Pure Hate

by White, Wrath James

  “This was the Lieutenant’s suggestion and I support it,” Captain Kelly said.

  “This is the best way for us to share information on this case. Agent Malcovich is going to be partnered with you for the duration of the investigation,” Lieutenant Woo added.

  “Nah, Fuck that!”

  “Detective!”

  For the first time since James had known him, Lieutenant Woo’s eyes blazed with genuine fury. It was one thing to talk about him behind his back or to disrespect him in private, but to show such blatant disrespect in front of the whole task force and the FBI was going too far. Woo started down from the podium moving at James as if he were about to tackle him. Reflexively, James stepped back into a boxer’s stance with his fists clenched and his jaw set waiting for the blows to fall. Captain Kelly stepped between the two men, instantly neutralizing them.

  James dropped his hands and hung his head. He knew he was out of control, but he couldn’t pull it together. He still wanted to hit someone. He just didn’t know who.

  Malcolm was killing cops and James was now saddled with an FBI agent who, to him, was no better than a rookie. The FBI may handle the big jobs, but those are few and far between. They spent years on a single case. The average first year rookie metropolitan police officer got more experience from six months on the street than an FBI agent got in six years. As a matter of principle, Philadelphia PD looked at the Feebs as glorified desk jockeys fighting crime from a computer keyboard.

  Lieutenant Woo had already regained his composure. He straightened his meticulously pressed jacket and turned to retake his place behind the podium. Captain Kelly was breathing heavily and glared at both of them. A uniformed officer stuck his head inside the door and looked around, instantly absorbing the tension and hostility still boiling in the air. His body language said retreat, but he seemed to steel himself, at least enough to stutter out his message.

  “Um, uh, Captain?”

  “What!?” The Captain growled and the young officer literally turned as if to run out of the room before he caught himself and turned around to continue. No one in the room would’ve made fun of him if he had bolted out of there. They all knew exactly how he felt.

  “Um, uh, there’s a lady downstairs who says she knows where Mr. Cozen is. She said that Malcolm kidnapped her and Mr. Cozen rescued her.”

  Led by Captain Kelly, Detective Bryant, Lieutenant Woo, and Agent Malcovich, an avalanche of detectives rose like one living thing and thundered through the door. This time the officer did bolt from the doorway just in time to save himself from being trampled.

  Sitting in the “nice” interrogation room, the one with the coffee machine, the water cooler, and the comfortable chairs that was actually more of a detective’s lounge, Natasha sipped a cup of pungent black coffee, and tapped her foot like a drum machine as Captain Kelly and James funneled through the door, followed by Agent Malcovich of the FBI. James recognized her immediately. They’d been trying to locate her all day.

  The captain and the FBI agent stood in opposite corners of the room. Detective Bryant pulled up a chair directly across from her. He fixed his expression into the hard expressionless mask he used when interrogating suspects then, when his eyes met hers, his face softened into a friendlier more understanding expression, the one he used when consoling victims. He’d done it just this way a thousand times before.

  James looked into her eyes and could see that she’d been through hell. He knew enough about Malcolm now to guess some of what she’d suffered. How she’d managed to survive amazed him. That she was somehow coping with it, that she wasn’t suffering from shock, that her mind hadn’t completely shut down and left her catatonic, was what impressed him.

  “Natasha Little?”

  “It’s Natasha Green now.”

  “Married?”

  “No. Just hiding from Malcolm.”

  “So, tell me what happened to you?”

  While James listened intently, taking notes and interrupting occasionally to ask for detail, she told him how she’d come home to find Malcolm and Rick in her apartment. How they’d dragged her to Rick’s house and raped her. She told how they’d left her tied to the bed and how Reed had found her and set her free, about how he was going after Malcolm. James passed a look to the captain. She was holding something back. He could see her choosing her words carefully, deciding what to tell and what to withhold.

  “Why did Malcolm leave?” The FBI agent spoke from his corner of the room.

  “I don’t know. What do you mean, ‘Why?’”

