Mean Business on North Ganson Street (38 page)

Tackley neared the corner of the building and held up his hand.

The phalanx stopped.

Silently, the mottled man prostrated himself and looked around the corner.

Winds skirled, and powder fell. A snowflake entered the devil mask, landing upon the detective's right eyelashes as he and his partner watched the prone fellow.

Tackley nodded his head, rose to his feet, and proceeded south.

Bettinger shuffled around the corner. Ahead of him, the trail continued south, leading toward the dark entrance of a three-level parking garage that was 250 feet away.

The policeman staggered their positions so that each of them had a clear line of fire. Quietly, they progressed toward the opening.

A dog barked, and the trio flattened themselves.

Prone, the detective eyed the parking lot entrance, which was black and revealed nothing. He aimed his tactical light at the ground, switched it on, and waited, lying on the cold blanket between his two prostrated associates. His mistreated, fifty-year-old flesh was numb, excepting the pain caused by his broken ribs as they pressed skin and muscle into his ballistic vest.

The snowfall thickened. A ponderous minute passed, but no sounds or living things emerged from the dark entrance of the parking garage.

Tackley rose from the blanket. His thumb touched the scope of his rifle, and a red dot flew across the ground like an alien insect.

Bettinger and Dominic got to their feet.

Quietly, the masked policemen proceeded south.

Falling snow concealed them within the white landscape, and soon, the distance between them and the garage diminished by half.

One hundred feet away, the dark entrance gaped like a maw.

Tackley panned his assault rifle to the right, and his red dot tripled as it struck a car window, shot through the opposite glass, and landed on a concrete wall.

Bettinger shuffled onward, gun in hand, aware that he might be killed in the very near future. It was especially unpleasant to think about how his death would affect Alyssa and Karen, both of whom were already traumatized.

Ruminating, the detective fixed his objectives. He had to kill Sebastian, and he had to stay alive.

Everything else was irrelevant.

Seventy feet separated Bettinger from the opening of the parking garage.

Shuffling, he swept his tactical beam through the darkness. The circle of light illuminated a hubcap, riven concrete, and a cardboard box. Nothing moved.

The detective proceeded, and soon, less than fifty feet separated him from the entrance.

He pointed his weapon at the right side of the garage, where the circle of light illuminated rusty pipes, a gate, and a pair of staring eyes.

A red dot appeared on the human face, and Tackley's assault rifle flashed.

The head shattered, bursting into hunks of brown, white, and gray ice.

Bettinger tilted his tactical beam, and the circle of light illuminated the garbage bags, duct tape, and carpet swatches that comprised the frozen Heaper's clothing. Sitting in the vagrant's right hand was a beer can from which depended five small icicles.

Although the detective was relieved that the mottled man had not murdered anybody, he was a little unnerved by the fellow's nearly instantaneous dispatch of lethal gunfire. Bettinger had very fast reactions, but Tackley was a cobra.

The policemen entered the parking garage. Layers of snow sloughed from their bodies onto the concrete like old skin.

The detective panned his tactical light in an arc, illuminating rubble, charred automobiles, barbed wire, a rotten cardboard box, pipes, and the ramp that led up to the second level. Excepting the dead vagrant whose head now resembled Neapolitan ice cream, the immediate area appeared to be uninhabited.

Dominic pointed his tactical light at some bits of snow that the dogs and the woman had left behind.

 

L

The Pillars of Justice

The trail of white clumps led Bettinger and his associates past a mattress, an overturned car, a crate, a hole in the floor, and a dented elevator, before it veered to the right and disappeared inside a dark, open doorway.

Shutting off their lights, the policemen put their shoulders to the wall and listened.

No sounds emerged from the portal.

Bettinger wiped powder from his mask, looked into the doorway, and turned on his light. Clumps of snow led across a gray landing to a flight of descending stairs. Affixed to the near wall was a corroded sign that read
TO UNDERGROUND LEVEL.

