Red on Red (64 page)

“Don’t lie,” said Michael. “He’s dead if you lie.”

“He’s a cop,” Nick said, though he suspected that the truth would not
spare the man, that it might not spare any of them. The suspicion was what kept Nick from smiling at Michael’s deluded idealism, his insistence on the perfect fraternity of all policemen.

“No shit, he’s a cop,” said Michael. “I followed my brother here. I knew I’d see at least one a you here, maybe two. This one was spying in on you, I figured, but I was only sure when his phone rang. It was the last call my brother made. This gun I got? It’s his. I’m glad it’s a cop’s gun. Still, Mee-han, I wanted to hear it from you.”

Michael shot the IAB man in the head. The head went forward, stop-action quick, frame to frame, here then there, and the torso tilted after. Bodies in motion, bodies at rest. Michael shifted the gun back to Nick with a fluidly mechanical movement, like the hand of a clock. His head darted back and forth among the three hostages before fixing on Nick.

“Wanna laugh now?”

Nick did not. Michael had wiped the smile from Nick’s face, as intended.

“What you did to my brother—”

Malcolm strained not to yell when he interjected, “Michael! These guys didn’t have anything to do with Milton! Stop this. It’s crazy!”

“Shut up! I’m not talking to you! I’m talking
about
you.”

Even in the heated first words of the outburst, Michael still looked at Nick, as if the sight of his brother were unbearable.

“I shoulda known when I found out he got to see Moms at the funeral home. I shoulda known when he got out, came home. You people. What you done to my moms—at least that was quick and clean. With Malcolm, how you turned him, what you turned him into, that’s sick and disgusting, the lowest of the low …”

Michael had practiced for the moment, had seen it a thousand times in his mind, maybe never as richly fulfilled. He raised the other hand with the clarity of a semaphore signal, holding Malcolm’s phone, and the thumb moved among the buttons, knowing which to press.

“Well, that was the last call. Who was the call before that? There’s all kinds a calls to this number, back and forth, like they were in love. Why do I know whose phone’s gonna ring? Who made my brother a traitor? You know how I know? Because it’s always the quiet ones; those are the ones you gotta watch.”

As Michael glared at Nick, holding the gun in one hand, the phone in the other, trying to maintain the bravura posture, another phone rang.
The sound was slightly stifled, but its source was plain enough, and not expected. Michael looked flustered, no longer so sure of himself. When Esposito held up his phone—his case, his call—Michael’s arm sagged, and the gun dipped down. Everything had been perfect before this, better even than planned. Nick and Esposito were slower than Malcolm, who rushed forward—“Fuck this shit!”—and tackled Michael, grabbing for the gun. It went off, as guns do, and Malcolm howled and fell back, angrier still, taking Michael with him, both of them twisting in pain. The gun waved in a two-handed grapple, and Nick dropped onto it, knee first. He snatched it up and rolled away from them—“Got it!”—then he rose and looked over. Esposito had grabbed Michael by the collar and belt, as he shrieked, flailed, and kicked. Malcolm roared, rolling and holding his leg. “Kill that prick!” And Esposito cursed senselessly before flinging Michael aside, as if he just couldn’t stand to touch him anymore. Nick never knew if it was intended, to throw Michael over the drop, to the rocks, to the river—or just away. Michael was the quiet one, the quietest, after that. The others didn’t speak, but they heard one another breathing. The snow still fell, and Nick tasted it on his tongue.

After a minute, two, ten, Nick got to his feet. Malcolm packed snow on his leg, the mid-thigh, not near the femoral artery, not bad. Esposito had his hands on his knees and was peering down the slope, watching for movement. He stood up slowly and then turned around. He looked at Nick, then to the ground, at the IAB man, the redhead in the red snow.

“He knew you, Nick. By name. Malcolm, too. He didn’t ask for me to help. I’m guessing he knows who I am.”

