God bless you, Chloe.
Frank levered himself up and over the side of the footbridge, clutching the slick iron guardrail and cringing at the stabbing pains in his wrists. He lowered himself down the bank. His shoes sank into spongy mud. The rain blurred his vision, and sharp pain wrenched his spine as he searched the undergrowth and the cattails for the trunk.
It was waiting for him at the water’s edge.
He crouched down in the weeds, rubbing the beads of rain off the top of the trunk. It was about the size of a small microwave oven, covered in ratty imitation leather, reinforced with rusty metal corners. It was a remnant of Frank’s sad past, and it seemed all the more pathetic in the weeds and the rain and the dark. It looked like something Willie Loman might have tossed off.
Frank got his arms around it and lifted it off the ground. It was surprisingly light, considering all the worthless, old memorabilia stashed within it. Frank took a deep breath, turned, and hauled it up the side of the riverbank to the footbridge.
A beam of light erupted in Frank’s eyes.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” Frank uttered, standing there motionless in the rain, holding the trunk like a looter.
Three more beams of light struck Frank in the face—FLASH!-FLASH!-FLASH!—each light coming from a different direction: one behind the trees to the north, one from the Foster Street side to the south, and one from the edge of the deserted parking lot. In that frozen moment Frank recognized the sources of the lights, the motes of rain canting down through the beams, the glare streaking in his bleary vision. Panic bolted through Frank’s heart.
“DETECTIVE?”
The amplified voice pierced the storm and sent gooseflesh rippling under Frank’s wet clothing: the telltale sound of a portable PA from one of the unmarked Tactical vehicles, its trademark feedback squealing. Frank willed himself to move, forced his frozen body to lurch to his left, then toward the shadows to the east.
“DON’T MAKE IT HARD ON YOURSELF!”
Frank raced toward a grove of massive elm trees on the south edge of the campus, running full speed like a lunatic, the trunk rattling in his arms. He could barely hear the car engines revving behind him, the radio voices crackling, the Doppler effect of the storm swallowing the noises. He was running as fast as he could—considering that he was hefting a thirty-pound trunk in the driving rain, sprinting over mushy, wet turf, almost completely night-blinded by the lights.
A single thought was chiming in Frank’s brain as he hurtled through the mist: They must have followed Chloe. They must have gotten a tap on her. They must have picked her up when she returned home for the trunk, and they must have followed her here.
“FRANK, COME ON!”
He was halfway to the trees when he slipped on a wet patch of grass.
The trunk flew out of his hands, and he went down in a frenzy of pinwheeling arms and legs, hitting the ground hard and sliding several feet in the mud. The trunk flopped end over end across the grass.
It landed twenty feet away, its latch snapping, the contents spilling out across the sodden ground.
“THERE’S NO WAY OUT!”
Frank saw the dull gleam of the .38 caliber Colt Diamondback lying in the grass, and all at once he made a series of instant decisions, a little like a parachutist finally deciding to jump out of the plane, culminating with the singular conclusion that he would not let them take him before he had cleared himself. He would not. He would not let that happen.
“STAY DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”
Frank rolled across ten feet of ground and scooped up the Diamondback.
In that terrible instant, a flood of thoughts streamed through Frank’s mind—a frantic strategy, a way out of this ambush—and for the first time in his life, all his post-academy firearm training, and all the neurotic insistence on learning Israeli tactical shooting, and all the paranoid safety measures that had drawn such ridicule and laughter from his fellow detectives—all of it—was now finally paying off.
The gun felt as natural as a sixth finger as he spun toward the shadowy figures approaching from behind him. There were a half a dozen Tac guys dressed in black Kevlar vests and night-vision goggles, fanned out in assault formation, hustling toward him through the rain, and Frank simultaneously thumbed the hammer back and aimed, filling the chamber with a 158-grain wadcutter and pointing at the nearest inanimate object above the oncoming SWAT guys—
—because tactical shooting relies on human instinct to strike its target, which means a shooter moves his gun to his eyes to shoot, just as he moves his finger to his eyes to point, which means the gun becomes an extension of his arm, and his hand, and even his pointing finger.
