by Jack Conner
“When was the last time I made you regret anything? Oh. Right.”
***
The sun warmed Lynch’s skin as the two policemen showed him to the squad car and ushered him inside, and he thought the day was warming pleasantly for the season.
“Right this way, sir,” said one of the cops, a portly fellow with a bristling ginger mustache, as he held the door open. “Watch your head.”
Lynch ducked inside the rear of the car, noting the stink of sweat and unwashed clothes. Whatever recent batch of criminals had been transported here had not been particularly hygienic. Stains and tears marred the seat. The ginger-mustachioed policeman, whose name was Sgt. Meyers, climbed inside the front passenger seat while his clean-shaven compatriot positioned himself behind the wheel. He was a smaller, somewhat swarthy fellow who moved with strength and determination; Lynch could tell by the way he filled out his uniform that he was stronger than his slight stature would suggest. Sullivan, Lynch thought he had been called. He didn’t get the rank.
Meyers lit a thin cigar as Sullivan drove away from the station. Sullivan snorted and said, “Roll the winder down if you’re gonna smoke that crap.”
“All right, all right.” Meyers’s mustache bristled further, but he obeyed and in moments a stream of cigar smoke sailed past Lynch’s window. He would have preferred the smoke remain indoors; it would have covered up the stench. As he stared through the wire mesh and iron bars that separated the front compartment from the back, he noticed the many freckles that dusted the back of Meyers’s neck and the mole that sprouted from the largest one.
“I’d lop that off if I were you.” Lynch raised his hook and the curved blade along its inside. “Happy to assist.”
“Eh? What’re you on about?”
The car rattled back and forth. Sullivan turned onto a main road, and the cruiser lurched into the stream of traffic. Signs posted above the road gave out rationing instructions, and maps on the sidewalks detailed routes to the nearest bomb shelters. Lynch was impressed by how the people of Gaston carried on life as usual, more or less. There might have been more of a grimness about them, and there were certainly fewer men of fighting age about, and the young women Lynch could see did not wear the flashy colors they may have sported before the war, and many were likely on their way to jobs to support themselves, positions likely involving the war in some capacity -- making bomb casings, plane carriages, guns, or simply collecting trash since there were so few men still around to do the job. Still, they were not the dark, frantic, harassed people Lynch might have expected.
He had seen populations devastated by the war, had seen the result of countries that had actually succumbed to the German tide -- the scrutiny, the raids, the terror. He supposed the people here would grow grimmer soon enough. For now, though, they lived in hope. America had been attacked, Hitler had declared war on her. She would enter the fray at last. Lynch knew she would not arrive soon enough to save his country, though. The Nazi boot heel would have long crushed Casveigh and ground it into the dirt. For those with certain ancestry -- for example, Lynch’s Hebrew grandmother, his father’s mother -- this was doubly to be feared.
Police communications squawked from the radio. Meyers flicked it off.
“Enough on your plate, aye?” said Lynch.
Meyers grunted.
Lynch decided it was growing warmer in the car, not colder -- strange for winter. At least it had not snowed so far this year. He tried to crack the window, but of course there was no roller. “Could you roll yours down a bit more?” he asked Meyers, who still smoked his cheap, thin cigar. “More air would be favored.”
Meyers grunted again. He and Sullivan shared a look.
It was at this time that Lynch realized they were not headed toward downtown. Indeed, they were headed directly opposite.
“Stopping off for pastries first?” he said. “Sensible. I’ll take -- ”
“Quit your yappin’,” Meyers snarled. “I ain’t gettin’ paid enough to hear your tongue wavin’.” He shook his head. As he did, the wattles of flesh on the back of his neck enveloped, released, then re-enveloped the mole. “Should we do him now or wait to the Arms?”
Sullivan shot him a glare, then turned back to the road. “You know they want to question him. Now shut up already.”
“At least we could go a liddle faster now, couldn’t we?”
A pause. “Aye. We could.”
Sullivan flipped a button and the siren peeled. Lynch could make out the reflections of red-and-blue on the cars around him. The surrounding traffic quickly gave way, and the squad car shot forward. To either side, the buildings grew smaller and the pine-covered hills of the region more visible.
