Hocus (43 page)

“Bret!” I called after him, but he paid no attention.

“Who is it?” Frank asked again.

“Nathan Cook,” I said, picking up the key. I took a guess and tried them on the manacles on Frank’s ankles. The locks opened.

“Cookie?” he said in disbelief, staring at the monitor, rubbing his ankles.

“Yes. Frank, I know he was your father’s friend, but I don’t trust him. I don’t know what he’s up to now, but it’s bound to be some trick.”

“You’re sure he’s the one?”

“Yes.”

Frank looked at the monitor, then back at me. “Let’s go,” he said, and shouted, “Bret, wait!” as he began to run up the stairs.

Bret entered the lobby just ahead of us, ignoring our repeated shouts.

When we burst through the doors Samuel was smiling, holding a gun on Nathan Cook, whose hands were held high.

Cook was also smiling, until he saw Frank. “Ah, Frank,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever forgive me — but I see you probably don’t even know what this is about.”

“I know,” Frank said quietly.

Until that moment, perhaps he hadn’t really believed that Nathan Cook was the man Hocus sought. But there was unmistakable fury in him now.

Cook raised a brow. “Yes, I guess you do.”

“It’s him all right,” Samuel said. “His name is Nathan Cook.”

“Are the doors rearmed?” Bret asked nervously.

Samuel nodded.

Bret moved to a phone near the box office. He picked it up. “Detective Cassidy? Nathan Cook has turned himself over to us. We’ve rearmed the doors. We’ll release Detective Harriman and Ms. Kelly to you just as soon as we have Mr. Cook safely in custody.”

“I can’t tell you how I’ve waited for this to be resolved,” Cook said.

“We waited first, remember?” Samuel said. “Powell got tired of waiting for you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Cook said, which caused Samuel to laugh. He ignored the laughter and went on. “I didn’t mean to take so long. It was daylight when I found the turnout, and I had to wait for darkness, and then for traffic to die down. I never expected Powell to become so violent.”

Samuel laughed again.

“Drug dealing, Cookie?” Frank said. “My father would have strangled you with his bare hands.”

“It wasn’t serious dealing, Frank. I just wanted to make a point. The morons in Vice never should have demoted me. It was just a way to irritate them. I didn’t even keep the money. I gave it away — small cash donations to good causes.”

“Penance?” I asked. “Or avoiding the attention of Internal Affairs?”

“Please,” Bret said quietly. “Nothing he has to say makes any difference.” Cook glared at him, but Bret went on. “He can’t excuse what he did. Even he knows that. That’s why he came in here.”

Cook dropped his gaze.

“Take off the helmet and Kevlar vest,” Samuel ordered.

“Slowly,” Frank said. Cook reached up for the helmet, dropped it to the floor. Began unfastening the vest.

“Cecilia and Gus and Bear thought I’d have to be forced to come down here and rescue you, Frank,” Cook said. “They were wrong. This will end years of hell.”

“You aren’t rescuing anyone,” Frank said angrily.

“I can’t believe you’d try to make yourself out to be a hero.”

“Why not?” he said, swiftly pulling a gun out from beneath the vest. He aimed it directly at Samuel. “Drop it, son.”

Samuel flinched at the word “son,” but then he smiled.

“Don’t even think about it,” Cook said, glancing at Frank, who had moved slightly closer to him.

“Bret?” Samuel said.

“Yes?”

“Give Julian my love.” He pulled the trigger.

The loud report of the shots came almost at the same time, Cook’s a fraction of a second later, with Bret’s scream. The lobby filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

Frank ran to Samuel, saying, “No—”

I glanced at Cook, looked away from what was left of his head as I took the gun out of his hand. I made myself feel for a pulse. I’ll admit I didn’t regret not finding one.

Bret was bent over Samuel, clinging to him, making sounds of misery and grief. I looked at Frank, who shook his head. He had taken Samuel’s gun from him but simply set it aside, out of Bret’s reach. I put Nathan Cook’s gun next to it.

Frank sat next to Bret, holding on to him. His face reminded me of his face in the photo. I stood next to him, reached down, stroked my fingers through his hair. He reached up and took my hand, held on to it.

