Hocus ik-5

by Jan Burke

  Another long silence stretched between them as Samuel thought about what Bret had said.

  “You’re so sure he’s innocent?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bret said without hesitation. “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you willing to trust my judgment?”

  After a long pause Samuel said, “Yes. But there’s something you should know.”

  Bret waited.

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet. When I went out, I went to a pay phone and called the paper to ask if my ‘granddaughter,’ Irene Kelly, had placed an ad like I asked her to. The one about John Oakhurst.”

  “And?”

  “His wife knows who the policeman is.”

  42

  HE HAD STOPPED COMING AFTER ME. After hiding in a wardrobe room for God knew how long, I decided he had given up on me, at least for the moment. Maybe he had bigger problems. Or maybe he decided I was going to die if I tried to leave the building and figured I wasn’t worth the effort of pursuit.

  I decided to do some cautious exploring.

  I went through a large dressing room, scaring the bejesus out of myself when I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrors — at first, in the darkness, seeing the reflection only as another person moving in the room.

  I almost went to the wall and turned on a light switch, but I decided not to become too cocky. Whatever had caused Samuel to give up his pursuit might be only a temporary delay.

  I moved slowly through the back of the theater, conserving the flashlight batteries as much as possible. Eventually I wandered into an office. A light was flashing on the desk. A ringing telephone.

  I answered it, crawling under the desk to hide before I spoke.

  “Hello?”

  “Irene?” a surprised voice asked.

  “Yes,” I said, recognizing the drawling version of my name. “Glad Hank got in touch with you, Cassidy.”

  “I would have preferred to find you waiting for me on the outside of the building, but I reckon that was too much to ask. Where are you?”

  “Alone in some kind of office. Do you know where Frank is?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure I should tell you. You’ve already been busier than a one-legged man in an asskickin’ contest.”

  “I didn’t exactly plan to be locked in here with them. Anything I can do for you while I’m here?”

  “Hide. Stay clear of them. They get a hold of you, we’ve got twice the problem we had before. You understand that, don’t you?”

  The lights came on in the office.

  Oh, shit, I thought.

  “Irene?”

  “She understands, Detective Cassidy,” a voice said from another extension. “Say good-bye to him, Ms. Kelly.”

  “Bret?” Cassidy said.

  Samuel walked around the desk. He was pointing a gun at me. He motioned me to come out.

  “See you later, Cassidy,” I said. I hung up the phone and let Samuel lead me away. I noticed the light on the phone didn’t go out. I tried to be heartened by that, by the fact that Cassidy was still talking to Bret. You’ll see Frank, I told myself.

  I was scared anyway.

  He took me to a basement. As I came down the stairs, Frank looked up and saw me. He was still in chains, and his hand had a bigger bandage on it. He stood up. I ran to him.

  He lifted his manacled hands over my head, held on to me as tightly as I held on to him. He was warm and alive and we were together. Maybe something will feel better to me someday, I thought, but I couldn’t imagine what it would be.

  Bret came closer, and Frank stood very still for a moment. Frank extended his arms. Bret unlocked the chains on Frank’s wrists, pulled off the leather cuffs.

  “Thank you,” Frank said. He pulled me closer, in an embrace so fierce, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t need to breathe.

  “We’ll give you some time alone,” Bret said, and to our surprise, they left.

  “Are you okay?” we asked each other in unison, and spent the next few moments crying in each other’s arms. I leaned back and wiped the tears from his face.

  “Cassidy will get us out of here,” I said.

  He nodded, told me he loved me, and we both started crying again.

  “I know you think I’m an ass, coming in here, getting caught—” I started to say, but he put his fingers over my lips and shook his head.

  “No more of that,” he said. “No matter what happens, we’re not going to waste time on regrets.”

  I looked up at him, smiled a little, and said, “Do you think they’ve got cameras in here?”

  He laughed. “Sure of it, I’m sorry to say. Microphones, too.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Damn,” he said, and held me tight.

