Sight Unseen (18 page)

“You been in a situation like this before, Tom?” Lockwood asked.

“No, sir. But I’ve had weeks of practice on the firing range.”

Lockwood looked back at Drew, who smiled. Lockwood saw that Drew knew. A firing range was no preparation for the coolness
a hot situation demanded. “What about you, Drew?”

“I’ve been with the Department a couple years more than him, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Any shootouts?”

“Two or three.”

“You come with me then, Drew,” Lockwood said. “You do what I told Tom to do, okay?”

Tom looked relieved and nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Stay behind the chimney.”

“Yeah. Let’s go, Drew. I’ll go first. You back me up. Any funny business, any gun-play, I’m going to fall to the right, and
you go to the left.”

“So I don’t shoot you in the back?” Drew asked.

“You got it, champ.”

When Lockwood opened the hatch door to the building’s stairs a man stood there in a white dress shirt holding a gun on them.
Lockwood let the door go and stepped back, but the man gave it a kick with his foot which sent it crashing back against the
wall and he started shooting.

The man came out of the doorway as the door hit Lock-wood’s gun. The gun flew away and Lockwood felt himself slammed against
the tarpaper. He heard shouting and shots and the slide of feet on the gritty roof. He told himself to stay calm and moved
forward for his gun, which lay in front of him on the grayish tarpaper six feet away. As in a bad dream, it seemed to take
him hours to get his hand on his gun, all the while he heard and felt the pop of shots, shouts, grunts, and feet and thuds
pounding against the roof. When he picked up the gun it slid out of his hand. The red slippery stuff made his hand greasy.
Blood.
His blood!
Lockwood’s head spun. He calmed himself and saw that his right arm had been shot—but he felt no pain and his left hand and
arm were okay. He picked up the .38 with his left, stood, and turned around.

He saw white shirt jumping over the parapet two buildings away and two motionless men lying about twenty feet in front of
him, both stained with ugly red blotches. He felt two tugs—one to see how Tom and Drew were, one to chase white shirt. He
raised the .38 Special in his left hand, aimed, and fired twice, remembering to lower the gun before the second shot. He told
himself it was no use. Even the world’s best pistol shot would have a hard time stopping jumping white shirt at 150 feet with
a mere pistol.

His right arm still didn’t hurt. If not for the blood, he wouldn’t know he was wounded. He went to the fallen T-men. Tom was
either dead or soon would be from his rasping gasps and the big red bubbling hole in his chest. Lockwood fought to hang on
to himself.

Most of Drew’s head had been shattered by a shot. Bits of bone, brain, hair, and skin mingled in the bright flowing blood,
which looked beautiful and frightening in the merciless glare of the sun. The light and the sight of the blood and the two
terrible wounds made Lockwood dizzy. They were both dead or dying. He seemed to fall into Drew’s terrible wound, and he pulled
himself upright. Then he wanted to throw up. He didn’t want them to die—he should have been more careful opening that door.
It was his fault. Then anger—he would kill Braunschweiger for this!

He looked up and saw white shirt at the farthest building, where he disappeared into the stair bulkhead. Lockwood crossed
to the front edge of the roof and looked down. Just below him he saw who he thought was Brannigan, and he shot his pistol
in the air.

The man looked up. Brannigan!

“Jimbo!” Lockwood shouted. He pointed and gestured vigorously toward the Hudson River. “Coming down the end building! Coming
down the end building!”

Brannigan’s voice floated back up faintly. “The end building?”

“Yes! End building!”

From this vista Lockwood saw several of the uniformed cops who were with Brannigan break away and race towards West End Avenue.

He turned back. The sight of Tom and Drew’s hot gurgling bodies stretched out in grotesque positions struck Lockwood anew,
and he was hit by wave after wave of nausea that drove him to his knees. As he rested, sweat dripped from his face, scalp,
chest, and armpits.

The world receded from him. He clutched at it, but it was no use. In some puzzling way he was falling down a long tunnel lined
with tarpaper. He let go and the well became night and so did he.

Crisp sheets. Muted clinking, clunking sounds. Whispers. A muffled laugh.

“Where am I?” Lockwood asked.

“The hospital,” came a soft answer, and he felt the light pressure of fingertips on his arm.

He struggled to open his eyes, but something kept them closed.

“Easy,” the gentle voice said. “You lost a lot of blood. You’re still weak.”