There was nothing accusing in his voice. Esposito leaned down and took the camera from the body. Nick handed Esposito the gun, a 9mm semiautomatic, that had just passed through too many hands.

Nick felt cold, and stuck to a kind of cold truth. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Truth at its coldest, the element in its solid state; you could warm it to liquid, heat it to gas, but it was too dangerous to breathe. Esposito nodded.

“Guess we know who he was, though.”

Nick needed to say nothing to agree.

“I still can’t for the life of me figure out why these guys try so hard, why they want me so bad.”

The words themselves could have seemed boastful had the voice not
been joyless—confused, almost afraid. But Nick understood what the IAB man was after.

“He believed in you, Espo. He never doubted.”

The simplicity of the observation startled both of them. No one else had held Esposito in such esteem, had thought him so limitless and singular, that to watch him was a privilege, worthy of consecrating all working hours, if not all waking ones. Even as Esposito’s faith in himself had been shaken, and Nick had lately struggled, skeptical of all purpose and virtue, this last disciple had remained defiant in the lion’s den. Esposito could not exult in the loss of this man. Nick did not want to stay.

“I’m gonna go, Espo.”

“All right. I gotta have a talk with Malcolm. I’ll take care of it.”

As Nick mounted the path, his footprints obliterating those of one, maybe two, dead men, it occurred to him that his partner’s assurance could have meant anything—two things, itself and its opposite—a guarantee of Malcolm’s safety or his silence.
I’ll take care of it….
Nick listened for another gunshot, but he heard only the wind, which rose as he did, more steadily. Before he entered the walkway, he waited; the tunnel caught the wind in its mouth, made it rumble and growl. He didn’t look back, but watched as the snow seemed to fall upward in the squalls. Not fall but fly, hovering then darting, chasing or chased. Moths on fire, drawn to themselves, blinded by their own light. Unnatural nature, forgetful of its own laws. Nick waited a little longer, then kept walking.

A
s he headed east on 181st Street, Nick turned his mind to what to do next, in the simplest, most practical terms. He could go to the precinct or go home. He wanted to get out of his clothes and shower, but he didn’t keep extra clothing, a toilet kit, and towel in his locker, as everyone else did, because he lived so near. He was afraid that when he warmed up and dried off, he wouldn’t go back out. All he really needed to do was a few computer checks, fill out a form, to raise the alarm on Costa. And the rest? His hands had begun to shake. His body began to stiffen and seize up. The day’s labor, the night’s cold, both had cost him. The task of typing a sheet of paper seemed monumental, physically daunting; paperwork of any kind seemed lunatic and make-believe. What would his memo-book entries for the last hour read: “Seventh circle of hell inspected, all apparently normal.” When he realized that if he went to the precinct, he would see people he knew, people he liked, who would ask him radical, unanswerable questions—like “How are you?” and “What’s going on?” He knew he could not do it, could not face them. He went down to the subway, where an uptown train took him home.

As Nick walked up the stoop to the lobby, he realized he wouldn’t have to worry about his youthful pursuer creeping up behind him. Nor would he have to try to avoid the grief-ravished old man who would thank him so kindly for his help. These were yesterday’s guilts and fears. All done. How to replace them, with what? He fumbled for his keys at the door, and his phone rang. The number was blocked. Well, at least he knew who it wasn’t.

“Hello?”

“Nick? What’s so funny? It’s so wonderful to hear you in a good mood.”

“Ah, you know, it’s just one of those days. Unbelievable at work, just getting home. I can’t … tell you how happy I am … that it’s you.”

Allison’s voice was so welcome that real pleasure filled him, masking the cracked irony.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been out in this mess.”

“I have, all day, and I’m soaked and frozen. I’m right outside the door. Do you mind if I get a shower and thaw out? Can you call back in half an hour? I’ll call you. Are you just checking in, or is there something else?”

“A little of both…. Are your teeth chattering? You poor guy! Please, go in and warm up. Call me when you’re room temperature.”

“I will.”

