Flynn lit another cigarette and waited in the corner. The signs were making him hungry. Hot dogs. Hamburgers. Twenty flavors of ice cream. French fries. Nachos with fresh melted cheese. Pretzels. His father used to go in for the pretzels, the giant salty ones, eating about half of one before he started to tug off small wads to give to Flynn and his mother. His mother would chew heavily, absently, with a distant look in her eyes, waiting for the old man to start mixing it up with the lifeguards. On a good day it wouldn’t happen until late afternoon, just before they were ready to leave anyway. It was like his father couldn’t go back home without puffing his chest out just enough to give him a reason to feel tough.
They were breaking down the lean-to. The body was gone. Flynn could tell already that Raidin was getting bad news. If they’d tagged the partner, everybody would be smiling and flexing their muscles, running for their cruisers. The uniform cop slipped off.
“It wasn’t the partner,” Raidin said. “That guy’s name is Bucky Ford. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s working today. Less than an hour ago he saved an elderly man who’d slipped on ice in St. James and given himself a concussion. He has a new partner. Petersen was let go almost four weeks ago.”
And he’d taken his zap paddles with him. “Why?”
“He started missing work, screwing up on the diagnoses at the emergency scenes, seemed distracted. They told him to take a vacation. He never came back from it.”
“It started going downhill for him a few days after he saved my life.” Flynn nodded, feeling the answer closing in on him, just not quickly enough. “Something happened to him. Something bent him.” Perhaps Bragg had made contact, threatened him, forced him to become a part of this. If there was a Bragg, if the colonel wasn’t dead in a swamp somewhere.
Or maybe Petersen had somehow gone so far out onto the midnight road trying to save Flynn that he’d gotten himself stuck on it.
“The rifle’s ten years old and was registered to a sometime second-story thief and bank robber named Leo Coleman. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s got a few priors, a couple of convictions, went down hard this last time and he’s been in the can the last seven years.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Probably sold it a long time ago to some idiot crony who didn’t know enough not to buy a piece off someone who pulled jobs with it.”
“Was Coleman ever hurt bad?”
“Why?”
“Maybe he fell off a roof once and Petersen took him to the hospital and stole the rifle along the way.”
Frowning, Raidin said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know. I’m just trying to figure where he keeps crossing paths with all these people. It’s got to be in the back of his ambulance. That might be how he knew Angela Soto. You said she OD’ed a couple of times. He must’ve been the one who caught the call. Saved her life and figured he owned it, could use it or end it whenever he liked.”
“We’re checking into it.”
“Sure.”
Raidin kept working it. “What secret of his do you know?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yes, you do, you’re just not aware of it.”
“Same goddamn thing.”
Another expansive moment settled around Flynn, the sense that the past and the present were colliding and sluicing toward a near future full of significance. Flynn didn’t want to let the feeling go even though it left him vulnerable.
His life held a little more meaning in this minute than it had the minute before. The complexity of design tipped its hand and he could almost see the fates working behind the scenes, measuring out the length of his life, tying knots where he was meant to interact with others.
Raidin took him by the shoulder and said, “You’re still in shock after that insane ride and all the rest of it. You need to see a psychiatrist, you know that?”
“I know that—”
“You’re breathing too shallowly.”
“Chest hurts a little—”
“Try to stay calm. I’m calling for a medic.”
“I’m just—it’s just that—”
“Try to relax. When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know.”
“You look like shit.”
“You never answered me. Are you married? Do you have children?”
Raidin gave him a look that was a mixture of disappointment, anger and possibly even fear. Raidin walked back out into the blizzard, another faceless figure among other eddying figures to soon be swallowed by the snow and the endless cries of the ocean.
No medic ever showed but in five minutes Jessie Gray turned up. Other reporters were out there too, trying to stay warm in the parking lot, but Jessie slipped right in.
She came over and gave him a hard kiss, one filled with a misunderstood passion. Maybe as a show of thanks for constantly giving her something to do with her days. It kept her from watching the daytime shrink shows. She drew back and said, “Jesus Christ, you’re cold. Your lips are blue.” She lifted the blanket and drew it over his head, started to rub his hair with it. Ice crystals crackled and dropped to his shoulders. “You’re freezing. My God, we need to get you out of here.”
“I think I’ll be okay.”
“You’ll get hypothermia.” She took off her gloves and rubbed his face with her hands. It felt good. He smiled and knew he probably looked a little goofy.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I do care about you, you know.”
He lit another cigarette and let it hang. Everyone was strong but him. Here he was thinking of hot dogs and his dead father and sand castles, nearly passing out. He still had a way to go until this thing was through, and it was going to be tough. Something was twisting inside him, a piece of the puzzle sparking at the back of his brain. It was going to set fire soon. He had to be ready for it.
She looked into his eyes and said, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m wondering where we fit into each other’s personal journeys.”
“It’s okay if you don’t like me.”
