Without Mercy (24 page)

Standing, he put on his new white shirt as other men dressed or undressed around him in the locker room. A man in his sixties who looked more dead than alive sat and wheezed on the bench a few feet down. Various conversations were taking place, and many of the voices sounded gay. Kowalchuk didn’t like gay men. He couldn’t understand why a man would want to act like a woman.

“You check the lockers, and PU check the shower room,” a man said.

Kowalchuk’s ears perked up. What the hell was that? He figured it couldn’t be anything important. He must be getting too jumpy. He put on his tie and walked between the row of lockers to the mirror near the shower room, so he could see what he was doing when he tied it.

As he turned the corner at the end of the lockers, he saw a cop looking into the shower stall! Kowalchuk froze and swallowed hard. Are they looking for me or is something else going on? I’d better get out of here. He stepped back to his locker, his brain tumultuous with alternate modes of action. Should I pick up my stuff or leave without it?

Another cop appeared between the two rows of lockers and his eyes connected with Kowalchuk’s. The cop hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward Kowalchuk, scrutinizing his face.

“Do you have any identification with you, sir?” the cop asked.

“Me?” asked Kowalchuk, looking around.

“Yes.”

The cop was abreast of him now, and Kowalchuk’s heart beat a mile a minute.

“Is there any problem, officer?”

“I don’t think so, but could I see your identification please?”

“Sure, just a moment.”

Kowalchuk reached into his locker, and noticed the cop leaning closer to see what he was doing. Kowalchuk hissed and swung out his elbow with all his strength. He caught the cop on the chin, and the cop went sprawling backward. The naked old man screamed, and in an instant Kowalchuk had his knife out. He hit the button and lunged at the falling cop, catching him on the neck. The cop’s neck yawned open and blood rushed out as he crashed against the lockers. Before he hit the floor, Kowalchuk had taken away his gun.

The other cop jumped into view, saw Kowalchuk with the gun, and darted back behind a locker.

“Drop that gun!” the cop yelled, taking out his own revolver.

Kowalchuk fired at him, and his bullet passed easily through the sheet metal lockers into the chest of the cop. The cop went flying backward and landed against one of the white tile walls. Kowalchuk shot him again, and the men in the locker room were hollering for help and running in all directions. Kowalchuk licked his lips, alone with the dead cops. He realized he shouldn’t have come here, and that there was no safe place for him in New York anymore. Swarms of cops would be here any moment, and somehow he had to get away, There must be a back entrance to the building. It was his only chance.

He ran down the corridor toward the main hallway of the Y. Ahead he heard a terrific commotion, but Kowalchuk was ready for anything now. He’d known that sooner or later it would come to this, and now he was prepared to take things as far as they’d go.

He came to the main hallway. One end led to the street and the other to the rear of the building. The hallway was deserted in both directions, but he heard loud voices and banging in the distance.

“Drop that gun and put your hands up!”

Kowalchuk squinted and saw a cop partially hidden in a doorway, his pistol in the air. Kowalchuk hadn’t noticed him before, nor the cop in the other doorway farther down the hall. Firing a wild shot at the first cop, Kowalchuk turned and ran back to the shower room. He heard footsteps coming after him, and he entered the shower room, deserted now except for the two dead cops. Running through the first opening he saw, he sped down a corridor and found himself in the swimming pool room, which was also deserted. Towels and bathing caps were lying around, and he realized that someone must have passed the word to evacuate the Y. He had to get the hell out of there before the cops surrounded it.

He continued moving toward the rear of the building. There was a door toward the end of the swimming pool, and he opened it, seeing a flight of stairs. Listening for a few moments, he heard nothing. He climbed the stairs and found himself in another locker room that had women’s apparel on the benches and hanging in the open lockers.

He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the stairs he’d just climbed. He ran out of the locker room and down a corridor lined with doors.

“I heard him!” somebody shouted.

Breathing through his teeth, Kowalchuk threw open one of the doors and entered a small classroom. He closed the door and dashed to the windows, smiling when he saw an alley and the rear of the buildings on the next street. Laughing triumphantly, he picked up a chair and smashed out the window panes. When they were clear of glass, he crawled through to the ledge and jumped. He fell one story to the graveled alleyway, rolled over to absorb the shock, and got to his feet. Like a huge crazed animal, he ran down the alley to freedom.

