Tracking Shot

by Colin Campbell

  The two stuntmen dressed in black stood over their technical adviser, prop guns held loosely at their sides. McNulty waved for the security guard to come out again and this time discretion was the better part of valor. The guard looked sheepish as he slid out on his back with his hands up. He got slowly to his feet. McNulty got to his feet, too. The gunfire stopped. Sirens sounded in the distance. McNulty indicated the stuntmen’s guns. “Keep ’em up.”

  They raised the guns, looking mean and threatening. McNulty listened to the sirens then turned to the security guard. “Now would be a good time to open the doors.”

  The guard looked confused. He’d never been robbed before. “Is that my cue?”

  McNulty thought of Alfonse Bayard on his first day. “This isn’t the movies. This is real. And we need to get the money somewhere safe before the shit really hits the fan.”

  The guard glanced at the fallen men around him, fake blood and bullet squibs still smoking. He wondered how much worse than this the shit really hitting the fan could be. McNulty raised his gun and fired a blank into the side of the truck. “Open the door.”

  From the rooftop of Elm Street Dental overlooking the armored truck, two pairs of eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. The movie guy and a bunch of extras acting like Robert De Niro in Heat. The security guard opened the back doors of the armored truck and started loading stacks of banknotes into two big zippered sports bags.

  The first gunman scanned the scene. The second heard the sirens and knew the police would be here any minute. He watched McNulty steal the money they had worked so hard to set up. The decoys and the shootings and the fall guys. All for nothing. The sirens grew louder. The parade continued along Main Street. Both men shuffled backward away from the edge. A school marching band came into view across the common on Main Street, followed by a float dressed up in red, white and blue. The crowd ignored the pop and crackle of gunfire that sounded like fireworks. The first gunman nodded. Distraction. The second took out his phone, selected a number from the menu and pressed the call button.

  Solomon got clear just in time. Mickey Mouse erupted in a ball of flame and shrapnel that tore the head apart and sent both ears skimming across the showground. The explosion took down the boundary fence and the back of the school kitchen. The fire lit a snake of fuses that had been carefully laid out so they wouldn’t ignite until it was their turn. They were all lit now, fizzing along in the afternoon sun. The exploding carnival float had barely subsided before the July Fourth Fireworks started early.

  Distraction. Angles. Movie trickery. McNulty thought about John Wayne throwing the punch that missed as the fireworks shot into the sky and became a bigger threat than the pop and crackle behind Waltham Common that may or may not have been gunfire. He dropped the sports bags in the trunk of the production manager’s car and nodded at the stuntmen and security guards. There would be time to thank the VFW later. There was going to be a lot of explaining to do, but he thought he could make a good case, providing he didn’t lose the million dollars. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, feeling more like a cop than he had in years. He reined in that thought. The last time he’d felt like that things hadn’t turned out so good.

  FIFTY-ONE

  McNulty headed south with a million dollars in the trunk. It never even occurred to him that with a million dollars he could just keep on driving and put his past in the rearview. His troubled youth, Crag View Children’s Home, the sister he hadn’t really gotten to know yet. The family he’d never had. What he did instead was take the negatives and turn them into a positive. He drove straight to his sister’s house in Newtonville.

  The sun had moved west but still blazed from a cloudless sky by the time he came around the back of Newton North High School. It was a little lower and a little softer and the trees cast shadows across the road as he drove past the baseball diamond and the running track. The school tennis courts were hidden behind a wooded copse but Susan’s house was clear and obvious when he pulled into Kirkstall Road. He parked in the driveway beneath the basketball hoop, turned the engine off, and sat for a moment. The gunshots had stopped ringing in his ears a half-mile back, but the smell was still thick in his nose. Back in England he’d been a uniformed patrol officer and an undercover detective but he’d never been an armed-response officer. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility of having to shoot someone. He looked at his hands. They were still trembling. Even firing blanks amid the carnage of the fake robbery had left him feeling sick and a little shaky.

  He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. His hands became steadier. After a few minutes he got out of the car and opened the trunk. The sports bags took up most of the space. He reached in and unzipped them both, then stood back in awe. He’d never seen so much money. The banknotes were neatly fastened in paper wraps that looked like narrow bricks but it still looked like a lot of money. He knew that in the grand scheme of things, compared with the budget of even a Titanic Productions movie, it was a drop in the bucket, but to the average working man, a million dollars would be life-changing. He would never have to work again.

  McNulty stared at the jumbled mess of banknotes and let out a sigh. As of this moment he was technically an armed robber, even though his gun fired blanks and the robbery was to protect the money. He had waved a gun in the security guard’s face and told him to open the truck. That was armed robbery. It was time to tell the police before Jon Harris had even more reason to not believe him.

