Hate is Thicker Than Blood (17 page)

Neither had eaten since the night before, but when Lockwood asked her if she wanted something, she shook her head. At Brannigan’s
inquiring glance, The Hook shook his as well. He wondered if he’d ever feel hungry again. Her brother—he’d killed Gina’s brother.

Brannigan’s face was grim when he finished reading over the ballistics report. There was no cutesie crap this time either,
just the straight facts. “I’m sorry, Bill. Frankie’s gun doesn’t check out. The slugs from it don’t match the bullet in Maria
Nuzzo.”

Lockwood nodded, and looked at Gina. She’d been right. But there was no reaction from her, no joy. He wondered if she’d ever
smile again. And if she did, if he’d ever get to see it.

They had left the stationhouse, and paused on the sidewalk, as he turned to ask her where he could take her, when he heard
his name called.

“Bill!”

The voice was shrill, and filled with fear. A woman’s voice.

He whirled, and she was running toward him.

“Bill!”

He waited for her, watching her as she ran, her eyes wide with terror.

“Bill!” She collapsed into his arms, sobbing, and he felt Gina draw away.

It had been years since he’d seen her in the daytime, and as she looked up at him, he fervently wished that it were night.
All the beauty that had once been there … “What’s wrong, Helene?” he asked her.

“Oh, Bill,” she said trembling. “Bill, I never thought I’d reach you in time.” She began to shake, and her teeth started chattering,
and he realized she was withdrawing from something. Her body was screaming for it, shrieking for another shot, but still she
persisted, her eyes full on him.

“A report came over the radio. They mentioned you were here, at the stationhouse. Borowy heard it. All along he’s been swearing
he’s going to get you, Bill! And he heard the report, and he got his gun, and he left. He’s going to get you. Doesn’t seem
to care what happens to him. I was sure I’d never get here in time.”

Lockwood’s eyes flicked up and down the street. The sidewalks were thick with people. He didn’t see Borowy, but in this crowd
… he began moving to the car, his arm around Gina. “Thanks, Helene,” he told her. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Still she clutched him, eyes imploring. “I’ll be all right, I promise you. Now you’d better leave. You don’t want him to see
you with me.”

She nodded, cold sweat breaking out on her forehead as all of her began to writhe in agony, twist with the craving for a needle
full of forgetfulness.

He kissed her gently on the forehead, and she moved away, melting into the crowd. He seated Gina in the Cord, and was opening
the door to the driver’s seat when he heard her again.

“Bill!” The voice was almost in his ear.

He turned, and she was flinging herself at him.

“Bill! Duck!”

And then he heard the shot, and saw her stiffen, her eyes filled with fear. But not for herself. For him. “Bill, look out,”
she said, her voice already going slack, her body beginning to slump.

He caught her around the waist as she began to go down, the .38 in his hand, people screaming, fighting to get away. Borowy
tried again, but this time Lockwood was ready, sure of his weapon at this range, unworried about hurting an innocent bystander.
He pulled the trigger.

Borowy cursed, whirled, and began to run. He knew he’d hit him. Quickly he lowered Helene to the pavement. She was smiling
up at him, but by the time her body lay on the sidewalk, he knew she was dead. She’d thrown herself in front of Borowy’s bullet
to save him.

There were tears in his eyes as he ran, and vengeance in his heart. Helene. He’d tear Borowy limb from limb.

Up ahead he could see Borowy’s head bobbing as he raced through the crowds, bowling people over, their bodies only halfway
up off the pavement when Lockwood ran past them.

Once, Borowy stopped, turned, and fired in his pursuer’s direction.

“Down! Down!’ The Hook yelled, pushing people toward the sidewalk, as the shot came at them. The bullet hit a sign and ricocheted
off, spent.

Again he ran after the gunman, and suddenly the blond head disappeared. Lockwood ran up to where he’d last seen him. Only
a few steps beyond was the IRT entrance. He raced down the stairs to the subway, hoping.

The platform was empty, and at first he thought he’d guessed wrong. Then, in the distance, he heard the sound of leather slapping
against stone. Borowy was running down the tracks.

