The Exile

by Allan Folsom

  Normally, it would take about fifteen minutes by car from Union Station to the warehouse. Ford made it in nine, a full five minutes ahead of the rolling tidal wave of media he’d organized.

  He parked his Jeep Liberty on the street and walked quickly through the drizzle, approaching the line of black-and-whites that had cordoned off the area. He was nearly to them when Chief Harwood suddenly appeared out of the mass of uniforms, a ranking lieutenant at his side. Harwood had his hands up to stop him.

  “No one past the line, Dan. That includes you.”

  “John’s in there?” Ford nodded toward the bleak row of warehouses behind them.

  “Raymond Thorne has taken him hostage.”

  “I know, and the Five-Two’s in command.”

  “There’ll be a press briefing when we have more,” Harwood said abruptly, then turned and walked back into the crowd of uniforms. His lieutenant glanced at Ford, then followed Harwood.

  Dan Ford had been a reporter and around police and department brass far too long not to know a little about eye movement and body language, even in men trained not to show it. That Harwood himself was there and had come out to speak with him alone spoke volumes. What Harwood said might be the official word, but it was a lie. Ford knew full well Barron had Raymond in custody and had been bringing him to Union Station. And then suddenly the train was diverted off the main line and stopped out of sight behind warehouses with the 5-2 in charge and police keeping everyone a long way back, and with the chief of police himself coming out to tell the one reporter the police had been more open with than anyone else in the media that he couldn’t go in because Barron had become a hostage.

  Why? What was going on? What had happened?

  He had seen the squad take Raymond into custody at Mercury Air Center and drive off with him about 4:20 A.M. Then, nearly two hours later, at about 6:10, Barron had called from the train saying he had Raymond in custody by himself and asking Ford to arrange for a media circus to meet them when the train arrived at Union Station. What had happened in the meantime? How and why did Barron come to have Raymond in custody by himself?

  Suddenly Ford began to think that something had gone terribly wrong inside the squad. It made him think back to the way Barron had acted in the coffee shop the night Frank Donlan had shot himself. When he had asked him about it, Barron had given him an almost word-for-word version of the story Red had given to the media, that Donlan somehow had a gun hidden in his clothes and shot himself rather than be taken into custody. Maybe that was true, but maybe it wasn’t. There had been rumors for years that the 5-2 had, on more than one occasion, extended the meaning of law enforcement and had themselves killed a suspect in custody. But the rumors had never been more than that, and no reporter that he knew of, least of all himself, had ever pursued it.

  There was no way to know for certain, but still he had to ask himself—what if the stories were true? What if the squad had killed Frank Donlan and Barron had been there and hadn’t known what to do about it? Barron certainly couldn’t have told him. He could have told no one. The murder of Barron’s parents had wholly traumatized him, turning him from a student of landscape architecture into a man obsessed with criminal law and victims’ rights. If the squad had assassinated Donlan, it would have horrified him. If they intended on doing the same to Raymond, then—suddenly Ford wondered if that was why Barron had called him from his car on the way to LAX telling him about the Josef Speer/Raymond thing and clearing the way for him with Lufthansa security, because he was afraid the squad was going to kill Raymond at the airport and he wanted someone from the media present to disrupt their plan. And he’d called before he got to LAX, giving Ford a big lead on the story, and maybe even before the squad knew what was going on. What had he said? Let’s keep it between us, just you and me, until we know for sure. Just you and me, meaning Barron and himself, not the rest of the media, who he knew would be kept back if the 5-2 was already there or nearly there.

  But it was a situation that had never come because Raymond had killed Red, an action in itself that was enough reason to take Raymond down once they had him in custody. If that was what they had planned after they’d left Mercury Air Center and had taken him somewhere to do it, there was every chance Barron would have been horrified all over again and refused to let it happen. If that was so and somehow he had wrestled Raymond away from the squad and made it to the train—

  It was the only line of reasoning that made sense and would have been the motive for Barron’s wanting a media circus at Union Station when the train arrived because, like his thinking at LAX, he knew the squad wouldn’t act with the whole world watching.