  He took his phone out and was looking for the detective’s number when it began to ring. The display flashed, unknown number. He tried to think who he’d given his number to, then realized it was on the Titanic Productions website. There was no point being technical adviser and police liaison if people couldn’t get in touch to liaise. It was listed right there along with the location manager and the press officer. The press officer was simply whoever was in the office at the time. The technical adviser was the one who taught people how to act like a cop—the one who had broken into Randy Severino’s motel room and put out the story that he had CCTV footage of the movie-set shooting.

  McNulty touched accept, but didn’t speak. There was a pause then a cold hard voice whispered in his ear, “Did you really think you were going to steal my money?”

  McNulty stood over the million-dollar bag, then slammed the trunk shut. He pressed a button on the phone, turned his back on the car and leaned against the trunk. He kept his tone light, “What money?”

  There was silence on the other end. No crackle of interference. No heavy breathing. Just harsh, dead silence. The silence dragged on for so long that McNulty thought the guy had hung up, then three gunshots exploded through the phone making McNulty jump. The gunshots faded then the voice returned. “The money we’ve already killed nine people for.”

  There were muffled noises in the background.

  “One more here or there won’t make any difference.”

  McNulty nodded, even though the gunman couldn’t see him. “They can only hang you once, you mean?”

  “They don’t hang you at all anymore.”

  “The judge with the hanging baskets might make an exception.”

  There was another pause. When the voice came back it sounded tired, possibly frustrated, but definitely not happy. “The point here being, I think we have proved our willingness to kill in pursuit of our goals. Nine down. One to go.”

  McNulty sighed and looked at the clear blue sky. The sun was all the way over in the west and sinking fast. Nowhere near dusk, but closing in on late afternoon, then early evening. His face was bruised and his ribs were strapped, and the metal clamp was still taped across his broken nose. It had been a full and hectic week. Shootings and bombings and car crashes and robberies. Mysteries and misdirections and miscalculations.

  “Your math is off. Don’t forget Severino.”

  “Severino drowned, he wasn’t shot.”

  “You didn’t say shot, you said killed.” />
  “We pushed him in. River killed him.”

  “Is that the collective we? Or you personally?”

  A low chuckle came down the line. It sounded like this guy was enjoying the verbal joust. He sounded less tired. Less frustrated. “There is no, me personally. Only the collective.”

  McNulty nodded again. “A single unit of three. Disciplined service. Professionals. I get that.” He rubbed the bristles on his chin. He hadn’t shaved for three days. “Except your collective’s down to two.” He paused long enough for that to sink in. “That’s ten-to-one. We’re on the comeback trail.”

  “Is that the collective we? Or you personally?”

  McNulty pushed off from the trunk and stretched his shoulders. “There is no collective. Only me.”

  This time the chuckle sounded cold and humorless. “You do yourself a disservice. Everyone has a collective.”

  McNulty shook his head. “Not me. I’ve been alone since birth.”

  There were more muffled sounds in the background. McNulty tried to make out what they were. Traffic? Music? Aftermath of the Fourth of July parade? It could prove vital in locating the gunmen. The voice became serious. “Wrong again. You only thought you were alone.”

  A cold shiver ran down McNulty’s spine. He gripped the phone tighter and waited. The voice made him wait a moment longer then lowered to a whisper. “Some collectives are hidden until it’s too late. Like family.”

  The afternoon sun seemed to fade out and all the color left the sky. McNulty leaned back against the trunk again, his mind reeling. He closed his eyes, then blinked several times until the color returned. Looking north he could see the remnants of the smoke cloud over the high school. Between there and Waltham Common the parade route would be in tatters and the police racing against time to restore order and preserve the crime scenes.

  All of that felt like a million miles away. A million dollars away. He didn’t say anything. The voice on the other end said, “It took you a long time to find her, didn’t it?”

  McNulty clenched his teeth, muscles bunching into cords along his jawline. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  The voice turned the screw. “We didn’t take that long.”

  McNulty turned to face the house. The curtains were open but nobody peered out. With the noise of the car and the slamming of the trunk somebody should have been looking out. He took all the lightness out of his voice. “Don’t you touch my sister.”

  “Sister?”

  The muffled noises became clearer, a high-pitched voice that sounded scared and weepy. The side door opened and Susan stood at the top of the driveway. She hugged herself tight, then wiped tears from her eyes. The voice waited long enough for everything to sink in. “Her daughter is very pretty. It would be a shame for her to become number eleven, meaning you’re not on the comeback trail at all.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Now things were getting messy. Even back when he’d been in the West Yorkshire Police he’d always been about protecting the vulnerable innocents. They didn’t come any more vulnerable than the five-year-old daughter of his sister. Tilly was as innocent as they came. Threatening her was the worst thing the gunman could have done. Saving her could be the hardest thing McNulty had ever had to do. The first step was not to piss off the kidnapper any more than he already had. This wasn’t the time for empty threats on the phone. “Go on.”

  The voice was flat and even but still having fun with this. “You were a cop once, right?”

  “More than once.”

  “And now you’re a movie cop?”

  “I teach movie cops.”

  “So you’ve seen the money exchange. You know how this works.”

