Nameless Night (27 page)

Faced with this “reality,” we take the only “real” option left to us. We pretend that what we come into contact with through our senses is what is, and that others who are prone not to see things precisely as we do need to pay more attention and maybe take a few notes. I mean . . . that’s what growing up is all about, isn’t it? Trial and error. That period of one’s life wherein a person eventually grows into the role he’s been playing.

So the current confusion as to how Randy whatever he called himself got into his present condition should be considered something less than surprising. All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t Paul Hardy . . . Paul didn’t exist at all, and he sure wasn’t Randall James. He knew who Randall was. And he sure as hell wasn’t Wesley Allen Howard either, a guy who had probably existed at one time but was presently missing and presumed . . . presumed what? And so . . . it’s safe to say Randy’s head was seriously bent out of shape as he sat on the edge of that cheap motel bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Acey was gone. The Howards were gone. Felt like everything connecting him to the universe was gone. He pushed the power button on the remote. Took the TV a full minute to come on. Black and white with a persistent roll. The tape loop of our lives: CNN. He sat there staring at the screen . . . trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life, when this guy comes on the screen, hair helmet, hundred-dollar tie, the whole dog and pony show. In between rolls, the caption read Bruce Gill, District Attorney, Queen Anne County. The hair on his arms began to rise. He groped for the remote, found it, and turned on the volume just in time for the picture to cut back to the talking head in the studio who was going on about how some guy named Adrian Hope, guy who once was an astronaut and had then disappeared . . . how he had recently been found . . . well, not exactly found, but about how his fingerprints had recently turned up on a routine fingerprint check initiated by this guy Gill, who claimed to have an unimpeachable witness who would swear the prints were genuine. And then the first picture of the guy flashed on the screen, and in an instant, Randy knew. Not that he remembered anything. He didn’t. He just knew. That was him. And then another picture of him, holding a basketball, and the tears began to roll down Randy’s cheeks. Without willing it so, he got to his feet and kicked the TV over onto its back. The rolling stopped. He left it there, pointing at the ceiling.

What he knew for sure was that what came next was easy. After that, things didn’t look so good.

37

Whoever said “power corrupts” was right on. Doesn’t matter whether you get your power from a bottle or from a bullet, either way the seeds of corruption are sown and the beginning of the end is in sight.

For Chester D. Berry, the situation was exacerbated by his being a cop. Worse yet, he was a corrupt cop, one who’d been getting away with it for such a long time he couldn’t imagine things turning out any other way. That’s the problem with dishonesty. Getting away with rotten things gives a person all the wrong messages. It makes them arrogant, makes them assume deceit is within the natural order of the universe and that they’re in charge of the local franchise.

All of which probably explained why Randy found Chester Berry in the very first place he looked for him. Why the key from his key ring still fit the back door and why he was sitting there in his underwear, big as life in his Barcalounger, with his dick in one hand and a strawberry milk shake in the other, hunkered down in the easy chair watching a porn video lyrically entitled Buttman and Throbbin. You had to admire a man with taste. He ground the silencer into the hollow behind Berry’s ear and told him not to move. Not surprisingly, Chester wasn’t good at following directions. Instead of doing what he told him, he dropped his dick and began to slide his hand down inside the chair, looking for something more substantial. Randy shot him in the top of the right leg.

The impact launched him out of the chair, down onto the floor, where he bellowed like an animal, rolling around with the injured leg pulled tight against his chest as he rocked back and forth over the strawberry-stained carpet.

Randy or Adrian or whoever felt around in the chair cushions and came out with the brother to the gun he was holding. Same make. Same model. Musta had a two-for-one sale down at the gun shop. He popped the clip and jacked the shell out of the chamber, tossing them in opposite directions before reaching down, twirling a handful of Berry’s hair around his latex-covered fingers, and pulling him, kicking and screaming, back into his favorite chair. Berry’s breath came in ragged gasps. His face was the color of an eggplant.

Randy walked around to the front of him and sat down on the corner of the coffee table.

