Hastings was not at all sure, going on instinct and adrenaline as much as anything else. “Yes,” he said firmly.
“I see. Are you en route now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, Lieutenant. Give me the exact address and I’ll authorize a telephonic warrant.”
He managed to push Jimmy off of him. It wasn’t easy; Jimmy was a big man, almost as big as Regan. Regan reached for the gun in his jacket. It was still there. Much good it had done him. Shit. He should have seen it coming. He should have known that Jimmy would tip Mike off. Either directly or indirectly; indirectly probably. A look of panic in the eyes, hands shaking, the way he stood … something, goddamn it. He had forgotten about Dillon. Dillon was smart and strong and he had a nose for these things. One of those rare humans who seemed to just sense traps. Dillon had not survived this long by being dumb. Dillon hunted was still Dillon. And Dillon was gone now and Jack Regan had a bullet in him.
Regan managed to get to his feet. He felt it then, bad. Unsteady, swaying but he stood still and concentrated on not falling down and kept on his feet. Man. He was aware of people around him, so many people, indistinct but close and more beyond; people screaming and shouting and questioning, people watching him, staring at the large wine-colored stain on the front of his jacket. The lights blurred around him. He told himself that he had to leave, had to move. There was a blanket in the car. What he had to do was get to the car and stuff the blanket into the gash in his side and stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding and drive to Chicago and get to Sully. Sully the medicine man, Sully who had been a medic in one of the wars … . Sully would fix it and there would be no calls to the police reporting a gunshot wound … . Sully in Chicago … not too far from his place … in Chicago … Chicago … ? Chicago, bullshit. Who was here? Who was in this town 280 miles away from home? What support system, what … fucking … network did he have here? … Maybe he could call Zans and ask him if he knew a Sully in St. Louis … . Someone who would patch him up and send him on his … way … Zans would know what to do … . Kate … Kate would know, maybe … Zans … shit, Zans was in jail … ?
People in the crowd pointed the man on the ground out to a couple of security guards near the concession stand. They turned him over and took away his gun. One of the guards felt Regan’s neck.
The guard said, “This one’s still breathing.”
Dillon walked out of the Savvis Center among hundreds of murmuring, frightened people. An announcer on the sound system encouraged people not to panic or rush but to quietly leave the arena.
He approached his car warily. He did not want to believe that the police now had his tag number and make of car, but believing it was like hoping to fill an inside straight. He thought about stealing another one, but people kept pouring out of the arena and he was afraid an owner would walk up as he stole a car. And it had been several years since he had stolen cars. He watched the Cadillac for a minute or two and saw no police around it. He walked to it, unlocked it, and got in.
Had Jimmy brought the Thunderbird? Had he done as he was told? It was hard to know. The only thing he knew now is that Jimmy brought Jack Regan. Jack would not have wanted to accommodate Jimmy. Maybe they came in Jack’s car. Maybe they didn’t. If they came in the Thunderbird, it would not be possible to look for it around here. Not with police looking for him, maybe even looking for the Cadillac he was in. What was the joke from childhood? Why are you looking over here when you dropped it over there? Because the light’s better over here. If Jimmy had left the Thunderbird at the garage, well, it would still be there. It would be easy to see, easy to get into and drive away.
Earlier, he had been worried that the cops were with Jimmy. Earlier, he had not known what to think. But Jimmy showed up with Jack, not a shitload of cops. So he had that much for going for him. So the cops had not been at the garage. Right. The cops had not been at the garage. If Jimmy had left the Thunderbird at the garage, it would still be there. If it were still there, he could dump the Caddy and drive away with the Thunderbird with eighty thousand dollars stuffed inside it.
It was worth a look.
Hastings pulled up to the garage. There were two patrol cars out front.
Four officers, one of them approaching him as he got out of the Jaguar.
Sergeant Stanley Millburn. Hastings knew him.
“George.”
“Hi, Stan. What do you know?”
