Princes of Arkwright

by Trafford, Daniel

  As Tucker walked up Station Street, he couldn’t help smiling as he pictured the road lined with purple campaign signs reading “Vote for Wayne Newton.”

  The hours staggered by as Tucker alternately drove to the courthouse, filled out forms and handcuffed petulant prisoners. One suspect, charged with disorderly conduct for driving her daughter to a playground for the purpose of beating up a schoolyard rival, proved particularly difficult to cuff – like trying to dress a toddler.

  As he affixed each mug shot to its appropriate file, he saw the face of the stranger in each one. At five o’clock, Tucker slipped out of the office without a word to anyone and breathed a sigh as he approached the door to freedom.

  “Bromley, the colonel wants to see you,” said the desk sergeant as Tucker almost made good his escape. His head fell and he lumbered back up the hallway with the same pit in his stomach he used to get when he was called to the principal’s office.

  Tucker rounded the corner and headed to the end of the corridor where an arrow sign marked “Chief of Police Normand Laboissoiniere” pointed into a spacious office.

  “You wanted to see me, Colonel?” asked Tucker, peeking his head into the doorway. He had spoken before looking, and didn’t realize the chief was on the phone. He waved Tucker in and pointed to a chair. Either he was on hold, or the person he was talking to was extremely long-winded. Finally the chief broke the silence.

  “Uh huh ... Uh huh .... Right. If you hear a loud bang, that just means I’ve shot myself in the head. But by all means, continue talking.”

  He spoke in a gravelly voice and had a hairline somewhere on the other side of his head. In his hand was a pair of bifocals that he always clutched, but almost never wore. After this outburst, he slammed the receiver down and picked up a newspaper with the same force.

  “Did you see this?” he asked Tucker, but didn’t bother to wait for a response. “This jerk actually said at a City Council meeting that I’m a Frenchman doing the job of an Irishman. That miserable S.O.B.”

  “Who said that, sir?”

  “City Councilman. Can you believe that? Your girlfriend works for this paper, doesn’t she?”

  “No, sir. Well, yes, I mean, she does, but she’s not my girlfriend. Anymore. We broke up.”

  “Oh,” said the chief, looking intently at Tucker for a moment. Then he went back to scanning the page. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Always wondered what that hot piece of tail was doing with you anyway.”

  Tucker said nothing. He stared at a spot on the wall just to the right of the chief’s head.

  “The mayor was asking me about you this morning,” the chief said at last.

  “Really?” said Tucker, beaming a little.

  “Yeah,” said the chief, closing his eyes tightly. “Wants to know why we promoted you to sergeant just to have you chauffeur suspects to the courthouse. So I asked Captain Menard why you aren’t working on any cases and you know what he said?”

  “I’m not ready,” thought Tucker.

  “You’re not ready!” said the chief, his voice rising to a crescendo. “Well, you know what, Bromley? You’re ready starting right now.”

  Suddenly the theme song from “Dragnet” started playing. At the first sound of “Dum da dum dum” the chief looked around the room and said, “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s my cell phone,” stammered Tucker.

  “Well do something about it!”

  Tucker pulled his phone out and quickly silenced it.

  “You know, Bromley,” said the chief, his voice quieter now, “when you first came here, I didn’t think you’d last a month. Why you ever became a police officer is a mystery to me.”

  “Well,” said Tucker, “I was a security guard, and a lot of the guys were studying to …”

  “I don’t want your goddamn biography!” yelled the chief. “I want you to start doing your job. You’re one of the smartest guys we got. You got no shortage of guts, either. Some day, you’re going to tell me what the hell really happened in that bar when you didn’t even have your piece with you.”

  “Well, sir,” said Tucker, “what happened was …”

  “I said ‘some day,’ Bromley, not today!” said the chief, cutting him short.

  “Now, for some reason, the mayor really likes you. I guess the old cow figures you’re good publicity or something. I don’t know. I never understood that troll of a woman. Every time I see her I can’t help thinking that somewhere there’s a bridge where billy goats are passing with impunity.”