  “In spy movies, they use this kind of time to talk about strategy,” I said.

  “Thank God we aren’t spies,” he said, and kissed me.

  There was a ridiculously polite little knock on the basement door, and Bret came in, seeming embarrassed.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but we need to talk to Detective Cassidy.”

  He put on a headset, spoke into it. “Any change?”

  He listened, then said, “All right. I’m calling now. Stand by.”

  “Where’s Samuel?” Frank asked.

  “Keeping an eye on things. There seems to be some SWAT movement.” He turned to me. “Ms. Kelly, are you willing to tell us the name of the man we’re looking for?”

  Frank looked at me in surprise. “You know?”

  I didn’t answer. Before Frank could say more, Bret said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

  He lifted the phone and waited.

  “Hello, Detective Cassidy. I’m putting the speakerphone on.” He pressed a button, looked at us. “Would you please say something?”

  We each said hello.

  “Are you all right?” Cassidy asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “We haven’t been harmed.”

  “Are you giving up?” Bret asked him.

  “Now, what makes you say a thing like that?” Cassidy asked.

  “We’ve seen some SWAT movement,” Bret answered.

  “There hasn’t been any SWAT movement,” Cassidy said.

  “Detective Cassidy,” Bret said, “please don’t lie.”

  “I’m not,” Cassidy said. “Hold on, let me confirm what I just told you.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Bret?”

  “Yes?”

  “I apologize. You’re right. It was completely unauthorized, and those men have been pulled back. You want to confirm that with Samuel?”

  “Just a moment,” Bret said. He spoke into the headset. “Samuel?” He listened, then said, “All right, Detective Cassidy. But now we’re concerned that you may not have your part of the situation under control.”

  “Really?”

  Bret seemed distracted. “Oh, no, I guess not. Samuel is telling me that those officers have been taken to the commander’s post. Well, now, shall we talk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s make everything plain, all right?”

  “Plain?”

  “Unmistakable. I thought I should tell you that we have a generator and plenty of supplies, should you decide to cut off power or water.”

  “No one is talking about doing anything like that, Bret.”

  “We also have gas masks and protective clothing. Samuel and I do, I mean. If you try a chemical approach to this problem, Frank and Irene will suffer, not us. And we are, of course, the only ones who can arm and disarm the explosives.”

  “Bret, nobody wants—”

  “No, of course not. But the situation should be made plain. Now, we want one thing. Just one thing. Not money, not notoriety, not innocent lives. We don’t want a plane to fly us to Havana or any other nonsense like that. We simply want justice. That’s all.”

  “Justice.”

  “Yes, Detective Cassidy, justice. It’s a
ll we live for. Literally. A life for four lives.”

  Cassidy let the silence stretch. Frank was watching me. I took his uninjured hand, squeezed it lightly. He held on.

  “Ms. Kelly knows the man’s name,” Bret said.

  “She tell you that?”

  “Not directly, no. But — just a moment—”

  I could hear Cassidy shouting, though. “Stop that man! Stop him!”

  “No, Detective Cassidy!” Bret said. “Tell your men to stay back! I don’t want the others to be hurt.”

  “Hold on,” Cassidy said. We could hear Bredloe’s voice over a bullhorn, saying, “Officer, halt where you are. That’s an order! You are compromising negotiations and placing others’ lives in danger. Halt!”

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Bret asked Samuel over the headset, turning on a television monitor. A street-level view of the area in front of the theater came on the screen. A man in a SWAT uniform was crossing the street with his hands up. Bret said, “I wish we could hear him talk.”

  Just then the man shouted, “Bret! Samuel! I’m the one you want.”

  “Who is that?” Frank said.

  Over the headset Bret said, “Yes, just that one door.” He moved to the phone, then said, “Detective Cassidy! Use your bullhorn. Tell that man to enter by the center door only. No other door. And no other officers.”