Frank fired off six rounds.
The sound was a wild animal roaring above the rain, the six discreet muzzle flashes like bright silver teeth, chewing through the air, striking the high-tension wires above the SWAT guys. Six plumes of sparks looped out of the transformer, a sudden spurt of flames rising up into the mist, an unexpected fireworks display igniting the sky.
The black-clad cops all ducked reflexively like a school of fish in the darkness.
Frank moved quickly, taking advantage of the chaos, whirling toward the trees, scooping up a speed-loader and the rest of the contents of his trunk, which were now strewn across the lot. He stuffed the clothes back into the trunk as he stumbled toward the elms.
“LAST CHANCE, DETECTIVE!!”
A shot rang out.
He dove to the ground as a rubber bullet whizzed past his ear.
Frank slid across the muddy grass, ears ringing, bright dots in his eyes.
He clutched at the trunk, his knees slipping on the wet grass. He started dragging the trunk toward a long shadow thrown by a streetlight on the edge of the woods. His mind was pulsing with white-hot panic. He made it to the woods just in time. Three more shots barked in the night.
The crowd-control bullets popped through the foliage, puffing hot breath across the top of his head.
Frank hit the ground, and banged against a tree. He saw stars and tasted old pennies in his mouth. Working in the dark, hands trembling, the muscle memory of a top-flight shooter, he flicked the release, thumbed down the cylinder, slammed the speed loader in, ejected the rounds, clicked it back home and thumbed the hammer.
In one violent yank, he wrenched around and aimed at the statue of Mercury.
He got off six shots, the blinding white light arcing out of the Diamondback, blazing through the darkness, all the shadowy figures hitting the deck again like a choreographed routine. The wadcutters struck the bronze effigy fifty yards away like a string of blasting caps popping against the ancient metal—PING!-PING!-PING!-PING!-PING!-PING!—and the golden sparks glittered and spewed into the mist.
The statue doubled over suddenly.
Frank froze in the darkness of the woods, gaping wide-eyed at the miracle, the Diamondback still raised in his trembling hand. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, he just couldn’t accept it. His traumatized mind would have nothing to do with it. His body was encased in ice.
Through the curtains of rain, the bronze sculpture had fallen to its knees. Blood the color of India ink spurted from its tarnished metal flesh, and a hellish moan swirled out of its chasm of a mouth.
Frank stared with burning eyes.
The statue of Mercury had collapsed, turning the color of egg whites, its body softening, elongating. It was a woman suddenly, and she was choking on her own blood, naked and choking, a shroud of flies billowing off her. She was a prostitute, a woman named Sandra Louise Dreighton, a skinny girl with needle tracks on her arms and plastic surgery scars on her artificial breasts.
It was Jane Doe Number Two.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Frank was gibbering softly now as he dragged the trunk toward the deeper woods. He managed to get back on his feet, and he turned and staggered away.
In the darkness behind him, the Tactical team was fanning out on either flank.
F
rank got lucky. Stumbling through the tall weeds and twisted branches, ankle deep in the mire, he ran into a cloud bank of human stench. The smell was so thick it was like an invisible netting.
“JANUS!—GOD DAMN IT!—YOU CAN’T GET AWAY!!”
Frank saw the concrete apron to his right, buried in leaves and detritus, partially obscured in the deeper shadows. It had a rusty iron manhole cover embedded in it, the stink of sewage seeping out its pores.
“JANUS!!”
He took a chance, rushed over to the manhole cover, and quickly tried to claw it open. His knees sank into the cold, sodden ground while he struggled. His icy fingers were too sore and clumsy to get under the iron, but the Colt’s sixth-inch barrel was a decent crowbar. The wind howled through the trees, and rainwater filtered down on him while he worked frantically at the manhole cover.
Behind him: twigs snapping, footsteps, the unmistakable clank of a Winchester scattergun.
Frank got the manhole cover open, found a series of iron steps and lowered himself down into the pitch black, the trunk under his arm.