“Possibly we’re going to visit the Head in a different city,” Lynch said hopefully.
Meyers grunted again. The sound was beginning to annoy Lynch. Neither policeman deigned to answer.
Lynch wished he had not lost his pistol at Lars Gunnerson’s mansion, or that he had been able to keep the one he’d stolen instead of throwing it away along with his overcoat, casting it down to the bottom of the Jocelyn.
“How long, then?” he said. “And where?” When neither answered, he said, “I am a war hero, you know.”
“Very well,” Meyers said. “You’re goin’ to Brookshire, if that makes y’ feel better. Yer final destination.”
“You know, it doesn’t. I take it you work for the Society, then.”
“We don’t work for nobody,” Sullivan said.
“Do tell.”
“We’re members, is what he means,” Meyers elaborated. “And it’s the Lady you’re goin’ to see. A few pulled teeth and she’ll have you singin’ proper.” He was half-turned around in his seat and winked at Lynch. “Since you’re a war hero, I thought I’d tell ya what to expect. Now, because I really appreciate war heroes, I advise you tell her everything you know right off, that way you can make it as few teeth as possible. Heh! -- maybe she’ll appreciate your gabbin’ more’n I do. Ask her to get you a pastry!”
“Very thoughtful.” Lynch rubbed his chin. “Your Society . . . I know it’s quite special. You must feel like the work you’re doing is very important.”
Meyers stared at him, and a ghost of a grin twitched beneath his mustache. “You don’t know shit, do you? Well, you’re still gonna lose a few teeth.”
“Perhaps you could fill in certain gaps in my knowledge, make all that pain less futile?”
Meyers grunted again. “You’ll just have to die ignorant, I’m afraid. Members of the Society observe a strict code of silence.”
“Then you shouldn’t have told me that, now should you?”
Meyers frowned.
Lynch lay back-down on the seat, reached up with one hand to brace himself against the door close to his head, coiled his body, feet high in the air, and smashed his feet with all his strength against the car window. He struck once – twice – three times. Cracks spanned the glass. Gasping, ignoring the swears and threats of the cops, he sat up and struck his hook against the glass, using its concave side as a blunt instrument. It was a heavy piece of metal and it smashed the starred glass to encouraging success. The cracks widened. Glass sprayed outward. Gusts of wind poured in.
“Stop! Stop that right now!” Meyers shouted. Lynch was vaguely aware of the policeman pointing his service revolver at him.
Sullivan, driving more erratically now, slapped the pistol aside. “Don’t kill him, you idiot! They need to question him!”
“He knows shit!”
“They don’t know that.”
Lynch broke through the window, scraped the sides with his hook, clearing the bottom and front edges free of deadly glass teeth. Without wasting a moment, he leaned outside, feeling the fresh breeze in his hair, reached around and through the cracked window, and slashed Meyers across the face with his hook.
Blood spurted, and he slashed again, holding himself in place with one arm tightly gripping the door handle. Meyers screamed and panick
ed, firing the gun. Glass sprayed from the windshield. He fired again, and again, sinking rounds into the dashboard, exploding the radio, but Lynch slashed at his arms and he could not aim. Shrapnel from the exploding radio must have struck Sullivan, for the smaller man swerved even more erratically, nearly driving through a tide of sheep that had just crossed the road at the behest of several shepherds. The animals bleated and scattered, and then the car jounced back onto the asphalt.
Lynch’s right arm, which was holding him upright, began to waver from the strain. A few errant needles of glass sliced into his side. He couldn’t maintain this position for long. Using all the strength in his left arm, he brought his hook down hard on the roof of the car, indenting the metal and creating a place for his hook to find purchase. Then, taking the weight of his upper body on his hook and left arm, he wrenched open the passenger door, grabbed Meyers by the arm and hauled him screaming outside. Meyers was a big man and tried to wedge himself in the doorway. To do this he had to drop his gun and use both hands to brace himself.
Lynch jabbed him viciously in the eye. Meyers screamed, his hands went to his eye, Lynch grabbed him by the lapels and pitched him from the car. Meyers shrieked, struck, rolled, and went silent.
