“Nobody ever told us.” McClatchy’s reply was matter-of-fact, almost cold. He opened the car door.
“He’s just a kid.”
“We were all kids when we started.”
Alert, automatics drawn and ready, Barron and Halliday stepped from the pickup. In the distance they could hear the crackle of police radios, and above, the heavy thud-thud of the helicopter’s churning rotor blades. The others got out, too. Valparaiso walked over to talk quietly to McClatchy. Lee and Polchak opened the trunks of the two cars, then came forward to hand out flak jackets with the word POLICE stenciled on the back.
Barron slipped his on and walked over to where McClatchy stood with Valparaiso, his eyes searching the garage around them as he did. Donlan could be anywhere, waiting in the shadows, biding his time for a shot. He was crazy. They’d seen him in action.
“Donlan’s hostage,” Barron said as he reached them, “looked like he jumped into the Toyota of his own free will. He was also the one who collected our guns for Donlan on the train. Maybe they’re accomplices, maybe not.”
Red studied him lightly. “This hostage have a name?”
“Not one we know.” Halliday came up beside them. “Have somebody check the wife of the man Donlan killed on the train. They’d been playing cards the whole time.”
Suddenly a tremendous roar shook the entire building as the helicopter made a low-level pass, then pulled up to hover once more. As the sound eased, Barron saw Polchak lift an ugly short-barreled shotgunlike weapon with a huge drumlike magazine from the Ford’s trunk.
“Striker twelve. South African riot gun.” Polchak grinned. “Fifty-round magazine. Fires twelve shots in three seconds.”
“You comfortable with this?” Valparaiso was holding a 12-gauge Ithaca shotgun.
“Yeah,” Barron said, and Valparaiso tossed it to him.
McClatchy slid the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson revolver from the reverse-draw holster at his waist. “We’ll walk it,” he said. “Jimmy and Len, take the north fire stairs. Roosevelt and Marty, the south. Barron and I will go up the middle.”
And then they were gone, Halliday and Polchak to the left, Lee and Valparaiso vanishing in the shadows to the right, the sound of their footsteps lost under the pounding thud of the hovering helicopter.
Barron and McClatchy, shotgun and revolver, walked up the main auto ramp five feet apart, their eyes scanning the concrete pillars, the neatly stacked piles of retrofit materials, the empty parking spaces, the shadows that the pillars and construction materials created.
Barron visualized the others climbing the fire stairs, weapons ready, blocking any escape path Donlan and his hostage/friend might take. He could feel the sweat on his palms, the charge of adrenaline. This wasn’t the nervousness he’d felt on the train; it was something else entirely. Scarcely a week before, he’d been a cog in the wheel of Robbery-Homicide, and now here he was, a member for life in the famed 5-2 Squad, walking side by side with the man himself, Red McClatchy, closing in on an armed and extremely violent killer. It was storybook stuff. Dangerous as it was, the rush was enormous, even heroic. As if he were alongside Wyatt Earp as they advanced on the OK Corral.
“You might want to know a little more about our Mr. Donlan,” McClatchy said softly, his concentration on the concrete and shadows in front of them. “Before he did his work on the train, before he had the misfortune to be seen in Chicago and have the Chicago PD put out an alert for him, he escaped from death row at Huntsville. He was there for the rape and torture-murder of two teenage sisters. Something he did exactly four days after he got an early release for good behavior from another rape conviction—easy.” Red let his voice fall away as they reached the top of the ramp and turned the corner.
“Hold it,” he said suddenly, and they stopped.
Sixty feet away was the white Toyota. It was parked facing a rear wall, its driver’s and passenger’s doors open, its emergency lights flashing.
Red lifted his radio. “Toyota’s here,” he said quietly. “Second floor. Come in slowly and with all the worry you’ve got.”
Red clicked off the radio, and he and Barron stood listening, their eyes sweeping the area.
Nothing.
Ten seconds passed. Then they saw the dimly lit figures of Halliday and Polchak move in from the left, stopping thirty feet from the car, weapons raised, ready to fire. A moment later Lee and Valparaiso came in from the right, stopping at the same distance.