Sergeant Millburn said, “We got here about ten minutes ago. We looked through the windows, didn’t see anything. No one’s here. No one we can see anyway.”
Hastings said, “You didn’t see anyone leave?”
“No.” The sergeant said, “When did you get the call?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.” Hastings sighed. “Shit.”
Sergeant Millburn said, “What do you want to do, George?”
Hastings said, “I’ve got a telephonic search warrant from Judge Foley on my way over here. You guys got a ram?”
Sergeant Millburn called out. “Anyone got a ram?”
A patrol officer said he had one, and Sergeant Millburn told him to go ahead and get it.
When that was done, the five of them moved up to the door. Two officers in front, positioning the ram; two officers behind, one holding a shotgun, the other holding a Glock .40, the slide racked and ready. Hastings drew his .38 snub and held it at his side.
The standard procedure was to knock and call out, “Search warrant, search warrant,” and on the third one smash in the door. But they weren’t going to go through that shit tonight and give the animal on the other side any warning, real or imagined.
Millburn turned to Hastings and said, “Okay?”
Hastings looked up the street then down, hesitating …
His cell phone rang.
It made all of them jump in that quiet moment and then they felt silly and angry at the same time. “Christ,” Hastings said and he was not the only one. Feeling dumb for not turning it off. Rookie mistake.
Hastings held up a hand, pausing the men, and then answered his phone.
“Hastings.”
“Lieutenant? This is Sergeant Acey Rand. There’s just been a shooting at the Savvis Center. The shooter’s description matches your guy.”
Hastings said, “Is he there?”
“No. We think he slipped out of the building in the crowd.”
“What happened?”
“He shot two guys. They’re not cops. One of them’s dead, the other one’s on his way to the hospital.”
“Fuck,” Hastings said. It was becoming a murder spree. A killer on the loose with nothing to lose. How many more corpses before the night was through? “All right,” Hastings said. “Let me get back to you.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
Hastings switched off the phone, even though it seemed moot now. He stood immobile, staring ahead at nothing. The officers around him asked him no questions and looked at each other and made gestures.
Hastings turned to Sergeant Millburn.
Hastings said, “Change of plans.”
Millburn said, “What?”
“That was Acey Rand. They think our man shot a couple of guys at the Savvis Center.”
“They get him?”
“No,” Hastings said. “Maybe he’s on his way here.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know. It’s a place he knows. He probably knows he can’t go home. Maybe he’ll come by here to use the toilet.”
“Yeah, and maybe he’s leaving town.”
Hastings said, “If he is, he is. Nothing I can do about that now. But if he’s coming here, we’ll be ready for him. You got something better to do?”
“Well—”
“I don’t. Let’s wait here for an hour, see if he comes by.”
The other officers were younger and unfamiliar with the detective. Two of them had never spoken with Hastings at all. They were in uniform and the lieutenant was in plainclothes. They would
take their cue from the sergeant and the sergeant knew this. He knew Hastings too and thought well of his judgment, but a lot of years had passed.
The sergeant said, “All right, George. It’s your call.”
“Okay.”
The sergeant said, “Shall we wait in there?”
“No. We ram the door, he’ll be able to tell and then he’ll drive right past. I want you to take your patrol car down two blocks that way, hide and wait. Another car down that way, same thing. I’ll park over there.”
It was probably a violation of two or three policies and Hastings knew it. But if they called in more units and Dillon was coming, the presence of other units would run him off. There wasn’t time to explain the wisdom of the plan to others and seek justification and authorization. Besides, he wasn’t sure it was that wise to begin with.
FORTY-TWO
Hastings tucked the Jaguar around the corner in a parking lot with old pickups and classic autos that would never be restored. When he was done backing it in, the Jag faced the garage across the street. He shut the car off, got out, and walked out into the street.
