Joe Kurtz Omnibus

by Dan Simmons

  “I’ve got some time.”

  “All right I entered Princeton with the idea of studying philosophy and ethics. One of my teachers there was Dr. Frederick.”

  “Pruno.”

  Frears made a pained face. “Yes. During my junior year at Princeton, Dr. Frederick shared some early research he was doing with a Harvard professor named Lawrence Kohlberg. Have you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “Most people haven’t Professors Kohlberg and Frederick were just beginning their research to test Kohlberg’s theory that human beings pass through stages of moral development just as they have to pass through the Piagetian stages of development. Have you heard of Jean Piaget?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Piaget had proved that all children pass through various stages of development—being able to cooperate with others, say, which happens for most children around the age of kindergarten—and Lawrence Kohlberg reasoned that people—not just children, but all people—pass through discrete stages of moral development as well. Since Professor Frederick taught both philosophy and ethics, he was very interested in Kohlberg’s early research, and that was what our class was about.”

  “All right.”

  Frears took a breath, glanced at the obscene photographs lying on the ottoman, scooped them into the briefcase, and closed the briefcase. “Kohlberg had classified six stages of moral development. Level One was simple avoidance of punishment Moral boundaries are set only to avoid pain. Essentially the moral development of an earthworm. We’ve all known adults who stop at Level One.”

  “Yes,” said Kurtz.

  “Level Two was a crude form of moral judgment motivated by the need to satisfy one’s own desires,” said Frears. “Level Three was sometimes called the ‘Good Boy/Good Girl’ orientation—a need to avoid rejection or the disapproval of others.”

  Kurtz nodded and shifted his weight slightly. The .40 Smith & Wesson was cutting into his hip.

  “Stage Four was the Law and Order level,” said Frears. “People had evolved to the moral degree that they had an absolute imperative not to be criticized by a duly recognized authority figure. Sometimes entire national populations appear to be made up of Stage Four and lower citizens.”

  “Nazi Germany,” said Kurtz.

  “Exactly. Stage Five individuals seem motivated by an overwhelming need to respect the social order and to uphold legally determined laws. The law becomes a touchstone, a moral imperative unto itself.”

  “ACLU types who allow the Nazis to march in Skokie,” said Kurtz.

  John Wellington Frears rubbed his chin through his beard and looked at Kurtz for a long minute, as if reappraising him. “Yes.”

  “Is Stage Five the top floor?” asked Kurtz.

  Frears shook his head. “Not according to the research that Professors Kohlberg and Frederick were carrying out. A Level Six individual makes his moral decisions based on his own conscience in attempts to resonate with certain universal ethical considerations…even when those decisions fly in the face of existing laws. Say, Henry David Thoreau’s opposition to the war with Mexico, or the civil-rights marchers in the South in the nineteen sixties.”

  Kurtz nodded.

  “Professor Frederick used to say that the United States was founded by Level Six minds,” said Frears, “protected and preserved by Level Fives, and populated by Level Fours and below. Does this make any sense, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Sure. But it hasn’t done a damned thing toward telling me why you left Juilliard and went to the Vietnam War.”

  Frears smiled. “At the time, this idea of moral development was very important to me, Mr. Kurtz. Lawrence Kohlberg’s dream was to find a Level Seven personality.”

  “Who would that be?” said Kurtz. “Jesus Christ?”

  “Precisely,” Frears said with no hint of irony. “Or Gandhi. Or Socrates. Or Buddha. Someone who can only respond to universal ethical imperatives. They have no choice in the matter. Usually the rest of us respond by putting them to death.”

  “Hemlock,” said Kurtz. Pruno had made Plato’s dialogues required reading for him in Attica.

  “Yes.” Frears set his long, elegant fingers on the metal briefcase. “Lawrence Kohlberg never found a Stage Seven personality.”

  Surprise, thought Kurtz.

  “But he did find something else, Mr. Kurtz. His testing showed that there were many people walking the street who can only be classified as Level Zeroes. Their moral development has not even evolved to the point where they will avoid pain and punishment if their whim dictates otherwise. Other human beings’ suffering means absolutely nothing to them. The clinical term is ‘sociopath,’ but the real word is ‘monster.’”