Red waited, judging, then his voice echoed across the concrete chamber. “Los Angeles Police, Donlan! The building is surrounded. There’s no place for you to go. Throw your weapon out! Give yourself up!”
Still nothing. The only sound, the heavy overhead thud of the police helicopter.
“End of the road, Donlan. Make it easy on yourself!”
Red moved forward slowly. Barron did the same, his heart pounding, his palms slick with sweat as he grasped the big Ithaca. The others stood their ground where they were. Tense. Watching. Fingers resting on triggers. Polchak had the stock of the huge riot gun tucked against his shoulder, sighting down it.
“This is Frank Donlan!” The fugitive’s voice suddenly echoed from a thousand corners.
Red and Barron froze where they were.
“I’m coming out! My hostage is safe. He’s coming with me.”
“Send him out first!” Red yelled.
For what seemed an eternity nothing happened. Then, slowly, Raymond walked from behind the Toyota.
16
Barron had the big Ithaca shotgun trained on Raymond as he stepped from the shadows and came toward them. Lee, Halliday, Polchak, and Valparaiso kept back, weapons ready, intent, watching.
“Facedown on the floor!” Red commanded loudly. “Hands behind your head.”
“Help me, please!” Raymond pleaded as he walked forward. To his left and right and in front of him were the three policemen from the train. The others he’d never seen before.
“On the floor! Hands behind your head!” Red ordered again. “Now!”
Raymond took another step and then dropped to the floor, putting his hands behind his head as he had been told.
Instantly Barron swung the Ithaca from Raymond to the Toyota. Where was Donlan? Who knew if he was using his hostage as a cover to get in position to take one of them out? Or if he would suddenly burst from behind the car shooting at whomever he saw?
“Donlan!” McClatchy looked to the Toyota, the blinking emergency lights a distraction. “Throw out your weapon!”
Nothing happened. Barron took a breath. Up and to his left he could see Polchak adjust the heft of the riot gun.
“Donlan!” McClatchy shouted again. “Throw out your weapon or we’re coming for it!”
Another pause and then an object flew from behind the Toyota and clattered across the floor, stopping halfway between Raymond and where Red McClatchy stood. It was Donlan’s Colt automatic.
Red looked quickly to Barron. “He carrying anything else?”
“Not that we saw.”
Red looked back. “Put your hands on top of your head and come out slowly!”
For a long moment everything was still. Then they saw movement behind the Toyota, and Donlan appeared. His hands on top of his head, he walked from deep shadow into the soft glow of the fluorescent light overhead. He was stark naked.
“Jesus Christ,” Barron whispered.
Donlan stopped, bizzare-looking under the fluorescent light with nothing on but the hairpiece. Slowly he grinned. “Just wanted to show you I had nothing to hide.”
The detectives came forward in a rush, Polchak and Lee taking up armed positions inches from the naked Donlan while Valparaiso moved in hard to handcuff him behind his back. Barron and Halliday went for the Toyota.
“Don’t move. Don’t talk.” Smith & Wesson held in both hands, Red came up on Raymond. “Roosevelt,” he said.
Abruptly Lee stepped away from Polchak and Donlan and came over to where Red was and quickly handcuffe
d their second fugitive.
“What are you doing?” Raymond screamed as he felt the steel close on his wrists. “I was kidnapped. I am a victim!” He was red-faced and suddenly furious. He’d expected they would hustle him to safety, interrogate him for a short while, then take a phone number and address and let him go. Not this.
“Nobody else, no weapons, it’s clean,” Barron said, as he and Halliday came back from the Toyota.
Red studied Raymond a moment longer, then holstered the revolver and looked to Lee. “Take this victim downtown and talk to him.” He turned to Barron. “Find Mr. Donlan his pants.”
Raymond saw the monstrous Lee bend toward him, felt his huge hands as he helped him up.
“Why are you arresting me? I did nothing.” Now Raymond played it soft, the genuine innocent victim.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Lee started him toward a fire door and the stairs down.
