Detroit Combat (16 page)

Hawker had no choice. He dropped the guns onto the rock floor. As the fat woman fished in her pocket and lit a cigarette, Hawker stepped between her and Clare. As he did, he touched the woman's neck tenderly. Her skin was deathly cold. He had to get her to a hospital quickly if she was to live. He had no time to spare.

First, though, he had to get past the elephant woman. He said calmly, “It wasn't me that set your house on fire, lady. It was one of your men. That big biker. He turned out to be a regular torch.”

“Yes, I bet,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “And all for what? That scrawny little bitch on the table behind you? She wasn't worth a
tenth
of what you destroyed.” The fat woman threw out her arms as if to embrace the house above her. “Do you have any idea where you are, you silly little man? You are in the house built by Dr. Herman W. Mudgett. Why do you look confused? You certainly know the name. No?”

She was right. It took Hawker a moment to remember the name from one of his classes in criminology. Mudgett was one of the most prolific and successful mass murderers in history. He had lived in Chicago around the turn of the century. There he conned a number of construction companies into building a mansion for him. Because various companies were used, no single contractor knew that Mudgett had included secret passages, a crematory furnace, and trapdoors that opened right over vats filled with acid so he could dispose of the bones of his victims that much more efficiently. The estimated number of people Mudgett killed ran well into the hundreds.

Mudgett was a murderer. He lived for no other reason. The house he built was designed as a torture chamber to serve his passion.

The obese woman smiled through the cigarette smoke. “Herman Mudgett was my grandfather, dearie. I'm very proud of that. Grandfather did quite well financially, you know. They never traced this Detroit house to him. He used hundreds of aliases, of course. He never even told my mother about it—just me.” She allowed a bawdy wink. “Maybe it's because I really knew how to please the old man, huh? But he never got nearly the pleasure out of it I did, dearie. So he left the house to me. And I've lived here quite happily all these years, chubby Louise Mudgett, who went on to follow in her famous grandfather's footsteps as the much hated, much feared, but always respected Queen Faith.”

“Charming story,” Hawker said, trying to come up with some last-ditch plan, some final effort at escape. “You're as insane as he was.”

The woman's face grew red. “Don't you dare say a word against me or my family!” she snapped.

“How could I have been so rude?” wondered Hawker. “But you do plan to kill us, don't you?”

“And what the fuck do you think, you meddlesome bastard? You've burned down my beautiful house, so you're god damn right I'm going to kill you. My only regret is I don't have time to make your death last a few days instead of just a few seconds.”

Hawker had an idea. He took a step back toward the gurney on which lay the girl. “Then you have no reason to mind if the girl and I die together?”

“Are you trying to make me puke with that sentimental shit!” the obese woman yelled. “I don't give a tinker's damn about the two of you dying together.”

Hawker shoveled his arms under the sheeted form of Clare Riddock and lifted her to his chest. “I'm just a sentimental guy,” Hawker replied, putting his right foot against the gurney and shoving with all his strength.

The heavy hospital table rattled like a train as it plowed into the fat woman. She backpedaled into the wall, hitting her head and arms hard against the rock. The 410-gauge went off unexpectedly. It was pointing straight up. The fat woman had just enough time to glare into Hawker's eyes before the ceiling fell in on her.

The section of flooring had been weakened by the fire, and the shotgun blast was the final touch. Now flames and orange coals rained down on her huge form. Even as Hawker was scrambling to get Clare out of there, he saw clearly how Queen Faith's pale hair seemed to glow, then burst into bright flame. And he heard the woman's hideous screams as the kimono caught fire and she became a ponderous, running flare that banged off rock walls as the flames bubbled her pale flesh, then burst it.

Hawker had no desire to see any more. Trying to brush away the burning wood that was now coming down on them, he carried Clare to the coal chute and climbed with her outside.

Hawker remembered little of what happened then. Even weeks later, it would return only in bits and pieces. He remembered how the women he had freed now helped him place Clare Riddock on the ground; how they helped him bundle the sheets around her; how they insisted on caring for his girl until the ambulances arrived … and he remembered how one of the women burst suddenly into tears, and how someone was trying to keep him away, and how the paramedic who arrived tried to give him an injection to calm him after they pulled the sheet over Clare Riddock's perfect face.…

And then he was walking, walking cold and alone through the December night, somewhere north of Detroit, he didn't know where—or even care. He saw a phone booth ahead and, magically, there was a quarter in his hand. He dialed Paul McCarthy's hospital number with exaggerated care, making more of a job of it than it was.

“Hey, Paul, it's Hawk. Just called to check in.”

McCarthy, no fool, immediately picked up the odd tone in the vigilante's voice. “What's wrong, Hawk? Are you in some kind of trouble or something?”

“What kind of trouble could I be in, Paul? We busted Queen Faith good tonight. Took out all the biggies and freed all the little ones. I imagine your people have some uniforms out there now. I think your kidnapping problems are over, old buddy. All Queen Faith's people have been officially dispatched.”

“By yourself, Hawk? You did all of that
alone?
My God, but how? You have to come to the hospital, Hawk. I've got to hear all about it. Why don't you and Clare come over tonight? I can bribe the nurses to let you in—”

“Clare's dead, Paul,” Hawker interrupted matter-of-factly. “Funny thing is, I'm not even sure how she was killed. I got there too late, you see. I probably could have prevented it, but I just wasn't in time.”

McCarthy didn't respond for several seconds. Finally he knew why Hawker's voice sounded so strange. He said softly, “James, I know how you felt about her. I know that you loved her. I'm sorry.”

Hawker said nothing. He tried to peer through the glass of the phone booth, but his eyes wouldn't focus for some reason. Everything was blurry.

