I wondered if that was how it had been for Rachel.
I stepped closer as the door opened. A nurse walked in. She didn’t see me at first; went straight to Mary’s bedside and scribbled notes on her chart. When she turned to leave she spotted me. Jumped and clutched at her chest.
“Oh, you scared me,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“The nurse at the desk said it was alright.”
A lie.
“Well I’m afraid it’s not. This lady needs her rest. You’re going to have to wait outside.”
One last glance at the lady in the bed. She looked different. Her pink streak was missing.
I sat in the waiting room alone for nearly an hour. Just sat and stared at the wall. I didn’t want to close my eyes because when I closed my eyes I could almost see it. And when I tightened my fists I could almost feel it. The warm, slick sensation of blood coating my knuckles. Of something solid breaking under someone else’s skin. The taste of it all splashed across my tongue. I thought of his name and pictured myself sliding two fingers into his eyes until they burst apart like grapes and not stopping until I hit brain.
When my cell rang I didn’t recognize the number.
“You,” I said.
Simon made a humorous noise down the line. “Did you really think it was over, Detective?”
“You sick freak. I’m going to kill you for this.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“She wasn’t involved!”
“Which is exactly why I had to do it,” he said. “Don’t you see, Thomas? I’m the one in control here.”
“Simon, where are you?”
He paused. “You asked me once what I did with them after. Do you remember? Hmm? Well I’m looking at them right now. They’re looking back, in fact. Do you hear me? I have them, Thomas. In a plastic bag.”
I made a noise, something halfway between a moan and a growl.
“I’m leaving town,” Simon continued, “and this is my farewell call. I am sorry things didn’t work out between us. But please, don’t come looking for me. It would be a great shame if these were to end up someplace that caused you a degree of . . . incrimination.”
I said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“For what it’s worth,” Simon said into the silence, “I did enjoy our conversations.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Joe was waiting for me at the hospital entrance. He fell into step beside me as I walked to the parking lot.
“They say you were the one who found her,” he said. “I didn’t know you two were close.”
“I’m not sure we were.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it all the same.”
I nodded. All I could think of was Simon.
“You know where he is?” Joe asked.
I paused, turned to look. He was watching me.
“No. But I have to try.”
“I’m right here,” he said. “Ask me for help.”
“Joe . . .”
“Don’t be too proud—”
“It’s not about pride.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You want Jacobs caught? Ask me for help.”
I swallowed. Imagined Simon behind the wheel of a car, or boarding a train. Pictured him hitchhiking out of town and blending into a crowd and vanishing out of my life forever.
“What’ll it cost, Joe?”
“A lot. Your cut of the robbery for starters.” He smiled sadly, then added, “Is it worth it?” and shrugged.
I leaned back against the door of my Impala and breathed in and out, deep. The air was cool and damp, but I could feel beads of sweat breaking out across my forehead.
“I keep trying to work out why I’m here,” I said. “Seems like I get given a new reason every day now.”
“Who says you were sent to Cooper for a reason?” Joe said. “Sometimes things just happen. Good, bad, whatever. There’s no grand plan for any of us. And if there is, somehow I think Cooper got left off the list.”
“We both know how this ends,” I said.
Joe gave a bitter laugh. “Sooner or later we all get our hands dirty, son.”
“Mine have been dirty for a while now.”
“Yeah, well, I guess some filth just sticks.”
I looked over at him. “He took her eyes, Joe. He took them while she was still awake.”
“Doc says she’s going to pull through.”
“He should have killed her,” I said. “It would have been kinder.”
“Ask me.”
“Joe . . .”
“As soon as you leave here, I won’t bring this up again. You need time to decide? Get a coffee. But drink it fast. You need a reason? Go stand at her bedside.”
“I got plenty of reasons.”
“Then ask me.”
“Can Marchenko help me find him?”
“You’re goddamn right he can.”
Chapter Forty
I was going to start with a defense for what I did next, but that’d make me a liar, and I’ve lied enough. No more excuses, no more half-truths, no more secrets. Not that it matters anymore.
If anyone was hoping this was a story of redemption, well, I guess you’re just shit out of luck.
It wasn’t difficult to track down where Mansfield was staying.
Cooper only has a handful of motels, and none of them were looking to make their lives any harder. And why would they? I’m a cop. Looking for another cop. The place she was staying at gave me her room number. A little bit of pressure and they gave me the key, too.
I’d weighed my options on the drive over. Seemed all I had was a revolver and a ticking clock. Mansfield was tough, but she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t about to lose her life over some stolen cartel money.
I pulled my gun before knocking. No answer. I let myself in, tossed the place. The room was small—nothing more than a double bed and a toilet, really—and I checked every inch of it. The mattress, the dresser, the tiny two-person table that sat under the grubby window. After ten minutes, I knew the money wasn’t there.
I thought about calling her. Sending her a picture of her room from the inside. Only I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t show up with a couple of squad cars. So I decided to wait. Pulled up a chair in the corner of the room and sat with my feet on that little table, my revolver on my lap.
