Tomahawk (43 page)

“No, I never did.”

“Pretty soon, I'll be Ms. Clean Living. Probably weigh two hundred pounds.”

“What do you mean? You quit drinking?”

“Actually, booze wasn't my drug of choice. I was putting half my salary up my nose. But I've been off everything for two months now. I'll be picking up my red chip next.”

“What's a red chip?”

“AA talk for being clean for ninety days. I'm in Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“Is that right? Does it work?”

“If you work it.”

He didn't know what that meant; it sounded flip. But before he realized it, he was telling her about his own battle to stay sober. He told her how he kept going to the cupboard to read Kerry's note. “Like she's still talking to me. But I don't know how long I can keep it up.”

“Do you really drink that much?”

“Not every day, but when I get started, I can't stop.”

“That sounds like it all right. Ever been to a meeting? There are people there who've been sober for years.”

“You mean who stopped drinking? I don't need to stop. I just wish I could cut down.”

“Well, you might want to hear what some of them say. Where's your office? Crystal City? I'll find out where the nearest meeting is and call you.”

“What's the latest with you and Szerenci?” he asked her.

“That's kind of on hold for now. But if I can get through this, I don't know—I've got a lot of stuff to work through—we might get married. Not too far down the line.”

“Really? I didn't get the impression you were into monogamy.”

“That's a nice thing to say to somebody who's hanging her ass out here for you.”

“I'm sorry. I guess it was kind of—”

“That's okay. I know what you mean. I'm trying to let go of that shit, too.”

They sat silently for a time. At last, she said, kicking the wood with a
thunk
that made him flinch, “Look, lemme ask you this. What if nobody shows up tonight?
If I just troll myself back and forth here and nothing goes down?”

“We try again next week.”

“For how long?”

“Till something happens.”

“I'm not spending my Friday nights here for the rest of my life, Dan.”

“Then I'll ask somebody else.”

“I hate to tell you this, but I don't think anybody else is going to do this for you. In fact, halfway down that path, I decided this is my last time.”

He didn't answer, and she prodded, “Did you hear me? I'm not doing this again. It's too dangerous. We should leave it to the cops.”

“I heard you. So, are you ready to head back?”

He was exhausted. He wanted just to keep sitting there—or, better, to lie back on the cold ground and flake out for about an hour—but he forced himself to his feet again. The whir of the bike receded into the dark, and he set out again, past thinking whether or not it was right.

They were almost back to their starting point, the viaduct leading over the canal to Georgetown, when he noticed she'd stopped again.

His eyes were better adapted now to the city light that came back from the sky. Brighter than the stars, but different, the metallic unwholesome radiance yielded from the torment of heavy atoms: copper, sodium, beryllium. He could see by it, just enough to sense the black shape that was her on her bike.

Then he saw she wasn't alone. Other shapes surrounded her. He thought for a moment they were trash cans or mileposts, something inanimate.

Then he heard the voices.

He broke into a sprint, instantly reproaching himself. He'd lagged back Should have kept closer to her. He prayed desperately for nothing to happen before he got there. His boots pounded on the gravel so loudly, he couldn't believe they didn't hear him. He started to yell, then let the sound die in his throat.

Surprise was the key to winning a fight. Surprise, speed, and ordnance on target.

He pulled up his jacket and yanked the Colt out. He ran fifty more yards, then slid off the gravel path and into the dry, dead, whispering grass that bounded the precipitous void that was the brush-lined ravine.

“I don't have anything you want.” Cottrell was trying to reason with them. “I don't have any money. Let me go!”

“You best have something we want, bitch.”

The voice was young but utterly cold. It made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. All his fatigue and sleepiness had vanished. The night enfolded them, but it was as if he could see everything, hear everything, as if the gain on his senses had been turned up a hundred times. The gun felt slippery and he realized he was bearing down on the trigger. He took his finger off it and placed his boots gently through the dead grass. He was lower than they were. Another few yards and he'd be between them and the ravine.