  Kurtz looked at Frears’s fingers tensed against the lid of the briefcase as if trying to keep it closed. “This Kohlberg and Pruno had to do university research to find this out? I could have told them that when I was five years old.”

  Frears nodded. “Kohlberg committed suicide in nineteen eighty-seven—walked into a marsh and drowned. Some of his disciples say that he couldn’t reconcile himself to the knowledge that such creatures walk among us.”

  “So you went to Vietnam to find out what rung of Kohlberg’s ladder you were on,” said Kurtz.

  John Wellington Frears looked him in the eye. “Yes.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  Frears smiled. “I discovered that a young violinist’s fingers were very good at disarming bombs and booby traps.” He leaned forward. “What else did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “Hansen.”

  “Yes?” The violinist was completely attentive.

  “I don’t think Hansen has cut and run yet, but he’s close to doing that. Very close. Right now I think he’s waiting a few hours just because I’ve been a factor he doesn’t understand. The miserable son of a bitch is so smart that he’s stupid…he thinks he understands everything. As long as we appear to be one step ahead of him, he hangs around to see what the fuck is going to happen—but not much longer. A few hours maybe.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, Mr. Frears, the way I see it, we can play this endgame one of three ways. I think you should decide.”

  Frears nodded silently at this.

  “First,” said Kurtz, “we hand over this briefcase to the authorities and let them chase down Mr. James B. Hansen. His modus operandi is shot to hell, so he won’t be repeating his imposter kill-the-kids routine in the same way. He’ll be on the run, pure and simple.”

  “Yes,” said Frears.

  “But he might stay on the run and ahead of the cops for months, even years,” said Kurtz. “And after he’s arrested, the trial will take months, or years. And after the trial, the appeals can take more years. And you don’t have those months and years. It doesn’t sound like the cancer’s going to give you very many weeks.”

  “No,” agreed Frears. “What is your second suggestion, Mr. Kurtz?”

  “I kill Hansen. Tonight.”

  Frears nodded. “And your third suggestion, Mr. Kurtz?”

  Kurtz told him. When Kurtz finished talking, John Wellington Frears sat back in the Eames chair and closed his eyes as if he was very, very tired.

  Frears opened his eyes. Kurtz knew immediately what the man’s decision was going to be.

  Kurtz wanted to leave by six-thirty so he could get to the train station no later than seven. The storm had come in with nightfall, and there was a foot of new snow on the balcony when he stepped out for a final look at the night.

  Arlene was smoking a cigarette there.

  “Today was Wednesday, Joe.”

  “So?”

  “You forgot your weekly visit to your parole officer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I called her,” said Arlene. “Told her you were sick.” She flicked ashes. “Joe, if you manage to kill this Hansen and they still think he’s a detective, every cop in the United States is going to be after you. You’re going to have to
hide so far up in Canada that your neighbors’ll be polar bears. And you hate the out-of-doors.”

  Kurtz had nothing to say to that.

  “We get kicked out of our basement in a week,” said Arlene. “And we never got around to looking for new office space.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  The meeting with Kurtz was set for midnight Hansen arrived at ten minutes after eight. Both Brubaker’s and Myers’s cars had trouble getting through the snow near the courthouse, so they’d had dinner downtown and waited for their captain to pick them up in his expensive sport utility vehicle. Brubaker was half-drunk and decided to confront Millworth on the ride to wherever the hell they were going.

  “Whatever’s going on,” Brubaker said from the front passenger seat, “it sure and hell isn’t department procedure. You said there was going to be something in this for us, Captain. It’s time we saw what it was.”

  “You’re right,” said Hansen. He was driving carefully—he always drove carefully—following a snowplow east on Broadway. The plow’s flashing orange lights reflected off the silent buildings and low clouds.

  Hansen took two thick envelopes out of the Cadillac Escalade’s center console and tossed one to Brubaker and the other back to Myers.

  “Holy shit,” said Detective Myers. Each envelope contained $20,000.