  If Barron had done that, Harwood would have been the first to know about it. And if history had given the squad a free hand in doling out the law as they saw fit, the LAPD was not going to risk exposing that history now, not after the years of scandals and very public police misconduct. As a result, LAPD machinery had gone into high gear. Barron and his prisoner were isolated and out of sight, with the chief of police telling the world he had been taken hostage instead of telling the real truth—that he had been cornered by his own men because he had been trying to keep his prisoner alive.

  Ford looked again at Harwood in the crowd of uniforms. Then he saw a familiar car pulling in. It was fifty yards away and moving toward the wall of black-and-whites in the drizzle. He ran toward it, his feet slipping on the wet ground. As he got closer he could see its rear window had been blown out. Then he saw Polchak at the wheel. Someone was in the front seat with him. He couldn’t tell who it was.

  “Len,” he yelled, running harder. “Len!”

  He saw Polchak glance over his shoulder. Then the phalanx of uniforms opened a path and Polchak drove through. As quickly, the way closed behind him and the uniforms turned toward Ford, the sergeant-in-charge motioning him back. Ford stopped and stood there in the light rain, his horn-rimmed glasses fogging over, his blue blazer heavy with wet, his spirit and hopes as broken as his nose throbbing under the bandages. It made no difference that he was surrounded by police, or that he knew a great many of them personally, or that he was the most respected police reporter in Los Angeles. John Barron was going to be killed.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  80

  7:12 A.M.

  Barron and Raymond lay flat on the ground between the rails under the Metrolink car watching Lee and Valparaiso come toward them. Berettas in hand, the detectives were ten feet apart and looking up at the car as they came. Where Halliday was, or Polchak, Barron had no idea. Most likely they were somewhere back in the darkness waiting and watching.

  What was clear, as Lee and Valparaiso approached, was that both men thought Barron and Raymond were still inside the car. They kept coming. Five paces more. And then six. And then seven. Now the detectives were midcar and all they could see were their legs from the thighs down. Barron could almost reach out and touch Lee’s size-fourteen shoes.

  “Now,” Barron whispered, and he and Raymond rolled out from under the car on the opposite side from the detectives. In an instant they were on their feet and running for the cover of the freight cars on the second spur line twenty feet away.

  Halliday saw them as he came around the nose of the locomotive. He swung his gun to fire, but too late, missing, and they slipped out of sight into the darkness under a Southern Pacific freight car, the fourth car down in a line of six.

  Barron saw Halliday start toward them from the locomotive, then saw Lee climb over the coupling between the Metrolink car and the locomotive. A split second later Valparaiso came around the car’s far end. They were a dozen yards apart and closing on them. Barron could see Lee lift his radio.

  “You fucked with the wrong guys, John.” Lee’s voice came over Barron’s radio.

  “It’s just us now.” Valparaiso was speaking into his radio as they closed the distance, his eyes locked on the dark space under the car where Barron and Raymond had gone.

  “T
he outside is sealed off. No more chances, John,” Valparaiso continued, his voice crackling through Barron’s radio. “Not even for you. We have to protect the squad.”

  Raymond suddenly looked to Barron, “Give me a gun,” he whispered. “If you don’t we are both going to die.”

  “Move back along the rails,” Barron said quietly. “Slide under the car behind us.”

  Raymond glanced behind him, then back. They could see Halliday move left and out of sight. Valparaiso and Lee stayed where they were.

  “Give me a gun,” Raymond pressed again.

  “Do as I say.” Barron’s eyes shifted hard to Raymond. “Now!”

  “I’m here, Marty.” Polchak’s voice suddenly jumped from Barron’s radio. Barron looked around. Polchak. Where was he? Where had he been?

  “John.” Now it was Valparaiso’s voice over the radio, “Len’s got a surprise. Kind of a going-away present.”

  A loud noise rattled behind them. Barron whirled to see the overhead door to warehouse number 19 fly open. Then Polchak stepped out into the light. He had the monstrous Striker 12 riot gun in one arm. Rebecca was in the other.

