A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  Shit. Costin’s.

  He set the six-pack down and peeked over the hood. The cop was out of the unit’s passenger seat now and on the sidewalk, drawing his pistol. Just then the door to Costin’s burst open and a giant leapt onto the top step. He stood six-six at least and looked completely bald under the flat black leather cap squeezed onto the top of his head; the loose sweatsuit he wore only emphasized his massive, bulked-up frame. He was snarling, his shiny black features contorted in rage. He held a sawed-off ten-gauge pump-action against his hip, aimed down at the cop.

  In the clear air, lit by the mercury vapor lamps lining the block, the scene had an unreal look, like something out of a movie.

  The cop raised his pistol, giving warning, going by the book.

  “Drop it or I’ll—”

  He never got to finish the sentence. The big guy barely blinked as he pulled the trigger.

  The left side of the cop’s face and neck exploded red. His pistol flew from his hand as he was spun to his left to land face down on the hood of the unit. He left a wet, red smear as he slid across the hood. He rolled over the grille and landed on the asphalt in front of the bumper, flat on his back, twitching.

  The big black guy’s face changed as soon as the cop went down. The snarl melted into a smile, but the rage remained, hiding behind the teeth he showed. Casually laying the shotgun across his shoulder, he approached the cop like a gardener strolling toward a cabbage patch with his hoe.

  “Well, Mr. Man in Blue,” he said, standing over the moaning cop. “How’s it feel to bleed?”

  The cop couldn’t speak. Even from down the street Jack could see the blood pumping from his neck. Another sixty seconds and he’d be history.

  Jack found himself on the move before he knew it, his sneakers whispering along the pavement as he raced down the sidewalk in a crouch, watching the scene through the windows of the parked cars he kept between himself and the other side of the street.

  A voice inside urged him the other way. Cops were the enemy, a threat to his own existence.

  This isn’t your fight—butt out.

  But another, deeper part of him overruled the voice and made him pull the Semmerling from his ankle holster. Still in a crouch, he started across the street.

  “You know,” the big black was saying, “I could let you bleed some more and make a bigger puddle, and pretty soon you’d be just as dead as if I blowed your head off.” He grinned as he worked the pump on the sawed-off. A red-and-brass cartridge arced into the street. “But somehow that wouldn’t be the same.”

  He leveled the truncated barrel into the cop’s face.

  “Forget it,” Jack said as he came up behind him. He had the Semmerling pointed at the back of the guy’s head. “You’ve done enough for one night.”

  The guy glanced over his shoulder. When his eyes lit on the Semmerling, he smiled.

  “Ain’t never been threatened with a pop gun before.”

  “Just drop the hog and take off.”

  “You mean you ain’t gonna arrest me?”

  Jack had acted on impulse. At the moment, the best course seemed to be get rid of the shooter and call an ambulance for the cop. Then disappear.

  “One more time. Drop it and go.”

  The guy’s voice jumped. “You kiddin’ me, man? I could take a couple from that pop gun and sit down for breakfast.”

  “It’s a Semmerling L-4,” Jack said. “World’s smallest forty-five.”

  The gunman paused.

  “Oh. Well, in that case—”

  The guy ducked to his right as he made a hard swing with the shotgun, trying to bring it to bear on Jack. Jack corrected his aim and pulled the trigger. The Semmerling boomed and bucked in his hand. The gunman’s right eye socket became a black hole and his leather cap spun away like a Frisbee. Red mist haloed his head as it jerked back with enough force to yank his feet off the pavement. The sawed-off tumbled from his hand and skittered along the sidewalk as he sprawled back on the sidewalk and flopped around until his body got the message that what little remained of the brain was mush. Then he lay still.

  Jack knelt beside the fallen cop. He looked like hell. The mercury light further blanched the deathly pallor of his face. Eyes glazing, going fast. Where the hell was old man Costin? Where was the cop’s partner? Why wasn’t anyone around to call an ambulance? Jack felt naked and exposed out here on the street, but he couldn’t take off now.