The detective pivoted, shining his light at the steps that went up to the second floor. Not one snowdrop lay upon them, and it was clear to him that the dogs and their human companion had all gone underground.

Bettinger slid into the stairwell, walked across the landing, and descended. Although he treaded carefully, every sound that he made was amplified into significance by the acoustics.

The detective shut off his light as he neared the intermediate platform.

Something boomed.

A head slammed into Bettinger's back, catapulting him to the far side of the landing. Stone pounded his ballistic mask, pressing it sideways across his face, and something snapped.

The detective soon found his footing and leaned against the wall. “You okay?” he asked the big fellow who had fallen down the steps.

“Mm.”

Something warm that tasted like a mixture of copper, dirt, and honey slid into Bettinger's mouth. This fluid and the new fire in the middle of his face told him that he had just broken his nose.

“Junk.”

Pressing his shoulder to the corner, the detective shone his tactical light down the nether stairwell, which was uninhabited and ended in a closed gray door. Bits of snow and half as many clear puddles sat on the steps, and the existence of water—as well as the stinging sensations all over his body—told him that the temperature was slightly warmer belowground.

Tackley helped Dominic to his feet. Grunts echoed as the big fellow clasped a rail and wobbled.

“Can you walk?” asked Bettinger, whispering.

Dominic put a fraction of his weight on his hurt foot, and a grimace filled the bottom hole of his mask. “Bind it.”

Tackley and Bettinger exchanged a glance. It was obvious to both of them that the big fellow would be more of a liability than an asset in his present condition.

“You're staying here,” whispered the mottled man.

“No fuckin' way.” Dominic's words resonated throughout the stairwell.

“Keep it down.”

“I'm going.” (This protest was quieter.)

“You aren't.”

“And you can't,” added Bettinger.

“Fuck you.”

The big fellow took one step, wobbled, and collapsed to his knees. Gritted teeth appeared in the bottom hole of his ski mask.

“Idiot,” said his associates.

Clouds of steam burst from Dominic's mouth as he heaved his back against the wall. His eyes glimmered with pain and disappointment.

Tackley withdrew the first-aid kit from the duffel bag and set it beside Dominic. “Guard the rear.”

“Whatever.”

Bettinger was uncertain whether or not his partner would stay behind. “If you come after us, you might get shot.”

“Fuck you.”

“Learn some synonyms.”

“Fuck you.”

“He's right,” remarked Tackley, handing four blue pills to the injured man. “Take two more. Don't follow us.”

“Whatever.” Dominic pocketed the medication and winced as he moved his bad leg. “Duct tape.”

The mottled man withdrew a thick gray roll from the duffel bag and gave it to the big fellow.

“Kill your tactical until we're clear,” said Bettinger.

Dominic turned off his light. “If you do him without me, do it rough.”

“We will,” promised Tackley.

Bettinger continued down the stairwell. A few bits of snow and two small puddles sat on the lower landing directly in front of the closed gray door. The mottled man reached the bottom of the steps, and the detective shut off his tactical light.

Darkness filled the stairwell.

The policemen held their breaths as they listened for noises beyond the gray door.

Silence loomed.

Bettinger pressed the push bar, and metal squeaked. Again, he listened for disturbances and heard nothing.

The detective leaned his weight forward, but the door did not move. Gently, he released the push bar.

“Locked.”

A zipper was pulled across the darkness. Something clicked, and Tackley's headlamp glared, illuminating the steel pieces of the lock-picking set that he held in his pink and milk-white hands. He kneeled, selected a rod that ended in a right angle, and slid it between the door and the jamb at the exact level of the push bar. Employing an ellipsoidal motion, the mottled man hooked the spring latch.

A click echoed.

Bettinger pushed the door, opening it a fraction of an inch.

Tackley returned to his feet and shut off his headlamp.

Darkness consumed the stairwell.

The detective pushed the door so that it was two inches from the jamb. Through the hooded nostrils of the devil mask, he smelled a rich history of urine and rot.

Everything was quiet.