  “I can’t allow that, Bret. We don’t know that this man is the one you want. People often confess to crimes they didn’t commit, out of some mistaken sense of—”

  “He’ll blow every one of us to hell and gone, sir, if you don’t do exactly as we say. Some of your men will die, too. Samuel and I don’t care about ourselves, but the Harrimans deserve better. Hurry, Detective Cassidy, he’s getting closer.”

  But it was Bredloe’s voice that made the announcement, even as I heard Cassidy say, “Captain, don’t—”

  “We’ll call back soon,” Bret said, hanging up. “Excuse me,” he said to us, and hurried up the stairs. He paused at the door and tossed down a key. “Just in case,” he said with a smile.

  “Bret!” I called after him, but he paid no attention.

  “Who is it?” Frank asked again.

  “Nathan Cook,” I said, picking up the key. I took a guess and tried them on the manacles on Frank’s ankles. The locks opened.

  “Cookie?” he said in disbelief, staring at the monitor, rubbing his ankles.

  “Yes. Frank, I know he was your father’s friend, but I don’t trust him. I don’t know what he’s up to now, but it’s bound to be some trick.”

  “You’re sure he’s the one?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank looked at the monitor, then back at me. “Let’s go,” he said, and shouted, “Bret, wait!” as he began to run up the stairs.

  Bret entered the lobby just ahead of us, ignoring our repeated shouts.

  When we burst through the doors Samuel was smiling, holding a gun on Nathan Cook, whose hands were held high.

  Cook was also smiling, until he saw Frank. “Ah, Frank,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever forgive me — but I see you probably don’t even know what this is about.”

  “I know,” Frank said quietly.

  Until that moment, perhaps he hadn’t really believed that Nathan Cook was the man Hocus sought. But there was unmistakable fury in him now.

  Cook raised a brow. “Yes, I guess you do.”

  “It’s him all right,” Samuel said. “His name is Nathan Cook.”

  “Are the doors rearmed?” Bret asked nervously.

  Samuel nodded.

  Bret moved to a phone near the box office. He picked it up. “Detective Cassidy? Nathan Cook has turned himself over to us. We’ve rearmed the doors. We’ll release Detective Harriman and Ms. Kelly to you just as soon as we have Mr. Cook safely in custody.”

  “I can’t tell you how I’ve waited for this to be resolved,” Cook said.

  “We waited first, remember?” Samuel said. “Powell got tired of waiting for you.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” Cook said, which caused Samuel to laugh. He ignored the laughter and went on. “I didn’t mean to take so long. It was daylight when I found the turnout, and I had to wait for darkness, and then for traffic to die down. I never expected Powell to become so violent.”

  Samuel laughed again.

  “Drug dealing, Cookie?” Frank said. “My father would have strangled you with his bare hands.”

  “It wasn’t serious dealing, Frank. I just wanted to make a point. The morons in Vice never should have demoted me. It was just a way to irritate them. I didn’t even keep the money. I gave it away — small cash donations to good causes.”

  “Penance?” I asked. “Or avoiding the attention of Internal Affairs?”

  “Please,” Bret said quietly. “Nothing he has to say makes any difference.” Cook glared at him, but Bret went on. “He can’t excuse what he did. Even he knows that. That’s why he came in here.”

  Cook dropped his gaze.

  “Take off the helmet and Kevlar vest,” Samuel ordered.

  “Slowly,” Frank said. Cook reached up for the helmet, dropped it to the floor. Began unfastening the vest.

  “Cecilia and Gus and Bear thought I’d have to be forced to come down here and rescue you, Frank,” Cook said. “They were wrong. This will end years of hell.”

  “You aren’t rescuing anyone,” Frank said angrily.

  “I can’t believe you’d try to make yourself out to be a hero.”

  “Why not?” he said, swiftly pulling a gun out from beneath the vest. He aimed it directly at Samuel. “Drop it, son.”

  Samuel flinched at the word “son,” but then he smiled.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Cook said, glancing at Frank, who had moved slightly closer to him.

  “Bret?” Samuel said.