  “That’s just a down payment,” said Hansen.

  “For what?” asked Brubaker.

  Hansen ignored him and concentrated on driving the last two miles along Broadway and side streets. Except for snowplows and the occasional emergency vehicle, there was almost no traffic. Broadway had six inches of new snow but was being plowed regularly; the side streets were wastelands of drifting snow and snow-covered vehicles. The Escalade powered its way along on permanent all-wheel drive, but Hansen had to switch into four-wheel drive and then into four-wheel-low to make the final mile to the abandoned train station.

  The driveway rising up the hill to the station was empty. There was no sign that another vehicle bad been there. It was the first time Hansen had seen the station in real life, but he had studied floor plans of the complex all afternoon. He knew it by heart now. He parked by the boulders that sealed off the huge parking lot and nodded to the detectives. “I have tactical gear in the back.”

  He issued each man a bulletproof vest—not the thin Kevlar type that cops could wear under a shirt, but bulky SWAT flak vests with porcelain panels. Hansen pulled out three AR-15 assault rifles, rigged for rapid-fire, and handed one to Brubaker and one to Myers. Each man got five magazines, the extra going into the Velcroed pockets on the flak vests.

  “We going into combat, Captain?” asked Myers. “I’m not trained for this shit.”

  “My guess is that there’ll be one man in there,” said Hansen.

  Brubaker locked and loaded his AR-15. “That man named Kurtz?”

  “Yes.”

  Myers was having trouble Velcroing shut the flak vest. He was too fat. He tugged at a nylon cord, found the fit, and patted the vest into place. “We supposed to arrest him?”

  “No,” said Hansen. “You’re supposed to kill him.” He handed each man a black SWAT helmet with bulky goggles on a swing-down visor.

  “Night-vision goggles?” said Brubaker, swinging his down and peering around like a bug-eyed alien. “Wild. Everything’s greenish and as bright as day.”

  “That’s the idea, Detective.” Hansen pulled on his helmet and powered up the goggles. “It’s going to be dark as a coal mine in there for a civilian, but there’s enough ambient light for us to see fine.”

  “What about civilians?” asked Myers. He was swinging his assault rifle around while peering through his goggles.

  “No civilians in there. If it moves, shoot it,” said Hansen. If this Mickey Kee gets in the way, too bad.

  “No tactical radios?” said Brubaker.

  “We won’t need them,” said Hansen. He pulled a pair of long-handled wire cutters from his bag. “We’re going to stay together. Brubaker, when we’re inside, you and I will be at SWAT-ready, covering forward fields of fire, you on the left, me on the right. Myers, when we’re moving together inside, you face rear, keeping your back against Brubaker’s back. Questions?”

  There weren’t any.

  Hansen used his key remote to lock the Cadillac, and the three men crossed the parking lot toward the looming station. The blowing snow covered their tracks in minutes.

  Kurtz had arrived only half an hour earlier.

  He’d planned to get to the station by seven, but the blizzard slowed them down. The drive that normally would have taken ten minutes, even in traffic, took almost an hour; they almost got stuck once and Marco had to get out and push to get them moving again. It was seven-thirty before the Lincoln came to a stop at the base of the drive leading up to the station. Kurtz and Marco got out. Kurtz leaned into the open passenger door.

  “You know where to park this down the side street so you can see this whole driveway area?”

  John Wellington Frears nodded from his place behind the wheel.

  “I know it’s cold, but don’t leave the engine on. Someone could see the exhaust from the street here. Just hunker down and wait.”

  Frears nodded again and touched a button to pop the trunk.

  Kurtz went around back, tossed a heavy black bag to Marco, who set it on the passenger seat and closed the door. Kurtz lifted the other bundle from the trunk. It was wiggling slightly, but the duct tape held.

  “I thought you wanted me to do the heavy lifting,” said Marco.

  “It’s a hundred yards to the train station,” said Kurtz. “By the time we get there, you can have it.”

