Lark (27 page)

Authors: Richard; Forrest

Harper didn't fire.

Lark began his encircling movement. As the sun fell behind the distant hills and long shadows filled the space between trees, he worked his way away from the camper. When his distance was such that he felt safe from Harper's view, he began a long loop to the left. Crouched low, he ran in a loping stride toward the lake. Once, he tripped over a foot-high boulder and fell completely forward, his whole body jarred from the impact of the fall.

His breath began to come in gasps, his thigh muscles ached, and the fingers grasping the Python felt cramped.

He reached the edge of the lake. He was now behind the camper. He exited from the woods on the far side of the logging road and began to make his way carefully up the side of the road toward the hulk of the camper, which he could barely see in the distance.

An engine whined, stalled, and then whined again until it coughed and caught.

Harper was going to try to drive the camper from the ditch, around the crashed plane, and make for the highway.

Rubber slithered on dirt as the large camper's rear wheels spun in the soft loam.

Lark was now even with the vehicle, and in the gloom of last light he could see Harper's white face behind the steering wheel as he rocked the machine back and forth in an attempt to dislodge the wheels. The carbine was slung over his shoulder and he evidently felt that Lark was running through the woods toward the highway to obtain help.

Lark left the edge of the woods and took the few steps across the road. Harper, still intent on rocking the camper from the ditch, was bent over the wheel in frantic concentration.

Lark reached through the open window on the driver's side and placed the barrel of the pistol against Harper's forehead. “Out and on the ground.”

Harper jerked back in the seat and fumbled for the carbine.

“I wouldn't,” Lark said. “Out!”

The rifle clattered to the floor and Harper slowly left the camper. “Don't shoot.” His voice was a whine, different from the one Lark was used to in the small factory clerk's office.

“Is she still alive?”

“IâI had just started. She's alive.”

“Facedown in the dirt.” As Harper obeyed, Lark quickly frisked him and then reached back for his handcuffs. They were gone. Somehow in the rush of events they had been torn loose. “On your feet.” Lark stepped back a few steps as Harper rose and pressed back against the grill of the RV.

“Pleaseâplease don't hurt me.”

It was the voice from the tapes. An older man's voice, dissimilar to the timbre of Harper's usual voice. Perhaps it was the inflection of someone this man had known or heard long ago. Perhaps a lover of his mother's whom he had overhead as he slept fitfully at the foot of their bed.

The pilot was dead. Horse was wounded, perhaps fatally, and three dozen young women were dead.

The jury could convict Harper of a capital felony and then a second hearing would have to be held to determine if the death penalty were warranted. Jurors would have to weigh factors that might mitigate the death penalty, or aggravating factors concerning the crimes such as commission in an especially cruel, heinous, and depraved manner. Only then could the death penalty be imposed. There would be two lines of psychiatrists testifying, and Harper's childhood would be featured.

Lark knew that the last person to die in the state's electric chair was Joseph Taborsky in 1960.

The gods of vengeance prevailed.

Lark fired once.

Frank Pemperton sat a fresh bottle of bourbon on his office desk, examined two water tumblers for cleanliness, and then poured stiff drinks. He raised his glass in toast. “You did it, Tommy. Congratulations.”

Lark scowled into his drink. “We made too many errors. I should have checked the make of Harper's camper against the master list the first time I saw it. We could have had him then. I should have seen to it that the pilot was protected before I went after the son of a bitch.”

Pemperton sipped the bourbon and then examined its color carefully a moment. “So, you're not God. If nobody ever made tactical errors, I could run this force with half the men.”

“How's the girl?”

“Not a scratch on her. The pervert hadn't begun his games with her, and you probably arrived just in time. She's giving her statement to Horn right now.”

“I'll stop in to see her on my way out.” Lark put his glass aside, surprised that he didn't want any. In fact, he didn't want a drink at all. He looked up to see his superior officer looking at him quizzically. “You said I'd kill someone one day, Frank.”

Pemperton waved his hand in a gesture to dismiss the conversation. “The man was armed and dangerous. During his attempted arrest he shot one officer and killed a bystander.”

“I didn't have to kill him. What I'm trying to say isâ”

Frank Pemperton stood so abruptly that his swivel chair careened backward against the wall. He stepped around the desk and started for the door. “I don't want to hear about it. The report will say that you fired in the course of duty and that the use of deadly force was well-justified.”

“You aren't listening, Chief.”

Pemperton spun to face Lark. “And I don't intend to. The file is closed. Harper died resisting arrest. You hear?”

“Yeah.”

“There's a bunch of reporters downstairs. The
New York Times
even sent a stringer. Do you want me to handle it?”

“Thanks.”

Pemperton reached for the door handle. “Is Najankian all right?”

“The bullet traveled up his arm and exited at the rear of his shoulder. He'll be in a cast for a while, but he's okay.”

“Glad to hear it,” the chief said as he quickly left the office. “Take a few days off yourself,” he called back from the hallway.

Horse had been furious in the emergency room when they got him to the hospital. He had shaken his good fist at Lark. “You fink! This wouldn't have happened if I'd been on traffic. The worst I ever got there was a busted ankle from an old lady in an out-of-control Ford.”

Lark had smiled. “You get a paid vacation.”

“No more, Lieutenant. No more of this. When I get back to duty, the only action I want to see is on the corner of Main and First.”

“This is going to hurt,” the orthopedic surgeon had said.

Lark had winced at Horse's groan.

Lark stood with a sigh. Screw the remaining paperwork. He'd do it tomorrow. He wanted to leave this place and go somewhere, but he wasn't sure where. He'd stop in to see Horn take the girl's statement. That might give him some excuse for what had transpired.

The girl in the interrogation room sitting across the narrow table from the black police lieutenant was petulant. She kept pushing back a stringy mass of hazel hair that fell over her forehead. She looked deliberately away from the questioning officer.

The stenographer at the steno machine yawned.

Lark stood on the far side of the one-way mirror and looked into the room. The girl shook her head in response to Horn's latest question.

“What's the big deal?” she said in a voice skirting the periphery of sarcasm. “The jerk was going to pay me a hunert for a little kinky screwing. You guys didn't have to come in like the marines.”

“You don't know how kinky it was going to be,” Horn said in a low voice.

“So, he tied me up. I had that done before. I can handle myself and I coulda used the hunert. You pigs shoulda stayed off my case.”

Lark turned away from the mirror. This was not his moment for gratitude. He left the viewing room and stuck his head inside the door of the interrogation room. “Hey, Horn, take the kid out to Harper's house and show her his trophy room.” He slammed the door without waiting for an answer and strode from the building.

He had parked the pickup in the police commissioner's slot and they had towed him. It was decidedly not his day.

There was a dusty VW at the curb with two women in it. He knew who they were.

His daughter, Cathy, stepped out of the small car and held the door open for him. Faby was at the wheel.

“We thought we'd all go for a steak,” his daughter said.

“That would be nice,” Lark said as he got into the car. “I'll have mine ground up.”

About the Author

Richard Forrest (1932â2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut,
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress
(1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in
A Child's Garden of Death
(1975).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3796-9

This 2016 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10038

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