She walks across the room, and kisses me. It is a gentle kiss, hardly more than a brushing of our lips, but it is enough.
I want her now – want her desperately.
But I cannot make love to a woman I am about to betray.
“I’ve brought you some coffee,” I say, handing her the cup with the warning about keeping Virginia clean on it
“You didn’t get one for yourself?”
“I had two cups while I was meeting with our friend Maxwell Tait,” I lie. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
We sit in the armchairs each side of the small table. Carrie takes a small sip of her coffee.
“Is this from the machine outside?” she asks.
“Yeah. Is something wrong with it?”
Carrie shakes her head.
“No, it’s very good for something that’s come out of a big tin box.” She takes another sip. “Do you know what I’m really looking forward to, Mike?” she asks.
“No.”
“Doing normal things – like walking into a diner, and giving my order without worrying that a bunch of cops are gonna come bursting in through the door and arrest me. After tonight, we’ll be able to do that again.”
“After tonight, we might be dead,” I warn her.
It’s not true. After tonight, I might be dead.
“We’ve got to plan it carefully,” Carrie says, drinking a little more coffee. “They’ll all be in the Chamber of Elders. Right?”
“Right.”
“So how do we work it? Do you want me to cover the back entrance, while you go in from … go in from the front?”
“That would be fine.”
“Or maybe … maybe it would be better if we went … went in together … I don’t … I can’t seem to think clearly ….”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Mike, I …” Realization hits her, and her eyes are suddenly flooded with a blazing anger. “You son-of-a-bitch … you put a … Mickey Finn … in this coff—”
The effort is too much. The eyes close, her head falls to one side. The cardboard cup drops from her hand onto the rug, and what little coffee there is left in it spreads out to form a dark stain.
I pick her up and carry her across to the bed.
“I’m sorry, my darling,” I tell her. “I couldn’t take you with me. How could I have done what I’ve got to do if I’d been worrying about you all the time?”
I lay her down gently. She looks so peaceful – and she should stay that way for about twelve hours.
I pick up a piece of the motor lodge notepaper.
‘By the time you wake up, I should be back,’ I write, ‘but if I’m not, call our friend and tell him you need his help.’
I read the note over to myself. It looks far too clinical – far too impersonal. I try to think of something funny to round it off with, some partner-type wisecrack, but nothing comes to mind and, in the end, I just write: ‘I love you.’
On the threshold, I turn and take one more look at her, then I close the door behind me and walk towards the car.
38
The guy in the Bermuda shorts and the Madonna tee shirt was right about the weather. The sky opens and my headlights, cutting a path through the darkness of the Interstate, are attacked by a million tiny needles of rain. Overhead, lightning sears through the black night, bathing trees and bushes, farms and barns, in its ghostly light. And then the thunder comes – a mournful rumble – the moaning of doom. It is as foul a night as the one on which Bobbie Hopgood met his lonely, courageous death.
I am midway between Staunton and Harrisburg. The clock on the dashboard says that it is not yet ten, but there is no other traffic on the road.
It is as if I am all alone in the world.
And I am.
We all are.
I can go back, right now. I have only to take the next turn-off, cross the bridge, and the Eldorado will be pointing towards Staunton – towards Carrie. She will still be lying on the bed where I left her, like Sleeping Beauty. I can sweep her up in my arms and carry her to the car. By the time she wakes up we will be hundreds of miles from this terrible place.
But even as these thoughts flash through my mind, I know I can’t act on them. I lied when I said I was alone. My guilt, and my feelings of responsibility, are travelling with me. They are dark, accusing passengers, and they watch my every move.
I press my foot down harder on the gas pedal and the vehicle picks up speed.
I pass Prosperity Park. The old, long-dead factories rear up depressingly against the skyline. I think of the Comptech and Craddock Industry buildings which are planned to take their place and give the town new hope.
Hope – yeah!
There will be hope – unless I screw up tonight’s business!
I plan to stay on the Interstate all the way to the river, thus cutting down, as much as I can, my presence in the town – because for me Harrisburg is enemy territory.
Tait is the weak link in my plan – the biggest threat to my coming out of this situation in one piece. When he left me, he was so scared that he’d have pulled his own head right off if I’d ordered him. But if he’s gotten some of his courage back by now – or if Captain Ringman has managed to browbeat the truth out of him – then my enemies will be waiting for me.
Maybe there’ll be a police road-block on the corner of 35th and Davis. I’ll wrench on my wheel to make an emergency U turn, but other blue-and-whites will already have slid into place, blocking my retreat. Cops will be crouched behind their units, the pump-action shotguns in their hands – pointing at me. I’ll get out of the Cadillac slowly, arms raised, but it will make no difference. Nobody gives a cop killer a break. Before I’ve had a chance to take one step forward, I’ll be full of holes.
“Stop thinking like a writer, and start thinking like a cop, you fool!” I tell myself angrily.
But I’ve always been a little of both – yes, and a fool, too – and I guess there’s no changing my ways now.
I take the Interstate exit which leads to 39th Street. Most of the streetlights are out, because 39th is mainly warehouses, and the Board of Elders, in an attempt to save money, has cut street lighting from non-residential areas.