“You stupid fuck!” Berry screamed around the mouthful of sutured tongue. “You can’t kill me. I’m a cop. You kill me and—” Randy hit him in the mouth with everything he had. Berry’s bloodshot eyes opened wide. He made a noise like a horse. The force of the blow tilted the chair back a couple of notches. He brought both hands to his mouth. Thick red blood quickly covered his fingers. A high-pitched keening sound came squeaking out from somewhere deep in his chest. Randy watched his agony and felt embarrassed for him.

Several minutes passed before the sounds of his pain dropped a couple of octaves into something akin to groaning.

“Shut up,” Randy said. “Open your eyes.”

Berry ignored him.

“Do what I tell you, motherfucker, or I’ll hit you in the mouth again.”

The cop’s eyes popped open. It was hard to tell what he was trying to say, but whatever it was started with an N.

“This is going to be a new experience for both of us,” Randy said.

Berry made some sort of noise Randy couldn’t translate.

“As far as I know, this is going to be the first time I ever killed anybody.” Berry started rocking in the chair and screaming through the mess in his mouth. He was spitting blood all over himself. “Fuck you, asshole,” he screamed.

Randy kept on talking. “With my memory, I can’t really be sure what I’ve done and what I just read about, but, you know, what the hell, I’ll just have to go with what I’ve got.” His stomach was tied in a knot. “What we know for sure, though, is that this is going to be your first time to die.” Berry tried to claw his way out of the chair. Randy kicked him back into the seat. “Barring, of course, such things as reincarnation and all that stuff.” Randy rolled his eyes and waved the thought away with his free hand. “All of which is way over my head. Hell, I only found out who I was yesterday and I had to get that off the friggin’ TV.”

He got to his feet, pointed the silenced automatic at Berry’s right knee, and pulled the trigger. The kneecap exploded. The wall behind the chair was suddenly dotted with bits of blood and bone. A pink haze floated on the air. Berry looked like he was going into shock. Randy bent low, putting his mouth close to Berry’s ear.

“That was for the lady down in the Grove. The one who gave you her boy so he could work off her rock habit with his ass. The lady Tyrone’s boys cut to pieces because you didn’t deliver the dope. I don’t know her name and I sure as hell don’t like what was going down with her boy . . . I just know she deserved better than she got.”

Randy took a step back. “And finally, asshole . . .” Berry’s chin had fallen to his chest. “Open your eyes,” Randy said. No response.

“On the count of three, I’m going to smack you in the mouth again. Now open your goddamn eyes,” Randy yelled. “One, two . . .”

He opened his eyes. The pain and fear were gone. All that remained was the thousand-yard stare. Whatever he was looking at now was a mile away and visible only to him. Randy wanted him to know where the pain was coming from, but at that point, he was so worked up it didn’t matter. He pointed the gun at Berry’s forehead.

“And this, asshole . . . this is from a kid named Acey.”

He closed his eyes. Randy kicked him hard in the leg. The eyes opened again. “You remember him?”

He nodded and opened his mouth.

He was trying to get control of his lips when the slug hit him between the eyes, sending the greater portion of his brain matter and nearly all of the back of his skull rocketing into the soft fabric of the chair, painting the ceiling above and forming a macabre halo of blood and brains on the leather behind his head. Randy stood there on the carpet waiting to be overcome by remorse. Waiting to be bent double by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach . . . the knowledge that he’d just killed another human being and that his life was never going to be the same, because he had taken that which only God had a right to give and take. He waited for the smoldering gut acid to eat its way through his innards, burning his tortured soul until his backbone melted and he fell among the milk shake and the smears of blood and bits of brain covering everything in the room. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own breathing.

He stood with the gun hanging at the end of his arm and the mist of blood still hanging in the air . . . but it didn’t come. Instead of remorse, he felt jilted. Like he’d been stood up for the junior prom. Besides which . . . it hadn’t felt nearly as good as he had imag-ined it would. Not only that but he hadn’t dragged it out for as long as he’d wanted to. The whole thing was over before he got a chance to “carpe” the moment. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted of old pennies.