  “Len, what the hell are you doing?” Halliday’s shocked voice slapped through the radios.

  “Let her go!” Suddenly Barron was pushing out from under the freight car and climbing up on the platform, moving toward Polchak in front of him.

  “Let her go! Let her go!”

  Barron’s eyes were locked on Polchak, the Beretta tightening in his grip. “Let her go!” he screamed again.

  Suddenly Valparaiso was running in from the left behind him, and Barron heard Raymond yell a warning. At the same time, Lee stepped from the shadows at the far end of the freight car and started toward him, his Beretta coming up to fire.

  Barron saw him and jerked left, firing three quick rounds just as Lee’s gun went off. The giant detective jolted to a stop where he was, tried to regain his balance, then toppled over to lie face first in the gravel, his Beretta sliding forward across it.

  Barron steadied, then looked back to Polchak. Rebecca was frozen against him, confused and terrified.

  “To your right!” Raymond screamed.

  Barron whirled.

  Valparaiso was feet away, the hammer already falling on his automatic.

  Boom! Boom!—Boom! Boom!

  The guns of both detectives fired at the same time.

  Barron felt something thump into his thigh and slam him backward. In the same instant he saw Valparaiso grab his throat and start falling. Then Barron bounced hard off the freight car and went down, his own Beretta sent flying. He started to black out but fought against it. At the same time he saw Rebecca watching him in horror, straining to break from Polchak’s grip. Polchak jerked her back, hefting the Striker 12. Barron tried to get up but couldn’t. Suddenly Raymond pulled up over him, jerking the Colt from Barron’s belt.

  Barron started to yell at him, but Raymond was already swinging the Colt toward Polchak.

  In the same instant Polchak let go with the Striker 12. The sound of a thousand thundering jackhammers filled the air. For a millisecond a look of disbelief crossed Raymond’s face; then he crashed against the freight car and dropped to the pavement at the edge of the platform.

  Barron saw him covered in blood trying to get up, then he lost his balance and twisted backward. For a heartbeat his eyes locked on Barron’s, then he rolled sideways and fell from view onto the tracks below.

  Barron swung back. Polchak was moving toward him, the Striker 12 pointed at his chest. Behind him Barron could see Rebecca, her hands to her ears, frozen in horror.

  Barron’s eyes went to his Beretta on the platform ten feet away and then to the Colt, half that distance, where Raymond had dropped it.

  He could see Polchak grinning as he closed the distance. There was a loud clank of steel as he cocked the Striker. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Halliday move in, his Beretta up, ready to finish it as if the Striker wouldn’t.

  “Jesus Christ, Jimmy,” Barron breathed.

  “For Red, you fuck!” Polchak suddenly yelled, starting to squeeze the Striker’s trigger.

  It was then that Rebecca screamed. Wide-eyed in terror, she screamed and screamed and screamed. After years of silence it was a pent-up, primeval cry. Horror, terror, and fear erupting and roaring out as one. None of them had ever heard a sound like it, and she wouldn’t stop. Or couldn’t. The sound went on forever. Resounding off the buildings, the railcars, everything.

  Polchak squinted, as if he were having trouble thinking, her wail throwing him wholly off balance mentally. Slowly he turned and stepped toward her, his eyes like saucers, the pupils in them shrinking to almost nothing. The Striker still filled his hands.

  “STOPPPPP ITTTTT!” he screamed, his face sheer alabaster, his voice high-pitched and bizarre, more that of an animal than a man.

  “STOPPPP ITTTTTT! STOPPPP ITTTTTT! STOPPP ITTTTT!”

  Rebecca didn’t stop. She kept screaming, shrieking.

  Desperately Barron tried to get to the Beretta, but he could only push off with one leg. There was no feeling at all in the other.

  “STOPPPP ITTTTT! STOPP ITTT!” Polchak advanced on Rebecca, still screaming in that awful, unworldly high pitch, holding the Striker pointed directly at Rebecca but with the stress making his hands shake and his aim waver.

  “Len! Don’t! Don’t!” Barron was on his stomach now, pushing with his good leg toward the Beretta.