I wasn’t nervous, sitting there. Wasn’t impatient, wasn’t agitated or on edge or anything. I was resigned, maybe, although I’m sure I don’t know what that really feels like. Unless it’s the absence of feeling, in which case yeah, I guess I was resigned.
She turned up forty minutes later. I’d barely moved. By then it was late, her bedside clock reading 1 a.m. It was Thursday, and I’d been in Cooper for just about bang on two weeks. It was hard to believe so much could happen in so little time.
I heard her car pull up outside, heard her quiet engine go quieter, heard her door slam and her footsteps approach. Then the jangle of change and the rumble of the vending machine. A man’s voice, too low to make out. I wondered if it was the guy on the front desk. Your friend was here earlier.
Her gun was raised when she finally entered the room, but so was mine.
“Drop it,” I said, and I pulled the hammer back with an audible click. “Don’t turn around, or I’ll cripple your spine.”
She was caught out, her body angled the wrong way, gun pointed toward the bathroom. She glanced over at me, just with her eyes, then she spread her palms and placed her handgun on the floor.
“Kick it over here,” I said, and she did. I bent down and picked it up. Another Glock.
“I thought you were leaving town,” she said.
“Just tying up some loose ends.”
“Judging by the state of my room, I’m guessing you’re after the money.” She curled her top lip in disgust. “I’m disappointed in you, Thomas.”
“I’m sure you
are. Now close the door and sit on the bed.”
“Do you have any idea how stupid this is?”
If she was scared, she didn’t show it. I stood, waved my gun a little. “Door. Now.”
Mansfield did it, her eyes on me and glaring the entire time. I kept my distance.
“Take out your handcuffs,” I said.
And she did that, too.
It was hot in here, and I couldn’t work out if it was the heating or me. I wiped at my forehead.
“So what’s the plan?” Mansfield asked. “Take the money and run? How long do you think you’ll last before I find you?”
“Long enough.”
“Whatever you’re going to do? Don’t. If you need help, then let me help. You want to talk about our deal? We can talk about it, you and me.”
“I just need the money, Mansfield. Now where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
I shook my head. The revolver was swaying a little now. “Then things are going to go very badly for you, Detective.”
“Thomas, I don’t understand—”
“You don’t need to understand. You just need to tell me—”
“Is this really what it’s all about? Money?”
“Dammit, Mansfield!” My arm went straight. Anger steadying my aim. “None of this is about the money.”
She stared at me for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was low. “No it isn’t, is it. You were stressed the other morning but nothing like this. I know you called in the attack yesterday. That bartender’s gotten you all worked up.”
“Her name’s Mary.”
“Do you know who did it?”
I said nothing.
“What happens when you get him?” She edged closer. My silence making her courageous. “You going to kill him?”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“Tell that to Kevin Foster.”
“You think that was me?”
“Wasn’t it?”
I paused. Felt that new urge start to build. Not the anger—not this time. The intoxication of unburdening myself. Of letting it all spill out. I was so tired of keeping everything to myself.
My fingers danced along the side of my revolver. “Joe shot him. With this, actually.”
Mansfield didn’t miss a beat. “So why protect him?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You do now. You’ve got your bullet, Thomas. Joe doesn’t have anything on you. Not anymore.”
She closed the gap between us farther still. Her gaze running straight along the barrel of my gun.
“Why don’t we take this conversation outside?” she said. “I’ve got a Snickers and a can of soda by the vending machine. Still got enough change to buy you some dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“What’s the money for? Work with me, Thomas. You siding with Joe? With Marchenko? That your plan?”
“Does it matter?”
“Jesus Christ,” she said. A sudden hardness in her voice. “You really are an idiot. You want to track down whoever attacked your friend? I’m right here!”
“Mansfield—”
“I’m serious! Put that gun away and let me make a couple phone calls. We’ll get an APB out on this guy. We’ll have him picked up by the end of the day!”
Now I thought about that. Hand on heart, Debra, I really did. Simon Jacobs’s grinning face in the back of a squad car. In the bullpen back at the station. Orange jumpsuit and metal shackles. Pictured him safe and sound in a cushy institution for the criminally insane. Three square meals and cable TV and conjugal visits. Book deals and HBO specials. I pictured it all.
“Empty your pockets,” I said quietly.
She tried to press forward. I pushed her onto the bed.
“I told you I’d read your file,” she said. “You want to kill him, don’t you. It’s . . . some kind of sick thrill for you.”
“Empty your pockets, Mansfield!” I snarled, and I leaned forward and placed the Smith and Wesson against her cheek.
For a moment she didn’t move. Maybe she was trying to work out if I would actually do it. Guess something in my eyes answered her question. She reached into the inside pocket of her suit jacket and pulled out the plastic bag of money. Dropped it onto the bed. I almost wept.
“How long can you keep this up?” she said. Her eyes on me as I snatched up the bag. “This pretense that you’re being played. By me, by Joe. You’re choosing to work with people like Demyan Marchenko. You’re choosing to dish out this . . . vigilante justice.”
“That’s enough.”
“You know, I was wrong about you. Joe wasn’t using you after all. He was grooming you.”
