by Toby Ball
“ Fitzy,” Wayne said, pointing over to the geezer Grip had displaced. “But then your buddy Prosper Maddox talked a little bit.”
“Maddox?”
“Yeah, he didn’t stick around. Didn’t really fit in with the rest of the clientele, if you follow; talked some crazy shit about the end of the world or something. I was drinking pretty hard during that shit, not really paying attention.”
“So what’s going on? They had this meeting; now what?”
Wayne’s eyes were too swollen to squint, but Grip saw the suspicion. “I don’t know, Torsten. You’ve got me worried a little, sticking up for your Red lieut, and all.”
Grip leaned across the table. “Do not fucking question my commitment, Ed. Just because I’m not a goddamn jackass doesn’t mean I’m soft. What the fuck is going on?”
Wayne scowled. “We’re going to burn those fucking shanties to the ground.”
95.
Westermann walked through deserted streets in the night heat, people holed up inside from pure fatigue. He was exhausted, feeling it in his legs and in the way he had to concentrate to keep his mind from wandering. He was closing in, just missing details.
Big Rolf.
Deyna.
Jimmy Symmes leaving with Koss.
The twins singing at the Holiness Church.
Focus.
He was certain that the disease that afflicted Mavis Talley and Lenore and the two other girls was the same disease that Symmes and Van Oot had picked up in Africa and that Koss apparently carried. This cemented the connection between Prosper Maddox’s church, Dr. Vesterhue, and the sick prostitutes. They must have contracted the disease from Koss. Was he sleeping with these prostitutes with Vesterhue trying to treat them once it became apparent Koss was infecting them? That didn’t really explain Lenore’s drowning death—or the other two, for that matter—or why it had happened down at the river. And where was Vesterhue?
Photos with Washington.
Lenore rotating slowly as she drifts downriver.
Are you good with the Lord?
He was pulled from his thoughts by a sense that he was being followed or watched. He turned around, but the street was empty save for a couple of winos sitting against a storefront, too tired even to talk. He kept moving, distracted now and trying to figure out if he was really being followed or just spooked by what Grip had told him about the night he was tailed.
He began to worry that it might be Morphy, wondered what Morphy intended to do. Kill him? Would Morphy do that?
A block from his building he felt the grip of panic, his proximity to safety cutting his breath short. He turned again. Still no one. He broke into a half trot, feeling stupid for running like this, but at the same time desperate to reach the safety of his building. Half a block away, he saw that someone was sitting on the steps, mostly in the shadows. He slowed down to a fast walk and pulled his gun.
The figure stood up, putting his hands in the air, one holding a lit cigarette. “Don’t shoot, sir,” the man said, gently mocking.
Jesus Christ.
96.
“It’s me, Frings.” Frings watched Westermann decelerate, still holding the gun but pointing it down now.
Pale and out of breath, Westermann asked, “What’re you doing here?”
“I told you that Ellen Aust is at my place.”
“I remember.” Westermann took a look over his shoulder at the empty street.
“Well, I was talking to her tonight because I knew that some of the Godtown people were treated by Vesterhue, and I wondered if maybe there was another doctor who they saw, too. Especially with Vesterhue MIA. So she says sure, she sees a guy named Berdych.”
Westermann had dark patches under his glazed eyes, his shoulders sagged. He looked at Frings and Frings understood that Westermann didn’t know who Berdych was.
Frings said, “Carla and Betty Askins and some businessmen have arranged for food and clothing and all that to be distributed down in the shanties?”
Westermann nodded.
“Well, they’re vaccinating kids at the same time, and the doctor who’s volunteered—”
“Is Berdych.” Frings saw Westermann’s eyes narrow as he understood the implications. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Frings had lain awake that night, thinking about Berdych, working through the implications. He remembered him from the meeting at Carla’s: a tall guy, skinny, short blond hair, little round glasses. Carried himself as if he were high caste. Frings wasn’t sure what to make of his connections to both the Church of Last Days and the Uhuru Community. The benign explanation was that he was a charitable doctor who, in his good deeds, happened to work with two groups, two groups with very different philosophical foundations, that seemed to figure in Lenore’s death. A coincidence, though that wasn’t quite the right word. An improbability.
