The Four-Night Run (34 page)

“Caleb, my God, I’m sorry. Caleb, let me help. I can help.”

Slowly the huge man leaned away from Scrbacek. The shadows from his brow lengthened, his eyes hid again in the blackness. As if a cord had been yanked free, the whispering silenced and whatever connection Scrbacek had felt disappeared. The man in front of him was again a bronze cipher, and Scrbacek was left to wonder if the certain knowledge that had flowed from Breest to him had all been mirage, a figment of his own fear and exhaustion.

“Caleb, I had a meeting with Thomas Surwin, the man who indicted you for Malloy’s murder. He is planning to indict you again for racketeering and drug dealing. The penalty is life imprisonment without parole. But, Caleb, if we leave here right now and go talk to him, if we tell him what you know about Joey, if you are prepared to testify, if you let me talk with him, I’m sure he’ll help you. Caleb, I can make a deal.”

And then, from this huge hulking man of brass came the first word in minutes. “No.”

“You have to. Caleb. I can save your life.”

“No.”

“Joey is going to kill you.”

“No.”

“Caleb, he used you from day one. You were his front man. His tool. Caleb.”

“No.”

“And he is going to kill you, Caleb.”

“No.”

“Like he is going to kill me, and my son, and my son’s mother. He is going to kill us all and then he is going to kill you.”

“No.”

“And if he fails, others will succeed. There is going to be a war tonight, Caleb. Everything is converging—here, tonight. The Furies are coming. Your only chance of surviving is to come with me. Come with me. We’ll go to Surwin together.”

“No.”

“Caleb.”

“No.”

“Let me help you. I can help you. Caleb.”

“No,” said Caleb Breest, the arc of his shaking head growing longer and faster as he repeated the word “no,” his voice growing louder each time he said it. “No. No. No.” Slowly his great interlocked hands rose high over his head and, with a sudden snap, were brought down like a sledge onto the surface of the great oak desk.

The desktop splintered in two like a cracker.

The goons stationed outside banged through the door, the fireplug and the monster, short-barreled semiautomatics waving forward as they rushed in. When they saw Breest sitting before the shattered desk, they halted and coolly pointed their guns at Scrbacek.

“Trust me, Caleb,” said Scrbacek. “I’m your lawyer.”

Breest stared at Scrbacek, and Scrbacek imagined he saw the faintest hint of a smile, as if Breest had finally gotten the joke.

“What’s up, boss?” said the fireplug.

“Caleb, I can help,” said Scrbacek. “We’ll go together. Out that door. To safety. Let me help you. I can help you. Please.”

“You want us to drill him, boss?”

“Go,” said Caleb Breest to J.D. Scrbacek. “Now.”

One of the men pulled back a lever on his gun with a distinct grinding click. Breest, without rising, turned and reached into a cabinet behind him, bringing out a huge shotgun, which he pumped once and then twice.

Scrbacek’s client, now fully informed of his options and perils, had made his decision.

“They’re going to kill my son and his mother,” said Scrbacek. “Dirk and Dyer. Joey gave the order. If they get out of here, they’re going to go to Philadelphia. They have to be stopped.”

“Go,” said Breest.

“I have to be sure that nothing—”

“Go,” said Caleb Breest.

“Caleb . . .”

“Go.”

Scrbacek went.

55

L
ESS
T
HAN A
W
HISPER

The fireplug escorted Scrbacek through the building, leading him down the long dark hallway with the two lights, turning left and right, and then into a huge storage area with a loading platform at the far end. One of the bay doors was open. When one of the goons who had taken him from Torresdale’s table tried to stop them at the open bay door, the fireplug, still with the gun in his hand, simply shook his head and the goon slipped away.

“Don’t come back,” said the fireplug as Scrbacek jumped down from the platform and into the soft rain.

“No chance of that,” said Scrbacek.