  “I mean, why are you still alive? Why didn’t he stay and finish you off?”

  James studied her face as she looked at the agent then she dropped her eyes to her lap where she was twisting and wrenching her hands.

  “What? What is it?” An unexpected sense of dread washed over him, as if deep down he could sense what was coming.

  “He’s got CC,” She whispered

  James leaped from his chair and grabbed Natasha by her shoulders. The chair fell over and struck the hard tiled floor with a loud “clack” that filled throughout the small room.

  “What did you say?”

  “CC is Rick’s wife. Malcolm’s got her and he’s coming after you. He’s probably on his way to your house right now.”

  James backed away from Natasha, reaching for his chair as his legs went numb and threatened to give out. Not finding it, he continued to back away, shaking his head and seeing a montage of Malcolm’s ripped and ravaged victims. They all had CC’s face except for a few, those bore his. He tripped over the toppled chair and plopped down on the floor in the lotus position. He sat there, staring at Natasha, trying to deny what he’d just heard. Captain Kelly waved off Agent Malcovich moving forward to help.

  “Agent Malcovich would you take Ms. Little . . . uh . . . Green out and get a statement from her please?”

  Kelly knelt down and put a hand on James’s shoulder.

  “You wanna tell me about it?”

  “Do I have a choice?” James was still staring at the seat vacated by Natasha.

  “No, not at all. You can certainly put the idea of going after Malcolm by yourself out of your head. And if I were you, knowing that I know how emotionally involved you are, I would be working hard to convince me to keep your black ass on this case. The suspect has killed your partner and has now kidnapped a woman I can only assume is your girlfriend. By all rights, I should sit you at a desk until this case is over.”

  “But you need me. None of those other clowns out there has a prayer of catching Malcolm. “

  “Malcolm is self-destructing. He’ll catch himself.”

  “And how many more people will he kill when he explodes? How many cops?”

  “Okay, then tell me about this girl?”

  “I met her in a strip club.”

  “Jesus, James! What is it with you?”

  “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We started dating a week ago. Things were getting pretty serious pretty fast. I think . . . I think I love her.”

  “Did you know she was married?”

  “Yes.”

  “You fuckin’ asshole.” Captain Kelly wiped his palm down his face as if wiping away a sheen of imaginary sweat. He paced the floor, casting looks of disgust and disappointment at James.

  “Did you know she was married to Malcolm’s fucking best friend?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Well shit, James. I don’t see how I can keep you on this case.”

  “What?”

  That woke James up. He leaped to his feet with a look of anguish and desperation stenciled across his features. His arms were flung out in supplication as if he were preparing to drop to his knees and beg. His eyes were wild in his head, darting around in amazement as his mouth worked soundlessly, trying to find the words to convince the captain, to make him see, make him understand. Finally, he let his arms droop limply at his sides. Closing his eyes,
he took a long deep breath. His whole body shuddered with emotion, stiffened, hardened, and settled, like molten ore cooling into iron. When he reopened his eyes, iron filled them as well.

  “Captain, I don’t see how you can keep me off of it.”

  “If you get killed don’t expect a police funeral.”

  “What tha fuck does that mean?”

  “It means, that you are officially off this case and if you go near Malcolm, you are officially fired.”

  James didn’t bother to argue. The captain knew he would do what he had to. He had no choice in the matter. His destiny was scripted by his nature. It was not in his nature to sit on the bench when the game was in its final quarter.

  James turned his back on Captain Kelly and stormed out into the station house where Agent Malcovich was seated at his desk with Natasha. He stepped behind his desk, glaring at Natasha intently and started to take his seat. With obvious embarrassment Malcovich scrambled out of the detective’s chair before James sat right on top of him.

  “Are you sure they’re going to my house?”

  “He’ll go there. And if you’re not there he’ll wait for you. If you are there . . . he’ll kill you.” Natasha felt it was only fair to warn him.

  “What about Reed?” James continued to question her, ignoring her fatal prediction.