The phone was ringing. Frank glanced up at me. I didn’t let go of him — I used my free hand to answer it.

“Cassidy?”

“Irene? We heard gunfire. Anyone need an ambulance?”

“No. Cook’s dead. Samuel, too.”

I heard him sigh. His voice was unsteady as he said, “The rest of you?”

“We’re all okay. Tell them we’re all okay. But — give us some time.”

“I can hear Bret,” he said.

“Yes. The doors are still armed, but I don’t think Bret’s going to hurt us. We just need to give him some time.”

“He may not want to hurt you, but I can’t tell you how dangerous he is right now — to himself especially, but maybe to you and Frank, too. Those two boys had what amounts to a suicide pact. Don’t let him out of your sight. Where are the weapons?”

“Out of reach.”

“Good. Make sure it stays that way, all right?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got to talk to him, get him to look at things differently.”

“I don’t think he’s ready—”

“No, not right this second. Of course not. But I don’t want any further harm to come to him, Irene.”

“I know you don’t, Cassidy.”

I’m not sure how long we stayed there, huddled together on the floor. When it seemed to me that Frank was ready to hear it, I whispered some of Cassidy’s concerns to him. Frank nodded, broke open the guns, took out the remaining bullets, and pocketed the weapons. Bret seemed oblivious of anyone other than Samuel.

When exhaustion finally began to slow Bret’s grief, Frank gently pried his fingers from Samuel’s shirt. Known for being afraid of blood, Bret was now bathed in it but seemed not to notice. We stood him between us and, putting our arms around him, walked back to the basement. He was in a state of total numbness by then, I think. We helped him wash up, but he just stared blankly into space. Frank found a stage outfit in one of the trunks and asked Bret if he wanted to change clothes.

Bret didn’t answer but took the clothes and went into the bathroom.

“Maybe we shouldn’t let him alone even to do that,” I said.

“There’s nothing he can harm himself with in there,” Frank said. “I didn’t even hand him a belt. But if he’s not out in a few minutes, I’ll check on him.”

But Bret did come out, and his mood seemed to have changed. It made me want to call Cassidy. I exchanged a glance with Frank, who picked up the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Bret said to him.

Frank put the phone back, waited.

“I wish I could give your own clothes back to you,” Bret went on, “but they had blood on them and Samuel was afraid I would….” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think mine will fit you or I’d offer—”

“It’s okay,” Frank said. “Don’t worry about it, all right?”

Bret hesitated, then nodded. Frank picked up the phone again. Bret made no objection, but seemed uneasy. Frank watched him carefully as he walked away, moved closer to me.

“What book are you reading, Ms. Kelly?” Bret asked politely.

“Call me Irene,” I said. I reached into my back pocket — removed the forgotten paperback.

“Bret Harte,” he said. “Read the title story sometime. About a group of misfits trapped in a snowstorm. The outcasts aren’t saints — definitely sinners — but not really any worse than the people who kicked them out of town — better in some ways, I suppose. They’re imperfect, in an imperfect world. But they do what they can in the face of adversity.”

“It’s the story with John Oakhurst in it?”

He smiled. “Yes. John Oakhurst. He pins the deuce of clubs to a tree — ‘at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.’ ”

I didn’t understand the quote and was about to ask him what it meant, but Frank was calling him to the phone.

“They can leave at any time,” Bret said to Cassidy.

“I’ll disarm the doors. But I’m staying here with Samuel.”

“We aren’t leaving without you,” Frank said, beginning a standoff.

Cassidy talked to Bret for a long time, while Frank and I sat next to one another, waiting silently for the negotiator to coax Bret into leaving the dead — all of them — behind.

We heard Bret’s side of the conversation change. Yes, he could always take his life later, so he didn’t mind talking to Cassidy. And Cassidy, working his own magic, got Bret to talk about getting to know Frank and the Szals again and of dreams other than revenge. About how life might be different now and how there were some projects he’d like to see finished. The theater, for example.

“Do you think,” Bret asked Frank at one point, “that we could really get to know one another?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “I enjoy talking to you, Bret.”

“You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

“No,” Frank said. “I mean it.”

He said, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Frank said. “I was scared over the last few days, and you tried to help me. I’ll try to help you, too. You won’t have to go through anything alone.”