Awkwardly, with the door threatening to bang closed on him, Lynch slung himself around and climbed inside the forward compartment. Sullivan jerked the wheel, trying to dislodge him. The car was stick and it took two hands to operate, otherwise he would have -- and should have -- been reaching for his service piece. At the last second, he did, fumbling at the strap. Lynch raked his hook across that hand, and the hand jerked away, blood weeping. Sullivan stomped on the breaks, and Lynch flew into the dashboard, felt the beginning of something crack in his ribs. He had half expected the move, though, and he was ready when Sullivan reached for his gun again. Gritting his teeth, he hurled himself bodily on Sullivan, wrapped the fingers of his good right hand around Sullivan’s throat, and squeezed.
Sullivan, small but strong, fought him. Froth built on the policeman’s lips. His eyes bulged. Lynch squeezed harder. Sullivan’s right hand succeeded in grabbing his gun, but Lynch sank his hook through the meat of the hand, and the gun fell away. Sullivan gasped and gargled, making horrid noises as his chest hitched, his face flushed purple. He bucked and thrashed against Lynch. Lynch squeezed hard and used his body to subdue Sullivan, feeling the policeman rub up against him in a perversely familiar way. Sullivan’s eyes glazed and they almost seemed to pop from his skull. His lips turned black. His face darkened.
At last Sullivan’s convulsions stopped. Lynch waited another minute, then released his hold on Sullivan’s throat. His hand had been making the shape of a claw for so long and with so much effort that he found it difficult to open it up again, get the blood going. A cramp seized it, and he flexed it and shook it to get the cramp out.
Shaking, panting, he collapsed back into the passenger seat, but not before braking the car and turning off the siren. The interior stank of smoke from the discharged gun and offal from Sullivan’s voided bowels. The smells were intimately familiar to Lynch, the smells of the battlefield, and he was not sure whether he welcomed them back into his life or not. Still shaking, he leaned over and shut Sullivan’s staring eyes. Then, gently, he opened the door, kicked the corpse out of the car, climbed behind the wheel, and set off for Brookshire.
Chapter 5
This was the chalk country, and sunlight bathed the splendid green hills in warm light as Lynch wove through them. Few trees grew here, only vibrant green, rolling hills and ancient stone buildings fashioned into quaint, eerie little villages. Strange ruins dotted the hillsides and every year scholars published new books regarding the latest theories about their origins. The most recent one Lynch had heard was that they were ruins from ancient Atlantis. He had stopped paying attention after that.
Lynch hoped Det. Brown wasn’t a part of the plot to kill him. He didn’t think so. Brown had seemed genuine in his attempts to uncover the mystery of the murders throughout Gaston. Then again, Lynch had often marveled at the ability of various actors, whether onstage on King William IV Blvd. or starring in a Hollywood drama. Casablanca, which had just come out last year in Gaston, was among his favorites. Det. Brown was no Humphrey Bogart, but perhaps --
No. Lynch couldn’t believe it.
At any rate, the Society’s infiltration of the police force obviously extended quite far. Lynch could not trust them again. And his enemies would be hunting him in the city, both the police -- he was a cop-killer now; thank you, Sullivan -- and the Society directly, via their agents like Lars Gunnerson as well as their pet security company, which might as well be their own private army. Plus, with the Prime Minister in their pocket, they had carte blanche to utilize whatever government agencies they needed in the hunt.
Lynch found one of Sullivan’s cigarettes -- the man had conveniently left them on the dash, though he had not found time to smoke one -- and lit one as he drove along. The cigarette proved to be of better quality than the cigars Meyers had favored, and the richer smell quickly filled the cabin.
The needle on the gas gauge inched downward, but Lynch knew he could not stop for petrol. He had to ditch the car. By now Meyers, if he was still alive, would have found a phone and called in to headquarters, and if he hadn’t survived one of the shepherds would have found his corpse and called it in. Police around the country, and especially along this route, would be mobilizing for war. With a sigh, Lynch drove the squad car off the road, hid it between two hills, killed the engine and left the vehicle behind, but not before taking both Meyers’s and Sullivan’s pistols. And Sullivan’s cigarettes.
