The Flats

by Kate Birdsall

  From there, the narrative gets weirder and weirder, and I wonder whether she had some kind of psychotic break in the midst of committing these crimes. I scan her description of what she did to Kevin Whittle’s body and her baffling list of reasons for her actions. Something hits me. Sarah’s mom beat her for being left-handed. I think of Kevin’s missing left hand, a hand that we never found: exsanguination due to severed appendage. I feel sick. She’s obviously completely out of her mind but very smart, which scares me more than anything.

  Near the end of the notebook, after a long diatribe about the lack of justice in the world—I skim most of that—she spends about twenty pages obsessing about David Lynch movies. She’s got six pages on Eraserhead, long ramblings about the woman in the radiator and why psychological horror is “both the best and worst kind” of horror. Her favorite is Mulholland Drive, which she calls “the perfect mystery, if you’re smart enough to spot the clues.” A sharp pain jabs me when I remember Christopher chatting so happily about his new girlfriend and how they bonded over David Lynch movies.

  Tucked into a pocket inside the back cover is an article about the Cleveland Film Society putting on a retrospective. She’s circled the date, time, and location. I check my watch. Mulholland Drive starts in forty-five minutes at Tower City Cinema.

  “Call for backup,” I tell Goran. “I’m going to arrest this crazy bitch. This is my collar. She’s at Tower City. We’re going to get her right now. Get me a picture. I need a picture.”

  “Boyle. Please. Take some deep breaths, or I can’t let you do anything with this.”

  I force myself to breathe. In a nice, calm voice, I ask Goran to call Fishner to get the green light, then we jog to the car. While he’s standing outside on the phone, I get in and grip the steering wheel so tightly that my hands start to go numb. As soon as he reaches for the door handle, I start the car.

  He plops into the passenger seat. “Boss lady says go get her,” he says as he buckles his seat belt. “She’s sending us both a picture and calling for backup.”

  On the way to the theater, I hit the dash lights and siren, the whole deal. I hit about eighty miles an hour at one point on Ontario. The drive to the theater, which would usually take over half an hour, takes eight minutes. A couple of times, Goran tries to remind me that sleet can freeze when it hits pavement and that even though we have all-wheel drive, I need to be careful because there are other people on the road, but I wave him off.

  When we get there, I see that patrol has already responded with three zone cars. “Talk to them, Goran. I can’t right now. I won’t make sense.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Breathe, Boyle. We’ll get her. Okay? Are you okay? I can’t let you—”

  I close my eyes for a few seconds then open them. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  He hops out of the car and jogs over to the cruisers. I shove my door open then circle around to the trunk for our Kevlar vests. Trying not to imagine what might be happening to my brother, I scan the parking lot for his Cutlass, but I don’t see it. This is my collar. I will put her away.

  Goran comes up beside me, and I hand him his vest. As he’s putting it on, he says, “Okay, we’ve got six uniforms, maybe more on the way from the districts. The first thing we need to do is get in there and get the lay of the land. If memory serves, it’s just one long hallway with, like, ten auditoriums. So I’m keeping two on the front door, one on each of the fire exits at the ends, two in the back, and two with us.”

  I strip off my leather jacket, throw it into the car, and replace it with the vest, which I top with a navy-blue police windbreaker. I slam the trunk lid closed. “Mulholland Drive is the movie she came to see,” I say as we stride toward the entrance.

  “Ten-four, partner. What kind of car does Chris drive?”

  “A ’99 Cutlass. It’s a piece of shit. Green.”

  Goran radios for more backup and requests that a zone car cruise the parking lot to look for Christopher’s car. We slam through the front door of the theater. Two uniforms, a young man and an older woman, enter right after we do and fall in behind me.

  I thrust my phone at the guy at the ticket desk. “Do you recognize this woman? Is she in here? Maybe accompanied by a tall blond man?”