Coming down the street towards me, I see a prowl car – cruising slowly, like it is just waiting for me to draw level with it. I check in my back mirror to see if more cars are already taking up position, but behind me there is only darkness.
“Hey, you!”
The voice is distorted by the prowl car’s roof-mounted speaker, but I recognize it as belonging to Carrie’s old friend, Duffy.
The spotlight on top of the vehicle suddenly comes to life.
“Yeah, it’s you I’m talking to!” Duffy says, and his amplified voice bounces off the walls of the empty street. “Stay exactly where you are!”
Pinned in the beam of light is a black guy. Under his arm he is carrying a whitewall tire. He isn’t dressed like a man who owns whitewall tires.
“Drop the tire and stand against the wall,” Duffy orders.
The black guy is just starting to obey as I turn the corner onto Davis.
The Visconti brothers are still open for business, but the hamburger joint is in total darkness. I wonder where the hookers have gone now that Spiro’s juke box is not available to feed them songs of sickly, hopeless love.
Nothing is moving in Jackson Square, but a number of vehicles are parked there – blue-and-whites outside Police Headquarters, private cars next to the Courthouse and City Hall. Twice, I drive slowly around the square. I pass as close to the parked cars as I can – if there are men crouched down inside them, I want to know about it.
“You’re wasting your time, you dumb shit!” I tell myself.
Because if there is an ambush, I’m as good as dead anyway – whatever precautions I try to take.
Between Ringman’s official vehicle and Tait’s Porsche, there is a space. I slide Marty’s car into it. I look up at City Hall. Lights are burning in t
he Chamber of Elders, but the rest of the place seems to be completely deserted.
I walk around the side of the building. The wind, trapped in a narrow passageway, screams hysterically. Rain drops spatter against my jacket and wriggle down my face like tiny, cold serpents.
I push open the fire door, and as I step inside my foot crunches against the wedge Tait has placed there to stop it locking.
Darkness in front, streetlight behind, I present a perfect silhouette – a perfect target – to any hitman waiting on the stairs.
But this is the path I have chosen – this is the risk I take.
I close the door quietly behind me – almost surprised to find that I’m still alive – and grope my way towards the service stairs.
My hand makes contact with the rail and I begin my careful ascent. My footfalls seem to make less noise than the sound of my breathing.
I begin to count slowly to myself … one … two … three …
I am there, forty-six steps beyond that first one near the fire-door. A few small steps for mankind, but a giant leap for a fool called Kaleta who just has to do things his way – however crazy his way happens to be.
We should be in analysis, me and Frank Sinatra both.
This is probably the best place of all for an ambush.
Kaleta, the homicidal maniac, returns to Harrisburg to kill the Mayor. He bursts into the Chamber, only to find himself up against a dozen heavily armed cops.
Bam, bam, bam!
As Kaleta lies on the floor, blood gushing from him like a fountain, Ringman leans over him and grins.
‘Give yourself up,’ he advises the dying lieutenant. ‘You haven’t got a chance.’
I push fantasy to one side, and press my ear to the door.
“We’ve been waiting for over half an hour,” says a voice, muffled by two inches of oak. “Just who are we waiting for, Tait? And what the fuck is this all about?”
Ringman.
Talking to the lawyer.
Apparently!
But maybe Tait’s not there at all. Maybe Ringman’s only putting on a show because he’s been radioed that I’ve entered the building.
There’s only one way to find out.
Here goes nothin’.
I draw my gun, turn the handle, and push the door open.
39
No ambush, just the people I told Tait that I wanted there – Porky at the head of the table, under the portrait of Nat Harris, Ringman sitting to his left, Tait and Craddock to the right.
Ringman’s mouth drops open in amazement, but he’s not so amazed that he isn’t already reaching for his gun.
“Don’t try it!” I warn him.
He’s not even looking at my gun arm. It’s my eyes he’s watching – and what he reads in them makes him pull his hand, slowly and steadily, away from his jacket.
He may be getting old – but by God, he’s still good. I’m really gonna have to watch this son-of-a-bitch.
I don’t need to check on the others – the Mayor, the attorney, the industrialist. They won’t be packing any heat. They are all far too civilized.
Civilized? Yeah, well that’s one word to describe them, but I can think of plenty of others!
“How the fuck did you get in here, Kaleta?” Ringman demands.
“Now that’s not really important, is it, Chief?” I ask. “All that really matters is that I am here.”
“This is all your fault, George,” Pine tells the Chief. “If you hadn’t screwed up, out there on the ridge, he’d have been dead by now.”
Thanks, pa-in-law. It’s good to know that, at a time like this, I have my family behind me.
I’m not interested in these two – the Mayor and his bagman.
Not yet.
I look across at Craddock. There is a quizzical expression on his face. He nods to no one in particular – like he’s just come up with an answer to something which had been puzzling him – then he turns to his attorney.
“I think that you have some explaining to do,” he says mildly. “Isn’t that right, Maxwell?”
The lawyer holds up his hands, palms outwards. The gesture must go down real well in big-shot Boston business meetings.