“You’re quick to say those kinds of things. Why are you so fast on that draw?”
“I told you already.”
“Tell me again.”
“I know I drive men crazy, the ones I’m interested in.”
“Maybe you drive them crazy because you’re not really interested in them at all.”
It stopped her. She thought about it, and it was obvious she didn’t want to. She had an interview to run, an article to write. She was rubbing the ice off him. She smiled and then sort of grimaced.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
He thought about what a loaded question that could really be. The two of them in bed, the feel of her action and edge beside him. Her dark night demands, her willingness to impress. The way she often stared at him like a man of substance. Other times she gave him a glance that made it seem like she couldn’t see his face anymore beneath the columns of ink. Her honesty, her in-your-face attitude. He liked it, he wanted it, and he was shamed by it. He hadn’t even given her a chance. His mind had been set to disregard her from the beginning, even before she could ruin it herself. He cared too much about his gray hair. Christ, what a fuck-up. He thought of Emma Waltz and—
There it was.
He remembered where he’d seen the Goat before.
And he knew where the rifle had come from.
He stared over at Raidin, the man’s fedora covered in white, the black raincoat snapping in the wind. He even took a step in that direction before the nerve burning inside him urged him to handle the next scene by himself.
What was one more mistake? It might already be too late.
Jessie Gray said his name and it didn’t mean enough to stop him from wanting to roar out of there full throttle.
He turned to her, slowly, with some real affection. He understood she would eventual
ly smooth out her burrs and quit frightening off the men she might care for and who might care for her. She was young. She had a reason. He was old and didn’t. He thought, So here it is, where our personal journeys diverge again, for the last time. It’s not so bad.
He told her the thing that mattered most to both of them now.
“Just write the end of the story,” he said.
Flynn walked out into the snow, out into the parking lot and checked around, opening doors of the police cars until he saw the evidence bag with his .38 in it. He grabbed it and stuck it in his coat pocket, got into the Charger and got out of there.
The water had nearly gotten him again this time. He’d be back soon enough.
TWENTY-SIX
The note had been right. It really was all his fault.
The answer had been in front of him the entire time, but he had a head full of film noir. He set up his own red herrings. Too much Spencer Tracy in Fury and Dana Andrews in Fallen Angel. Bogie always on his mind.
He forgot clues. He couldn’t do simple arithmetic. He thought of Danny too much and denied the world at hand. He let young women spook him and wasted energy on self-pity.
A row of three police cars came rallying toward Robert Moses, and Flynn swung past them on the bridge, needing to punch the gas pedal but waiting for his chance. His second chances had gone to waste. He took the Sagtikos up to the LIE and headed east, fighting the traffic and the storm every inch.
The sun had already begun to set, but the snow kept the sky and the streets bright with the burning white. It felt like he’d never be in complete darkness again. He’d shut his eyes and there would always be that glow seeping under his lids.
Pileups, wipeouts, and fender-benders peppered the Expressway. People were pulled over trying to wait the blizzard out. Clearing their windshields and side windows and kicking snow out from around their tires so they wouldn’t be totally buried. Groups of folks stood together on the shoulder and parked on the sides of entrance ramps trying to get their bearings. A couple of flares sputtered meaninglessly in the distance.
He pulled up in front of the house and knew he was too late. The windows were lit but empty of passing shadows.
He drew the .38 and tried the front door. It was locked. He went around back past all the children’s toys, fighting down bile, trying to blank his mind of the ugly pictures that kept coming up.
He had to at least try to end this himself. It was purely selfish. If he didn’t make the effort, he might never allow himself to live, to truly find love.
The back door was unlocked. He opened it in a crouch and slipped inside. A fan of snow followed him and broke against his back.
A groan whispered from the living room.
Sierra lay on the floor in a puddle of blood, battered worse than he’d ever seen anyone beaten. She’d been bludgeoned with a wooden baseball bat. It lay a couple feet away, almost completely red.
The only reason she was still alive was because of all the plastic work she’d had. Her wig was affixed to the far wall, stuck there by some drying fluid and tissue. It had probably been swept off her head at the first blow. Someone had come up behind her while she bent to pick up a scattering of toys. It looked like there was at least one plate in her skull. She wasn’t going to get a chance for an other.
The door here always opening and shutting, opening and shutting. Kids running in and out all day long. She wouldn’t have even looked up when someone walked in behind her.
Flynn’s breath stuck in his chest and he moved to her. She was trying to rise. She didn’t yet realize that both her legs were broken. He checked the halls to see if anybody was around. No one.
He put his arms around her and tried to ease her back to the throw rug, but she was still all muscle and willful intent. He pulled a pillow from the couch and carefully pressed it to her head. She reached out and grabbed him by the shirt. He said, “It’s me.”
“Flynn?”
“Lie still, you’re going to be okay.”
“The children.”
He didn’t know what to say. It annoyed him to lie but he had no choice. He’d check in a minute. “They’re okay.”
