Sobeleski might have started rational. He did start as a good cop, one with a promising future. After all he did sniff Freddy out. Something had pushed him over the edge. It nearly had to be something greater than the divorce or the drink – some greater circumstance underlying it all, stopping all reason. In time – quite possible not a lot of time – that irrationality would destroy him. Freddy was afraid it would not happen before he, himself, was unmasked. No matter how the cop managed it, the end result would be the same.
Freddy went to the door. He was hosting another party that evening and he was just finished his first wave of cleaning. Claire was coming by in a few hours to help make the hors d’oeuvres. She called them Ours to Devours with a straight face. After the appies, he would finish cleaning. Claire would sit by with a glass of wine and watch him, an amused expression on her face as he took an old toothbrush to the baseboards.
He flung the door open with a scowl on his face. “What the fuck?” He managed.
The cop was on him, shoving him back, his fists bunched in Freddy’s shirt. “You little shit-stain!” He snarled. “I’m gonna kill you!”
Freddy was younger, a little bigger, a lot more fit and probably quite a bit stronger. He could bring his rage up in the space of a single heartbeat. Sobeleski was growing soft and he was probably hung over. He smelled like it. But he was still a cop. He had a cop’s training.
Freddy went down hard and felt a flare of pain in his hip. Quickly his mind spun back to his youth. He thought of his father. He thought of his father’s fists, quick and brutal. John’s fists were all he had left once the queen was gone. John didn’t need the queen as long as he had his fists. This cop was the same.
The baton – eighteen inches of powder-coated black titanium – snicked out of nowhere. The baton descended on him. New pain flared in his ribs, another on his right thigh. Freddy shielded his head and he was struck repeatedly on his shoulders and forearms.
Freddy was sure the cop could have killed him – would have killed him if not for some stray filament of his old self fighting to be heard over the chorus of his rage. Sobeleski stopped. The baton shrank between his palms and disappeared.
Sobeleski was panting, a heavy string of saliva trailing from his lips. “I don’t know,” he wheezed and drew a ragged breath before trying again. “I don’t know how you did it. I don’t fucking know how. But you did.” He heaved himself to his full height and went to the front door and slammed it. A picture fell off its hook in the foyer, glass shattering on the slate tiles. When he turned back to Freddy, he had his service pistol in his hand. It was still the old cobalt blue wheel-job he received with his first uniform.
The front-line cops all had the big, exotic Glocks, but there’s something about those old police specials that keeps the long timers from wanting to turn them in. Sobeleski wasn’t a long-timer. He wasn’t new, but he was still too young to be a long-timer. But he knew the power of the .38. It wasn’t a space age behemoth, something you could expect to see in the hands of Ripley in the next Alien sequel. The .38 was rude and crude. It stunk like the streets and every nick and scratch on the barrel was worn like the scars on the face of a veteran brawler.
Freddy saw the pistol and a calmness stole over him. In that moment he was perfectly okay with dying. The barrel leveled on him and Sobeleski ratcheted the cylinder over to a live round. Despite the pain in his hip, Freddy sat up and crossed his legs.
Sobeleski saw something in Freddy’s eyes that made him hesitate. That little rational voice grew in volume.
“The neighbors will hear the shot,” Freddy told him. “You know that, right? You won’t have time to clean the scene. You got skin and blood on the door and boot prints all over my entrance. The bullet’s spin will be neutralized in my body. The bullet will go right through me and bury itself in the floor. You won’t be able to dig it out – there’s an inch and a half of hardwood there. From this angle it’ll look like an execution – torture and execution once they see the bruises.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Sobeleski repeated. The pistol was not quite steady in his hand but it was far from shaking. “I watched you all night. You must have slipped out or you got an accomplice.”
“Get out,” Freddy said quietly.
The cop looked at him numbly.
Freddy knew he had control even if the flexion of a single finger could take his life in the next few moments. “Get out and I’ll forgive you for my picture frames and for walking in – again – with your boots on. I’ll even forgive you for ripping my shirt. Claire bought this one for me. It’s her favorite. She won’t be happy.”