  The ticket clerk squints at my phone and shakes his head. “No blond guy. But I remember her. She’s shown up for every single one of the Lynch films. She seemed out of it today, though. On something, I figure.”

  “Which auditorium is Mulholland Drive playing in?” Goran asks.

  “Theater number three,” he says. “It’s not running for another thirty minutes, but she was early.”

  “You’re sure there was no one with her?” I ask.

  He nods. “I’m sure.”

  We hustle down the hall to theater number three and stop outside the door.

  “Here’s the plan,” Goran says. “Once we’re in there, one of us will take each corner.” He points at the male uniform. “Baker, you’re on the right rear.” He turns to the other one. “Moskowitz, you’re on the left rear. Boyle will go to the front right, and I’ll take the front left. On my signal, one of you in the back flip on the lights. There should be a switch somewhere near the entrance to the auditorium, up on the wall.”

  The four of us file into the theater and station ourselves as quietly as we can around the edges of the room. Goran raises his hand then lowers it. Seconds later, the lights come on. I squint until my eyes adjust.

  Goran steps forward, keeping his voice steady. “Folks, we’re sorry to interrupt, but there’s an emergency situation. We need to evacuate the theater.”

  It’s a small crowd, maybe only fifteen people, so I scan every face as they get to their feet. One middle-aged guy looks irate. A woman spills her popcorn. A couple of underage kids shove open beer cans back into a bag. They file out of the theater, and I start searching each row.

  I call out, “Sarah, this is Liz. Christopher’s sister. I know you want to talk to me.”

  No one responds. I’m standing in a completely empty theater with no brother and no suspect. I sprint to the hallway. Goran and the two unis exit right behind me.

  Back in the hallway, two more uniforms join us. “One of you take that end of the hallway, and the other at the other end,” I order, suddenly feeling more in control. I turn to Baker and Moskowitz. “Check all of the doors in the hallway. They’re probably storerooms, and she could be hiding in there. Slow going in the auditoriums. There are places to hide.”

  “Do you have a picture?” Moskowitz asks.

  I pull out my phone and tap on the photograph from Fishner. I hold out my phone, and the four unis lean in to get a look. They split up and hustle down the hall in opposite directions.

  Goran and I start with the two doors closest to the auditorium we just left. They’re both locked.

  “Hey!” I call to a guy who looks as if he might be the manager. “Will you unlock these doors, please? Don’t open them, just unlock them.”

  He nods and scurries over to unlock them, dropping his keys twice in the process. I motion for him to step to the side. I draw my weapon, and Goran opens one door. Just a storeroom. He opens the next. No perp, no brother.

  I holster my weapon and spin around. I point at a door marked Projection Booth. “What’s that? Where does that go?” My gut twists. The projection booth. Playing the director. Running the show.

  “It goes upstairs,” the manager replies.

  Goran calls to Baker and Moskowitz, telling them to follow us, but I don’t wait. I wrench the door open and take the steps two at a time. When I get to the top, I draw my weapon and push through a second door. I hear Goran behind me with the uniforms.

  The dimly lit room, which is about a hundred yards long, houses the movie projectors. Almost all of them are running, light flickering through each lens, through a glass porthole, and on
to the movie screens.

  “Let’s start on this end and work our way down,” Goran whispers. He turns to the two uniforms. “You two take that side.”

  We creep around the projectors, weapons drawn.

  Baker calls, “Over here,” from the far end of the room. “A ladder!”

  Goran and I finish clearing our section of the floor and join him down at the far end. Baker shines his flashlight up into the narrow passageway, and the beam disappears against the dark sky.

  Shit, really? “It goes to the roof,” I say. I point at the unis. “You two, make sure this floor is completely clear. Check those two bathrooms back there, and that office. Radio for at least two more officers to get up here.”

  Goran goes up the ladder first. “Be careful,” he calls down to me. “It’s slippery.”