“Okay,” he said simply, and told Cassidy we would be coming out through the front doors in a few minutes.

He put on his white cape as we stood in the lobby, near the door. “How do I look?” he asked Frank.

“Great,” he said. “Merlin would be proud.”

“I’m scared,” he said again, glancing over at Samuel’s body.

“We’re right here with you,” Frank said, and put his arm around Bret’s shoulders.

We pushed open the door. I stepped through first. Bright lights were shining. I put up a hand to shield my eyes, but Bret balked completely.

I could hear Cassidy telling them to cut some of the lights. We tried again.

It wasn’t so bad the next time. I could see Cassidy waiting for us on the other side of the street. We walked out onto the sidewalk. We were free, I told myself. Frank was coming home. But with each step I was aware that guns were pointed at us, and I felt Bret’s fear.

“What’s wrong?” I heard Frank ask, and realized they had stopped walking. I waited, too.

“Chains,” Bret said.

We saw what had halted his progress then: an officer holding a set of manacles.

“Get those goddamned chains the hell out of here,” Frank yelled, obviously shocking everyone who knew him as quiet Frank Harriman.

Cassidy seemed equally impatient, and the chains were quickly removed from sight.

“Don’t be afraid, you’re safe now,” Frank said.

Bret looked at Frank and smiled. “You said that the first time we met you. You really were our hero, you know,” he said, and reached into his cape.

“Hold your fire!” Frank shouted, but the shot rang out before he finished the sentence. Bret’s knees buckled. Frank clutched clumsily at him as he slumped, then gathered him into his arms. “Bret? Bret?”

People began to move toward us, but Frank fell to his knees and I moved with him, watching helplessly as he threw back his head and made a keening sound of anguish.

Cassidy was beside us, telling the others to leave us alone. I heard him ask softly, “What was he reaching for?”

Frank gently lifted Bret’s hand, which still gripped the deuce of clubs.

“John Oakhurst,” he said, “committed suicide.”

I
WATCHED FROM THE LANAI
of our room at the Halekulani as my husband swam the length of the orchid pool underwater. His movements were strong and graceful as he crossed over the exquisite blue mosaic. When he broke the surface for a new breath, I found even these few yards between us a distance nearly too great. Perhaps sensing my gaze, he turned toward me, smiled, and beckoned. Too great a distance for him, as well.

Halekulani means “a house worthy of paradise,” and it is. We had come to Waikiki because we had never been to it before, because we did not want to be anywhere we had ever been before. We decided to try to see things differently by seeing different things. We were cosseted here, fed delectable dishes, and in every other way taken care of in perfect style. We had saved for a rainy day, and when it had started pouring, Hawaii became our umbrella.

We needed it. We needed a time to be able to sleep in after nightmares, a place to sort through remembrances without spectators eyeing our reactions.

Several hours ahead of us, Las Piernas finished its day. My editor, elated a week ago by the most difficult story I’ve ever written in my life, would by now be angry that I wasn’t around to take on a new assignment. My sister, out of town during our week of hell, would begrudge my leaving town for this brief taste of heaven.

Others would be dealing with the aftermath of that week in their own way. Cecilia, Gus, and Greg were back in Bakersfield, relieved that no one was pressing charges against them. Detailed investigations had revealed that Lang and Colson — who had little hope of avoiding prison — had each lost family members to addiction. Lieutenant Carlson, facing charges by Internal Affairs that he had leaked the story on Hocus, might not be a lieutenant by the time we returned. Bredloe, facing the chief’s displeasure over allowing Nathan Cook to enter that theater, might not be a captain. Pete, given a day or two to realize that Frank really was safe, had taken a leave of absence to go fishing with Rachel. They’d invited Jack to go along, and he’d decided to take the dogs — who had been following Frank so mercilessly, we feared we might see them surfing into Waikiki Beach. Bea, who had a long talk with Frank about his older sister, was staying at our place, keeping Cody company. She’d bought a little frame for Frank’s photo of Diana.

Cassidy was on Maui. That would be week two of our vacation.

Frank talked about leaving the department, about trying some other line of work. I told him that I’d stay married to him even if he became a beach bum. He hadn’t shaved the beard yet but otherwise had made no firm commitments.