The barrel had begun to dip. Now it snapped back and Sobeleski put about a pound and a half on the trigger. Freddy could hear the guts of the pistol creak and strain with the increasing pressure. The hammer was already back. He didn’t know how much more pressure it would take to release it but it couldn’t be much.
“What do you suppose your wife will think, Dan?” Freddy tried. He was okay with dying. I don’t think that ever meant he was willing to. “Do you think you’ll get to see your little girl in prison?”
That did it. The pressure relaxed. The cop was sweating freely now. The stink of him filled Freddy’s living room and turned his stomach.
“Get out and we can pretend this never happened.” Freddy rose. The pain of his beating was a distant thing he barely registered. Glass twinkled on the slate and he stepped carefully around it and around the cop. Freddy opened the door and did not look at him. “Just get out.” Not once did he raise his voice.
Sobeleski lowered the hammer and shuddered. He fumbled twice before succeeding in holstering the pistol. Glass crunched under his feet. He stumbled out the front door and stopped. “You know I’m gonna nail you eventually. You know that, Cartwright?”
Freddy wasn’t listening. He was already shutting the door.
-
Freddy told everyone the jack slipped when he was working on the Blazer. It explained his bruises and that was enough. Even after the cop’s visit Freddy still managed to get everything ready for the party. Claire showed up at one and they made their hors d’oeuvres and Freddy finished his cleaning while she drank her Aussie Shiraz and watched him in her slightly amused fashion. He was just getting dressed when the guests started arriving.
Conveniently enough for him the theme of that party was a masquerade. Freddy was expecting a full house. He would easily be able to slip away. A few people were distracted by the news of his latest murder but it was not long before they joined in the activities. Freddy played host and he watched the street. Sobeleski wasn’t there. Clearly, he had real work to do. Freddy suspected he wouldn’t finish until late.
Freddy was still working on instinct. He was flying by the seat of his pants and by this time he had learned to trust those instincts. They had served him well so far. He also had luck on his side now – Private Riley’s Zippo lighter. But I don’t think Tim or old Mrs. Riley ever intended it to be put to this kind of use. Freddy commented to me on occasion that he felt some greater force was at work guiding him. He called it ‘those who had come before’. It was not often that he articulated what he felt in terms of right or wrong. That wasn’t what he felt at all – not that he could describe what right and wrong really felt like. Those were not his concepts. Instead his instincts told him hot or cold – just like the old game.
Around nine o’clock he felt that warm tickle grow suddenly hot. It was time. He made his way to the ensuite bathroom, bypassing a couple in the hallway and a trio in his bed. Freddy chose the ensuite because it had a larger window and it faced the side of the house.
He changed into black jeans, a black sweater and a leather jacket of the same color. He had a few basic tools he would need, a pair of leather gloves and little else. He wouldn’t need anything else. He taped the window catch so that he would be able to get back in and stashed his party clothes under the sink. After a quick check of himself in the mirror Freddy let himself out.
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The night air was frigid after being inside with the combined body heat of nearly forty people. Freddy breathed deeply. His nostrils pinched, freezing with his inhale, and spread as he exhaled. He enjoyed the shock to his lungs. Voices, laughter, the slosh of water in the hot tub out back reached him. He could hear the living room stereo and the loudest of his guests inside. His senses were livening. He was becoming. He was ready. Freddy had not felt this powerful in a very long time.
He kept to the darkness and slipped out to the front yard. Freddy surveyed the street one last time to be certain the cop had not shown up. The street was deserted. The diamond dust of new frost glistened under the street lights. The front porch held onto the lingering scent of tobacco smoke but was likewise deserted. Without looking back Freddy stepped out of the shadows and went to the sidewalk. He kept a measured pace, not rushing. To the casual observer he was just another university kid out for an evening stroll.