  He switched the Semmerling to his left hand, located the spot in the fallen cop’s throat that was doing the most pumping, and jammed his thumb into it. The flesh was wet and hot and sticky. He’d read novel after novel that mentioned the coppery smell of blood. He didn’t get it. He’d never known copper to have an odor worth mentioning, and if it did, it sure as hell didn’t smell like this.

  Jack was about to look around again for help when he heard footsteps behind him.

  “All right! Hold it right there, you fucker!”

  Jack turned his head and saw a uniformed cop crouched on his right, taking two-handed aim at his head with a Glock. Another blue-and-white blocked the street behind him.

  Jack’s gut looped into a knot and pulled tight.

  “I’m holding it.”

  “Drop the gun and put your hands up!”

  Jack dropped the Semmerling and raised his left hand.

  “C’mon!” The cop said. “Both of them!”

  “This guy’s already half dead,” Jack said. “If I take my hand off this pumper, he’ll go the rest of the way in no time.”

  “Christ!” the cop said, then shouted: “Gerry—you make the call?”

  “Ambulance and back-up on the way,” said a voice from the unit.

  “All right. See who’s down.”

  Another uniform dashed out of the darkness behind the first cop and stopped within half a dozen feet of Jack. He squinted at the ruined face above Jack’s hand.

  “Oh, Jeez, it’s Carella!”

  “Shit!” said the first cop. He spoke through clenched teeth as he glared at Jack. “You dirty—”

  “Hey-hey!” Jack said. “Let’s get something straight here. I didn’t shoot your pal.”

  “Just shut the fuck up! You think I’m stupid?”

  Jack bit back an affirmative and jerked his head toward the guy on the sidewalk.

  “He did it.”

  Apparently the cop hadn’t seen the other body until now. He jumped to his feet.

  “Oh, great. Just great.”

  The second cop, the one called Gerry, eased around to the sidewalk and checked out the body.

  “This one’s cooling,” he said. “Head wound.” He whistled. “Looks like a hot load.”

  “And I suppose you had nothing to do with that, either?” the first cop said.

  “No. Him I did. But there was another cop. He went into Costin’s. I heard a shot, and then this guy—”

  “Jeez!” Gerry said. “The kid was with Carella!”

  “See if he’s all right!” the first cop said.

  Gerry dashed up the stairs and grabbed the door handle. As he pulled it open, a voice screamed from within.

  “Stay back! I got your buddy and the owner in here! Stay back or I’ll kill ‘em both!”

  Gerry scuttled back down the steps.

  “We got a hostage situation here, Fred.”

  “He’s got the kid!” Fred said. “God damn! Call the hostage team. Now!”

  As Gerry ran off, an emergency rig howled down the street and screeched to a halt. Jack explained to the EMTs what had happened and why he had his thumb sunk an inch into the wounded man’s neck. One of the techs pulled on a rubber glove and substituted his finger for Jack’s. He held it there as the wounded cop was lifted onto a stretcher.

  Jack watched for a second, then began to edge backward, preparing to slide between two parked cars.

  “No, you don’t!” Fred the cop said, jerking his pistol up level with Jack’s head. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere! Hands on the car and sp
read ‘em!”

  Desperation gnawed on Jack’s spine as his eyes hunted for an escape route. The street crawled with uniforms, and they all seemed to be watching him. Slowly he forced his lead-filled limbs to move, slapping his hands against the hood of the patrol car, spreading his feet. He held up okay during the frisk, but he almost lost it when his hands were yanked behind his back and the cuffs squeezed around his wrists.

  Cops, arrest, cuffs, interrogation, investigation, fingerprinting, exposure, court, lawyers, judges, jail—a recurrent nightmare for most of his adult life.

  Tonight it was real.

  2

  “You sure you don’t want a lawyer?”

  Jack looked up at the 20th Precinct’s chief of detectives, Lieutenant Thomas Carruthers. Fortyish, wearing a rumpled suit and no tie—a thrown-on set of clothes. Tall, dark, and handsome. Every woman’s crystal ball dream. Jack’s nightmare.

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Say it again. I want to make sure I’ve got it on the tape.”

  Jack directed his voice toward the tape recorder sitting on the battered oak table between him and Carruthers.