  Here the chief’s voice trailed off as he came to the realization that he had just gone off on a tangent.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’m not gonna put up with any crap just because you’re the soup of the day, understand? Now get out.”

  Tucker sat stunned for a moment. Then he said, “Chief, I want you to know I won’t let you down. And I want to thank you for giving me this chance.”

  “Bromley?”

  “Yeah, chief?”

  “Put your pen in your pocket and get the hell out of my office.”

  Tucker didn’t respond this time, but stood up and moved quickly toward the door.

  “Oh, and Bromley …”

  “Yes, chief?”

  “If you do anything to embarrass me or this department, I’ll have you horsewhipped.”

  “Dum da dum dum” screamed Tucker’s cell phone again, and he quickly closed the door.

  “What!” he yelled into the phone after fishing it out of his pocket.

  “Tucker?” sang out an angelic voice at the other end.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Victoria. You told me to call if I ever saw that guy you described. Well, he’s in here now.”

  Tucker’s heart started to race. “Are you sure it’s him?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not sure it’s him!” said Victoria in a frantic whisper. “I’ve never met him, remember?”

  “Yeah,” said Tucker. “Well, what’s he doing?”

  “He’s just staring straight ahead and nursing a Narragansett.”

  5. THE STRANGER

  Tucker could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He raced through the station without a word to anyone and descended the back stairs to the parking lot. It was much colder and windier than before, and the bottom of his raincoat performed a lively dance as he bolted toward a green unmarked police car. The wind came in quick, violent gusts, ripping the first red leaves of autumn off the maple trees and swirling them around Tucker as he ran. It was already getting dark, intensified by the ashen September skies. He collapsed into the driver’s seat, closed his eyes, and exhaled for the first time since the phone call.

  Tucker started the engine, threw the stick into drive and headed out of the parking lot onto Station Street, bottoming out on the little bump where the road met the lot. Just in front of St. Michael’s, the shabby man with the greasy tan overcoat came staggering into the path of Tucker’s car, causing him to screech it to a stop.

  “... defénde nos in proélio!” screamed the man as he stared wide-eyed into Tucker’s face.

  Ordinarily, he’d bring the guy in for public drunkenness, but he had more important matters to attend to. Tucker was just glad he hadn’t hit him. He might have lost his opportunity to finally meet the stranger. Then he suddenly realized he hadn’t told anyone he was taking the car. If he had hit him, he would have had a lot of explaining to do.

  When the man finally staggered his way to the sidewalk, Tucker gunned it to make up for lost time. He felt a sharp, quick twinge in his chest as he approached the bridge and spotted the bar on the other side. In there could very well be the answer to everything that had been troubling him for the past four months. As he pulled in front of the building, he slammed the car into park and hopped out, all in one motion, not even bothering to take the keys out of the ignition. He paused for a moment in front of the heavy oaken door, took a deep breath and went in.

  Vic
toria tried to make eye contact with him, but Tucker’s gaze was fixed on the figure at the end of the bar. Just like last time, he was the only other person in there. He was sitting on the same stool, and wearing the same khakis, green T-shirt, and black dress shirt. For all Tucker knew, he could have been drinking the same Narragansett. For a moment, it was as if no time had passed between that fateful night and this moment. It was the sight of Victoria, rather than the balding, pot-bellied form of Bobby that snapped Tucker out of his stupor. He passed his usual barstool, walked down to the end and took a seat right next to the stranger, who took no notice of him.

  Victoria poured the cranberry juice Tucker asked for without another word. She then moved to the opposite end of the bar to wash some glasses that were already clean, and observe the action from a safe distance. The stranger continued to stare straight ahead. Following his lead, Tucker also stared straight ahead, but used the mirror behind the bar to study the stranger’s every feature. He face was pale, with a long nose and a high forehead. His heavy eyelids gave him the impression of being tired. Two iridescent eyes shone like a fire kindling behind two prisms.