The other possibility, the one that had kept Frings from sleeping, was that Berdych’s loyalties lay with Prosper Maddox, and volunteering his services to the Community was some sort of subterfuge. Frings knew from Carla that Berdych would be vaccinating shanty kids in just a few hours. Hours. Grabbing a couple of reefers, he’d headed out into the night.
He’d grabbed a jitney to Westermann’s building, riding in the back with his eyes closed, mind racing, wind from the open windows making crazed vortices around his head.
Westermann wasn’t home, and uncertain of his next move, he’d sat on Westermann’s stoop and smoked another reefer until he’d heard the sound of approaching footsteps and seen the figure moving at him with a gun in his hand.
Frings wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting at this tony address but the largely barren apartment had not been it. The place was beautiful, no doubt, but looked as if someone were moving in or moving out, as if no one actually lived there.
They drank beer while Westermann recounted for Frings the interview with Jimmy Symmes. Frings listened, eyes closed, picturing in his mind the scene Westermann described. He thought about Symmes unburdening himself of this knowledge, but certain things weren’t making sense to him—not so much the story, but Symmes’s intentions.
“What is Symmes doing here? Why did he come?”
Westermann frowned, scratched at his temple. “That’s the question, isn’t it? We didn’t get the chance to ask him.”
“Do you have a guess? Was he coming to see you, tell you his story?”
“That wasn’t my impression.”
“Did you say he brought a gun?”
“Yeah. Said he wanted it for protection. You know, a kid from the sticks in the City and all that.”
“He needs protection? That ring true to you? This gink was in the war, saw combat, and he’s scared to come to the goddamn City? You buy that?”
Westermann frowned. “He has some physical problems. I don’t know.”
Frings stood, suddenly restless, thinking that things might start moving fast. “So let me see if I can tell what you’re thinking. You think that somehow they—Koss, Vesterhue, maybe Maddox—figured how to infect people with this virus that Symmes and the others caught in Africa. Probably something to do with Koss, maybe giving them shots of his infected blood, something like that. Probably Vesterhue was experimenting with it on those girls and seeing what happened. Right?”
Westermann nodded. “But where are Vesterhue and the other girls?”
“That’s not part of what I’m working out right now. Anyway, I think that Maddox’s problems with commies in general and the Uhuru Community in particular are pretty well established. So I think you’re worried that Berdych is going to infect those kids when he’s supposed to be vaccinating them at the Community tomorrow.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I do. I really do. But it’s important that you think so because I can’t stop him. You can. Go arrest him, question him, whatever; but don’t let him get to those kids.”
97.
A red haze seeped into the eastern sky as Westermann arrived at Headqu
arters. The duty officer gave him a heavy-lidded gaze, fatigue robbing him of the energy to muster actual hostility. Upstairs, the squad room was empty and Westermann helped himself to three aspirin from Souza’s desk drawer. No sleep, a hangover coming on as his drunkenness faded. He opened his office window in time to hear a delivery truck rattle by. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands, willing himself to clarity in this stagnant heat. He needed to get his mind around the logistics.
Koss.
Maddox.
Where was Vesterhue?
Where was Mavis Talley?
He needed to convince Kraatjes first. If he convinced Kraatjes, the two of them could go to the Chief. But if it went wrong, this was a career-killer.
Kraatjes always arrived early, when the sun still hid behind the skyline.
He rapped on the doorframe, pulling Westermann from his thoughts.
“I saw your note.” Kraatjes looked apprehensive. “You look like hell.”
Westermann knew how he appeared: unshaven, yesterday’s clothes wrinkled and withered, hair lank from twenty-four hours of sweat.
Kraatjes took a seat, looking cautiously over at him. “Okay, Piet. What’s up?”
Westermann laid it out for him.