  When I make it onto the roof, I stand next to Goran and lock my elbows with my thumbs forward on the pistol, matching the way he’s holding his own weapon. “That way.” I gesture to the right with the Glock.

  Goran slides in front of me, his back flat against the back of the large neon sign that bears the name of the theater.

  “I’m taking the other side,” I whisper.

  I half crawl behind a large air-conditioning unit. The rooftop is mostly gravel and stones, probably over rubber or asphalt, and it crunches beneath my boots. The sleet stings my face, but I barely notice. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement on my left. Someone is behind another unit.

  “Sarah Taylor!” I shout. “This is it! Come out with your hands above your head!” I want to stand up and survey the scene, but I know she’s armed. Vests don’t protect us from head shots.

  A police helicopter circles overhead. Wow. They’ve really called in the cavalry for this one. I say a tiny little thank-you to Fishner. The spotlights swirl around on the roof before coming to a stop behind one of the HVAC units. I know there’s a guy up there with a sniper rifle. Through a loudspeaker, they tell her to drop her weapon.

  Sarah, bent at the waist in a half crouch, runs toward the roof hatch. If she goes back down there, there’s a chance she can take a hostage. I hope patrol cleared the second floor. I drop my left hand, keeping my gun in front of me in my right. I don’t like this, but I have to move fast. I bolt toward her.

  She pops up from behind another of the HVAC units. She jogs backward toward the ledge, her gun pointed right at my forehead. The spotlight is on her, and I know the sniper is getting ready to shoot. A disembodied man’s voice from above tells her to drop her weapon and lie on the ground.

  I’ve got both hands on my Glock now. My finger clenches, putting pressure on the trigger. I’ve got a clear shot. I’m looking down the barrel at the left center of her chest. Her heart is beating but not for long, because she’s going to shoot me, and I have no choice.

  Boom!

  The shot didn’t come from my gun or from hers. It came from above me, registering in my brain under the sound of the helicopter and my own heart beating. She suddenly drops from view.

  “Down the hatch! Goran, she’s down the fucking hatch!” I scream.

  I keep my trigger finger flexed, but I’m no longer squeezing the trigger. One more ounce of pressure, and it would have been my second shooting in three months. There’s no way IA would look the other way, and there’s no way I would ever get over it.

  I don’t see Goran, and I’m closer, so I hurry over to the roof hatch. Grabbing the top rung of the ladder, I swing my body over and into the opening. I look down and see Sarah has fallen on the floor of the projection booth. She flails around in the slippery mess from the melting sleet and her own blood, which swirl together on the gray tile like one of those peppermint candies. Her gun is a foot away from her left hand. I can’t tell where the wound is, but she’s got to be seriously injured. Our snipers are good, and that was quite a drop.

  I turn around on the ladder and point my Glock at her. Keeping my weapon trained on her, I awkwardly move down a few rungs. I almost fall once when my other hand slips, but I catch myself.

  Sarah manages to get up on all fours then stretches a hand toward her weapon. I have a clear shot to the back of her head, but I’m not in danger now. I won’t pull the trigger.

  “Freeze! Do not reach for your weapon, or I will shoot you.” My voice sounds as though it’s coming from someone strong and powerful.

  Suddenly, she leaps to her feet and takes off, disappearing from my line of sight. I’m not that far from the ground now, so I release my grip and jump. The impact on my knees is jarring, but I ignore the pain. Her gun is no longer on the floor.

  I sprint down the hall. “Freeze!”

  I spot her ahead. Her gun is in her right hand. She’s not moving very fast, and I overtake her in seconds. I lurch forward and tackle her from behind. On top of her, I try to get my bearings. I’ve knocked the wind out of both of us, and a sharp pain radiates from my knee. She flails around, trying to get her weapon aimed at me.

  “Where the fuck is Christopher?” I growl.