I glared at her. Stepped back and leaned against that little table under the window.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“You handcuff yourself to the radiator,” I said. “I’ll make sure Morricone knows where to find you.”
I waited until she was secure, then at last I put my gun away. Collected hers, too. Went to the door and stopped, turned back. She was across the room and on the floor, her arm at an uncomfortable angle. I went over to her. Reached out to adjust her cuffs and she shrank back. I wondered how she saw me then, in that moment.
Stepping over her and into the bathroom, I grabbed a face cloth and stuffed it into her mouth.
I thought about saying something in parting. An apology, maybe, although somehow an apology didn’t seem appropriate at the time.
I’d never have hurt you, Debra. You do know that. It’s easy to say now, I guess, after all this is over, and I’m sure it doesn’t come as much consolation. But if this story has taught you anything—and if you’ve read my file like you say you have—then you know that I don’t hurt women. I’m just not like that.
So I’ll say now what I couldn’t say then. Which is that I’m sorry.
Chapter Forty-One
And so once again I found myself on the long road out of town.
Joe’s Ford was warm, and the faded leather seats soft, and as the dashboard clock glowed the start of a new day I battled an adrenaline comedown and opened a window to stay awake. Outside it was cold and the sky was black. Clouds so low they seemed to skirt the tips of the tallest trees. Branches straining to take root and spread across the sky. I tracked streetlights as they stretched out behind us, their glow feeble and growing feebler as we hit the open expanse.
A straight shot along the narrow highway, flanked on both sides by bare fields and the sound of an engine’s roar. A thin veneer of freedom. Stretched tight over a cartel’s grip.
Up ahead now I could see the exit. The dirt track and the dark farmhouse. The distant barns where Demyan Marchenko was undoubtedly waiting, sitting in the back of a black car near invisible against the night. Joe slowed, tires crunching as we bounced off the road, and I remembered being dragged through the corn and forced down onto the cold earth and my heart beat that little bit faster.
“Joe,” I said.
Marchenko’s car came to life ahead of us. Joe glanced at me but said nothing. Dimmed our headlights and brought us to a gentle halt.
I climbed out into the cool night. The ground was hard, and my shoes slid on the frozen surface, and when I closed my door with a soft click I suddenly felt exposed. We shouldn’t have gotten out first.
But then doors swung open and three men emerged from the car. The driver and his friend dressed in cheap, shiny suits; Marchenko in dark jeans and what looked like a leather biker jacket. A moment later there was the machine-gun fire of high-pitched yapping and Rocket came bounding out to join us.
“We must really not keep meeting like this,” Marchenko shouted to us in his stupid broken English, waggling a finger in amusement. “People will be talking.”
“It’s cold, Demyan,” Joe said. “Let’s make this quick.”
“You think this is cold?” Marchenko said, grinning. “You should come to my country for Christmas. Nights so cold they would make your nipples
fall off.”
He laughed, and his compatriots along with him. Even in the dim light I could see his stained teeth. They were mesmerizing.
He leaned back against the hood of his car. “You Americans and your comfort zones,” he said. “You would live forever inside them if you could, I think.”
Rocket was going crazy now. Racing in little circles, bouncing up on his tiny back legs and barking at the moon.
Joe pointed at the dog. “Really, Demyan? This isn’t the time. Leave Rocket in the car.”
Marchenko looked surprised. “Rocket is in the car,” he said, and right on cue, manic barking started up from the back seat. “This is Rex,” he said. “Rocket’s brother. Rocket I bought for my daughter, Rex I bought for her mother. A peace offering. But now she says she hates dogs too, and so I have both.”
“Marchenko . . .” I started.
The Ukrainian laughed and waved his hand through the air. “Alright,” he said and snapped his fingers. The driver lifted Rex and tossed him into the car. There was the brief sound of tiny animals snarling before he closed the door.
“Demyan, this is serious,” Joe said. “You told me not to return without a solution. Well here we are.”
“Yes, here you are,” he purred. “And here I am. Tell me, Joe, do you think I want to be here?”
Joe was smart enough not to give an answer. Marchenko dug around for his cigarettes before continuing.
“For six years I have been in charge. And how many times have I been to Cooper? Three? Four?” Marchenko shrugged, pausing to light up. “You view this as an insult, maybe. A sign that I don’t care. That I think of Cooper as a little piece-of-shit town.”
His men laughed again. Marchenko himself was smiling, but the more I stared at his face, the more plastic and fixed it became. I felt sick.
“But really, I am not needed here. I trust the people to do their job. I trust you, Joe. My money is taken, and you take it back. Like Robin Hood, yes? Of course, the day my product stops moving, the day my farms are raided, perhaps that is the day things will change. But until then? Please, do not see my absence as a sign that I do not care. Or that I hate your piece-of-shit town. And believe me, Joe, it is a piece-of-shit town. So when you see me here, now, waiting in this frozen field for you to arrive, do not insult me by saying that this is serious. I know it is serious. If it were not serious, I would not be here. If I did not trust you, I would not be here.” He spat onto the ground by his feet. “If I did not trust you, you would be dead.”
Welcome to Cooper Page 19