Quickly, Lockwood leapt off the edge of the platform, and listened again. His quarry was heading downtown.

Swiftly, he followed, aware that at any moment a train could come barreling along. If it did, he’d get it before Borowy.

The footsteps were closer now, and he knew he was gaining. Another ten yards and he stopped, raised his arm and fired down
along the tracks. No chance of hitting anyone else, down here.

The footsteps hesitated, halted, and Lockwood ducked instinctively, just before the bullet spit over him. And then the footsteps
began again, and Lockwood followed, running at top speed.

The air was close down here, and his lungs began to burn. Everything in his body screamed quit, but still he kept on.

And then he heard it. From out of nowhere, the sound of the train, bearing down on him. Tons and tons of steel, hurtling down
the track, too close for brakes to do any good.

He had no time to think, to make a choice. Instinctively, his body dove to the right, to the indentation in the wall. The
screaming of the wheels behind him blotted out all other sound.

He gave a roar, a roar like a giant explosion, and he felt the wind whip at him, tear at him, as he pressed himself against
the grit of the grime-ridden wall, flat, flat, all of him pushing against it, his body drawing into itself, away from the
cars that were now rushing by.

Another moment, and it was all over, the train hurtling down the tracks, then fading into the distance. He felt himself. He
was all there.

Again he started to run, wondering what he’d find, whether Borowy had lucked out, too, or whether it was all over.

He passed where he thought Borowy might be, and saw nothing. Still, a body could be hurled hundreds of feet … and then he
heard the footsteps again, heard the quick slap-slapping of Borowy’s feet, and, encouraged, increased his speed, giving no
heed to his flaming lungs, to his aching body.

And then the footsteps stopped.

Lockwood stopped, too, and leaned forward, listening. Almost immediately he heard a new sound; a sound of jumping, and then
the clank of metal, one, two, three, quick. Borowy had found an exit.

Another few seconds and he reached the exit, a dim light above it the only indication. He sprinted through the entrance and
up the iron steps, to an opening where the grating had been laid aside. This being New York, already some curious passersby
were staring down into the unfamiliar hole.

He thanked their curiosity, grateful that their milling above indicated Borowy wasn’t waiting there for him, pistol ready.

The crowd gave way, startled, when he broke to the surface, gun in hand, black with the grime of the underground. Down the
street, he saw his man.

“Borowy! Stop!” he yelled, and then immediately regretted it, fearful for those about him, as Borowy stopped, spun, and fired.
This time the .45 tore into a nearby car, a car vacated just a moment before by a man who otherwise would be dead.

Lockwood began running again, as Borowy once more disappeared into the crowd. He was heading west on 44th Street, toward Eighth
Avenue. Borowy knew his city. Much less chance of bumping into a cop in this area.

Just past Eighth, Lockwood, trying to get past a group of construction workers, suddenly saw Borowy duck into a building.
Either an escape route Borowy was familiar with, or maybe the big man had done all the running he could. Lockwood hoped it
was the latter. He had to get the walleyed gunman. Had to.

It was a small office building, narrow, with a single elevator at the rear of the miniscule entrance hall. Everything in him
screamed to race up the stairs, to keep up the pursuit, but instead he forced himself to sag back against a wall, and wait.
Wait for the elevator to reach its final goal, and then begin its journey downward. Its slow, torturous journey downward,
The Hook realized, with a groan, as the elevator began its eccentric, lengthy descent.

Finally the doors opened. Two passengers were discharged, and then The Hook was able to board. The operator shrank back in
fright as he saw the gun, and The Hook’s desperate, disheveled appearance.

“Quick! You just took a man up! A big, blond man. Eyes like this,” he shouted, fingers again describing an angle from his
eyes. “What floor?”

The man, bug-eyed with fear, didn’t answer.

“What floor?” The Hook asked again, grabbing him by the lapels of his uniform jacket.

This seemed to help. “T–t–top!” the little man told him, his carefully trimmed moustache quivering.

“Okay! Get me up there! No stops!

“Y–yessir.”

The operator’s gloved hand pushed the door shut, the other hand yanked all the way down on a lever, and the narrow compartment
began its ascent, faster than before, but still slow enough to madden Lockwood.