Suddenly his fears rushed back. The last thing he wanted was to be taken into custody and have them start digging into who he was and then find his bag on the train. Twisting in Lee’s grip, he shouted toward Barron and Halliday, “You were on the train! You saw what happened!”
“I also saw you jump into the Toyota with Mr. Donlan with no encouragement at all.” Barron was already walking off.
“He said he’d kill me right there if I didn’t!” Raymond yelled after him. Barron kept walking, going for Donlan’s clothes. Raymond swiveled toward Donlan. “Tell them!”
“Tell them what, Ray?” Donlan grinned.
Then they were at the steel fire door. Halliday held it open, and Lee took Raymond through it and into the stairwell on the far side. Halliday followed, and the door banged closed behind them.
17
Barron held Donlan’s pants as he stepped into them, a task made awkward because of the handcuffs and because Polchak had the riot gun squarely in his face. After that came the socks and shoes.
“What about his shirt?” Barron looked up at Red. “He can’t put on his shirt with handcuffs.”
“Step back,” Red said.
“What?”
“I said step back.”
There was an odd quiet in Red’s manner, and Barron didn’t know what it meant. He saw the same calm in the faces of Polchak and Valparaiso, as if they knew something he didn’t. Puzzled, he did as he was told. Then Polchak backed off as well, and for a moment time froze. The four detectives and their captive facing off. The only movement at all, the still-blinking emergency lights of the Toyota.
“That a wig?” Valparaiso asked of Donlan’s hairpiece. “Looks like a wig.”
“It’s not.”
“What alias did you use this time, Donlan? You know, for the people on the train, the people you played cards with,” Red said softly. “Tom Haggerty? Don Donlan Jr.? Maybe James Dexter, or was it Bill Miller?”
“Miller.”
“Bill?”
“Frank. It is my real name.”
“Funny, I thought it was Whitey. It’s been on your criminal records since you were twelve.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you.”
“Yeah, fuck us.” Polchak smiled, then very deliberately set the riot gun aside.
Donlan’s eyes swept them all. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked, his voice suddenly racked with fear.
“What the fuck do you think? Whitey …” Valparaiso was staring at him.
Barron looked to Red, as puzzled as before.
The next happened in a millisecond. Polchak moved in, grabbing Donlan by the arms and locking him where he was. At the same time Valparaiso stepped forward, a snub-nosed .22 revolver in his fist.
“No, don’t!” Donlan screamed, his voice stark with terror. He tried to twist out of Polchak’s grip, but it was no good. Valparaiso shoved the .22 against his temple.
Bang!
“Holy shit!” Barron’s breath went out of him. Then Polchak let go and Donlan’s body crumbled to the floor.
18
Raymond started and tried to pull up at the sharp report that echoed like a firecracker off the concrete walls from the floor above. Halliday shoved him back against the trunk of Lee’s Ford, and Lee continued where he’d left off.
“You have the right to legal counsel. If you believe you cannot afford legal counsel—”
“We need a Scientific Investigations unit and the coroner.” McClatchy had turned and was talking into his radio as Valparaiso handed the .22 to Polchak, then stood up and came over to Barron.
“Donlan had a twenty-two hidden in his pants. When we tried to take him downstairs he got one of the cuffs off and shot himself. His last words were ‘This is as far as I go.’”
Barron heard, but it barely registered. Traumatic shock and horror overrode his entire being, while five feet away Polchak was unlocking one of Donlan’s handcuffs and fitting the .22 into the hand, making it look as if Donlan had done exactly as Valparaiso said. All the while a dark pool of blood was seeping out from under Donlan’s head.
That something like this could happen, and be done by these men, was unfathomable. Again, for the second time in his life, John Barron’s world had suddenly become a dark and terrible dream. In it he saw McClatchy walk over to Valparaiso. “You’ve had a long day, Marty,” he said gently, as if the detective had just come off a double shift as a bus driver or something. “Have one of the motor units take you home, huh?”