He was running through a maze of cars when he heard a twang of metal and then a shot. He didn’t stop to turn around and search through the rain for the gunman on the roof. Instead he kept moving, zigzagging now, still conveniently bent at the waist from his beating, heading for the safety of a squat brick building about fifty yards away. Another shot, no sound of a ricochet this time. Where was the ricochet? A shout, another shot, and then he reached the brick and spun around the corner so that he had fully disappeared from the roof shooter’s view.

He stopped for a moment, wiped the blood from his cheek, the rain out of his eyes, took a deep painful breath, grabbed hold of his side. He was north of Dirk’s. He needed to get east, but he couldn’t go there directly. He had to weave from building to building to keep the safety of mortar and block between himself and Dirk’s. He took another deep breath and started again.

No longer running now, in too much pain to run, moving in a steady skip-jog through the wet streets, left then right then right, traversing the byways and alleyways, keeping as close to the safety of the walls as possible, pausing a moment here or there before sprinting through the rain across open streets. They couldn’t get to him from Dirk’s anymore, but who knew how many were following him, trying to catch a glimpse.

He scurried like an insect through the wet streets, making snap judgments—left here, right here. He saw a faint glow in the distance, heard shots. Was that it, what he was looking for? Carefully he made his way toward the light and sound, keeping tight to a wall, moving more slowly now, stepping along a pitted, pebble-strewn alleyway with care, the sporadic shooting in front of him growing louder all the while. Back pressed against the wall, he shifted slowly toward the source of the light, craning his neck to get a view.

Dirty Dirk’s.

Crap. He had moved in a circle, a useless loop, right back to where they were looking to kill him. But he hadn’t come out by the loading platform. Instead he could see the long empty wall, the eastern edge of the building. And there was shooting going on, louder now, clearer, like a pitched battle was raging inside that very building. Men ran from the exits, some bloodied. Others ran toward the doors, itching to get into the fight.

So it was going down, the inevitable war between Caleb Breest and Joey Torresdale. He wondered who had fired the first shot, wondered who would end up still on his feet when the last shot was sounded. Torresdale was wily beyond belief, and apparently had more men, but Torresdale himself had turned Breest into an awesome killing machine. Whatever the result, Scrbacek was glad as hell to be out of it.

Now that Scrbacek knew he was east of Dirk’s, he understood where he needed to go. He backed away, slowly, carefully, so as not to be seen, backed away until Dirk’s disappeared once more from his view. Just as he was about to turn around and run, through the delicate patter of the rain, he heard it:

“Scrbacek.”

It was less than a whisper, as soft as a thought, and terrifyingly familiar, like an old bad dream that keeps haunting. He froze.

“Scrbacek.”

56

R
IMSHOT

“Scrbacek.”

From where had it come, this soft yet pernicious whisper, this familiar taunt? In front of him? Behind him? Was it only his imagination?

He spun around, his back to Dirk’s. Nothing. The gunfire continued behind him, an aural spur, reminding him he had to get away. He took a step forward, pebbles shifting beneath his feet. He looked around.

Nothing.

Another step.

Nothing.

Another step.

“Scrbacek.”

He didn’t wait now. He just started running, his boot soles slipping at first on the wet, and then gripping the pebbly surface as he picked up speed, fists pumping, running.

A dark shadow stepped out from a wrecked building just ahead of him, a large piece of scrap wood in its grasp, the wood catching a gleam of light.

“Here’s the windup,” said the shadow.

And then the wood swung, like a Louisville Slugger, landing flush on Scrbacek’s bad arm, slamming him into the wet ground with an explosion of pain and surprise that forced out an inhuman howl. As Scrbacek writhed on the pitted asphalt, the shadow stepped toward him.

Scrbacek rolled slowly, painfully, and then backed away, crab-like, hands scrabbling through puddles and pebbles. Backed away as fast as his wounded left arm would let him, which wasn’t very fast at all. From his low angle, he could only see his attacker’s silhouette against the dim glow of the rain-sodden sky: a man with broad shoulders and unruly hair, his long leather coat sweeping low to the ground as he stepped calmly toward the retreating Scrbacek. But even with only a silhouette to judge, and even with rain falling into his eyes and blurring his sight, Scrbacek knew.