He dropped the automatic at his feet and looked around the room. Took a minute and a half to find Berry’s pants hanging in the hall closet. Sure enough, the keys to the rental car were in one of the side pockets.

He went out the way he’d come in, backed the rental into the street, and pulled the Mercedes into the driveway. He emptied the glove box of his personal belongings, stuffing them into his pockets, popped the trunk and grabbed the bag full of dope, and then headed back inside.

He threw Berry’s badge and wallet and car keys onto the kitchen table and then carried the bag of dope into the living room. He was looking for something dramatic. Something that couldn’t be swept under the rug as cops sought to cover for one of their own, so he ripped one of the packages open and sprinkled it all over the stiff, then scattered the rest of the dope all over the room, dropping some of the bricks into Berry’s lap and others down at his feet. Berry had lost all muscle control. The room smelled like a sewer. Berry was back where he belonged.

Randy held his breath and looked around. He checked the keys in his pocket. National Rent-a-Car. He had a wild thought about returning the car on his way out of town, but decided they’d find it in the airport parking lot on their own. He let himself out the front.

38

Detective Sergeant Boyd Haase was what was once considered “classically handsome.” Unfortunately he thought so too. Too often, when Kirsten would turn to look at him, she’d find he’d beaten her to the punch and was already looking at himself . . . in mirrors, in shop windows, in anything reflective. It was, to him, like the world was one vast photo op, and he wanted to be sure he was ready, like he was always posing for some imaginary camera, chin thrust resolutely into the wind, steely gaze straight ahead, with a hint of a shoulder holster and a sardonic smile. They’d dated for a while, dinner and a movie, that sort of thing, but in the final offing, they’d been unable to find any common ground they could plow in the upright position, and so, like so many others, he’d fallen by Kirsten’s wayside.

“Hey,” he said in his most resonant basso profundo. Kirsten looked up. “Well, well. To what do I owe the honor of a visit?”

He shook his head. “Does there have to be a reason for—” “Yes,” she said. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

He thought about arguing, but took another tack instead. “You owe me.”

She rearranged her face into mock surprise. “For what?”

“For running that name for you.”

“You didn’t get anything.”

“I tried.”

“Sounds like the story of our relationship.”

“Now, now,” he chided.

“What’s up?”

He wandered around her office, pretending to be on the horns of a dilemma. “I don’t know,” he said. “This kind of reception . . . I just don’t . . .”

She suppressed a growl. “I’m buried, Boyd.”

He walked over and put one well-clad ass cheek on the corner of her desk. “Must be tough,” he said. “All that TV time over the Adrian Hope thing. All those interviews. All the—” She cut him off. “I’m just window dressing, Boyd. To me, it’s nothing more than an unwanted interruption of my routine.”

“Gill sure loves it.”

“It’s an election year.”

“Manna from heaven.”

“And then some.” She waited. Boyd Haase was one of those people who felt a great need to fill silence. As long as he was talking, he felt like he was in control. At least that was how it seemed to him. So all you had to do to find out everything knocking around in his head was to shut up and wait. Just wait until the screaming silence forced him to fill the void with words.

“Guess what I got this morning.”

“Spare me the guessing games.”

“An inquiry from the Bureau.”

“About what?”

“About that inquiry I made for you.” She was giving him nothing. “The inquiry about a missing person named Wesley Allen Howard.”

She sat back in her chair. “What about him?”

“I thought that would get your attention.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Come on, Kirsten . . . I was born on a weekend, but it wasn’t last weekend.”

“What about this Mr. Howard?”

“He’s missing.”

“Missing how?”

“From his home in Cocoa Beach, Florida.”

“No kidding.”

“Along with his wife and a pair of twin daughters.”

“Was this Wesley Howard on the list of Wesley Allen Howards that we . . . ?”

He nodded. “The girls hadn’t been to school in a couple of days. Nobody was answering the phone, so the school sent one of their security officers over . . .”

“And?”

“And . . . the place was cleaned out.” He dusted his hands together. “Everything . . . right down to the carpets.”