Tina’s car was where he had left it. He unlocked the door and got in. He slid the key in and turned the ignition on but he didn’t start it yet. The fuel pump hummed faintly for a moment and fell silent. He waited ten seconds. Let the juice flow. Let the coils warm up. It was a small car with a small battery and it was frigging cold out. Ten seconds passed and he turned the key. The motor spun two sluggish cycles, caught and fired up. To hell with what John thought, the Japs make ‘em good. Freddy gave it a minute to warm up before he pulled away. It could finish warming up on the way.
Freddy reached the apartment complex just before ten. He swung through the parking lot to confirm Sobeleski wasn't home before driving out again. He found the Crown Vic two blocks down just where he expected it, parked out in front of a strip-mall sports bar-slash-English-styled pub called the Bear and Beaver. Every neighborhood had one just like it.
Freddy parked and got out. He strolled down the sidewalk and paused in front of a bank of tinted windows looking out on the parking lot. From inside no one could see him – he once went in just to confirm that. He found Sobeleski seated by himself at the bar. His head was lowered over a drink. A cigarette burned unattended in an ashtray by his elbow.
He was quite drunk. Freddy was sure about that. He could see it in the bartender’s expression when Sobeleski ordered another drink. Freddy knew when you mix whiskey and cola you get a fake drunk and then a fake sober as the caffeine kicks in. Only later do you realize how drunk you really are. Sobeleski was in the first drunk stage. He would finish up at home with his Ballantine’s. Freddy knew that would be soon.
Freddy left Tina’s car where it was parked and walked back to the apartments. After he was done, he would be back for it. There were two entrances into the building and both were locked and under surveillance. That was fine. Freddy wasn’t going in through the door.
Sobeleski had a unit on the fourth floor, the last on the wing. His balcony looked out onto the street but the nearest streetlight was half a block away. The fourth was the top floor and Freddy knew the unit beside him was vacant. He only had to worry about neighbors below and across the hall.
Freddy crouched under cover of a Douglas fir and peered out at the building. He held the lighter in his bare hands. He flicked the lid and closed it again. One thumb caressed the polished metal, worn to half its thickness in places by sixty years of smokers.
On the third floor, directly under the cop’s apartment the lights were blazing inside the unit. The sounds of music, partying and good times floated down. That was actually good. Now it was only the neighbors across the hall he needed to worry about and the party below would cover up any incidental noise he did make. Never had Freddy considered himself an acrobat but he was in good shape. He could do about a hundred push-ups and thirty chin-ups. The balcony railings were all made of wrought iron and offered plenty of hand holds. The lighter went into a zippered pocket. He slipped on his gloves, checked his little pouch of tools and approached.
Freddy had a clear path up the building if he climbed one apartment over from the end. The lights were off in all those units. The vacant one beside Sobeleski’s would be the perfect place to rest. He started up. He was tall enough to reach the bottom of the second-floor railing when he stood on the top of the one on the first floor and strong enough to pull himself up. He had not been sure about that. He’d never tried it before but it seemed easy enough once he got started. After scaling his way to the second floor with minimal protest from his bruised limbs, he grew more confident.
He eased himself up on the second-floor railing and reached up until he found purchase above. Freddy grasped the third-floor railing and began to pull himself up, shimmying up the vertical bars a few inches at a time. His hands just beneath the top, Freddy froze. Just to his right the patio door slid opened. The music grew loud and hushed again as the slider was pushed closed. A lighter clacked somewhere out of sight and a frost-laden plume of cigarette smoke billowed out into the night. The smoker coughed, hawked and spat and was silent once more.
Freddy remained motionless. More smoke wafted off the balcony. He hung, his hands growing numb with the cold and his arms burned, quivering with the strain. All it would take would be the smoker to glance over. Freddy could see a hand and half an arm. He could hear the crackle of tobacco and paper burning with each pull of the cigarette. The smoker muttered to himself inaudibly and fell silent.