  McNulty glanced at the button on his phone to make sure it was still recording. He was going to need this later when the shit hit the fan, and he was arrested for robbery, bombing and whatever he ended up doing to this guy. “You’re not going to do the yellow bag thing out of Dirty Harry? Bounce me all over town from phone booth to phone booth? Then, when you’re sure I’m not being followed, lead me to the drop?”

  The voice let out a sigh. “Waltham’s too small to bounce you around.” It took on a lighter note. “And when was the last time you saw a phone booth?” Then it was all business again. “But the not-being-followed part is right.”

  McNulty slumped against the car. His voice became introspective, almost like he was talking to himself. “Or she dies?”

  The voice in his ear turned cold as ice. “There are worse things than dying.”

  McNulty braced himself. Tiny shockwaves bristled the hair on the back of his neck. He didn’t need telling what the worse things were but the voice told him anyway. “A five-year-old? Lots worse. And plenty of people willing to pay to do it.”

  McNulty wanted to shout down the phone but that would only make it worse for Tilly. His blood boiled but he kept his anger in check. He could let it out later but not until he got Tilly back. It took a lot of effort to sound calm as he spoke. “Go on.”

  The voice was back on track. “No cops.”

  McNulty thought about downtown Waltham. “There are cops everywhere.”

  “Not where we’re going.”

  McNulty considered that but didn’t try and guess. He’d be told soon enough. Waltham PD would be knee-deep-in-shit busy along the parade route and at the scene of the explosion. Off duty officers would have been called in. Neighboring forces would have offered backup. The focus would be Banks Square and Waltham High School. They may have even canceled the protection detail surrounding Judge Reynolds. Everyone looking one way. Nobody looking over their shoulder where this had all begun. McNulty knew what the kidnapper was going to say even before he said it.

  “Both bags. One in each hand. At the movie courtroom. In an hour.”

  There were a few more instructions then the kidnapper hung up. McNulty looked up to the sky and let out a lung-emptying sigh. His hands were shaking, not from fear but from anger. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to greet his sister. Susan had aged ten years since he’d last seen her. He supposed that’s how parents of kidnapped children always looked. Gaunt, haunted, with dark-ringed staring eyes. When he folded her in his arms she was shaking more than he was.

  “It’s gonna be all right.”

  It was one of those empty promises that people make in the movies and that McNulty always tried to get Larry to cut out of his scripts. A cliché that was only a cliché because people actually said it to calm other people down. If you said it with enough authority it sometimes worked. It didn’t work now.

  “Like breaking Mr. Cruckshank’s nose made everything all right?”

  There was no defence to that, so he went on the attack. “Oh, I’m going to do so much more than break this guy’s nose.”

  Susan almost collapsed in McNulty’s arms. “Tilly?”

  McNulty kept her upright and began to guide her up the driveway to the house. “I heard her.” Then he lied because that’s the other thing you do to keep a parent’s spirits up. “She’s okay.”

  He walked her through the side door and sat her at the kitchen table. He did what the English always do in a situation like this, he put the kettle on to distract Susan from her daughter’s plight. Distraction.

  He put the kettle down. Ever since this started, everything had been a distraction of one kind or another. Like a magician making you look at one hand while performing the trick with the other. Like John Wayne punching from one angle so it looked real from another.

  McNulty thought about the movie set. This time, he wasn’t going to get away with hiding in the back room with a camera crew. The same applied to having the cops hiding around the corner with a SWAT team. This would have to be a Vince McNulty show, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little help. “How big is Chester Brook Orphanage?”

  Susan looked baffled. “Big enough to let you have a movie set and not miss the space.”

  McNulty turne
d the kettle off and took out his phone. There was only one person he knew with more knowledge about the layout of Chester Brook Orphanage than his sister—the man who had brought her to America. Harlan DeVries. It was time to make some calls.

  FIFTY-THREE

  He left the car in the Aston Martin parking lot and crossed the street, a lone figure approaching the fake courthouse in the evening sun. The magic hour, the time of day when the light has a golden glow that turns sunsets into paintings. It wasn’t dusk yet but the sun was dipping toward the banks of cloud massing on the horizon. The clouds were torn by atmospherics and touched with fire from the dying sun. He stood in the middle of the street with a heavy bag in each hand and thought that F.K. would love to be filming this.

  The crime scene tape fluttered in a gentle breeze, which would get stronger with the approaching weather front. The main door to the west wing of the orphanage where the gunman had burst in were closed and sealed. The side door into the hallway was open and inviting, ready for him to walk through and exchange a million dollars for Tilly Carter. He stood in the doorway and hesitated.

  This is a very bad idea, he thought.

  He didn’t pause for long. When the only choices left are bad choices you just have to make the most of the one you choose. He nudged the door wider with one of the bags and stepped into the hallway. Carrying two bags meant he couldn’t even take a fire extinguisher to a gunfight. That’s why the gunman had insisted. That’s why this was a very bad idea.