  “He’ll still be at Rick’s house, waiting for Malcolm to come back.”

  James turned to Lieutenant Woo, who was still standing by his desk looking like a lap dog who’s suddenly discovered it could bite, trying to decide if it should.

  “Big Bird! Why don’t you make yourself useful and send a couple cars over to pick up Reed.”

  The Lieutenant started across the room toward James. He had had enough. The lap dog had decided to bite.

  James smiled as the tall lanky Chinese cop strode toward him and the other police officers cleared a path for him. He raised his balled fists and curled his body into a tight defensive stance.

  “Bring it, Big Bird.” He growled.

  “Stop it! Lieutenant! Detective! Back off!”

  It was the first time anyone could remember actually hearing the Captain yell.

  “Woo, go ahead and get somebody over to pick up Reed Cozen. James get the fuck out of my precinct or your ass is on suspension!”

  “For what?!”

  Captain Kelly snarled in reply. James left.

  Agent Malcovich chased after him. He caught him on the stairs.

  “Detective Bryant! Detective Bryant!”

  “What?” It sounded more like a threat than a question.

  “I’m supposed to ride with you.”

  “I’m off the case.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Captain took me off the case. You’re gonna have to find another driver.”

  “What about Malcolm? He’s going to your house. He’s coming after you. What are you gonna do?”

  The detective smirked. Then he grinned. Then his eyes went flat and lifeless, hard like the smooth surface of a river rock. The grin died from his face like a heart monitor flat lining. It was like witnessing a death.

  “I’m going home.”

  XLIII.

  Reed didn’t know what to do when he heard the first sirens shred the night air. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been sitting on Rick’s couch, listening to the voices of his dead wife and dead children raking his brain, no longer a comfort but a mind-rending cacophony, watching headlights from passing cars travel past the living room window. In between reality lapses where he found himself arguing back at the voices, telling them to be patient, that their deaths would be avenged, he toyed with the gun in his lap. He was no longer certain that Malcolm’s death would stop the voices and, despite the turmoil they caused in his head, he wasn’t sure he wanted to lose them. He would be very alone without them.

  Reed had never been this close to his family when they were alive. He had never heard them so clearly. The characters in his novels had been more real to him. They had received most of his attention, attention stolen away from his family. Now, his family had his full attention and if their voices were suddenly gone, his loss would be complete. Perhaps killing himself now and joining them was the better answer, he thought.

  The voices screamed out in protest.

  Come to us, Daddy! But kill the bad man first. Make him pay, Daddy! Make him pay and then you can come to us!

  But Reed wanted to join his family now. He missed them more every second and as lost as he knew he’d feel without their voices in his head, it killed him to hear their pain, to hear their rage. He wanted to hear them laugh again, and he knew that couldn’t happen until Malcolm was dead.

  The sirens were closer now and there were a lot of them. There was no longer any doubt that they were coming to Rick’s house. Reed abandoned his post on the couch and slipped out the back door into the miniscule yard with its ill-kept lawn and bald patches, like a human scalp during the latter stages of chemotherapy. His body felt weak and numb as he scrambled over the weather-torn wooden fence that ringed in the yard. The need for sleep was pressing on him. He staggered and swayed down the alley, away from the wail of the sirens, but the voices would not let him.

  Not yet, Daddy. Not yet.

  The alleys became a maze and Reed had no idea where he was when he finally emerged onto the street after twenty minutes of climbing fences and wandering alleys. He looked up and spotted Willard Rouse’s two phallic monoliths and began heading in their direction, toward Broad Street and the subway.

  Reed had neglected to ask Natasha where the detective lived. He knew Malcolm was going there, but he didn’t know where “there” was. Malcolm was out there killing and Reed didn’t know how to get to him. He sat on the subway, traveling toward Germantown with no idea how he would locate James’s home. His eyes closed and he had nearly fallen asleep when he heard a staticky radio voice mention Malcolm’s name. His eyes snapped open and he saw that there were two police officers standing above the subway bench where he had been slumped, nearly asleep. They didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. They were eyeing a group of black teenagers at the end of the subway car who didn’t seem to be doing anything particularly illegal. Their radios continued to squawk and, through the police jargon, Reed could make out enough to know that half the cops in the city where converging on an address in Mount Airy.