“Don’t let them…see me like this…”
“They won’t.”
He attempted to shrug free so he could get to the phone and call 911 but she wouldn’t let him go. Okay, he thought, willing himself away from the moment, Okay, I’ll get a fucking cell phone. It could come in handy at times like these. She shoved against him again, the agony making her flail.
One fist locked on his wrist. The bones there ground together and he hissed but didn’t yank away.
“It’s all right,” he said. He needed to know how much she knew. “Who did this to you?”
“Didn’t see him. From behind. Your friend…I guess.”
“You’re the only friend I have.”
“Soon you’ll have…no one.”
“Shhh, help is coming.”
“No one is coming.” She was panting, her body twisting beneath his hands, but somehow it didn’t affect her voice at all. He couldn’t believe she was still talking. “But here we are together. This mean I’m the love interest?”
“Sure.”
“Oh fuck, now I know it’s bad.” She smiled and blood pulsed over her bottom lip. “The hero always comes to the love interest’s rescue. You’re late.”
“Sorry about that. I got a little hung up.”
“I can’t…I can’t see anything.”
“Relax.”
“Tell me…”
“You’re missing your left eye.”
“Oh…God…”
“You’re going to be all right.”
“Don’t…bullshit me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He already knew the answer. He didn’t have to ask the question. It was a waste of time and there was no time left. But the words refused to settle back and he was already saying them aloud, hating himself for not spending these seconds in prayer, speaking of love, eternity, salvation, the children, the children who might be dead in their rooms, not spending these seconds giving Sierra a little advice on what to expect on the midnight road.
“Your old clunker, what kind of car is it?”
“What?”
“You said Trevor and Nuddin would stay up at all hours, playing videos, on the computer, and out in the garage fixing up an old clunker. What kind?”
Her remaining eye, gazing into the distance, but puzzled, wondering why the hell he would ask such a thing now. He chewed his tongue, begging forgiveness.
She said, “One of my exes…it doesn’t run.”
He put his hand to the side of her wet face and rubbed, the way he had touched his mother in the hospital bed, where there was almost no flesh left to touch at all. “What kind?”
“An old…GTO.”
The Goat. He’d seen Trevor and Nuddin working on it that day he’d stopped by, looking through the garage window. He’d only seen the hood, but it had made its impression. Everything sticking in his mind too far down to do any good until it was too late.
“What was your gun nut ex’s name? The one who robbed banks. Was it Leo Coleman?”
“The fuck do you know…Leo? Why?”
“I’m sorry, Sierra, I’m so sorry.”
And of course, that brought a smile to her lips. The plaintive whimper, the apology in the dark.
Her body shook and the broken bones clattered together. “Noir films always end badly.”
“Yeah, but not for the woman. It’s always the guy who winds up getting it in the neck.”
“That’s right, I forgot. I feel better now,” she said, and with a sudden knowledge that filled her eye with absolute terror, she convulsed for twenty seconds and died. A small piece of Flynn’s small heart broke off and tagged along with her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A shadow thrown against a corpse.
Flynn spun and held the .38 out before him, traine
d on the boy Trevor, who stood there trembling. Flynn could see the kid was about to vomit and grabbed him by the collar and led him into the kitchen, where he threw up in the sink. The boy began to pass out and Flynn ran the water and woke him up with cold splashes. He holstered the .38 and carried the boy back into the living room and sat him on the couch close enough to the wall that the bloody wig almost touched the side of his face.
He went to the nearest room and threw the door open to find a black girl of about ten sleeping heavily, her eyes half-open. He tried to wake her. She groaned and licked her lips but didn’t rouse from her stupor. He felt her neck and found her pulse to be strong and regular. He went from room to room, checking all the children. There were five of them. They were drugged but seemed to be fine. Kelly wasn’t among them. Sierra had been a saint to handle so much, and he’d never once helped her out.
The boy sat there shivering in a warped calm. He would never get over it, not even when he finally understood what he’d done and sought penance for it.
Flynn looked at the nearest bedroom door.
“What did he use on the kids?”
“Pills.”
“What pills?”
“He wanted me to put them in the dinner tonight, before she got home. But there were so many. I only put in about a third. I didn’t—I didn’t want—”
“You knew he was going to kill them all.”
“No!”
“Where’s the rest of the medication?”
“I flushed it.”
“Do you have the bottles?”
“There were no bottles, he had them in baggies. Little white pills.”
Compliments of Petersen, the pudgy Tabasco-stinking god who sometimes saved people and sometimes didn’t, just because he could.
Flynn grabbed the phone and dialed 911, barked the address and said all that he knew about the state of the children, told the excessively monotone but condescending voice on the other end that his friend was dead on the floor.
The emergency operator buffeted him, devoid of any empathy, “Sir? Sir. Are you sure, sir? Sir? Sir.” Flynn hung up.
“What happened, Trevor?”
“I don’t know.”
The Midnight Road Page 21