  “Getting windy out there,” observed Tucker, breaking the seal on the bar’s silence. The stranger made no response. Tucker glanced down at Victoria, who shrugged and smiled quickly before returning to her pretended work. Tucker summoned up his courage and went for a never-failing, full frontal assault – the direct question. Committing a terrible breach of bar etiquette, he addressed the stranger directly.

  “Haven’t I seen you in here before?” asked Tucker, looking directly at the stranger’s profile.

  Tucker felt another sharp, quick twinge in his chest as the stranger turned his head and aimed his fiery iridescent gaze directly into Tucker’s eyes.

  “Perchance,” answered the stranger. “I do not recall, but I will not gainsay it.”

  It was the first time Tucker had heard him speak. This odd sentence was delivered in a smooth church baritone, with the usual New England accent. Then the stranger went back to looking straight ahead.

  “I’m pretty sure we were in here together one night,” pressed Tucker. “It was about four months ago.”

  “It is possible,” said the stranger, “as I have already indicated.”

  Tucker was a bit nettled by his awkward form of conversation.

  “Yeah, I’m sure of it. You were here. The bartender was murdered – stabbed to death. Does that jog your memory?” asked Tucker, his voice rising.

  “No,” said the stranger, in a cool, even voice.

  “And I think maybe we should go talk about this back at the police station,” said Tucker, pulling back his suit jacket and revealing the badge on his belt.

  “Certainly,” replied the stranger, turning again toward Tucker and penetrating him with his unflinching gaze.

  Tucker was stunned. He didn’t expect the guy to call his bluff. He had no intention of bringing him to the station. He had never even mentioned to anyone that there had been anybody else in the bar that night. How would he account for that? He glanced at Victoria to see if she had heard this exchange, and she responded with a questioning glance.

  “Well,” stammered Tucker, groping for words, “That probably won’t be necessary. I know you’re not trying to give me a hard time.”

  “Very well,” said the stranger, turning back to his beer, as though he had just had a conversation with Tucker about the weather.

  Tucker’s attention was captured by a stiff autumn breeze that brought four rough-looking men and a small pile of red leaves into the bar. They were led by a giant of a man in ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt. Tucker took little notice as he tried to get back on the stranger’s good side.

  “Looks like the Sox will be heading to Anaheim for the playoffs, don’t you think?” he said at last, not pausing for a reply from the stranger. “I think the Angels will probably win this one though.”

  The sentence was no sooner out of his mouth when Tucker was tapped on the shoulder by the man who had led the others into the bar. The detective turned to find himself staring into the gut of a six-foot-four, 300-pound man with a mess of mousy brown hair and a scowl that indicated it wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.

  “Ain’t you Tucker Bromley?” the giant asked.

  Tucker didn’t need to ask his name. He recognized the gargantuan man from court. It was the brother of the guy who stabbed Bobby. Tucker hopped off his barstool and stood in front of him, staring him directly in the throat.

  “Don’t go starting anything in here,” said Tucker. “Your brother pleaded guilty. I didn’t even testify.”

  “Yeah, I know my brother,” said the giant, his face twisted up into a half-crazed, half-comical grimace. “He never would have confessed like that. You musta tricked him into it.”

  “Leo,” called one of the other men, “come on man, he’s a cop.”

  “Yeah,” said Leo. “A cop who never carries his gun when he’s off duty.”

  Although Tucker was usually intimidated by guys that big, he wasn’t one to be bullied.

  “Why don’t you listen to your friend,” he said, “and go have a nice quiet drink.”