Lockwood got his eyes open a bit. There sat Myra.

“Myra! What are you doing here? Where am I?”

She smiled. Her eyes glistened. “You’re going to be all right, Bill.”

He groaned. “Drew. And Tom.”

“Yes. He shot them.”

“Bestwisher.”

“Braunschweiger. Yes, he shot them. You’re very lucky he didn’t kill you. He probably thought he had.”

“Did they get him?”

“Yes.”

“Brannigan?”

“Brannigan’s men.”

“It was my fault. We opened the door, and he was there ready to shoot.”

“That’s what Jimbo thought.”

“You know Brannigan?”

Myra smiled and squeezed Lockwood’s arm. “He’s been terrific.”

Lockwood was puzzled. “And the bombsight? Did you find it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Empty apartment. No bombsight, no colleagues of Braunschweiger, nothing.”

“Jesus. What day is this?”

“Same day. Almost 5:00.”

“God—Tom and Drew,” he said. Grief and guilt made him weak and faint. “They were so young. So green. They trusted me, I let
them down.”

“You couldn’t have known he was up there.”

“It was my job. To know things like that.”

She had no answer. They were together for several minutes in silence. Her fingers squeezed and caressed his left arm. He saw
that she didn’t regard him as a monster, and gradually he felt a bit better. He needed to talk to Brannigan. This thing didn’t
make sense. What was Braunschweiger doing up there behind that door?

Lockwood dozed, and he awoke to the sound of clatter. He opened his eyes again. Myra was no longer here, but a nurse stood
before him with a tray.

“Ready to eat something, Mr. Lockwood?” She smiled in a bright warm fashion. Behind her came in Jimbo Brannigan.

“Sure he’s ready to mash his molars on something solid,” Brannigan said. “A fellow has to eat if he’s going to get up and
leave a hospital, right, Hook?”

Lockwood suddenly felt glum, yet nodded. She wheeled up a little table that fit over the bed. She put the tray down and sat
down beside him. She picked up the spoon.

“Would you like me to feed you dinner, Mr. Lockwood?”

Lockwood felt embarrassed that he was too weak to feed himself, but he was too hungry to say no.

“Hey, I would be glad to feed my friend,” Brannigan said. His rough voice sounded gentle, surprising Lockwood.

“You, Lieutenant?” the nurse asked.

“Me, nurse,” Brannigan answered. “Skedaddle. Vamoose. Get out.”

Lockwood relaxed as Jimbo spread the napkin under his chin and pulled his chair closer to the bedside.

“Now, I’ve done this for the little ones when the missus was ill, Hook, me boy, but if I don’t do it right, you better not
spit all over me. I’ll spit right back at ye.”

Lockwood laughed. He felt his strength returning; it had something to do with being with Jimbo Brannigan’s strength.

For a man as large and ordinarily as rough as Brannigan, he cut the food up with delicate movements. He fed Lockwood small
bites of mashed potato till Lockwood nodded and asked him to stop a while.

Brannigan sat back. “You hit that Braunschweiger character, Hook.”

“At 150 feet?”

“Tore half his shoulder off, but it didn’t stop him.”

“I saw him go down the stairs.”

“He must have figured we were out there,” Brannigan said. “Probably somehow he knew you folks busted into his shop on 53rd.
So he kept a close watch. Maybe that phony mailman that ass of a T-man sent in the hallway gave us away. Maybe he noticed
the uniform didn’t fit right, wrong haircut, didn’t sort the mail right—something. Phony mailman leaves, Braunschweiger looks
out the window, sees more able-bodied gents lounging around 86th than there ought to be. Maybe looks out his back window.
Makes a couple of them T-men in the back courtyard—who couldn’t spot them a mile away?”

“Sure,” Lockwood said. “Puts his Luger in his belt and goes up the stairs.”

“Which escape route he had cased days ago in the event this happened.”

Lockwood nodded. “Hears voices on the other side of the bulkhead door.”

“Yep. Pulls out his pistol and waits to see what gives.”

“And like a fool, I open the door. He kicks it into my face, starts shooting, and runs through us like a taxi down Broadway.”

“Aw, don’t go blaming yourself, lad.”

“Jimbo, those kids died. I feel responsible.”

“Yeah. But you can’t blame yourself.”

“I do.”