  Another step and Polchak was right there, the riot gun fully in Rebecca’s face.

  “Len!”

  This time the cry didn’t come from Barron. It came from Halliday. Hearing it, Polchak stopped. Barron saw his chest heave and then Polchak whirled again, this time leveling the Striker at Halliday.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Halliday’s 9 mm slugs caught Polchak in the neck and right shoulder. The Striker started to slip. Polchak tightened his grip and tried to lift the riot gun, but he had no strength. All he could do was blast away at the concrete at his feet as he fell. There was a sickening thud as he hit the pavement. As if he hadn’t so much fallen as dropped from a high place. His chest heaved one last time and he groaned once as life left him.

  And then silence descended.

  PART 2

  EUROPE

  1

  EASTER SUNDAY, MARCH 31. 4:35 P.M.

  John Barron heard the sharp whine of the engines, then felt the press of his body against his seat as British Airways flight 0282 hurtled down the runway at LAX bound for London. Seconds later the plane lifted off and there was the distinct clunk of the landing gear closing into the fuselage. Below, he could see the cityscape of Los Angeles vanish as the aircraft gained altitude. Then he saw the coastline and the deep blue of the Pacific and the string of white beaches reaching north to Malibu. And then the plane banked gently left and all he saw was sky. They were safely up and away.

  Barron let out a breath in relief and turned to see Rebecca curled up on the seat beside him. A blanket pulled up over her, she was sound asleep. Yet, heavily sedated as she was, she looked surprisingly at peace, as if finally her life and his had turned in the right direction.

  Barron glanced around. The eight other passengers in the first class cabin paid them no attention whatsoever. To them he was just another traveler with a companion sleeping beside him. How could any one of them know they were running for their lives?

  “Would you care for a cocktail, Mr. Marten?”

  “What?” Distracted and puzzled, John Barron looked up to see a male flight attendant standing in the aisle beside him.

  “I asked if you’d care for a cocktail, Mr. Marten.”

  “Oh—yes, thank you. A vodka martini. A double.”

  “Ice?”

  “Please.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Marten.”

  Barron sat back. He had to get used to people calling him Marten. The same as he would have to respond to being called by his first name, Nick or Nicholas. T
he same as Rebecca would have to get used to the name Rebecca Marten, or Ms. Marten, and react to it as if she had been doing so all her life.

  The plane banked easily once again as they turned east. A moment later the flight attendant returned and placed his drink on the armrest beside him. Barron nodded a thanks and picked it up and tasted it. It was cool and dry and bitter all at the same time. He wondered when he’d last had a martini, if ever, and why he’d ordered it. On the other hand, he did know it was strong, and it was a strong drink he wanted now.

  Today was exactly two weeks and two days since the terrible bloodbath in the rail yards. Sixteen days of pain and anxiety and fear. He took another sip of his drink and glanced at Rebecca asleep beside him. She was okay, so was he. He watched her for a moment longer, then looked out the window at the passing clouds and tried to put together what had happened in so blisteringly short a time.

  He could still smell the stench of gunpowder and see Halliday on the rail platform screaming into his radio for ambulances. Still see Rebecca running wildly toward him from the fallen Polchak. Shrieking, crying, nearly hysterical, dropping to the concrete, to cradle him in her arms. In what seemed like slow motion he saw Police Chief Harwood and his entourage come down the platform just as the first rescue vehicles arrived. And, in the same slow motion, emergency medical technicians taking over. He saw horror contort Rebecca’s face as she was pulled from him, and then she vanished, swallowed up in a sea of uniforms. He remembered his clothes being cut from him and morphine being shot into his arm. And glimpsing Halliday talking with Chief Harwood. And seeing EMT people slipping under the freight car to work on Raymond on the tracks below. Then Barron was being loaded onto a backboard and carried toward an ambulance past the prostrate figures of Lee and Valparaiso and Polchak. And he knew they were dead. As reality faded under the sway of the morphine he had one last glimpse of Chief Harwood surrounded by aides. There was no question they knew what had happened, and damage control had already begun.