Inside, Nick began to tear off clothing as he walked down the hall, tossing away gun, shield, and cuffs. The picture of Grace was still inside his pocket, inside his notebook, and he took it out gingerly to put it on the kitchen table, not yet ready to look at it again. He couldn’t manage his boots yet. The laces had congealed and fused, and his hands were numb. He found himself naked with bound feet, peeled like a banana, with heaps of coveralls, pants, long johns, and underwear knotted around his ankles. He laughed and wished Allison were here, how she would laugh at the sight of him, and the thought nearly warmed him. He turned on the shower and trudged to the kitchen for a knife to cut his laces, his legs still bound by his clothes. Clambering into the tub, he liberated himself beneath the hot water. After feeling had returned to his limbs, he left the whole mess behind him in the shower, boots and all. What did Allison mean, something else? He dressed and went to the kitchen. What did he want, whiskey or tea, to set him up for the talk, the night? After he put on the kettle, he found he was out of whiskey. Best that way, he thought, to keep the head clear. Clearer, anyway. Would you look at that, he thought. He’d managed to look on the bright side. Even the idea of a woman, this one …

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Are you warmed up? What were you doing out there? Tell me!”

And so Nick told the story of Grace, as well as he could manage, starting with bits of the day and then stopping to go back, their serial encounters, how talented and sweet she was, how brave, the episode with
the three boys, which made Allison recoil. He was glad he never said how Grace reminded him of Allison a little, when she was a schoolgirl, but he felt defensive at Allison’s occasional hints of disapproval. He looked at Grace’s picture on the table, knowing how much more there was to her.

“I know it’s an odd thing to say, but the nonsense with the boys, even though I wish she hadn’t done it—it kind of inoculated her against this guy, Costa. I mean, what he did was unforgivable, how he hurt her, and I don’t want to make it sound like it’s not as serious a crime to rape a slut, but think about what it would have done to … a little girl who was more sheltered.”

“It would have destroyed me,” said Allison, shuddering.

“Me, too. For her, it was like stomach flu. Awful at the time, and she’ll be more careful later. Not like that, I know—but the sight of him didn’t send her running away, screaming. She helped us, held up like a soldier the whole way through.”

“I don’t know what to say, Nick. ‘Good for her,’ doesn’t really sound right, does it? ‘Lucky’ doesn’t work, either….”

But Allison had thought both of those things, as Nick had, and he was touched and grateful to hear them. He was desperate to talk, to tell—some of it, at least—and he wished he was sitting next to her, lying next to her, now. Did he dare say that, ask or make the offer? No, not yet, and he went on with the story, Sister Agnes, the lieutenant in the cassock, the girls with the cigarette. Allison laughed and gasped, asked questions and made comments; the story flowed between them, back and forth, and Nick almost felt as if they were holding hands. He could picture the way she rolled her eyes, her version of it, a quick up and down, and he remembered the way she covered her mouth when she laughed suddenly. On to the school dismissal, Garelick’s collapse, the near recognition of Costa, the signal with the snow boot, and the fired shot. At times, it seemed to Nick that he was talking about someone else; he couldn’t believe it had happened today, and it wasn’t the half of it, not even close. Years had passed with little incident of real meaning for him; today, events of life-shaping significance had arrived with the regularity of rush hour trains. He went on to the foot chase, almost being hit by the car.

“Hold on a minute. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Your partner, is he all right?”

Nick didn’t understand the interjection. Why should she care? How
could she possibly even be aware of Esposito? He didn’t want to think about what had just happened with Esposito, what might have happened since. And he started to feel a lunatic anger at the idea that Esposito might have arranged to cross paths with Allison, too, when he realized she was talking about Garelick.

“Nick?”

“Sorry. I guess the brain’s still a little frozen. He’s okay, I think. They’re still doing tests. I got confused because he’s not my regular partner. My regular partner is the one who almost ran me over. I don’t know who felt worse about it. Not that it mattered, really, who felt what, next to everything else. What was I saying?”