Bozant.

“I’ve been looking high and low for you,” said Bozant as he took a quick hop forward, planted his left foot, and swung his right foot hard into Scrbacek’s crotch. The kick thudded solidly. The pain of it, more than the blow, spun Scrbacek onto his face. He let out a groan, his body contracted into a ball.

“I guess I just wasn’t looking low enough,” said Bozant.

Almost unconscious from the impossible pain that rose in thick waves from his abdomen, Scrbacek stretched out and started crawling away, pebbles and stones pressing into his forearms. He was moving by instinct, driven by fear, moving as fast from this demented madman as he was able, which was only as fast as a slug.

“What, no clever comeback? You always had a ready wit. Let me know when it’s ready.”

Bozant started toward the crawling Scrbacek, leaped into the air, and landed one foot on Scrbacek’s back, flattening him on the pitted asphalt.

“I’ll never forget the first time I saw you,” said Bozant. “And don’t think I haven’t tried. There’s always been something about your face that puts me in the mood for violence.”

Scrbacek’s face was pressed into a pebble-strewn puddle, his cheek pouring blood into the water. He had to turn his head to breathe. When Bozant removed his shoe from his back, Scrbacek slowly rolled until he was lying faceup on the ground. Bozant squatted over his limp body, and Scrbacek, totally exposed, could do nothing except let the wet and the pain flow through him. Resignation overwhelmed his fear.

“Just . . . tell me,” said Scrbacek, gasping for air, “what the hell do you want?”

“I want to kill you.”

Scrbacek was too dazed to even react. Bozant grabbed Scrbacek’s head with both hands and slammed it into the street so hard Scrbacek felt his consciousness slip wholly into the pain and disappear.

When Scrbacek opened his eyes again, he was lying faceup in the gutter. Bozant sat beside him, atop an overturned trash can, picking at his palm. Scrbacek attempted to slide away as stealthily as possible. Bozant lifted his head and smiled. Scrbacek stopped.

“I used to dress up like a clown for kids in the hospital,” said Bozant. “I loved that, and I was good at it. Some clowns couldn’t make a hyena laugh, but I had a talent. They don’t let me do it anymore. Felons aren’t welcome in the children’s ward. What is a clown when he can’t clown anymore?”

Bozant reached down and flicked a finger into Scrbacek’s eye. Scrbacek screamed and clutched his left hand to his socket.

“At wit’s end,” said Bozant.

“You’re insane,” shouted Scrbacek, the sharp pain wakening him out of the daze.

“So they tell me. I’m actually in court-ordered therapy, but it hasn’t much helped. My doctor’s an ambivalence chaser. I take so many differ
ent-colored pills I dream in Technicolor.”

Scrbacek pressed down on his right hand until he was sitting up slightly. “You’re getting paid to kill me, not to torture me with bad jokes. If you’re going to do it, just do it.”

“You shouldn’t think I’m just killing you for the money. Well, not only for the money. I’m not a total mercenary.”

Scrbacek spit blood, his hand still to his eye. He couldn’t help notice Bozant’s ease of manner as he sat on the trash can, chatting. “You killed Ethan Brummel,” said Scrbacek, “you killed Freaky Freddie Margolis.”

“They just got in the way of what you had coming.”

“Go to hell. Stop blaming me for your getting kicked off the force and into jail—you did that to yourself. You were the one who corrupted your badge, you were the one who lied on the stand, you were the one sleeping with the whore.”

“Well, you know what they say—nothing risqué, nothing gained.” Bozant’s foot shot out and caught Scrbacek in the stomach. “Still, I owe you some of the credit.”

Scrbacek groaned as he rolled onto his side, curled like a fetus. “I was just doing my job,” he managed to get out.