With his face pressed against the bars, Freddy couldn’t see the street. The ground below him was dark and bare of snow and what light there was from the street left him in deep shadow. The apartments above and below were a uniform black. Still, someone walking by might see him. The headlights of a passing car might illuminate him just enough. Yet he was helpless to do anything about it.
The smoker took another drag. He hawked and spat again and the light breeze broke it into a fine mist. Freddy felt the spray hit his bare, cold cheek. Paper crackled with a final drag and the butt was flicked out into the night. Hot ash peppered Freddy’s cheek where saliva struck him moments before.
“Fuck, she’s hot,” the smoker muttered to himself in a slurred voice before the slider opened and the music grew loud again. The door closed and the music returned to a muted roar through the walls. Freddy was alone once more.
His hands were virtually numb but Freddy forced them to work. He hauled himself onto the third floor and just as quickly made for the fourth. Only then did he rest.
Freddy took off his gloves and slid them into his jacket, into his armpits, to warm them. He clenched and relaxed his fists, forcing fresh, hot blood into his chilled flesh. He glanced down, a little unnerved at exactly how high he was.
Once his circulation had returned, Freddy donned his gloves again. He turned to examine the patio door into the vacant unit. It was locked of course but he was becoming an expert. In an older building like this one, the latch in the handle almost never worked. People don’t rely on those. The standard practice is to use a piece of hockey stick or a broom handle cut down to size and stuck in the bottom track.
Freddy had discovered most sliders had a series of drains – small holes – drilled into the bottom track to allow moisture to escape and prevent the door from freezing. Freddy had learned all he needed was a hand-awl and a hammer. He punched the awl through a drain hole at an upward angle. The inner track was aluminum – sometimes only vinyl. The awl punched through and caught the wooden bar. With a little manipulating it could be worked out of the track. The best part of it was few investigators would ever think to check – hence no forced entry.
Freddy unlocked the patio door into the vacant unit and tucked his tools away. He checked the street and listened to the party downstairs, even risking a glance down and over at their balcony. He was satisfied he was still alone. Freddy eased himself over the railing and swung over to Sobeleski’s side. His slider was actually unlocked and moved on silent tracks. Barely a whisper of sound carried up from below once the door was closed. That would help. It would work both ways. Now all he had to worry about was the unit across the h
all.
He used a pen light to navigate his way through the apartment. He was surprised at how clean the place actually was. Freddy expected a pigsty – stacks of old pizza boxes, empty whiskey bottles, over-flowing ashtrays, a sink full of dishes. It seemed the movie clichés had lied. Although not immaculate, hardly up to Freddy’s standards, the apartment was far too tidy for the average bachelor.
Freddy didn’t give himself time to look around. A quick glance at the clock on the stove said it was nearly eleven o’clock. He had taken too long getting in and the cop could be back at any time. He hid in the linen closet overlooking the living room and turned his toes out, the shelves pressed into his back in order to close the door. Much as I had those years before, Freddy hid in the closet, peered out through the louvers and waited.
In twenty minutes, he began to feel the irrational craving for a cigarette. Freddy had not smoked more than a handful of times since high school and he rarely missed them. Claire smoked and he sometimes had one of hers when she was over or they were out somewhere. But that was a social thing. He rarely had cravings but this one would not go away.
Freddy thought about the nearly plump Armenian girl he had yet to have. She was at the party tonight. He knew thinking of her would take his mind off the cigarette. Her name was Nairi and she actually was Armenian. At least her mother was. Her father was Irish, with the last name O’Rourke and it worked somehow. Freddy doubted she looked anything like him anyway. Her eyes maybe – her rainbow-black, grass-green eyes. Maybe she had her father’s eyes. Maybe when she smiled.
If he was quick, he might have a chance with her tonight. Freddy was hoping the party would still be in full swing when he got back. They typically ran until about two in the morning with some of the more energetic guests continuing until four or five. Freddy figured he had to be back by one at the latest. He couldn’t be missed. Tina or Claire would be looking for him. They couldn’t miss him.
After The Flesh Page 38