McCarthy continued, “Maybe you ought to come up for a visit, James—or, hell, I'll just sign myself out for the night. It would do me good, and you need to talk to someone.”

James Hawker wondered why his snort of laughter sounded so strange and sad. “Can't risk it, Paul. I've got to move fast now. I can't afford to stick around after an operation.”

“But where can I get in touch with you—”

“You can't, Paul. You can't. Maybe someday I'll get in touch with you.”

As the Detroit detective started to say something else, Hawker hung up the phone. He pushed open the door of the booth and stepped out into the night. He looked at the stars and then at the far-off glow of the burning mansion.

He spit into the snow.

He thought about maybe going to his place in Florida, the little ramshackle house built on stilts in the shallow water of Chokoloskee Bay. That was an idea. He could lie in the sun, fish when he wanted, drink beer and get fat and think about absolutely nothing.

James Hawker nodded as he walked aimlessly into the winter darkness. Yes, he would go to Florida. It was far too cold in Detroit this time of year.…

Turn the page to continue reading from the Hawker series

one

At 4
A.M.
three members of a terrorist organization planted bombs beneath the bedroom window and the kitchen window of Chester A. Rutledge's split-level home in Bethesda, Maryland.

It was a Friday morning, a school day, and at 6:30
A.M.
Rutledge's sixteen-year-old son, Luke, was the first to awaken. He yawned, threw back the covers, and headed immediately for the bathroom in the hope of getting there before his thirteen-year-old sister, Mary Ann, his eleven-year-old sister, Lisa, and his four-year-old brother, Jeffery, whom everyone called J.R.

Mrs. Betty Rutledge was the next to awaken. As she passed the bathroom, she smiled sleepily at her oldest son and blew him a kiss. She wore a pale gray robe that made her blond hair look flaxen and her blue eyes glow.

“Ham or bacon, Luke?” she asked him.

“Both?”

His mother laughed. “Sure, why not. And what about the eggs?”

“Poached. Four of them.”

“My little boy is growing up.”

Luke Rutledge inspected his face for acne in the mirror. “I wish I could make Dad believe that.”

“Oh, he believes it. He may be trying to postpone it a little, but he believes it. And, whether you think so or not, dear, your father only wants what's best for you.”

The boy turned away from the mirror and looked carefully at his mother. “I guess I was out of line last night, huh? I should never have yelled at Dad like that. I should never have said those things. It's just that those three idiots in the Lincoln who hit us—”

“Everyone says things they don't mean when they're mad,” his mother interrupted, not wishing to hear the story again.

“But I've never talked to him like that before. I'm kind of surprised he … he didn't smack me or something. Now I sorta wish he had.”

His mother went to him and patted his head down onto her shoulder. “When you love someone, Luke, dear, words can hurt a lot worse than a slap.”

“What I said was that bad?”

The boy's mother continued to pat his head. “I think what you said hurt him more deeply than you know—or you would never have said it. You and your father are a lot alike, Luke. Neither of you show much emotion, and that just makes it harder on both of you. But don't worry, dear—if you feel badly about it, just tell him when he gets up. Your father will understand.… He cares for you so. I'm sure he'll forgive you.”

The boy's eyes were suddenly glassy. “You really think so?”

Betty Rutledge was sure of it because she and her husband had stayed up late worrying over the argument. Her husband's feelings
had
been badly hurt, but he wanted nothing so much as to regain his son's respect and affection. She did not tell her son that. Instead, she said, “I think you'll both feel much better if you have a good talk. Okay?”

“Yeah, Mom, sure. And thanks.”

Her son was whistling as she walked through the dusky halls to the kitchen. She plugged in the automatic coffee maker, put a skillet on for the poached eggs, and began to make toast. Upstairs, she could hear the clump and giggle of her daughters waking up, and soon, she knew, she would hear the familiar sounds of toilets flushing, showers purling, hair dryers whining as her daughters went through their preschool routine.

Little J.R., hair mussed with sleep, thumb in his mouth, would be the last to come down, dragging his blanket behind.

This was Betty Rutledge's favorite time of day. She was alone with her thoughts, but she still had her family around her, warm and loving, with their troubles, their small triumphs. It was in the morning that the four kids and her husband, Chester, seemed exclusively hers; in the morning before school or sports or the office took them away into the world.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and began to prepare breakfast.

At 6:58
A.M.
Luke came clomping into the kitchen. He piled bacon on top of a piece of toast and jammed half of it in his mouth.

His mother asked, “Do you have practice tonight?”

“Um-huh.”

“It's Kevin's mother's turn to drive, isn't it?”

“Yup.” He took another bite. “Wheremyeggs?”

“What? Was I supposed to understand that?”

The boy swallowed. “Where are my eggs?”

“They'll be done in about two minutes. Did you talk to your father?”

“He isn't out of bed yet. I guess he's sleeping in.”

“Maybe you'll have to wait until after school to see him.”

“Naw, I'd rather be late for class. I don't mind. I'm kind of anxious to talk to him. It's important.”

Betty Rutledge remembered that it was after two when her husband finally shut off the bedroom light. She nodded her consent. “Then why don't you go outside and get his paper for him? The boy missed the sidewalk entirely this morning. I can see it lying out in the street.”

“The kid's got no arm. When I had that route, I dented doors.”

“And broke windows. Don't remind me. I remember the calls.”

Laughing, Luke Rutledge walked through the dark living room and out the front door. It was a cool May morning, cherry-blossom time in Bethesda and nearby Washington, D.C. The sky was orange above the suburban houses across the street, and a cusp of moon tilted low in the west. The streetlights were still on.