On foot, he set off over the hills toward Brookshire. Lunchtime neared, passed, and dwindled to memory. His stomach ached, and the sun blazed hot overhead, an unseasonably warm day.
As he walked, the few valuables he’s salvaged from his home and managed to retain grew heavier and heavier. He found a convenient landmark in a certain outcrop of stone, dug a hole and deposited his meager treasures in it, first extracting enough cash to get him through the coming days, and walked on. When he grew too tired, he took a nap.
The sun descended, and the sky grew dark. Lynch kept to the hills, threading through the crumbling ruins of the ancients that used to live here. Had they been Druids? Vikings? The sagging walls helped keep the wind off. Sure enough, when he reached a vantage point and looked back toward the road, he saw police cars slowly driving along it, lights flashing red and blue but without the noise of the siren, headlights bright and torches lancing the gloom. After sweeping the area for any sign of Lynch or the car or Sullivan, the cruiser would lumber away. Then, some time later it or another would roll back from the other direction. Occasionally a policeman would disembark, bend to study something on the ground, then climb back in and the car would move slowly away.
Lynch avoided the roads until well after dark when he saw the lights of a town below. Sure enough, when he descended from the hills he saw a sign along the road that read WELCOME TO BROOKSHIRE. Shuddering in the suddenly chill wind, Lynch entered the town.
Lights blazed in old stone houses, and only the occasional car trundled down cobbled roads that had not been modernized for the age of automobiles. Grass thrust up between the cobbles. Hitching posts jutted before public buildings. Still, this was a modern town, sprawling across the sides of several hills, but Lynch noted something odd: many of the homes were unlit. Whole sections of the town appeared to be empty, especially along the outskirts, and for awhile he thought he passed through a ghost town. Relief rushed through him when he reached more lit, occupied sections deeper in. Still, it was a corpse of a town.
One shop window read HATS A-PLENTY. Another read ATLANTIS FOUND, a tourist shop catering to the latest archeological claims. Lynch entered the first pub he came to, sat down at a table and said to the waitress, “Fish and chips, darling. Some tea, too. When I’ve had some food in me, start bringing out the brandy. Oh, hell, why not fix me up with a glass
now? It works quicker on an empty stomach. And any drugs you have on hand would go down well, too. Some cocaine would really be appreciated. Well, what are you waiting for? Chop chop!”
Flustered, she turned about and disappeared into the kitchen. Lynch lit one of Sullivan’s cigarettes and took a nice, deep drag as his gaze swept the smoky, modest pub, stone walls and wooden beams, a great fire roaring in the fire place, pastoral scenes and local heroes in pictures on the wall. Hard-faced men around the tables returned his gaze, some nodding in return, others just staring at his hook, his eye patch, his scars, his ragged appearance -- the glass teeth of the squad car window had torn grooves on one side of his black leather jacket. He was a ragged, strange figure, and the townsfolk obviously took an instant disliking to him. He smoked on, a grin curling his lips.
“Here you are, sir,” the waitress said, returning with his drink. She seemed eager to be on her way.
“Not so fast, lass,” he said -- she was not unattractive in a country way, and his formative years had been in the country, after all -- “I’ve got a question to put to you if you don’t mind.”
She arched her eyebrows. “The answer’s No. A firm No.”
He grinned wider. “Not what I was going to ask, but thank you for your honesty. No, I simply wanted to know why so many houses in this town are vacant?”
She sniffed, putting one hand on her hip. “Brookshire used to be a mining town, sir, didn’t you know?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Well, it was! One of the biggest! During the boom we had over a hundred thousand people.”
“My my.”
Some of the haughtiness left her. “Now, though, all the silver gone . . . well, most of the people left with it.”
“I see.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Would you happen to know a place called the Arms?”
“The Queen’s Arms? Right on, it’s just up the street aways. Finest hotel in the city. Owner of the mine used to live in the penthouse. Old Man Whaley. Posh as the Palace, they say.” Her eyes darted to the others in the room, and he could feel her start to pull away. The locals might give her a hard time if she were too friendly with him. “Is that all?”