Chapter Fifteen

Sirens were blaring all over the West Side as Jenkins stopped his unmarked car beside the Coliseum. Rackman had a fat guy against the wall and Olivero was slapping him down for weapons. Dancy and Dorothy Owens stood by, and there was a crowd of onlookers. Jenkins hit his horn and they looked toward him. He pointed at Rackman and called his name. Rackman said a few words to Olivero and then ran over to Jenkins’ car, bending down to the side window.

“What’s going on?” Rackman asked.

“They’ve got Kowalchuk cornered in the West Side Y! Get in!”

Rackman ran around the front of the car and dropped into the front seat. Before he closed the door Jenkins already was zooming out into the traffic. He turned on his siren and joined the throng of police cars going up Broadway.

“When’d this happen?” Rackman asked.

“Just a few minutes ago. He killed two cops already.”

“Damn!”

Rackman took out his revolver and spun the chamber around. It was loaded and ready to go. He chewed his lower lip and Jenkins weaved through the cars and crowds on Broadway. When they reached Sixty-third Street they saw it was filled with police cars and ambulances. Jenkins started to turn onto the street.

“Go around to Sixty-fourth,” Rackman said. “He’ll never come out this way.”

Jenkins straightened out the wheel and drove one more block, turning right onto Sixty-fourth. It too was filled with police cars parked at the rear of the Y.

“I wonder if there are any side entrances to the building,” Rackman said as Jenkins coasted to the rear of the Y.

“I don’t know.”

Jenkins stopped behind a green and white patrol car, and Rackman got out before Jenkins had turned the engine off. Rackman walked up to a gold-braided captain looking at the building.

“We got him yet?” Rackman asked.

The captain looked at him. “Not yet. We’re going through the building from bottom to top. If he’s in there, we’ll get him.”

Jenkins joined them. “What’s going on?”

Rackman turned around. “They haven’t got him yet.”

“Let’s go in the building.”

Rackman happened to glance over Jenkins’ shoulder, and saw a big man in a white shirt and beard come running out the driveway of the new apartment building they’d passed on the way up the block. The man looked at the police cars behind the Y, then turned and ran the other way.

Rackman pointed down the block to the big man in the white shirt. “I think I just saw him!”

The captain squinted. “He’s got a beard and a white shirt!” he said excitedly. “That might be him!”

The captain raised his whistle to his lips and blew hard. Rackman bent over and started running after the man in the white shirt.

“Halt!Police!”
Rackman yelled.

The man in the white shirt looked over his shoulder at Rackman and kept on running. Rackman pulled out his revolver and tried to increase his speed. The world filled with the sound of police whistles.

Kowalchuk cursed, turned, and fired a wild shot at Rackman, who dropped to his belly on the sidewalk. Kowalchuk fired again, and people were screaming, fleeing out of the way. Kowalchuk aimed at one of the uniformed cops running down the block, and the pistol went
click.
Empty. Kowalchuk snarled as he threw the pistol away and went running into the big intersection in front of Lincoln Center. On the other side of the street he saw a sign that said: IRT Subway, with an arrow pointing down. The light was against him, but he had to get into that subway. It was the only chance he had.

Rackman, lying on his stomach, held his revolver in both hands and drew a bead on Kowalchuk. He thought he could bring him down, but there were too many people and cars out there. He might hit somebody by mistake. Bolting to his feet, he took off after Kowalchuk.

Kowalchuk ran into the street, holding his hand out to traffic. Spittle flecked his lips; his eyes were wild and crazy. A yellow cab bearing down on him screeched its brakes but Kowalchuk kept going. He dodged a bus and waited for a Volkswagen Rabbit to pass. He ran in front of another yellow cab, made it past a Chevrolet, and leapt onto the island in the middle of the intersection. Two little old ladies were sitting on the bench in the island looking disapprovingly at him. If he could just make it into that subway station he was sure he could get away. Wiping perspiration from his brow, he glanced back and saw cops running down Sixty-fourth Street after him. A plainclothes cop in a blue blazer was in front.

