The Patrolman - 42

 

 

42.

 

 

 

Someone was calling him. A woman's voice, ragged with panic, called his name. She was pounding his back in quick, steady blows. He couldn't move or open his eyes, and his chest burned as though he'd inhaled fumes. Like a fire, like he had when they beached West Africa.

Lacey wanted to retreat into sleep. He didn't want to face any danger.

'Jake, wake up,' the woman said. Her voice was familiar. He struggled to the surface of whatever had pulled him under. He half opened his eyes.

A strong, floral scent of wood and roses drifted past his nose. I know it, Lacey thought. That perfume. It's on the tip of my tongue. If only he could remember the name.

He felt a throbbing in his leg. The old bullet wound. He must've been in a cold, damp place. That would set the aching off.

Jake Lacey rested his eyes.

Where the hell am I? What's happened to me?

When the pain eased, he reopened them. He sat on an oil-stained concrete floor in a puddle. Rows of tables, instruments, and conveyor belts surrounded him. He was bound to a steel girder. Rope crossed his chest and arms.

More rope bit into his wrists and ankles, and bound his legs tight. The name Thomas Emerson floated to the surface of the hole he'd been in. He'd handed himself over at Union Station. The last thing he remembered was pulling a hood over his head and breathing in fumes.

The voice, with banging, came from behind him. 'Wake up, Jake. Wake up.'

He turned his head enough to catch sight of the sharp cheekbones and blue eyes framed by dark hair.

'I'm here, I'm here, June,' he slurred, dehydration stinging his throat. He tried to get his head around to see her, but the steel girder only offered her profile. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

'I followed you,' she said. 'Back at the train station. You took off in a cab. The driver tried to run me down. Last I remember, he stuffed me in the trunk.'

'Are you hurt?'

'I'll live.'

'We need to get you out of here.'

'I can't move, he's handcuffed me to this beam.'

Lacey took stock of himself. Ignoring his bad leg, there were no other injuries. 'The handcuffs. Are they rusty in the center?'

She shifted her weight. Her neck craned to look at her wrists, bound behind her. 'Yes.'

Fine, so the killer had lifted his cuffs. Not the key. That was in his left shoe. He looked down. His gun and shoulder holster were gone, too.

'Where is he?'

'I heard him go outside,' she said. 'Not long before you came to.'

This wasn't looking good.

'June,' he said. 'Whatever happens, do whatever it takes to get out alive.'

'What about you?'

'Forget me, I came here on my own. You're not involved in this. Whatever it takes, get out and call for help.'

'Do something,' she pleaded. 'For heaven's sake, do something.'

He pushed his head back. The girder ran to the ceiling. Solid. A warehouse, oil-stained concrete, steel beams. Somewhere Downtown?

A door slammed.

'Remember what I said, June. Whatever it takes.'

She rubbed his back.

Footsteps came into the room, behind him, and left.

June Hartsfield shifted her weight.

'You,' she cried. 'Of course, it's you.'

Lacey strained to hear.

The killer said nothing and chortled. Then he walked around to Lacey's side. He was a tall, dark man in his late twenties. Off-kilter handsome. Lacey’s age. Large ears, freckles that spread like constellations when he smiled. Tomas Estevez. 'You're awake.'

Lacey blinked. 'Hello, Tom. Is it Estevez or Emerson?'

He ignored the question, gestured. 'I didn't know you two were an item.'

'We're not.'

'I think Junie here thinks otherwise. I caught her snooping on you.' Emerson kicked a can across the floor. It bounced off a wall with a clang. 'Well, the more the merrier, I guess.'

'What do you want, Tom?' she said.

'What every man wants. A little space to think.'

'You gonna kill us?' Lacey said.

'Not yet,' he said. 'But first, let's play a little game.'

'I spy?'

'I was thinking true or false. Should be fun.'

Lacey tapped Hartsfield twice. Stick to the plan.

Emerson paced over to a table. He removed his jacket, exposing thin but strong biceps under a creased linen shirt. Lacey couldn't see what was on the table, so Emerson showed it to him. First, he took out a gun - Lacey's M1911. The gunmetal glinted. He set it down. In his left hand, he grabbed some paper, and in his right, a rusted copper pipe. 'With a twist,' he said. 'This might sting a little.'

He dragged Hartsfield to her feet. Lacey got up on his own. Emerson gave him a two-sided sheet reading “TRUE” and “FALSE” in newspaper clippings. It reeked of gas. Emerson had doused them in it, careful not to leave fingerprints.

'I'm going to ask you each a question. Show me a side. Get the answer wrong, and your partner pays. Sound good?'

'It's not too late, Tom,' Hartsfield said. 'Turn yourself in.'

'No, no, I won't. Besides, I've got a date to make.'

'We'll go easy on you,' Lacey said. 'Let us go, and I'll get the Captain to tell the D.A. not to pursue a death penalty.'

'Question one,' Emerson said. 'This one's easy, but they'll get harder. You met at the Hollywood Bank & Financial Trust. True or false.'

Lacey turned the paper around.

Emerson looked at it.

'Well done, Jake. True. You met on the morning of Pearl Harbor,' he said. 'Now for a harder one. Jake, true or false - June here was married at the time. Did she have two children?'

He thought back to that day in the bank manager's office. Both held at gunpoint by the last surviving robber. Hartsfield had said many things, anything to humanize herself and stay alive. She hadn't mentioned being a mother.

