The Patrolman - 43

 

 

43.

 

 

 

Trouble had followed her before the warehouse, the murders, and long before the club.

It started with a bar stool and too many drinks in a two-bit gin joint. Her girlfriend had taken a guy back to her place, leaving her stuck, hanging around like a question mark. If June Hartsfield hadn’t been so blitzed, she would’ve done the smart thing and called a cab.

She remembered bragging, like a fool, to some man she'd never met before. He'd been daring and handsome. Like her, he’d come here from Indiana. She had told him about her new life, how she worked at a bank. She told him about the money, where it was, and how much of an ass her boss was. Everything. She could also be daring.

The next morning, she woke up alone in the guy's bed. Hungover. It was almost ten. She was late for work. When she got to Hollywood, she stumbled across the robbery. The guy she’d spent the night with was the one calling the shots.

Hartsfield carried the guilt of it with her every day after.

Now the warehouse was filling with flame, and Jake was paying the price for saving her.

He sagged against the steel girder, pale, his ankle ruined. His lips moved. ‘The key.'

'What?'

'My shoe,' he said. ‘Keep still.'

She felt him lean forward. Lacey went to work, screaming. She hadn't heard a man scream like that since she tried to gouge out her brother's eye.

Smoke formed a dark cloud over them. Her chest tightened. They were both coughing. 

Lacey was even worse. 'Here.'

Hartsfield maneuvered herself to the left, so her hands were as close to him as she could get them. He struggled with the key. Her skin tearing, wrists slick with blood, the cuffs gave. When they came off, she could've cried.

She stumbled around to him, freeing his wrists and ankles. Christ, there was a lot of blood. She tried not to look at it. The bone punching through his pants leg. 'Done,' she said. She clawed at the chains pinning his chest to the girder, but the links didn't budge.

They were too thick. Too solid. She scanned the room, desperate. There - on the table. At the end was her leather bag. She grabbed it. Took Lacey’s badge and gun.

She shoved the gun into Lacey's hand.

'Shoot the chains.'

He shook his head. 'Won't work.'

'Then what?'

Something happened in his eyes. A change. He looked up to the ceiling. Under the smoke, a gas pipe ran to the girder. Rusted, hissing flames crawling toward it.

'You can't be serious.'

'I’m done for.’ He smiled. ‘Get out of here.'

The fire howled in the rafters. The building moaning like a sinking ship. She wanted to rip his gun away from him, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

'I'll get help,' she cried.

She had to be quick. She darted through the doorway Emerson used. There was a short corridor and a metal door at the other end. It opened, but something was blocking it. She threw her back against it and hot air blew in.

The air fanned the flames, but cleared some of the smoke. Enough. Oh, God. There - across the street. Someone was running toward her. 'We're trapped!'

She screamed for Jake, voice breaking glass.

In the gap, the face of a young cop appeared. 'Backup’s on the way. Keep pushing.’ He strained against it. Metal creaked, whatever in the way giving ground. 

Finally, the door opened.

The cop grabbed her hand.

'No,' she said. She looked back down the corridor and – bang.

The pipe burst.

The world exploded.

She was airborne and, when she realized it, slammed into the ground. Her ears rang. All she could register was the shock. A sharp sensation flared up her arm – like needles piercing her skin. The sting spread until the throb made her gasp. Only then did she catch the orange flicker. The flames licked higher. She panicked, rolling around, coughing, smothering the flames.

The officer dragged her away. 

The warehouse was gone, half of it blown open. Fire clawed at the moon. She spluttered. 

'Jake!'

The cop yelled something. It came out all garbled. Like he was talking underwater. He set her down and charged toward the rubble.

They were being watched. Zooters armed with two-by-fours watched on in horror. Paralyzed by fear.

'Help him,' Hartsfield yelled.

Two Zooters sprinted after the cop. A Latino helped her to her feet, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders. He helped her to the cop's car and sat her down in the driver's seat.

June Hartsfield looked back. For a second, she thought she was hallucinating from smoke inhalation. The warehouse was a furnace. Nothing could crawl out of it alive. Fear and relief choked her.

But there he was.

Jake Lacey, dragging himself through the flames, leaning on a busted stick. The gun hung slack in his hand. His face smeared with blood and ash, but his jaw was set like a man determined to not die.

One of the Zooters had him under the arm. Another hauled the young cop along, both of them staggering but moving, refusing to quit.

It was a miracle.

The men were halfway across the street when a brown car headed them off.

She knew it. The brown Oldsmobile. It was Elmer.

Lieutenant ‘Saps’ Moreau and Sergeant Elmer V. Jackson leaped out of it. Moreau fired into the sky. With a crack, sound returned to her like someone had turned up the volume.

The Zooters made a break for it.

'Where is she, Lacey?'

Hartsfield kicked off her shoes and started creeping toward them. She came around the car. Moreau and Lacey had their guns aimed at each other.

'I don't know who you're talking about,' he said.

'The bitch,' Moreau said. 'The Hartsfield woman.'

The officer drew his gun.

Hartsfield closed on Elmer, as he fumbled the buckle. In one swift motion, she snatched the piece and pressed it to his temple.

'I'm right here, Saps,’ she said.

Moreau turned, levelling his gun at her. A shot rang out – hitting him in the arm. He span and fired back. There was a small puff of pink smoke. The officer’s arms dropped. A third eye appeared on his face, and he toppled over backward. 

Hartsfield swung on Moreau, Jackson shoved her off him, and it went off.

The bullet struck Moreau in the gut. He went down on one knee. Lacey kicked his gun away with his bad foot and whimpered.

Hartsfield gasped. Jackson lunged. She jabbed him in the nose, then brought it crashing down on his head.

'June, stop,' Lacey cried.

Jackson squirmed on the asphalt. 

Moreau laughed. 'You're dead, bitch.'

Bitch? She strode over and fired into his knee. His fat belly toppled sideways. 

'Who's gonna kill me, you?'

She aimed for his head and squeezed the trigger.

Lacey snatched it away and smacked her in the mouth.

June Hartsfield snapped out of it.

'I'm sorry,' Lacey said. 'Help me, please. We've gotta get out of here. We've got to get Emerson.'

Remembering her leather bag, she snatched it. She half-carried, half-dragged Lacey back to the car. He grabbed the radio.

'Car 11 King, Car 11 King, requesting assistance. Two officers wounded by gunshots in Downtown. Requesting back up. Officer down.'

'KGPL reading you. Units en route.'

'Put me through to R&I, I need an urgent address on the suspect.'

There was nothing but silence. Lacey and Hartsfield didn't say a word.

A pleasant voice asked. 'How can I help you? Detective?'

‘Galloway,' Lacey said. 'I need an address on one Thomas Emerson, Hollywood.'

'Just a moment please, Detective,' the operator said. They heard her leafing through paper. It might've been the yellow pages for all Hartsfield knew. 'Rutland Apartments, North Gower Street, Hollywood.'

'Thank you,' he said, hanging up. 'Come on. We need to find another car before the rest of the Alien Squad shows up.'

She looked back at the smoldering warehouse, her lungs burning. Somewhere in the ruin, a piece of her guilt shifted - lighter, if only a little. She exhaled and buried the pain. There was work to do. Emerson wasn’t going to wait.