Kowalchuk gritted his teeth and held up his hand again as he charged into the traffic. Horns blew and brakes screeched, but he looked straight ahead at the subway station and kept going. He was frightened now; he saw the game coming to an end. A fender grazed his leg, but he kept going. Another car actually hit him as it came to a stop, but its momentum was gone and it only knocked Kowalchuk to the side a few feet. He kept going to the far sidewalk and his heart erupted with joy as his foot fell upon it.

He ran down the steps to the subway station and hoped a train would be coming, but when he reached the station no train was waiting for him. He jumped over the turnstiles and everybody turned to look at him.

“Hey where you goin’!” shouted the woman in the change booth.

Kowalchuk ran to the subway platform, and the people waiting there backed away from him. He sniffed nervously and looked both ways. He’d have to get down into the tunnel and try to make it to the Fifty-ninth Street station. If he could, they’d never catch him in the maze of lines going into and out of that hub station.

He jumped off the platform and landed between the tracks. Looking at the electrified third rail, he reminded himself to stay clear of it. His white shirt soaking with sweat, he gnawed at his beard nervously and ran toward the dark tunnel.

On the street level, Rackman was making his way across the intersection. He waved his shield and service revolver in the air, but that wasn’t enough for New York City drivers. They jammed on their brakes at the last moment and cursed him, and he dodged around them, stopping when a car refused to give way. He vaulted past the ladies in the island and stepped into the downtown side of the street. Uniformed police poured into the intersection blowing their whistles, and cars stopped to see what was going on. Rackman made it to the sidewalk and went down the subway stairs four at a time.

He charged into the subway station and jumped over the turnstiles. Commuters were leaning over the platform, looking downtown. He checked them over quickly and didn’t see a white shirt and beard.

He held up his shield. “Anybody see a man in a white shirt and beard come into this station just now?”

An old woman with a shopping bag pointed downtown. “He went that way!”

Rackman jumped off the platform and looked downtown into the tunnel. All he could see was blackness and some widely-spaced lights on steel pillars. A hundred Kowalchuks could be down there right now and you couldn’t see them from here. He trotted over the tracks and into the tunnel, dropping the shield into his pocket but keeping his revolver out. He knew the Fifty-ninth Street station was only seven blocks away and if Kowalchuk ever got that far he’d be awfully hard to find.

He ran down the middle of the tracks, smelling the dank, rotten odor of the tunnel. Looking ahead, peering into every shadow, he tried to spot Kowalchuk’s white shirt. He stumbled over a cross plank, then swerved into the express lane. He could see the distant glow of the Fifty-ninth Street station but no man’s figure was silhouetted against it. Jumping into the next express lane, he heard something skitter at his feet, and looked down in alarm.

A big black rat had been hiding there, and ran squeaking toward the wall. Rackman’s heart pounded, and then he heard it. A subway train was coming from somewhere. He looked around and sure enough the tiny white dots of a subway train’s headlights glowed from uptown. It looked like the downtown express and Rackman knew if he was Kowalchuk he’d try to jump on the motherfucker. It’d probably be the last train through, because soon somebody would notify the Transit Authority to stop all the trains in the vicinity.

Rackman passed between the steel pillars and got on the uptown express track again. He looked back and saw the train speed into the Sixty-sixth Street station, which wasn’t an express stop. Crouching, he peered downtown from that angle, hoping it would show him something new, but it didn’t. He wondered where Kowalchuk was hiding. Surely he couldn’t have made it all the way to Fifty-ninth Street by now.

Kowalchuk was only twenty yards away, hiding in an indentation in the wall beside the downtown local track. Sweat and soot streaked his face and his switchblade was in his fist, the blade pointed straight up. He’d ducked in here when he realized a cop was chasing him, because he thought the cop would be able to see him if he kept moving. It was dark, but not that dark. If only he had a gun. When the cop came closer, Kowalchuk would attack him and try to get his. With a gun, there’d be no stopping him.

Then Kowalchuk heard the train coming. He saw it enter the Sixty-sixth Street station, and a new plan formed in his mind. He’d hop that train and ride it to Fifty-ninth Street. It’d be dangerous—he might slip and fall—but it was his last chance and he knew it.