  They walked up the hill and kept near the high cement railing as they approached the tower. Kurtz heard the Lincoln shoosh away but he did not look back. Marco used the wire cutters on the fence and they slipped through, keeping close to the station as they went around to the north side, where Kurtz knew how to get in through a boarded-up window. It was dark up here near the hilltop complex of the abandoned station, and the tower loomed over them like a skyscraper from hell, but the light from the sodium-vapor streetlights in the ghetto nearby reflected off the low clouds and lit everything in a sick, yellow glow.

  The blowing snow stung Kurtz eyes and soaked his hair. Before going through the window, he shifted the taped and gagged man from his shoulder to Marco’s and took a flashlight out of his peacoat pocket.

  Holding the flashlight in his left hand and the S&W semiautomatic in his right, Kurtz led the way into the echoing space.

  It was too cold for pigeons to be stirring. Marco came in, and their two flashlight beams stabbed back and forth across the huge waiting room.

  If Hansen got here first, we’re dead, thought Kurtz. We’re perfect targets.

  Their shoes crunched on the cold stone floor. Wind howled beyond the tall, boarded-up windows. At the far end of the waiting room, Kurtz pocketed his pistol and pointed upward with the flashlight.

  “That balcony should be a good vantage point for you,” whispered Kurtz. “The stairway’s mostly closed off and you could hear anyone climbing up it toward you. There’s no reason for them to go up there—it’s a dead end. If they come in the tower way, I’ll see them. If they come in the way we did, they’ll have to pass you here.”

  Kurtz fumbled in his left coat pocket, felt the Compact Witness .45 that Angelina had insisted he take—“It’s served me well,” she’d said as they stood in the penthouse foyer—and then found the extra two-way radio. They’d tested it in the penthouse but he wanted to make sure it worked here.

  Marco dumped the groaning man and set his own earphones and radio in place.

  “You don’t have to actually speak into it,” whispered Kurtz. “Just leave it on and thumb the transmit button if anyone passes you here. I’ll hear it when you break squelch. Once if he’s alone, twice if there are two guys, and so on. Give it a try.”

  Marco thumbed the button twice. K
urtz clearly heard the two interruptions of static. “Good.”

  “What if nobody shows?” whispered Marco. They’d shut off the flashlights while they huddled under the balcony, and Kurtz could barely see the big man three feet away.

  “We wait until one and go home,” whispered Kurtz. The cold in the waiting room was worse than outside. It made Kurtz’s forehead ache.

  “If I see anybody, I’m going to beep you and that’s it. Soon as they’re past me, I’m out of here. No one’s paying me enough for this shit.”

  Kurtz nodded. Switching on his flashlight, he bent down, inspected the duct tape and cords, and lifted the heavy bundle. Marco climbed the littered and barricaded staircase carefully, but still made noise. Kurtz waited until the bodyguard was in place, out of sight but able to peer through the railings, and then he continued the next hundred feet or so up the main walkway into the tower rotunda.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jesus God, it’s cold,” whispered Myers.

  “Shut up,” hissed Brubaker.

  James B. Hansen said nothing, but he made a fist and pounded both men on the chest plates of their flak vests, demanding silence.

  They’d come in from the south side, through the acres of empty service buildings, across the rusted and snow-buried tracks, across the windswept boarding platforms, through the fenced-over south portal, up the boarding ramps, and now were crossing the vast main waiting room. The view was uncanny through the night-vision goggles: brilliant, glowing green-white outside, a dimmer, static-speckled greenish gloom here in the deeper darkness. But enough reflected light filtered through the boarded-up skylights and windows to allow them to see a hundred feet across the waiting room. Abandoned benches glowed like tombstones; smashed kiosks were a tumble of shadows; stopped clocks looked like skulls on the wall.

  Hansen felt a strange exhilaration. Whatever happened, he knew there would have to be a sea change in his behavior. The shifting personae and the self-indulgent Special Visits would have to stop—at least for a few years. If a dullard like this ex-con Kurtz could find the pattern there, then it was no longer safe. Hansen would have to settle into the deep-cover identity he’d prepared in Vancouver and practice self-restraint for years as far as the teenage girls were concerned. In the meantime, this unaccustomed public action was exciting.