Brannigan sighed. “You can’t predict everything, Hook. I might well have done the same thing.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I might have. You never know till you’re in a situation.”

Lockwood couldn’t think of a reply. He felt better knowing that Brannigan didn’t blame him for the two young T-men’s deaths,
but nothing anybody could say was going to make them come back or his pain and ache go away quickly.

“Hey, Hook. Cheer up.”

“Have their families been told?”

Brannigan nodded woodenly. “That fellow you drove up with, he did it.”

“Manners.” Lockwood pushed the supper table back a little bit to give himself more room. “Maybe I’ll get out of this business.
I’ve got a law degree. Maybe it’s time to use it.”

“Hook, Hook! You can’t blame yourself. This happened to me.”

“To you?”

“Yeah. I’ve made wrong decisions, or decisions I wished I hadn’t made. Everybody does.”

“But young guys with families don’t get killed because of it!”

“Hook, that’s what we sometimes deal in, you and me—life and death. Like doctors. Like judges. Like Marine captains in the
war. That’s what you sign up to do. I’ve lost guys under me. For dumb reasons. For reasons I’ve kicked myself a hundred times
for using.”

Brannigan reached out his hand, enveloped Lockwood’s unwounded left one, and squeezed it. “Hey, you’re all the better because
it bothers you.”

Lockwood sighed with relief. “You’re just the medicine I need right now, Jimbo,” he said. “I feel better. Spoon me some more
chow.”

For the next few minutes they said nothing as Brannigan gently fed him meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas, and carrots. With
his undamaged left arm, Lockwood was able to lift the glass of milk and drink it.

“What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock. You been asleep all day.”

“It all happened this morning?”

“Yes. See? You’re making progress already,” Brannigan joked. “Pretty soon you’ll be hoisting them C and Cs of yours.”

“Where’s Braunschweiger?” Lockwood asked.

“Right upstairs, under heavy guard.”

“You find out where the goods are?”

“No. We’re not likely to either.”

“Why not?”

“He lost a lot of blood from your shot. He’s in shock. His blood ain’t taking to the extra blood the does have given him.
Not like you have.”

“They gave me blood?”

“At least a quart.”

“Jesus! How bad’s my wound?”

“Not bad at all. Flesh wound. Just hit the artery in your arm. Soon as you adjust to the shock, you ought to be able to get
up.”

“Soon?”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“What about the bombsight?”

“So that’s what it is!”

“Yeah. But don’t say anything.”

“The Feds think it was definitely there, and that it was carted off.”

“Damn! When?”

“Maybe yesterday. Maybe the day before.”

“So it could still be in the New York area?”

“Yep.”

“Can’t you get it out of Braunschweiger? It’s important, Jimbo.”

“The docs tell me the only way to get anything out of him fast is with some new drugs they got, and they’re likely to kill
him—if you get anything at all.”

“This thing’s important, Jimbo.”

“You can’t persuade a doctor to kill a patient.”

“But—”

“Look, I’m going to leave now,” Brannigan said. He stood up. “You need sleep. You let us worry about the bombsight. We got
everybody and his seven-year-old son looking for the damn thing.”

Lockwood felt the concern and smiled at Brannigan.

“Hey, Brannigan.”

“Yeah, Hook?”

“For a rough corncob you make a guy feel pretty good, you know that?”

Brannigan flushed. “You had a rough time, buddy.”

“Yes.”

“I want you back out there. We have good times, you and me.”

“Yeah.” Lockwood felt much better now.

“Go to sleep,” Brannigan said. Closing the door softly, he left, and Lockwood closed his eyes to see if he could sleep. When
he opened them it was morning. He felt refreshed, alert, and ravenous, but he couldn’t have been asleep more than a few minutes,
ten at the most. Yet outside he saw it was broad daylight, and the cool air felt like morning. A nurse came in.

“So, you’ve finally woken up!”

“How long did I sleep?”

“According to your chart you were asleep at 9:00 last night, and it’s 10:00 now.”

“Thirteen hours!” Lockwood felt his arm and the bandage there. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“It may ache for a while, but the doctor says you can leave this morning if you feel strong enough. Recuperate at home. You
have a couple of visitors.”

“Visitors?”

She opened the door, and Mr. Gray and Steven McPherson came in. Mr. Gray stood there with his fedora in hand and looked around
the room timidly.