“You want the bike? Go ahead. Take it.”

“We doin' just that, bitch.” Coughs and laughter from the dark. “Yeah … what else you got there? Got you a wallet? Cigarettes?”

It was just as if he were there, God help him … and the frightened voice wasn't Sandy's; it was Kerry's

A muffled cry, and a voice muttered, “Nothin' here, Peterbilt. She don't got shi'.”

“Nothin' but what between her legs, man.”

Cottrell screamed suddenly, a full-throated, incredibly loud sound that rang off the stone walls across the canal. His name was part of it. Then it was cut off, and somebody laughed, low and gay. “He ain' here. What you gon' do now, honey?” someone crooned.

He stopped, knee-high in dry brush. He sucked air, trying to slow his runaway breathing. A scraping sound moved toward him. Her shoes, on the pathway. So he had that right—they were dragging her into the ravine. But what he hadn't anticipated was being unable to tell which shape was her and which was them.

He shouted out as loudly and harshly as he could. “Let go of her. Get back!”

The shadows stopped. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Hold on to her, man. Who the fuck's that, man? Where he come from?”

Suddenly, he felt cold. The gun steadied in his hands. His breathing slowed. Movement and sound slowed. It was the fire curtain coming down, the separation of observing self from the body. An impenetrable barrier between his emotions and the one who watched from within his heart… He felt calm now, icy-calm.

“I'm here, Sandy,” he said.

He had the 9-mm straight out now, two-handed, pointing it at the only figure he could make out as standing off to the side. The safety came off with a snap.

“Who the fu' is that?”

“I've got a gun. Let her go.”

“Didn't you got that thirty-two, LeCool? He say he got a gun.”

“He ain't got no gun.”

“Told you we shouldn't've come down here.”

They sounded younger than he'd expected. “Let her go!” he yelled, and pulled the trigger, swinging the muzzle aside at the last instant before it went off.

The muzzle flash showed him three frozen figures, and a fourth, crouched, arm twisted behind her. “Shee-it,” someone said. “He really
do
got a gun.”

Then one of the shadows was running toward him. He jerked around, tightening his grip, and almost fired before she screamed, “It's me. It's me, Dan.
Shoot them!”

They stood rooted. He rasped out, “Don't move. Sandy, go get the cops.”

“What's going on, man? Who are you?”

“You killed somebody here. Another woman. Sandy,
go-”

“Just a minute, I'm catching my fucking breath.”

“No, no, no. We never been down here before. We from Woodley Park.”

“We never killed nobody, man. We's robbers, but we ain't—”

“We leaving. Get away from this crazy man.”

“Stay where you are. Stay where you are!”

“Dan! Are you letting them get away? Dan!”

He was still holding the gun on them, but he heard a jingle of metal, the scrape of shoes. He yelled again for them to stop, but the stealthy retreat did not cease. He could kill them all if he fired now. If he fired
now
—

They'd tried to rob Sandy, been dragging her toward the ravine.

But they were
kids.

But they were old enough to be criminals. Maybe even old enough, in a pack like this, to kill.

His finger tightened. He sucked a breath, aligning the black mass of the pistol's slide on the one he figured was nearest.

Murmurs. The scrape and crunch of gravel, faint, furtive.

They wheeled suddenly, and he heard their striding steps, light and long. But before they faded a taunting voice floated above the still, dark water. “We come back, motherfucker. Come back with guns. We find you here, we shoot you daid.”

“Shit,” Cottrell muttered. Her voice shook, and when he looked toward her, he saw she was sitting on the path. He suddenly became aware he had to piss. The muscles of his arm were cramping. He brought it down along his leg. The hammer slipped as he was trying to lower it, and he came within a wet hair of shooting himself in the foot. “Christ,” he muttered, his voice as shaky as hers.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Putting this on safe.” He wobbled over to her on his noodly legs and squatted on cold gravel.