An industrial area, bleak and dreary. Motor rebuilders, steel fabrication, heat exchangers, engine service, and auto parts. It thrummed with business in the decade following the Second World War, but had been in decay since the Johnson administration. Dark and cold now and no traffic in sight.
The patrol cars were hidden, two blocks west and three blocks east.
He walked back to the Jag and popped open the trunk. Took out an Ithaca pump shotgun, made sure it was loaded. He racked the slide and put one in the chamber. He got in the car and rested the shotgun on the passenger seat, his hand on the stock.
He waited.
He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and thought of sitting behind a blind in Nebraska, sitting in cold and trying not to think about the freezing temperature, waiting for the sound of the deer rustling through the brush before it appeared.
The file on Dillon noted that he had gone underground the day before charges were filed against him in state court, Cook County. Chicago and state police had prepared the case against him. Racketeering, racketeering conspiracy, trafficking in narcotics. The guy had made millions extorting payments from bookies and drug dealers. No murder charges filed on him, but the paperwork showed that people around him tended to die or disappear.
Released from the federal penitentiary in 1982. No convictions since. No arrests.
No arrests?
How?
In many respects, George Hastings was a cautious man. He kept a lot of his opinions to himself. He was not politically ideological; it seemed like a lot of work to him. But he was aware enough to recognize that he was a moderately skilled diplomat himself. Not because he particularly wanted to be, but because he needed to be. It was a line you walked in police administration, maintaining self-respect while surviving the bear traps of departmental infighting and bureaucracy. When he was married, Eileen, a born snob, went to great lengths to establish friendships with people outside of law enforcement. Some of them were okay, some of them not; usually it didn’t last. Hastings remembered having a tolerable conversation with a college professor at an otherwise dreadful dinner party. The guy had tenure at a state university and he complained about a bitter ongoing dispute. The guy said, “Do you know why the fighting is so intense? It’s because the stakes are so low.” And Hastings had smiled. The department could be like that. That was why it was best to keep your opinions to yourself. That was why he had revealed his mixed feelings about the death penalty only to Joe Klosterman, one of the few people he trusted fully. When Hastings thought about this in his quieter, more contemplative moments, he realized that his discomfort with state-sponsored execution stemmed, in some part, from his experience in dealing with a few judges and prosecutors stupid enough and arrogant enough to frighten him. But he also knew that he was uncomfortable with his own thoughts about it. Like the one he had now. The one that said, this man needs to die.
At an earlier time, the man needed to be put in a cage and kept there. It made no difference to Hastings if the cage was an isolated cell at Sing Sing or one with shag carpet and cable television. The man needed to be separated from civilized society. But someone had opened the man’s cage and let him out. Let him roam and menace and kill. And now three police officers were dead. They could catch him now and put him back in his cage, but it wouldn’t make Cain or Hummel or Deputy Childers any less dead.
Hastings heard something.
A car approaching.
Lights illuminated the street, pushed down the street and then it was there. A black Cadillac.
Hastings waited.
A man got out of the Caddy. It was him. He fit the description. It was the man from the photo, standing about forty yards away.
Hastings thought, get out of the car, put the shotgun on him, and order him to put his hands on the roof of the car. Do that …
Or call in the patrol cars?
No. He might be gone by then. Might hear the radio squawk. Might hear the cars approach and bolt. Might get away again …
Dillon looked around. Looked up and down the street. Did not see the detective across the street, hiding in his car in the shadows. He walked to the front door of the garage, unlocked it, and went in.
He flicked on the lights. For a moment, he actually expected to see Jimmy there. Weird. Honey, I’m home. Oh, yeah, he’s not here. He got clipped.
The Thunderbird was here.
Good. Good call. Dillon wasn’t sure if Jimmy knew about the eighty thousand hidden in the T-Bird. Maybe he had known and had taken it out. Maybe Jack had refused to let him take the car, thinking there would be a weapon hidden in there. Jack was smart that way. Smarter than Jimmy had been. But, Dillon thought, not smarter than me. He smiled at the sight of Jack falling back. Had he killed him? If there had been more time, fewer people, he would have walked over and made sure. Said something clever and final. Hey, Jackie. How do you like St. Louis?Then put a bullet in his head.