“Gentlemen,” he says, “Mr Kaleta is here to offer us a deal, and I think we’d better listen to him.”
He sounds better than he did when he left the motel. More like Maxwell, less like Harvey. But I can tell that whatever he does in the future, he will never be able to forget the moment that he groveled and whimpered in the corner of my seedy hotel room.
So, it turns out that his punishment hasn’t been so light after all. I’ve destroyed his self-delusion – demolished seven years of patient, dedicated work. And though he has been frantically rebuilding ever since he left me – though he can once again carry off the Tait-role for others – he will never again be able to convince himself.
“What’s all this about a deal?” Ringman demands. “Kaleta here is wanted for the murder of two cops. He ain’t got nothing to horse trade with.”
Tait laughs a sophisticated Boston laugh. It just sounds hollow to me.
“I’m afraid Lieutenant Kaleta is in a position to … uh … horse trade,” he says. “The lieutenant knows what’s been going on. All of it.”
Ringman digests the information.
“You shoulda told me,” he complains. “If I’d known, I coulda made the arrangements to have him rubbed out.”
“I thought of that,” Tait admits, “but unfortunately, what he knows, Sergeant Williams also knows. And she’s in hiding.”
“What’s the deal?” asks Pine, who is far too much of a politician to waste his time on outrage.
I am not ready to deal yet. First, I want to talk.
I start to holster my gun.
“Don’t put it away, you dumb shit,” a voice screams in my head. “Keep the odds on your side.”
But putting the gun away is part of the plan. I could, of course, simply pull the trigger right now and be sure that justice was done, but I just can’t bring myself to. Instead, I will take my chances later on – run the risk that the guilty will go unpunished, and that I will forfeit my own life. I tell myself I’m being a fool, but it makes no difference, because I can’t do what I need to do in cold blood.
The gun is sheathed. I sit down at the opposite end of the table to Porky, pull the envelope of Polaroid pictures out of my pocket, and throw it across to Craddock.
“Did it give you a kick, taking these?” I ask. “Did it?”
His fingers twitch as he reaches for the envelope. I swear, though I can’t see his legs beneath the table, that he’s getting a hard-on.
“Yes, actually, I enjoyed it very much,” he says.
“Maybe you couldn’t help the attacks on the kids,” I tell him. “You’re a sick man, and it got out of control. But I can’t forgive you for Bobbie. All he ever tried to do was help people. All he ever wanted was to be appreciated. And you were his special friend.”
I wonder what Bobbie called him when they were alone together – or with one of their little victims.
Mr Thurston, perhaps.
*
I try to imagine them with one of the kids – Bobbie with his pants down, Craddock holding his Polaroid camera in shaky, excited hands.
Tiny Jeannie Quail, jammed up against General Beauregard’s statue.
‘I’m hurting her, Mr Thurston.’
‘No, you’re not, Bobbie.’
‘She’s crying, Mr Thurston.’
‘She likes it. Goddamn you – they all like it.’
“’I’m … I’m not sure.’
‘I’m your special friend. Don’t you believe what I tell you?’
‘Y…yes. Only …’
‘Because if you don’t believe me, we can’t be friends any more. If you don’t believe me, I’ll have to go away.’
‘I b… believe you.’
‘Then get on with it. Stick it right in her.’
*
“He
trusted you,” I tell Thurston Craddock, “and in return, you lied to him, and you used him.”
Craddock does not seem ashamed, merely affronted.
“I have done a great deal – a very great deal – to make the world a better place,” he says. “I have saved thousands of children in Africa with my gifts of medicine – I employ more doctors than many hospitals. The workers in my factories are well treated, too. If they become sick, my health scheme will ensure them the finest medical treatment. When they grow old, they will not be penniless because even though they have not had the foresight to invest some of their excellent wages in a pension scheme, I have. My activities have alleviated the human condition more than you could have done in a hundred lifetimes. And you dare to criticize me for my one weakness?”
“There’s no excuse for what you’ve done,” I say.
“No excuse! A man like me doesn’t need an excuse. I am a race apart. I’m of the same stock as the great patricians of Rome, who watched men die in the arena for their pleasure. My blood is that of the leaders of Ancient Greece, who had little boys provided for their every need – their every need. My spiritual ancestors, the barons of Old England and the Russian aristocracy, had droit de seigneur over females not much older than the ones I’ve used for my enjoyment.”
“Thurston …” Tait pleads.
“I am at the pinnacle of the evolutionary process. My money gives me infinitely more power to help humanity than any of my predecessors ever possessed. And yet while their little idiosyncrasies were accepted – because the common herd understood that the small amount of harm they did was more than balanced by the great amount of good – I am forced to extract my pleasure in secret.”
His face has gone red, and there is spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are quite mad.
I remember the chess game – how Craddock cheated so that White could win.
But with people like Craddock, White always wins – because, in their minds, whatever piece they are playing with automatically becomes White.
“I have exercised admirable restraint,” he continues. “Only twice in my entire life – once in Macclesfield and once here – have I succumbed to my desires. All the children concerned have been taken care of – Maxwell has set up trust funds or some such thing.”
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