“Your job. You’ve always had the Midas touch, Scrbacek. Everything you touch turns into a muffler. Well, I’m just doing my job, too. But you’re right—I’m as much at fault as you. I loved her from the start. Amber, I mean. She was crazier than I was. First time I took her in, she kicked me in the nuts, I smacked her in the jaw, she smiled and spit out a tooth. I couldn’t help myself. I always wanted a girl just like the girl that Dad had on the side, and she was it.”

Scrbacek pushed himself again to sitting. He rubbed at his eye. “So if it’s not the money, and not because I proved you a liar, then why are you still after me?”

“You thought you were on the side of the angels getting Amber off, didn’t you?”

“You gave me the key, I just turned it.”

“I know. And don’t think I don’t beat myself up over what happened, too.” Bozant slammed his fist into his own face.

“What are you talking about?”

Bozant leaned over and rapped his knuckles on Scrbacek’s head. Tap tap. “Hello?” Tap tap tap. “If ignorance is bliss, why aren’t you happier? I’m talking about Maya. My daughter, Maya. Remember her?”

Scrbacek stared at Bozant for a long moment as the rain poured like tears off the both of them. He felt something slide through him that was different now than the fear and the pain.

“It was one thing to release that psycho-bunny into the world,” said Bozant. “It was quite another to deliver my daughter into her grasp.”

Scrbacek closed his eyes and felt that thing slip through him and knew now what it was, exactly what it was. “How could I know what would happen?” he pleaded, as if to a judge and not some homicidal maniac.

“You found her. It was your job to know.”

“It was another lawyer who brought her back.”

“But you didn’t stand up and fight it. You knew it was happening, and you let it.”

“What could I do?”

“Tell the court the truth.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Everything I knew was privileged. But it wasn’t even Amber who ended up killing her. It was the boyfriend.”

“Who did you think she was going to end up with after Lucius and me? Pop Warner? Did you have any expectation that crazy Amber would protect her daughter?”

“What could I have done?” moaned Scrbacek, even as he knew he could have done more, even as he knew that the thing slipping through him was the keen blade of shame for all that he didn’t do to protect that girl, that young, pretty girl with the ribbons in her pigtails.

“You found her, you dragged her back to Amber’s attention, it was your responsibility to do something to protect her. I convinced Amber—with much difficulty and violence, I might add—to give her away. And I made sure Maya had the best care the foster system could deliver. She was out of the life, into something better, and then you dragged her back. I was never much of a father to Maya, but I figure I owe her one last thing. So get up, Scrbacek. Get the hell up.”

Bozant rose from the trash-can seat, grabbed Scrbacek’s collar, and pulled him to standing. Scrbacek staggered onto his feet, weak with the brutal cocktail of pain and shame.

“Get up so I can give my little baby one last gift.” Bozant reached into his coat and pulled out a huge fillet knife. “Today, on
The American Sportsman
, catching and cleaning the North American largemouth bass.”

Bozant shoved Scrbacek away. Scrbacek staggered back, unsure of what to do, still filled with a paralyzing shame. Bozant was going to kill him. He was going to kill him, dammit, and Scrbacek wasn’t sure he didn’t deserve it. Bozant took a step forward and gave Scrbacek another shove. Scrbacek fell back onto the ground. Bozant stood over him, waving the knife.

“We’re playing
The American Sportsman
, so I’m going to be sporting. I’m going to give you to five before I chase you down and gut you with this knife. I like this knife, because if I stab you in the chest it’s flexible enough to slip around a rib and still dive into your heart. I finished off that dog with this knife.”

Something came loose in Scrbacek. He shook his head to alertness and, for a moment, the shame abated, overcome by anger. “You killed my dog.”

“Was that yours? If I had known, I would have enjoyed it more.”

“You shouldn’t have killed my dog.”

“One.”

Scrbacek scrabbled to his feet, grabbing a handful of pebbles and stones in his right hand as he did.

“Two.”