Then he saw it.
Light reflecting off the steel fabrication building across the street. Sweeping then coming back onto the road.
It was enough.
Hastings called in the patrol cars on his handheld radio. He got out of the car and walked carefully across the street. Holding the shotgun with both hands, he approached the door. A block down, one of the patrol cars turned out into the street, headlights on, but no siren or flashers.
He heard it then, the machinery kicking on as the garage door began to open, to his right, and it was happening, the door halfway open as Hastings turned and the nose of the Thunderbird poked out and then the whole car as the engine roared and Hastings raised the shotgun and fired. Buckshot spattering the rear window of the car and then it was gone from that space and out into the street, in front of the patrol car and turning left, going around the two officers in their unit and Hastings couldn’t fire another round for fear of hitting the officers.
Hastings yelled, “Get him.” As if the men inside the car could hear and the patrol car reversed, tires squealing as they accelerated and flipped the car around, not quite 180 but almost, and the other patrol car whizzed by them to give chase.
Hastings ran across the street to the Jaguar.
Minutes later, he was trailing the two patrol cars, racing through intersections. In the distance, he could see the beige Thunderbird, its taillights bobbing up and down as it hit dips in the road going about eighty. God, Hastings thought. It could get bad. A killer with absolutely nothing to lose, blowing through a red light and slamming into a van with a family inside. It could get very bad.
The Thunderbird slowed, without hitting the brakes, and then made a left at the next intersection and Hastings saw the patrol car in front of him slowing, hesitating, and, shit, the lead patrol car losing it in the turn and slamming into a parked car, the second patrol car hitting its brakes, fishtailing, but holding the turn and then accelerating away. Hasting
s followed, briefly catching the sight of a white exploded airbag and the flourlike smoke emanating from the smashed car. Hastings kept going.
He heard voices squawking from his radio, calling for assistance now, south on Macklind Avenue, in pursuit of a 1989 Beige Ford Thunderbird, suspect Mike Dillon, armed and dangerous. Heard the call for assist and thought, hurry, man, hurry.
They hit Manchester Road, the same boulevard where it all began, same street but miles farther toward downtown, and the Thunderbird slowed near the intersection because there were sirens and lights approaching from the west, so the Thunderbird turned east and began racing toward Kingshighway, where there would be other patrol cars moving, closing in … . The cars driving up an incline now as Kingshighway became a bridge and crossed over a viaduct, railroad tracks beneath.
Dillon saw the lights and siren coming north on Kingshighway. He slowed and cranked the wheel right, descending now into the road before Kingshighway, down toward the railways and the darkness. He took the road two-thirds of the way down the incline, then hit the brakes and cranked the wheel right again, bringing the car to a power slide then a stop. Out of the car then and running as the first police car raced down the incline and T-boned into the Thunderbird.
Dillon kept running.
Hastings had no choice. He stopped the Jag a few feet short of the collision, fully blocking the way. He got out and ran past the patrol car and the Thunderbird. He still had the shotgun.
An eighteen-wheel semi was making a turn at the bottom and coming up the incline. Dillon ran to the right of it and then was alongside of it, the truck and trailer shielding him from a shot.
Hastings had to go to the left of the truck, its gears shifting and motor revving as it began climbing the road … slowing as the driver inside saw the collided vehicles in front of him.
Dillon reached the railroad tracks, a classification yard, eighteen to twenty tracks spreading out like a series of fork tines, some with freight cars on them, some not; the Union Pacific and Burlington Northern moved through here alongside trains at a standstill. Dillon moved into the dark cover of it, a forest, and was out of sight by the time Hastings reached the bottom of the incline.
The Betrayers Page 19