The Chief’s lights were off and the sun came through the open windows, casting an orange light across the room. Westermann unloaded the case just as he had to Kraatjes—what he knew, what he intended to do—while Kraatjes paced, smoking, nodding along.
When Westermann was done, the Chief leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling. Kraatjes settled over by the window, blowing cigarette smoke into the stagnant City air. Westermann, his story told, slumped in his chair, his hand supporting his forehead.
The Chief asked Kraatjes, “You think Asplundh will grant us the warrants?”
Kraatjes nodded, having thought this through. “You guarantee that one of us falls on his sword if it goes south, then, yeah, I think he’ll do it. He doesn’t want a bunch of dead kids on his conscience.”
The Chief sighed. Westermann could feel the Chief’s appraising eyes and knew that his shabby appearance didn’t inspire confidence. The Chief leaned his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers.
Kraatjes finished his cigarette and stubbed the filter into a glass ashtray on the Chief’s desk. “I’ll take the fall if this goes wrong.”
The Chief looked at Kraatjes, then Westermann, then back to Kraatjes. The Chief shook his head. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but this is on Piet. We’ll do this, but Piet gets the credit or he takes the fall. That’s how it’s got to work.”
Westermann nodded, his thoughts drifting, fatigue blurring his focus.
Morphy.
Morphy.
Morphy.
The Chief stood. “Let’s get this moving.”
98.
Morphy, Grip, and a dozen uniforms rolled through Godtown, no lights, no sirens. The sidewalks were empty; they were always empty. Grip had his window down, listening to the sound of the tires on asphalt, a sound usually drowned out by the noise of the City. His nerves were electric—this was not going to be a normal arrest; he didn’t know why, but it just wasn’t.
They pulled up in front of the church, and Grip and Morphy waited while a half dozen of the uniforms took up positions by the two alternative exits. Down the street, Grip saw a mound of fur and thought it might be the body of the German shepherd they had seen. Why was it just lying there? Wouldn’t somebody move it?
Singing was coming from inside. Grip racked his brain for the hymn but couldn’t find it. He pounded the front door. Nobody came. The sun scalded his neck. He pounded again, yelling, “Police. We have a warrant. Open the door.” More singing, but no one came. He tried the door, but it was locked.
Grip descended the steps, moving stiffly, and sent two uniforms up with a battering ram. The four others drew their weapons.
“Do it,” Grip said.
One blow with the ram and the doors burst open. The cops dropped the battering ram and moved to the side, giving the others a clear shot into the empty foyer of the church. The singing now came to them much louder. Grip led them in, pointing pairs of cops in various directions, telling them to look for Ole Koss.
Grip, Morphy, and two uniforms paused before the doors leading to the sanctuary, pulling their guns. Grip eased the door open and they stepped through to find the pews filled with people in plain dress, standing and singing. Above the pulpit, lit by the morning sun, a stained-glass Jesus cast his hands over his disciples in piercing primary colors.
A few people in the back noticed the cops and stopped singing. Grip, Morphy, and the two uniforms stood where they were. More people noticed the police and also stopped singing. Grip watched as the awareness of their presence filtered up toward the front pews. The organist stopped and then the last few singers, and then the place was silent, a couple hundred people staring wordlessly at the four police.
Grip walked down the aisle between the pews, his footsteps loud in the crowded silence. None of the congregants moved or spoke. He saw their faces—old, young, plain, beautiful, disfigured, innocent—watch him as he walked. Grip wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His hands shook. He led Morphy and the two uniforms behind the pulpit and found a short hallway leading back. Grip beckoned the uniforms, whispered to them to keep watch on the sanctuary. They nodded, not looking happy.
Grip and Morphy walked down the hallway to where it ended at a door. They stood to either side, backs to the wall, as Morphy gently pushed the door open. Nothing. Grip peered around the corner; saw Maddox sitting behind a small writing desk, stage-lit by the sun cascading through a high window. Seeing Grip, Maddox leaned back in his chair, eyes glazed.