“Can’t you go any faster?” he cried, but the man simply cowered back against the steel wall and shook his frightened head.

“No.”

“What’s up on the top floor?” Lockwood asked.

“Ph–photographer’s studio.”

“Anything else?”

“N–no.”

“What about the roof? Could he get to the roof from there?”

The little man nodded, numbly.

“On the roof—any fire escape—any way to get down?”

The man shook his head.

“Good,” Lockwood grunted, somewhat satisfied. If Borowy wasn’t already making his exit down the stairs, he might have him
where he wanted him.

The elevator was nearing the tenth floor. “When we get to the top,” he told the operator, “just open the door partway. Don’t
show yourself. You might get shot.”

The little man’s eyes widened, and he nodded.

He was still nodding as he reached the top, and slowly edged the door partway open.

The Hook looked out, waited, then sprang through the door. “Thanks,” he called back, as the heavy gate swung shut behind him,
and the elevator immediately described an escape.

The studio seemed to be deserted. No lights were on, and there were no sounds of activity.

The Hook stopped, listened, and when he heard nothing, moved to the exit door. There was a wooden stop lying near it, probably
to help bring air into the studio when the heat got bad. Slowly he swung the door open, .38 ready, and when he was satisfied
no one was there, he jammed the stop under the door. He’d investigate the studio first, and if Borowy should start coming
down from the roof, he’d be able to hear him.

It was a large space, broken up into a number of rooms; reception area, offices, file room, an artist’s studio, darkrooms,
a production department. No sound was heard, aside from the faint city noises, leaking up through the closed windows.

Painstakingly, quietly, he investigated each room in turn, slowly drawing open closet doors, silently dropping to the floor
as he entered, searching under desks and tables, any place Borowy might be crouching.

He made no noise as he moved, practised in that art, stealthier than an Apache, all the while fighting that impatience that
raged through him, that wanted to immediately tear open each door, quickly overturn each desk, in the fear that with every
moment Borowy might be getting further away from him.

But there was no other way to do this. And so he continued on, checking, scrutinizing, searching. He came at last to a darkroom.
Slowly he turned the knob of the door. Slowly, quietly. And suddenly Borowy barreled out at him, exploding against the door,
knocking him back against the wall.

Borowy’s gun hand came up, and the butt of his pistol cracked against Lockwood’s jaw, just as the detective’s foot came up
and smashed into Borowy’s gut.

Borowy fell back, arms around his middle, and Lockwood raised his pistol, hoping to stop Borowy, but not kill him. He needed
his testimony. He was the whole key to this thing. If Borowy died … he couldn’t die.

He fired, and Borowy grunted, and leapt behind a desk. And then the desk came up into the air, rushing straight at Lockwood,
a great, solid mass of wood coming at him with only one intention: to crush the life out of him.

He leapt to one side, as the desk splintered against the wall space he’d vacated. Borowy was already running, heading toward
the exit.

The Hook’s pistol had skidded away, and now he ran after Borowy, and overtook him, leaping onto his back. The big man went
down, but immediately bucked, throwing Lockwood off him.

Again he pointed his gun at the detective, but a metal file tray was already hurtling toward him, smashing against his face,
the sharp steel sides etching two lines into his face, two lines that soon began to drip crimson.

Lockwood was at him again, hitting him with a straight right, driving him back, then doubling him up with a left to the midsection.

For most opponents, that would have been enough, but Borowy was fighting for his life, and for the chance to kill the man
he hated beyond reason. He came back with a roundhouse right of his own, missing with it, but following up with a left that
caught Lockwood in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Fighting for time, the detective closed with Borowy, clinching, trying to get his breath back. It was a move of desperation,
because, bigger and heavier, Borowy had the advantage in a situation that involved wrestling, rather than throwing punches.

And he used that advantage, pinning The Hook, moving him back into the room, back toward the window that overlooked Eighth
Avenue. Grinning, grimacing, his one thought was only to push The Hook through that window, cracking his head against the
glass, the shards of it puncturing mortal flesh as the head moved through and then down, down, down, body flailing, legs akimbo,
down to the rubbish-strewn pavement below.