Bettinger rose to his feet and crept from the stairwell. The subterranean garage in which he found himself was very dark, but not opaque: A small amount of daylight was admitted by two small holes in its ceiling, one of which he recognized as the pit that he had earlier circumvented.

Eyes adjusting to the gloom, the detective surveyed the area. The ramp that led to the upper level had collapsed, and strewn about the large enclosure were hunks of concrete, a score of abandoned vehicles, and half as many cardboard boxes. It seemed very unlikely that a disabled criminal who had the resources to kill off an entire police precinct would hide himself, his loved ones, and a pack of Dobermans in a place like this.

Bettinger crouched beside an overturned station wagon, and the small ugly shape that was Tackley materialized, raising his assault rifle. The luminous red dot flew to the opposite end of the parking garage and sat on a wall.

Behind the car, the policemen awaited a response.

None was offered.

Bettinger pointed his gun at the ground and switched on his tactical light. At the edge of the luminous circle he saw two very faint paw prints.

The policemen followed the trail, but it quickly grew impossible to discern from its surroundings.

Pausing, Bettinger searched the area for more tracks. His tactical beam drifted left and right and back again until it struck a damp stain—a nexus where the animals and their human companion had lingered. Directly behind this mark was the sliding door of an old gray cargo van that was backed up to the garage wall.

The detective shut off his light and aimed his gun at the vehicle's passenger window. Inches below the glass shone the mottled man's prophetic red dot.

The policemen approached the gray cargo van. Except for the sounds of their boots arranging grit, the subterranean area was silent.

Bettinger kneeled beneath the passenger window, adjusted his ballistic mask, and stood.

The devil stared back at him. Beyond his dim reflection loomed pure darkness.

The detective sank below the glass, shook his head, and tapped his weapon.

Ten feet away, the mottled man nodded an affirmative response.

Bettinger stood, aimed his gun at the center of the window, and turned on his tactical light. The beam shot through the glass, illuminating the cargo van's charred interior.

Nothing moved.

Heart pounding, the detective circled to the front of the vehicle, where he pointed his light through the windshield. Behind the molten seats was an empty cargo area, the back of which was concealed by a navy blue tarpaulin.

Bettinger and Tackley tried the doors.

All of them were locked.

The headlamp glared. Kneeling on the driver's side of the van, the mottled man slid two steel tools into a tarnished keyhole. Grinding metal echoed as he rocked the pick across the tumblers, and a rat ran out of a capsized car.

The lock popped.

Tackley replaced his instruments, shouldered his bag, and aimed his assault rifle.

Bettinger opened the door and climbed into the van, which smelled like charcoal. Soot swirled in his tactical beam as he walked into the cargo area, kneeled, and grabbed the edge of the navy blue tarpaulin.

Tackley materialized inside the front of the vehicle.

The associates exchanged a nod, and together, they turned off their lights.

Darkness filled the cargo van, excepting the lone red dot that shone upon the navy blue fabric.

Bettinger pulled the tarpaulin.

Fabric crinkled. The red dot disappeared and blinked back into existence on a remote surface that could not possibly be inside of the van.

Breath held, the detective listened to the darkness. The only thing that he heard was the sound of his own pulse.

“Okay,” whispered Bettinger.

Something clicked, and the headlamp glared, illuminating the van and a roughly hewn tunnel that led from the garage through yards of stone and metal into the partially demolished courthouse. The only thing that was visible in the adjacent building was a beige wall, which happened to be the same exact color as the detective's house in Arizona.

Ignoring the pains that filled his body, he climbed into the opening and crawled through layers of concrete, brick, ventilation, wiring, insulation, and metal until he reached the far end of the passage, where he paused. Directly before him was a hallway that had beige wallpaper and brown carpeting.

Bettinger leaned forward and looked around. To the left he saw pure darkness and to the right he saw the glow of incandescent lighting. The radiance spilled from underneath a closed door that stood at the end of the hallway.

Carefully, the detective clambered out of the tunnel. Pain shot down his side and through his face, but he remained silent.