back then that was the dawn of the age of the supermen, and we all waded in their glow.

  Not anymore.

  And Harry Norquist was the first to take the blame, the first to condemn them and the first to pledge to stamp the freaks out. He got swept into Sacramento on a vow to make California a metanormal-free zone. And as always, as goes California, so goes the country.

  Events dominoed: The EO, the MTacs were formed, the freaks went underground or to Europe.

  You know, I really hate those Europeans.

  So now I get to go back on the force. So now I get to hunt freaks, maybe get killed, so that the rest of the normals, the rest of humanity, has a shot at staying alive.

  Wouldn't have it any other way.

  The governor of the state of California saved my life.

  There're a lot of tattoo parlors on Sunset Boulevard. East of La Cienega're all the ones for the rock 'n' rollers and night crawlers who got body art as a form of self-expression: rage against culture. Even though body art had become pop culture. West of La Cienega were parlors for all the Hollywood industry glamourbots who got themselves tattooed because Maxim or Vanity Fair or Details magazine told them they should either get a tattoo or start taking yoga.

  Soledad went for an east-of-La-Cienega parlor. The guy at the counter was thin, white. A walking billboard for his business. His head was shaved. He looked like he might've been front man for the White Aryan Resistance, except that his voice and manner seemed like they'd just come off a limited engagement on Broadway.

  "Helloooo," he said to Soledad.

  Soledad was to the point."I want a tattoo."

  "And you've got the skin for it, honey. That's what I call canvas."

  The gay skinhead started to reach out for Soledad's arm.

  Her look told him to do otherwise.

  Soledad took out a couple of photos. Showed them to the guy. Asked: "Can you do this?"

  Screwing up his lips: "Uhhh. You want to talk about bad skin? Sweetie, you need to get your friend to Malibu."

  In the background was the buzz, hum-hum of tattooing equipment and the low moans of someone getting etched.

  "The tattoo: Can you do it?"

  The man flipped his hands in the air as if all Soledad was asking him to do was breathe or blink."I'm sure."

  "I want it to look just like this one."

  "I should color it in a little bit. And how about…" He looked behind himself to the wall. Art samples hung there."How about twenty-three? A nice skull. That'd look killer."

  "I want what's in the picture."

  "Every letter should be a different color, like a rainbow thing."

  "I want—"

  "A rainbow, or bloodred. But I don't know if bloodred is going to read so well on you."

  "Hey!"

  The man shut up, quit trying to sell. The man listened.

  "What'd I say?"

  "You said you want a tattoo like the one in the picture."

  "What do I want?"

  "… A tattoo like the one in—"

  "What are you going to give me?"

  "I, uh… I'll go get the ink ready."

  Over the years the bald-headed gay guy had etched somewhere near twelve hundred tattoos. He'd done so many that for him the job had gone from making individual pieces of art to doing punch mold assembly line work: want something that'll show your fierce inner strength as well as your passion for nonconformity? Sure. Number thirty-eight in blue. Stick out your arm and let's go.

  The bald-headed gay guy wasn't like that with Soledad. Everything about her said, quiet but very firm: Get it right.

  Yes.

  Using the photo as blueprint, working intently, Baldy copied in exacting detail the tattoo of the person with the ashen skin. Not much tattooing to be done. Just some letters. But the bald-headed gay guy took his time in re-creating them. The bald-headed gay guy got it right.

  He wiped away the last of the blood from Soledad's shoulder. He said: "I'm done."

  Soledad checked the tattoo in a mirror, checked it against the tattoo in the photo. Reese's tattoo.

  It was the same. A bunch of letters. Five words.

  Tough words. BAMF words. For Soledad they were a way of life and a memorial to a fallen comrade. For every freak left in America they were a warning.

  The words, the tattoo: we don't need another hero.

  Soledad welcomed herse
lf back to MTac.

  Yarborough couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  Yar said: I don't believe this."

  Bo smiled at that. Yarborough's disbelief was amusing to him. Things in general were more lighthearted for Bo. Life was good. Bo said again for Yarborough, for Soledad and Vin, who were also sitting with him in the ready room—Whitaker, upon Soledad's return, had been transferred to Valley MTac, the new Valley MTac—"I'm leaving G Platoon. I'm leaving active duty, at least."

  Yarborough still wouldn't convince."This is… You're quitting?"

  "I'm not quitting. I'm just not going on the street anymore. Taking a promotion, getting a desk."

  Vin asked: "What brought this on?"

  "The years brought it on. I can't keep doing this."

  "Hunting freaks?" Soledad wanted to know.

  "Beating the odds. I've been lucky a long time—"

  "You've been good," Yar added in.

  Bo gave a modest shrug."Maybe I've been a little of both. Maybe. I used to be. But I've lost it. Simple as that. I've lost it and…" Bo hesitated, started again."I shouldn't say this, I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm scared."

  Yarborough laughed a little: the idea of Bo being afraid of anything. But then he saw Bo wasn't making fun. He was serious. He was scared.

  Bo: "Better off to leave upright than stretched out. And I'm sure as heck better off moving on before I get one of you killed."

  Vin asked: "And there's no talking you out of it?"

  "You could, but I'd still end up dead. Only difference is it's Kathy who'd do the killing."

  Bo laughed, and they all knew it was okay to laugh with him, so they did.

  "Never seen her so happy," Bo went on."Not since we had our second. Not since before I went MTac. Good time to step aside anyway. Soledad's back. She can more than take up the slack."

  Soledad tried to stay stern-faced, serious and professional, but Bo's vote of confidence put a little light in her.

  "It's time for the new. It's over for me." A pause."And I'm glad for it."

  There was a moment where everyone worked at accepting the facts.

  Vin asked: "Now what?"