Grip kept his gun down, touching his thigh. “Prosper Maddox, we have a warrant for your arrest.”
Maddox looked toward them with unfocused eyes. “I can’t sleep, can’t let down my guard.”
He did look terrible—pasty skin, heavy lids, unhealthy slump to his shoulders.
“Where’s Koss?” Grip asked.
Maddox didn’t seem to have heard.
“Where’s Ole Koss?” Grip asked again.
Maddox shifted his half-lidded gaze from Grip to Morphy and back to Grip.
Morphy seemed, in his own way, concerned. The uniforms arrived. Grip shot them a furious look.
“The sanctuary’s covered.”
“Did they find Koss?”
The uniform shook his head.
“Go to your car, radio for some support. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get Maddox out of here.”
Grip followed them to the sanctuary, leaving Morphy watching Maddox. The scene hadn’t changed much. Four uniforms stood by the entrance, guns out but pointed down, nervously scanning the crowd. Grip waved two of them over and situated them by the pulpit.
“We’re waiting for reinforcements,” Grip whispered, “and then we’re walking Maddox out of here.”
The cop wouldn’t take his eyes off the crowd to look at Grip. “You want us to clear the sanctuary?”
Grip had thought about this. “I think we’re better off having them all in one place. We can let them go after we get Maddox out.”
“Okay.”
Grip walked back to Maddox’s office. Maddox was sitting with his hands in his lap, head down, eyes closed. Morphy leaned against the wall, watching.
“He asleep?”
Morphy shook his head. “Praying, I think.”
They waited fifteen minutes for support, Maddox almost in a trance, Grip and Morphy nervously biding time. Grip found Morphy’s anxiety disconcerting, it wasn’t like him. But the silence of the place, considering the number of people in the sanctuary, was eerie.
A uniform came back, pale and jittery. “We’ve got a dozen cops out there now.”
Grip nodded. The uniform left.
Morphy walked behind Maddox and lifted him gently under the arm, guiding him around the desk. Morphy turned M
addox’s shoulders so that they faced each other.
“We’re going to walk through the sanctuary and to the door. You won’t say anything to anyone. You open your mouth, I will kill someone; maybe you, maybe somebody else, maybe a kid. But I will kill somebody.”
Maddox gazed dazedly at Morphy. Grip hoped that Maddox would keep his mouth shut.
They walked around the pulpit and into the center aisle, Grip in front, Maddox, Morphy behind. The congregants were seated and silent, but seeing Maddox they rose. Grip tightened his hold on his gun, kept walking, watching the uniforms as they fidgeted.
It started with one man; for just a moment his voice was alone, but they all joined him, howling. The uniforms had their guns pointed into the pews, but no one took a shot. Trembling, Grip grabbed Maddox’s sleeve and rushed him up the aisle, everyone’s eyes on them, the noise deafening. Grip pulled Maddox through the door to the vestibule then outside. In the open, the howling was much quieter, no longer overwhelming. Grip and Morphy each took an arm and walked Maddox toward their prowl car.
Maddox spoke quietly, as if to himself. “They will be greatly shamed, for they will not succeed. Their eternal honor will never be forgotten.”
Morphy glared. “Shut up.”
“But the Lord is with me as a dread warrior; therefore my persecutors will stumble; they shall not overcome me.”
Shut up.
99.
Carla arrived at the shanties shortly after seven that morning, a formidable day coordinating the distribution of food, clothing, medicine, and information ahead of her, even with the help of Eunice Prendergrast’s network. Time was also going to be an issue; when the Square got going sometime in the late afternoon, everything else would stop.
Carla grew increasingly troubled as the morning wore on. The truck arrived with clothes, and Eunice’s women were ready with distribution lists, but the scene inside the shanties was making deliveries nearly impossible. The narrow lanes hummed with the movement, not of children, but of adults carrying loads or calling out to this person or that, making plans. Many people weren’t in their shacks, and the women just left the clothes in the hopes that the occupant would return to get them.