“Jesus, Dan.
Jesus.
What the hell took you so long?”

“I was trying to get between you and the ravine.”

“I thought you were gone. And then, when you shot, you missed them.”

“That was a warning shot. I didn't know if it was them.”

“If it was
who?
They took my bike. They took my purse. And you heard those … those little assholes. They were getting ready to—”

“They didn't hurt you, Sandy. We stopped anything bad from happening.”

She screamed, “What do you mean,
nothing happened?
Those little monsters were squeezing my tits. They were dragging me down there to rape me. Is that
nothing!”

“I know. Okay, listen, I know.” He couldn't tell her what was going on; he couldn't tell himself. Just that a hurricane was whirling in his chest. If they'd hurt her, he could have shot them. If they'd attacked … but he hadn't done a thing. He'd let them get away.

He understood with a sinking heart then that it was hopeless. He'd never find Kerry's killers, and neither would the police. It might have been the twisted, hardly-more-than children he'd faced tonight. Or their older brothers, or someone entirely different… black or white.

What he understood now was that evil existed. He'd stood face-to-face with it that night. Heard it in human voices. Deprived? Abused? He'd grown up with hunger and beatings. He didn't buy that as an excuse.

It existed, and she'd been defenseless when it found her.

Cottrell was still spitting curses. “Okay, call me stupid, but I don't get it. I put my ass on the line to lure those animals down here. I thought you meant what you said.”

“I did. I was about to start shooting when they let go of you. I just didn't know if they were the ones who killed her.”

“No, tell the fucking truth. What happened was, you just wimped out when it came time to actually
do
something. You just fucking wimped out.”

He blew out, feeling incredibly fatigued. He checked the gun again, then shoved it back under his belt. “Whatever you say. Let's get out of here, okay?”

“Great, shithead, but count me out if you think I'm ever going to trust you again.” She wrenched at the bike, pulling it upright, then thrust it violently at him. She stalked away, erect and unspeaking. After a second or two, he followed.

She reached the stairs a few paces ahead of him and
started up. He was pushing her bike. One of the wheels must have gotten bent. It squeaked as it went around.

He was hoisting it, getting ready to follow her up, when a voice said from under the bridge, “Don' move.”

He froze, cycle balanced awkwardly on his shoulder, as a man in a black nylon jacket stepped halfway out from the darkness. Something gleamed in his hand. He couldn't tell what it was, gun or knife. His own weapon was out of reach, shoved deep into his pants.

“My frien' got killed, too.”

“What?”

“Another gang. She got killed. Don't move. You know, us didn't mean to hurt that other girl you talkin' about. She your wife, right?”

“What are you talking about?” He felt weird, as if he were floating. He had to remind himself he was in danger. He shifted his feet, getting the bike ready to throw. Knock him off balance, if he was lucky, long enough to go for his own gun…. The other took another step out from the shadows and became not a man but a small boy, no more than eleven, shaking with fear.

“Us didn't mean to kill her. Reeney said they was only supposed just to rough her up, then give her … this. This you, right? I heard her yelling for you. Is you him?”

In what felt like a trance, he took the extended envelope.

“Only some of the older guys, you know, they doing that angel dust, and it got out of hand. So that was what it was. I wouldn't do nothing like that…. I told you about my fríen'.”

Then he was gone, the black cap melting back into the darkness.

Sandy came slowly back down the steps, toward the fading scuffle of footsteps. She said, “What did
he
want? Was that one of them?”

“I think so.” Dan stared at the envelope. Then shook himself, hoisted the bike again, and carried it up to the street. The river spread below them, the bridge flaming with light, the city flaming and sparkling away into the distance. It was so bright it hurt his eyes. He propped the
bike against the bridge railing and took out the soiled, crumpled envelope.

It was still sealed. It had his name on it. He shook his head, uncomprehending, and tore it open.

All that was inside was an anonymous scrap of white paper. Carefully penciled block lettering read: “Family is the most valuable thing there is.”