  Tucker turned his back on the giant to redirect his attention on the stranger when he felt the searing hot pain like a knife in his lower back. The intense agony made him drop to his knees. As he reached around to feel for the handle, he realized the giant hadn’t touched him at all. With all the excitement of finding the stranger, Tucker had ignored the dull pain that had been throbbing in his lower back all day. Now, the kidney stone was shredding his insides with a biblical vengeance. The timing couldn’t be worse, thought Tucker as he bent in two. The prostrate form of the cop gave new courage to the giant, who took the opportunity to fall on Tucker. The other men in the bar, believing him to be stabbed, descended on him like jackals on a carcass. Tucker heard Victoria give out a scream and he shut his eyes tightly – once again in no condition for a fight, and convinced he was going to die on a barroom floor. Suddenly, he felt an arm like the limb of an oak slide around his chest and pull him back from the mob of attackers. With his palm of his other hand spread open, the stranger struck the giant just below the sternum, throwing him upside-down against the wall, shattering the glass on a poster of Larry Bird and strewing sports memorabilia all over the red tile floor. The others ran to help their comrade and the stranger pulled Tucker toward the door.

  “Where are we going?” asked Tucker, dazed and still doubled over in pain.

  “I would vouchsafe that those ruffians are looking for blood – yours,” said the stranger, as he threw open the door. “We have to make an exit with great celerity, and this distressed automobile will have to do.”

  “That’s my car,” muttered Tucker.

  “Oh,” said the stranger. “It is aesthetically unpleasing.”

  He carefully put Tucker inside, then hopped into the driver’s seat.

  “I really shouldn’t let you drive,” protested Tucker, but the stranger ignored him and started the engine just as the four men came exploding out of the bar. They jumped into a black sedan as the stranger stepped on the accelerator. He hit the brake and cut the wheel, spinning the car around, and started heading back over the bridge.

  “I can’t believe they’re pursuing us,” said Tucker with great effort, clutching his back. “The police station isn’t far. I’ll just radio for help.”

  The black sedan was close to the police car as both picked up speed across the bridge. As Tucker reached for the microphone, the stranger turned sharply, and the car smashed through the railing, careening off the bridge. Tucker felt his heart in his throat as he saw the rocky river rushing toward him. He closed his eyes and braced for the crash. He waited an eternity. Still he felt the car accelerating forward. The face of every crash victim he ever saw flashed in his mind. Every punctured lung, every decapitation, and every mangled corpse he ever beheld sped through his thoughts. Still he felt the car accelerating forward. He had jus
t enough capacity for rational thought to know the fall wouldn’t take this long. He slowly opened one eye. Tucker doubted his senses when he saw the car speeding along the surface of the river and kicking up a translucent spray of water on each side of the car.

  His mouth fell open and he turned to the driver looking for an answer. The expressionless features and burning iridescent gaze told Tucker that the stranger hadn’t suffered the same horror. He said nothing, but concentrated on the watery highway. Tucker couldn’t be hallucinating this time. The pain in his back was all too real. He cringed in his seat, drew his knees to his chin, and let out a little whimper.

  He stared intently at the stranger, who appeared to be scanning the riverbank for something. He hit the brake, the curtain of water fell, and the car turned onto a boat launch, coming to a stop on a dirt road in the middle of the woods.

  Tucker suddenly wished he hadn’t gone looking for the stranger after all. What had he expected to find out, anyway? That he was crazy? He obviously hadn’t thought this through. Tucker was staring through the windshield at nothing in particular when the soothing baritone voice of the stranger broke into his thoughts.

  “Be not afraid,” he said. Tucker jerked his head and shrank under the fiery stare of his companion. It was too much. He burst open his door and fell onto the gravelly dirt. The stranger slowly opened his door and walked around the front of the car, kicking up dust that created green sparkles in the beams of the headlights. He knelt beside the prostrate form of Tucker, pressing his open palm against the detective’s back. At the first touch, the pain of the kidney stones vanished. Tucker looked up at his rescuer, who was silhouetted against the moon that had just broken through the clouds. His appearance was completely ordinary, save that he was fringed with an almost imperceptible glow.

  “Who are you?” Tucker asked at last.

  “My name is Uriel,” said the stranger, “one of the seven archangels who enter and serve before the glory of the Lord.”