  “Yes?”

  “Give Julian my love.” He pulled the trigger.

  The loud report of the shots came almost at the same time, Cook’s a fraction of a second later, with Bret’s scream. The lobby filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

  Frank ran to Samuel, saying, “No—”

  I glanced at Cook, looked away from what was left of his head as I took the gun out of his hand. I made myself feel for a pulse. I’ll admit I didn’t regret not finding one.

  Bret was bent over Samuel, clinging to him, making sounds of misery and grief. I looked at Frank, who shook his head. He had taken Samuel’s gun from him but simply set it aside, out of Bret’s reach. I put Nathan Cook’s gun next to it.

  Frank sat next to Bret, holding on to him. His face reminded me of his face in the photo. I stood next to him, reached down, stroked my fingers through his hair. He reached up and took my hand, held on to it.

  The phone was ringing. Frank glanced up at me. I didn’t let go of him — I used my free hand to answer it.

  “Cassidy?”

  “Irene? We heard gunfire. Anyone need an ambulance?”

  “No. Cook’s dead. Samuel, too.”

  I heard him sigh. His voice was unsteady as he said, “The rest of you?”

  “We’re all okay. Tell them we’re all okay. But — give us some time.”

  “I can hear Bret,” he said.

  “Yes. The doors are still armed, but I don’t think Bret’s going to hurt us. We just need to give him some time.”

  “He may not want to hurt you, but I can’t tell you how dangerous he is right now — to himself especially, but maybe to you and Frank, too. Those two boys had what amounts to a suicide pact. Don’t let him out of your sight. Where are the weapons?”

  “Out of reach.”

  “Good. Make sure it stays that way, all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got to talk to him, get him to look at things differently.”

  “I don’t think he’s ready—”

  “No, not right this second. Of course not. But I don’t want any further harm to come to him, Irene.”

  “I know
you don’t, Cassidy.”

  I’m not sure how long we stayed there, huddled together on the floor. When it seemed to me that Frank was ready to hear it, I whispered some of Cassidy’s concerns to him. Frank nodded, broke open the guns, took out the remaining bullets, and pocketed the weapons. Bret seemed oblivious of anyone other than Samuel.

  When exhaustion finally began to slow Bret’s grief, Frank gently pried his fingers from Samuel’s shirt. Known for being afraid of blood, Bret was now bathed in it but seemed not to notice. We stood him between us and, putting our arms around him, walked back to the basement. He was in a state of total numbness by then, I think. We helped him wash up, but he just stared blankly into space. Frank found a stage outfit in one of the trunks and asked Bret if he wanted to change clothes.

  Bret didn’t answer but took the clothes and went into the bathroom.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t let him alone even to do that,” I said.

  “There’s nothing he can harm himself with in there,” Frank said. “I didn’t even hand him a belt. But if he’s not out in a few minutes, I’ll check on him.”

  But Bret did come out, and his mood seemed to have changed. It made me want to call Cassidy. I exchanged a glance with Frank, who picked up the phone.

  “I’m sorry,” Bret said to him.

  Frank put the phone back, waited.

  “I wish I could give your own clothes back to you,” Bret went on, “but they had blood on them and Samuel was afraid I would….” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think mine will fit you or I’d offer—”

  “It’s okay,” Frank said. “Don’t worry about it, all right?”

  Bret hesitated, then nodded. Frank picked up the phone again. Bret made no objection, but seemed uneasy. Frank watched him carefully as he walked away, moved closer to me.

  “What book are you reading, Ms. Kelly?” Bret asked politely.

  “Call me Irene,” I said. I reached into my back pocket — removed the forgotten paperback.

  “Bret Harte,” he said. “Read the title story sometime. About a group of misfits trapped in a snowstorm. The outcasts aren’t saints — definitely sinners — but not really any worse than the people who kicked them out of town — better in some ways, I suppose. They’re imperfect, in an imperfect world. But they do what they can in the face of adversity.”