He landed in a fast-moving stream of black water, the stink choking the breath out of him, the noise like an echoing jet engine. He couldn’t see a thing—the lid above him had fallen back into place, blocking out all the remaining sodium light. He stumbled, and his hand brushed across a slimy stone wall. He felt the other side. Same thing: moist, moldering stone oozing slug trails.
Above him, footsteps were thumping.
He willed himself to move forward, wading through the moving water, moving through the fetid darkness, through the invisible curtain of stench. The water was running so fast, he could barely keep his footing, but the adrenaline was keeping him going. He heard the ground above him vibrating. Had they missed the manhole cover?
Another few feet, and he paused and listened.
Either the footsteps had dwindled away, and the tactical guys had missed the sewer, or the rushing noise of the water was drowning out all the other sounds. Frank glanced over his shoulder: nothing but darkness.
Wouldn’t the cops bring a flashlight down here? Were the night-vision goggles powerful enough to work in this shithole? Frank continued on, lugging the trunk through the sewer, trying to see through the gloom.
In time, his eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness, and he began to make out certain features on the walls, certain landmarks in the moldy stone. He saw the silhouette of a rusty old valve, and a few minutes later, he saw a crumbling, oxidized cage-light. His legs were almost numb, and his skull was throbbing, but he kept on.
He had no choice.
Another few feet, and he noticed a huge brown cable running along the wall. His heart flip-flopped for a moment, expecting the cable to turn into a monstrous boa constrictor, but nothing of the sort happened. He figured it was a telephone or TV cable, and he was closing in on another junction, perhaps another manhole.
He kept his gaze riveted to the darkness ahead of him, his vision blurred with white spots.
Sometime later—who knows how long?—he noticed the faintest blush of light ahead of him.
A thin beam of dull light from above.
A way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Henry Pope was in his one of his favorite places when he heard the noise.
It was in wee hours of the morning, and the house was mostly silent—except for the steady whir of rain outside, and the occasional clap of thunder. The doctor was sitting in the big bentwood rocker next to the fireplace, doing one of his favorite things: holding one of his eight grandchildren.
Dressed in his cotton pajamas and terrycloth robe, with his half-glasses propped on the end of his nose, Pope had been gently rocking little Mary Elizabeth, softly singing “Waltzing Matilda,” when he heard the noise, barely audible above the storm, coming from somewhere outside. Mary Elizabeth belonged to Pope’s youngest daughter, Sarah. A little cherub with tulip lips, fat cheeks and peach fuzz hair, the baby had just turned four months old and was sleeping almost straight through the night.
Almost.
A few minutes ago, the baby had awakened the whole household with a round of ululating sobs, and Pope had gotten up and told Sarah—who was visiting from Boston—that he would be happy to sit with the child until she went back to sleep. An exhausted Sarah had been more than happy to take advantage of her father’s offer. She had just flown in to Midway earlier that night with her husband Michael, and it had been a nightmare flight through heavy weather. Besides, the doctor was still awake, having been at work until the wee hours trying to sort out the Frank Janus debacle.
So... for the last ten minutes or so, Pope had been sitting in the living room, singing old college drinking songs to the little duffer, marveling at every twitch of her little fingers, every flutter of her delicate lashes, every flare of her tiny pink nostrils. Holding her miniature hands in his huge, withered, leathery fingers, Pope had silently thanked God for such miracles. To say the doctor was crazy about babies was a monumental understatement.
Henry Pope probably should have been a pediatrician, or perhaps an OB/GYN. He adored the purity of the little creatures, the innocence, the absolute honesty in their every move. A baby didn’t know how to lie or hate or cheat or manipulate or obsess or worry or dig any of the other holes that human beings dig for themselves and each other. A baby was truth personified, a noble little nerve ending that only asked for the most essential necessities of life.
Of course, that didn’t prohibit Henry Pope from giving his beloved grandchildren every luxury available to the modern toddler. He loved to spoil his grandchildren with surprise trips to the amusement park, shopping sprees at F.A.O. Schwartz and Toys-R-Us, and elaborate miniature golf excursions. Last summer he built an entire backyard recreation center for his three eldest grand kids, Tommy, Skyler and Jeremy. And the previous winter, he had gotten Schwinn bicycles for all eight kids. He even started playing Santa Clause at the Pope family Christmas gathering every Christmas Eve.