Barron saw Valparaiso nod a thanks and move off toward the fire stairs, and then Red was turning to him.
“Go back with Lee and Halliday,” he said directly. “Book the hostage as an accessory until we can find out who he is and what the hell’s going on with him. Afterward go home and get some rest yourself.” McClatchy paused, and Barron thought maybe he was going to offer some explanation. Instead he tightened the screw. “Tomorrow morning I want you to file the report on what happened here.”
“Me?” Barron blurted, unbelieving.
“Yes, you, Detective.”
“What the hell do I put in it?”
“The truth.”
“What, that Donlan shot himself?”
Red’s pause was deliberate. “Didn’t he?”
19
ST. FRANCIS SANCTUARY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA.
SAME DAY, MARCH 12. 2:00 P.M.—THREE HOURS LATER.
Jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, badminton racket in hand, John Barron stood on the lawn in the shade of a towering sycamore tree watching a shuttlecock sail over the net toward him and trying desperately to put out of his mind what had happened in the hours just before. As the shuttlecock reached him he hit it back in a high arc, sending it over the net toward two nuns on the far side. One, Sister Mackenzie, ran up as if to swat it, then suddenly stepped aside for the jovial Sister Reynoso, who moved in to deftly spike it back over the net. Barron swung and missed and lost his footing, taking a graceful pratfall that landed him flat on his back staring up at the sky.
“Oh, are you alright, Mr. Barron?” Sister Reynoso ran up and peered through the net.
“I’m outmanned, Sister.” Barron sat up, forcing a grin, and then looked off to the side of the court. “Come on, Rebecca, two against one. Give a little help, huh? I’m getting creamed.”
“Yes, come on, Rebecca.” Sister Reynoso stepped around the net. “Your brother needs your help.”
Rebecca Henna Barron stood in the grass watching her brother, a soft breeze playing with her dark hair so neatly pulled back in a ponytail, the badminton racket in her hands held as if it were the most foreign object in the world.
Barron got up from the ground and came toward her. “I know you can’t hear me, but I also know you understand what’s going on. We want you to play with us. Will you do that?”
Rebecca smiled gently, then looked to the ground and shook her head. Barron breathed deeply. This was the thing that never changed, the sadness that wholly encompassed her and kept her from even taking the first steps toward having any kind of life at all.
Rebecca was
now twenty-three and had not spoken or given any indication she could hear since she had seen their mother and father shot to death by intruders in the living room of their San Fernando Valley home eight years earlier, when she was fifteen. From that moment on, the bright, fun-loving, animated tomboy he’d known all his life had become a shadow of a human being, one wrapped in an air of tragic fragility that made her seem utterly childlike and, at times, even helpless; whatever cognizance and ability to communicate she might still have lay buried beneath a mountain of deep trauma. Yet behind it, in the way she held herself, in the way she perked up whenever he visited, was the sharp, funny, and intelligent sister he remembered. And from what he had been told by a number of so-far-unsuccessful mental health professionals, including her current psychiatrist, the very respected Dr. Janet Flannery, if somehow, in some way, her soul could be unlocked and the darkness lifted, she would emerge from her dreadful cocoon like a bright butterfly and in a very short while begin to live a full and meaningful, perhaps even rich, life. But up to now it hadn’t happened. There had been no change at all.
Barron lifted her chin so she would look at him directly.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He tried to grin. “We’ll play another time. We will. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
Rebecca smiled, then cocked her head and studied him. He saw a troubled expression cross her face and stay there. Finally she put her fingers to her lips and then to his. She loved him, too, was what it meant. But the way she did it, holding his eyes the entire time, meant she knew something had disturbed him terribly and she wanted him to know she knew it.
20
3:35 P.M.
Barron was pulling into the parking lot of Thrifty Dry, the discount dry cleaners where he had his laundry done. He was going through the motions, trying to shake off the trauma of Donlan’s murder and think logically about what he would do next, when his cell phone rang. Automatically he clicked on. “Barron.”
Nicholas Marten 01 - The Exile Page 5