  I’m bigger than she is, and she’s hurt, but she’s strong. I push myself up a little and plant my left knee in her back. I push her right arm down hard into the tile with my left hand. I quickly holster my Glock to free up my other hand so I can cuff her. Please, Goran. Please be there behind me. I reach out to pluck the gun from her hand.

  Boom!

  The sound of the blast deafens me. I realize Sarah managed to pull the trigger.

  “Boyle! Officer down! Officer down!”

  But I’m not down. I’m fine. I don’t feel any pain, and it’s not my blood. Crimson is oozing from her left shoulder, and more is pooling on the floor beneath her. It’s a through-and-through from the sniper rifle. We’ve got to get her to the hospital, or she’s going to bleed out right here.

  I reach out and push her gun out of her hand with enough force to send it skittering across the floor. Seeing Goran coming from the direction of the ladder, I yell, “I’ve got her! Disarmed! She is unarmed! Call an ambulance!”

  Baker and Moskowitz burst out of a door down the hall, guns raised and pointed at us.

  “I’ve got her!” I yell again. “I’m fine! I’ve got her! Don’t shoot! Medics! Now!”

  Goran comes up beside me. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Baker recovers Sarah’s gun, a small Smith and Wesson semiautomatic, and hands it to Goran. My partner drops the weapon into an evidence bag then moves over to inspect the wall where the bullet is lodged. Two other uniforms come up through the door that leads downstairs.

  I push Sarah’s face into the tile with my left forearm against the back of her head. “Where is Christopher?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “We found the car,” one of the new arrivals says.

  I press her harder into the floor. “Where is Christopher?”

  “My job wasn’t done yet,” she cries. “I wanted you to kill me.”

  “He’s okay,” the uniform says. “Shaken up, slowed down, drugged on something, but okay. We got him out of the trunk of the Cutlass. It was parked around back by the dumpster.”

  I lean forward, getting my mouth inches from her ear. “Your little adventure is over now, psycho.” I’m tempted to yank her arms back and cuff her none too gently, but she’s fading fast, her blood soaking both of us.

  I look down and see that she’s smiling. Grinning. She starts to struggle. She’s bleeding everywhere. It’s not stopping.

  “Stop it, or you’re going to bleed out. Be still.”

  “It’s nice that you give a shit today, but you were supposed to kill me. You would have, too. You fucking idiot. You’ve always been so stupid, so selfish.” Her voice is spooky because she sounds so calm. Her head falls back against the floor, and her eyelids flutter closed.

  I yank off my windbreaker and u
se it to apply pressure to her shoulder. “Where the fuck are the medics?” I shout.

  “It was the last chance,” she whispers. “My last chance. That night in that foster home was my last chance at anything like a normal life. And you left me there. I really liked your brother, you know.” She takes a labored breath. “Thing is, people like you and me? We can never be in love. We hurt everyone we touch.”

  I tell her to shut up until she’s out of surgery, then she can tell me all about it.

  She loses consciousness before I have the chance to Mirandize her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For the first time in months, I don’t wake up before my alarm. I’m in a deep sleep when it goes off. As soon as I open my eyes, the cat jumps off the bed and starts meowing for food. “Morning, Ivan.”

  I grab my phone and see that I have a text message from Julia Becker: Do you have time this morning for a cup of coffee? I’ll be at Gato’s by 8.

  Sure, I reply. I’ll see you then.

  She was kind to me the night we apprehended Sarah Taylor. After a shower and a change of clothes, I went back to the station to start the mountain of paperwork. Becker was waiting for me, holding a cup of good coffee with the right amount of cream, her copper-colored hair pulled back into a messy bun. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I think so. I could use some ice for my knee.”

  “You want me to stay, in case you want to talk?”

  I didn’t want to talk, but I thanked her, anyway. She brought me ice for my knee. She was kind.

  I get dressed and go out to my car. I notice that the temperature is much warmer than it has been, and I wonder if spring is finally on its way. It still feels like rain, but I’ll take it.