He turned the paper to false.

Emerson nodded, walked around the girder. A wet crack echoed off the steel. Hartsfield gasped.

'Wrong answer,' he heard.

'I'm sorry,' Lacey said.

'No conferring. That was your soft hit, June. Next time will be with this pipe. True or false, Junie here made off with the loot.'

Lacey had been in the same room as her. She'd been just as scared. He'd offered himself as hostage in her place. The bag with the money was behind the desk, next to the bank manager's corpse. He held his paper still.

When Emerson came back, he smiled.

Lacey closed his eyes. The pipe jabbed his eye. His head thudded into the steel girder. The impact hurt more than the jab. He felt like his head had split open. He couldn't get his hands past the ropes to feel the damage.

'And you started so well. How'd you think she bankrolled the club? Cleaning toilets?'

'You're sick, Emerson. You need help.'

'Next one's for you, Jake. True or false - June masterminded the robbery to get back at her boss.'

Christ, he thought. That one had come out of nowhere. Like a knife to the ribs. Surely not. He thought back to the pale-skinned woman, mascara running, a gun pressed to her head. She couldn't have. Then the cynic in him turned. He hadn't known about her making off with the money either. It had occurred to him the afternoon he'd shown up at her club, but he'd dismissed the notion.

'Need an answer, Jake.'

He heard Hartsfield sobbing.

It was true.

Everything that day. Workers lined up and gunned down. The bank manager with a missing eye. Lacey had shot and wounded the ringleader before twelve-dollar sharpshooters finished him. All those lives - for money. Enough to buy a new life. Buy her a new life.

Lacey turned the paper.

Emerson nodded. 'Nice work, Jake. June's only got a red cheek. You must be a real hit with the ladies.'

'Go to hell.'

He could feel her through the girder. Sobbing hard enough to shake the foundations.

He knew her secret.

'I've got to leave you two fine people in peace,' Emerson said. 'I don't want to get caught in the rioting outside and miss my date. But here's the kicker. The answer to the question we all want to know. True or false, June?'

What was this last question?

'Officer Jake Lacey threw that man out of the window in cold blood. True or false.'

Lacey drew a breath. Either way, this was going to hurt.

June stopped crying. He heard nothing.

Emerson came back around the girder holding her paper. He saw his answer and smiled. 'Interesting.' He thanked Lacey and took it, crossing the room to the table at the far side.

He set them down and picked up the copper pipe, letting it hang like a lazy pendulum.

'You ever hear of hobbling, Jake?'

'No, Tom. Don't,' Hartsfield cried.

She thrashed against the cuffs, voice breaking into high, ragged cries. Lacey told her to calm down and remember what he said, but she wouldn't have it. He heard her struggle with her cuffs, trying to break free. Metal scraped metal. Blind panic. Desperation. Lacey managed to console her. Emerson watched with amusement from the other side.

Then, with her under control, he started again. 'The practice came from Europe. The Irish. London dock gangs. Italians. Men who knew how to keep a man in line without putting him in the ground.'

'Out West, they'd shoot you and leave your body out for the coyotes. In the cities? That was too messy. You needed to make it look like an accident. So you take a man who owes you money, who talked when he shouldn't, and you break him just enough. The ankle's a sweet spot. Low bone. The man'll still work, still eat, but every time it rains, he'll feel you.

'The cops used it here when the Dust Bowl Okies came around. But here's the real poetry of it. Once it heals? It never heals right. Every step's a little reminder. Every cold morning, every wet night.'

Emerson pushed himself off the table and lifted the pipe. He smiled, almost warmly.

'And the best part? Every time it rains, you'll remember me.'

The pipe came up in a swift arc. The crack of bone echoed off the girder. Lacey's scream tore through the room.

Pain roared through him, climbing from his ankle up his spine until his vision shook. His knee buckled. The ropes caught his fall, biting into his shoulders, cutting off his air. His head dropped, and he sagged against the steel girder, fighting to stay conscious. His vision blurred, its edges turned dark, like a theater curtain drawing shut. He tried to go down, but the cold steel at his back kept him from toppling over.

The room swam. The tables and beams tilted and spun around him. In the racket in his head, he tried to list the smells. The sounds. The door Emerson had used. He made himself look at June. She was pale under the lamp. Her hair clung to her cheeks, eyes wide and glistening. He couldn't hear a word.

Lacey dragged in breath and tried to concentrate on his next play. Before he left for work that morning, he'd slipped the key to his handcuffs in his shoe. The problem was, he'd put it in his left one. Which was filling up with blood and now looked like a balloon. He looked at the break. The bone jutted under the skin, swelling fast. He could lose his leg.

If Emerson came back and still found them there, they'd both be dead.

They needed to get out, and Lacey needed to stop him. Nobody even knew who the guy was. He'd left Carruthers behind at the crash without breathing a word of what he had planned to do next.

Emerson said something he couldn't make out and left them. The room became still. He looked at the concrete floor. Black oil blooms spread across the floor, dotted with dry rat pellets. A line of light from a streetlamp somewhere beamed through a high window, riding on the floating dust.

The light flickered. It wasn't a streetlamp. It was a fire. He heard a man yelling in Spanish and knew they were Downtown, right in the heart of the riots.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Lacey?