  Malcolm. It had to be where Malcolm was headed. Reed almost blew it and shot the two cops on the train. The police officers had suddenly shifted their attention to him as he rose from his seat to exit the subway, and Reed’s hand gripped the Glock, clicking the safety off and aiming it toward them beneath his jacket. But their attention returned to the group of teenagers, and Reed simply slipped past them and out the door, his nerves vibrating beneath his skin. Nervous perspiration rained down his forehead, but the cops hadn’t noticed.

  Reed got off the subway at Broad and Erie and caught the H bus to Mount Airy. The bus driver eyed Reed suspiciously as he boarded, but Reed didn’t care. He would not be an obstacle. The transfer was so soaked with sweat when he handed it to the driver that the man almost handed it back.

  The rocking and swaying of the bus as it navigated the minefield of potholes began to lull him to sleep. He was so tired.

  Reed? You have to find him sweetheart. You have to kill him. He hurt me Reed. He . . . he . . . raped me . . . and . . .

  Reed snapped awake with the sound of his wife’s voice still whispering in his ear like a lullaby.

  You can do it, Reed. You have the gun. You can put two bullets in that black bastard’s head and then I’ll be yours again.

  “Yeah, I can do it.”

  Reed fell back to sleep, nuzzled safe in the memory of his wife’s warm embrace, her arms wrapped protectively around him and her voice curling into his eardrum like cigarette smoke. The bus hit a pothole and his head banged against the bus window. He continued to snore.

  Reed woke up just as the bus pulled up two stops past where he�
�d intended to get off. He dashed from the bus with his head spinning from waking up too quickly and standing up too fast. He paused on the sidewalk and stared into the darkness while he brought the vertigo under control. Police cruisers whizzed past him, lights flashing, sirens silent. He slowed his pace and followed.

  Reed focused on what he had to do. Kill Malcolm. Kill Malcolm’s friend. Kill the man he’d betrayed. Add insult to injury. Rip open those old wounds and rub salty vinegar into them.

  Jennie’s voice protested. What the fuck are you saying, Dad? He murdered us. He tortured Mom! He raped her! He killed your family! He’s not your friend! He’s not even human! He’s a monster! A vicious monster! KILL HIM, DADDY!

  Another voice in his head countered. This one sounded exactly like Malcolm. You started it, Reed. You brought this shit down. I return every injury, every injustice, tenfold. You knew this. You knew this, but you hurt me anyway. You fucked Renee’! You fucked Natasha! You killed your family, Reed! You brought this on them! You, Reed! You!

  Reed screamed. He pressed his hands to his head and screamed his throat raw. Lights went on and shocked, curious faces pressed to windowpanes as he passed houses, shrieking his anguished wail. Tears rolled freely down his face. Again, he wondered if perhaps he should simply turn the gun on himself, but he missed his family and Reed knew they wouldn’t take him back if he tried to join them in that way.

  XLIV.

  Malcolm’s every muscle was tense, poised for violence, when he pulled up in front of the detective’s house. Rick was getting on his nerves even silently in the front seat. His pathetic domesticity sapped Rick of all the qualities that had allowed him to rank among Malcolm’s friends. Malcolm could no longer count on Rick, and this realization increased his feeling of isolation. Rick was now a pale mockery of what he’d been.

  Now, the only person alive who Malcolm still considered qualified to be his friend was Reed, and Reed had betrayed him. That left Malcolm completely alone. He wanted to kill Rick for that, for not being worthy. He wanted to kill everyone, to torture CC nice and slowly while the detective watched. He wanted to see the look in the detective’s eyes as he pulled his woman apart. Perhaps he would even let the detective live, let him live with that sight forever seared into his mind, forever a scar on his heart. Perhaps he would rip the detective apart, too.