Which was why the doctor had been reveling in his quiet time with his darling little Mary Elizabeth when the noise had suddenly disrupted the pristine calm. It was a muffled thump out in the back yard somewhere, just beneath the sound of the rain, maybe near the back porch. Like something big and heavy striking the cement stoop.
Pope glanced up at the Seth Thomas clock perched on the mantle. It said it was 5:20 AM. Too early for the paperboy. Besides, one the officers assigned to watch his place would have surely intercepted the paper. At the present moment, there were three cars assigned to the Pope house, two squads and one unmarked cruiser—a total of seven men. One of the squads was parked in front, the two uniforms inside it playing cards. Another black-and-white was in the driveway. And the third car—a service-issue Taurus—was down the street at the corner of Isabella and Fee Roads, keeping tabs on every car that entered or exited the Kenilworth gated community.
After coming home, Pope had insisted on sleeping in his own bed, despite the Frank Janus crisis. And even his wife, Mary Ann, had been in favor of continuing on with life as usual—which included having family visiting from out of town. After eleven years of marriage, Mary Ann Pope had grown accustomed to these kinds of crises with emotionally unstable cops, and no matter how gravely the FBI warned them, the Popes refused to be intruded upon. Lieutenant Krimm had been the one to strike a compromise: He would station police around the Pope property until such time that Frank Janus could be apprehended. This had been fine with Mary Ann, just so they didn’t trample her impatiens and daffodils like that lummox Sully Deets.
Pope carefully craned himself out of his rocker, wincing at his arthritic joints, paying special attention to the slumbering child in his arms. The baby had fallen fast asleep on the second chorus of “The Tables Down at Morrie’s,” and Pope didn’t want to disturb her. Cradling the blanket around her, he felt her warmth against his chest like a perfumed ember.
He padded across the living room to the kitchen.
The light was off
, and the kitchen was awash in shadows. The dull gleam of chrome appliances, a sub-zero refrigerator and Vulcan range. Mary Ann’s expansive pot rack, laden with hanging copper and wrought iron. A watery shadowplay of raindrops streaming down a window, throwing patterns across the immaculate linoleum floor.
Pope heard something dripping nearby like a leaky faucet, but the sink was dry. The doctor shivered. There was a draft coming from somewhere. A gust of cold, wet wind, and the smell of earthworms permeating the kitchen.
“Don’t move.”
The voice came from across the kitchen—in the shadows of the mud room where the back door was a few inches ajar—and it sent a jolt of panic up Henry Pope’s spine. The voice was eerily familiar.
“I’m not moving,” Pope said, his spine stiffening, the baby oblivious in his arms.
“Don’t signal anybody, and don’t wake the baby.”
“I’m not about to signal anybody, Frank, and don’t worry, the baby’s sound asleep.”
Frank Janus emerged from the shadows, dressed in a patrol uniform.
He stood there for a moment, holding the revolver on Pope, the rain dripping off the brim of his hat and plunking to the linoleum. He was soaked, and he was trembling slightly, but his eyes told another story. His eyes were glittering with determination, fixed on Pope.
“Frank, all I ask is that you don’t hurt the child,” Pope said softly.
“Why in God’s name would I hurt a child?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Frank. All I’m saying is, this is my granddaughter.”
“I won’t hurt the child, Doc.”
A beat of incredibly awkward silence.
“What do want me to do, Frank?” Pope asked.
Frank Janus stared at the doctor for a long moment, and in that horrible pause, it seemed that Frank had no idea what to do next.
Frank felt as though a fist were turning inside him as he stared at the kindly old psychiatrist, the baby cradled gently in the old man’s arms, those hound dog eyes peering over tortoise shell reading glasses. Could this possibly be the man who set Frank up? Could this be the man responsible for Kyle’s murder? Frank swallowed his anguish, holding the gun as steadily as possible, wiping his face with his free hand. “We’re going to go put the baby back in its crib,” Frank heard himself say.
The Sleep Police Page 17