  “I’m sure I don’t want a lawyer. At least not yet.”

  Jack did want a lawyer. Very badly. But he didn’t know any, at least any he could trust. And the first thing a lawyer would tell him was to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to do that. These cops thought he’d shot one of their own. Things could get nasty here at the precinct house if he clammed up.

  A nightmare. Booked, photographed, and worst of all, fingerprinted. He’d wanted to throw an epileptic fit when they’d coated his fingers in ink and began rolling the tips on that white card. But what would that do other than delay the inevitable?

  With or without a lawyer he was screwed. If they didn’t get him for killing the cop, and if he wasn’t prosecuted for killing the guy with the shotgun, he’d still be up for possession of an unregistered firearm. Plus his cover would be permanently blown. Years of hiding in the cracks, of forging an existence in the interstices of society would be wiped away. And then the IRS would get involved, wondering why this man had no Social Security number. They’d begin investigating every nook and cranny of his entire 1040-less life.

  And then the shit would really hit the fan.

  Jack knew he was facing time. Hard time, soft time, state time, Fed time, it didn’t matter. He was going inside, no doubt for a long stretch.

  Jack had sworn he’d never do time. And he wouldn’t.

  “Good.” Carruthers spread a selection of Jack’s IDs on the table between them. “Maybe now you can tell me what’s all this bullshit?”

  Jack stared at the contents of his wallet and felt the walls of the interrogation room close in. He said nothing.

  “So who the hell are you?”

  “The name’s Jack.”

  “I gathered that.” He picked up the ID cards and shuffled through them. “Jack Berger, Jack Callahan, Jack Menella, Jack Jones”—Carruthers glanced up at him on that one—“and Jack Schwartz. So yeah, I guess your first name is Jack. But what’s the rest?”

  “Jack will have to do, I’m afraid.”

  Carruthers shot forward, leaning over the table, eyes ablaze.

  “It won’t do at all, scumbag! One of our guys is in surgery fighting for his life and another’s a hostage and you’re up to your neck in it. So Jack ain’t gonna cut it!”

  Jack didn’t flinch; gave back a glare of his own.

  “If I hadn’t come by, Mr. Detective, your guy in surgery never would’ve made it to surgery. You’d still be scraping his brains off the street. But maybe I should’ve kept walking. If I had I wouldn’t be cuffed up here looking at you. Would you be happier if I’d done that? I know I would.”

  Carruthers stared at Jack. For an instant, he seemed unsure of himself. As he opened his mouth to reply, another detective, a sergeant named Evans who’d been through a couple of times before, popped into the room again.

  Evans had brought Jack into the interrogation room, and had been none too gentle getting him seated. A big guy—his jacket sleeves were tight—and Jack had no doubt that if it had been up to Evans he’d take Jack out in the nearest alley and kick him to death. Slowly.

  But the cold light was gone from Evans’ eyes as he glanced Jack’s way on entering.

  Carruthers stiffened at the sight of him.

  “What’s up, Charlie? Any news?”

  Evans shook his head. “Not really. Nothing bad, anyway. No more shots. The hostage team’s made phone contact. They’re trying to talk the guy down. Sounds really wired. Don’t worry, Tom. They’ll get him out.”

  Carruthers nodded absently. “Yeah. How’s Carella?”

  “Still in surgery as far as I know. Piacentino called from the One-eight. Says if there’s anything you need—”

  “Tell him we’re okay, but thanks for asking.” After a pause, Carruthers said, “That it?”

  “Nope. Got an ID on the dead guy. A prelim from the M.E. too.”

  “So who is he?”

  “You mean who was he. Abdul Khambatta, born Harvey Andrews. Out of Attica two months after a stretch for armed robbery. His sheet’s as long as my leg. One bad-news mother.”

  “What’s the M.E. say?”

  “No surprises. Single head shot. A pre-frag in the eye.”

  Carruthers winced. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. M.E. said if the guy ever had any brains, you couldn’t prove it by him. Matches up with the three rounds left in our mystery man’s pop gun.”

  Carruthers glanced at Jack. “Which isn’t registered, of course.”

  “You got it.”

  “How do we know the Semmerling belongs to him?”