Scrbacek turned as if to flee and then whipped around again, tossing the pebble mixture into Bozant’s face. As Bozant reeled back, arm to his face, Scrbacek began to run.

From behind, he heard Bozant scream out, his voice still in good humor, “Three, four, five. Ready or not, here I come.”

Scrbacek gripped his left arm as he lurched forward, step by step, gripped the arm that Bozant had first crippled with a bullet and then slammed with the wooden board and was now aching and useless. He leaned forward to keep up his speed, fighting to ignore the pain spinning like a cyclone through his body. He could hear Bozant’s footsteps gaining on him at an alarming rate. He only had a few dozen seconds before the maniac would overtake him. He darted right, along a building’s edge, darted left at its corner, staggered down a narrow street.

He felt flooded with a strange sensation that he had done this already. And he had, the night his building burned down and Bozant had called out his name and then shot a bullet through his arm. How long ago had that been? A lifetime? He tried to count the passing of the days, fought to separate what had become a blur. One two three four nights. Four nights that changed everything. And now, still gripping his arm, the very same killer in mad pursuit, he was running out of Crapstown, out of the darkness that had once promised safety, toward the corrupt yellow glow of Casinoland. But he wouldn’t get there, he couldn’t, Bozant would catch him first, he wouldn’t get there, unless . . .

He cut right again, running as fast as his weary legs and the pain still pooling in his abdomen would let him, zigged left once more, the footsteps gaining on him, the knife growing ever closer. And then, to his right, he saw the flickering glow of fire reflect off the top of a building. He dived right, into an alley, Bozant behind him, so close now that Bozant could almost grab at the trailing edge of Scrbacek’s raincoat.

When they burst out of the alleyway, they ran smack into the center of a great crowd, a strange army of men and women packed together, torches held high, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing away from the sea, a wild shifting regiment that filled the streets and spilled over onto the sidewalks. The two lurched together into the middle of the crowd just as Bozant dived at Scrbacek with his knife.

Scrbacek jumped back as the knife sliced the front of his shirt. He turned to run and felt hands grab at him. He swatted them away, but others grabbed at him as well, more than he could fend off, gripping him around his chest, his biceps. Dozens more, grabbing his legs, his neck, lifting him off the ground, immobilizing him totally, halting his escape from the knife. As he struggled, he noticed that Bozant was being similarly embraced, lifted, held in check.

But for how long? Bozant was fighting furiously, knife still in hand. How long until he slashed himself free and lunged at Scrbacek’s chest with his blade? He was close, so close, less than an arm’s length away. Scrbacek struggled to get free, to continue his flight. “Stop it,” he yelled. “Let me go!” But his screams were useless, caught as he was, imprisoned, clutched into helplessness, at the mercy of the mob.

And then Bozant seemed to pull away from Scrbacek, as if atop a cloud, magically floating away into the sea of arms and faces, shoulders and necks. Bozant reached out a hand, grabbing hold of Scrbacek’s raincoat. Scrbacek felt the tug, but he was held too firmly himself by the mob, and Bozant’s grip faltered and then failed. And he floated away alone, floated farther and farther away, until slowly, as if in a dream, the mob closed in around him and he disappeared from view, except for the one arm that had gripped Scrbacek’s coat. That arm now stretched high, over the heads of the crowd, as if seeking to grip the heavens themselves and drag them down with him. There came a scream, something dark and inhuman, fierce and strangely empty, and slowly the hand fell until it vanished from Scrbacek’s sight, along with the rest of Remi Bozant, disappeared into the mob, vanished as if from the face of the globe.

Scrbacek was stunned at what he had witnessed, didn’t understand what had happened, why or how he had been saved. And then the part of the crowd that had swallowed Bozant whole split in two, and through the opening roared a motorcycle, huge as a horse, encrusted in chrome, its handlebars reaching high to the sky. Straddling the great machine was a huge woman in a black leather vest, with a gun in her belt and thick reddish dreads coiled about her face.