  “His prints are the only ones on it.”

  “And the sawed-off?”

  “Andrews’. ’Scuse me—Khambatta’s. Thing’s lousy with his prints.” He jerked a thumb at Jack. “I think we owe this guy.”

  “Yeah? Maybe.”

  Jack watched for some sign of relaxation from Carruthers but saw nothing. The lieutenant stayed wound tight as ever.

  Carruthers said, “You ever meet anybody with five IDs who was straight, Charlie? If he’s not dirty on this he’s dirty on something else.”

  “So?” Evans did not seem impressed.

  “I want to know: Who is this guy?”

  “Tell you one thing, Tom: His prints aren’t on file anywhere. And I mean anywhere.”

  “How come I’m not surprised?”

  “I got a better question,” Evans said. “How come you’re here and not over at Costin’s?”

  Carruthers walked to the window and stared out at the night, saying nothing.

  “I’ll take over at this end,” Evans said. “You should be there.”

  Carruthers shook his head, still staring out the window.

  “I’ll go nuts over there. The hostage team knows what to do. I’ll just get in the way, maybe even screw things up.”

  “No you won’t. Why don’t—”

  “Thanks, Charlie.” He turned and flashed him a tight smile. “I appreciate the thought, but let’s drop it. Okay?”

  Evans shrugged. “Okay. But if you change your mind . . .”

  Carruthers nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

  When Evans was gone, Carruthers returned to the table, standing as he shifted through Jack’s IDs again.

  “Prefragmented rounds? What’s the matter? You got something against wounding a guy?”

  Jack said nothing. Truth was, he’d been loaded for indoor work. And in general, he didn’t like to have to shoot someone twice.

  Suddenly Carruthers stiffened.

  “I’ll be damned!” He picked up the IDs and flipped through them again. “Christ! It all fits!”

  As Carruthers stared down at him, eyes wide, Jack felt his chest tighten, wondering what he’d found.

  “Jesus! I always thought you were make believe. For years I’ve been catching a word here and there about this urban mercenary
who hires out for all sorts of jobs, anything from kinda shady to out and out, down and dirty illegal. But when I ask about it, I get blank stares, dumb grins, and shrugs. So I figure it’s one of those urban myths, like the giant alligators in the sewers. But shit! You’re him! You’re that repairman guy!” He looked at the IDs. “Yeah—all Jacks. You’re Repairman Jack.”

  Jack’s throat went dry, giving his voice a croaky sound.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Don’t play cute. You’re him. Gotta be. Jesus, I don’t believe this. I never thought you were real.” He looked down at the pile of phony IDs in his hand. “And I guess you aren’t. At least not officially, huh?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah. Right. You know, if memory serves, some of the stuff I heard about you was pretty good, some of it wasn’t. And what wasn’t came from scumbags. But all of it sounded pretty rough. So I take it you’re a rough character, Repairman Jack. Speaking of which, why would anyone trust a guy who calls himself Repairman Jack?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t his idea. Maybe someone called him that and it stuck.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Sounds to me like a guy with a Robin Hood complex or something.”

  “And who are you?” Jack said. “The Sheriff of Nottingham?”

  While Carruthers mulled that, Jack pulled inside himself and fought the sick dread growing in his gut. This nightmare was deteriorating into a hell ride. He had to get out of here.

  Jack considered that. If he could get close enough to Carruthers, even handcuffed, he might be able to do something. Anything. A crazy thought, but he was as good as dead if he stayed in custody, so he didn’t see how anything he tried could make matters worse.

  “Yeah, well, whatever,” Carruthers was saying. He had that worried, distracted look again. “What are we going to do with you, Repairman Jack?”

  “How about letting me go?”

  Carruthers offered him a small, pursed-lips smile. “Right.”

  “I did one of yours a favor, so now you do me a favor. Quid pro quo.”

  Jack knew his request was useless, but he wanted to keep Carruthers talking, get him relaxed, maybe a bit careless.

  “Don’t bullshit me, pal. The only one who says you helped Carella is you. How do I know you and Andrews and whoever’s still holed up in Costin’s weren’t together on this job?”