Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  The elevator opened into a vestibule with glass doors to the left and right. It was the place where Blair had violated Cam’s trust by telling Carla Cage what had happened to him in captivity. He hoped Father Greg would now be convinced to violate a different kind of confidence. Father Greg stepped out first and stopped, his right hand rising to his chest. He rubbed something under his shirt with his thumb as he thought. Blair had seen the move before. He seemed to be weighing his options, so Blair stayed silent. He felt his Blackberry vibrate in his jacket pocket. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pushed as many buttons as he could feel until it stopped. He felt something coming and didn’t want to break the spell.

  “Okay, I can tell you this. You should take care to protect those closely connected to the Little Maria Foundation.”

  “What? I’m sorry, Father. I mean great, thanks. Can you help me understand why?” It made some sense if you considered Pastor Gardner and Thelma Waters and their roles with the foundation. It made no sense when you tried to fit a stripper into the mix. Maybe she was just a waste of time.

  “Blair, I’ve said all I can. Please understand that.” The thumb worked the fabric of his black shirt as he headed for the door to the right. “I’m parked on this side.” Blair followed him out.

  Jimmy Williams rocked in the seat, cursing the Caddy. At least he could pace in the van. He looked at Murphy locked behind the wheel. Not a move since he parked, not even to adjust his balaclava. Jimmy fought with his again. He couldn’t seem to get it right. He moved it up, down, sideways, searching for light. Every time he found the holes, he’d stare at the bikes. The lean black Softail resting on its side stand, the hot cop’s green bobber nestled beside it. Be a shame to kill her. Bitch had the look, the bike, all of it.

  Even if she got caught in the shit, this was still his lucky night. He’d get the date tattooed somewhere. His thigh would be good. Next to those monster balls, the kind you gotta have to pull off a hit like this. He was gunning for the Indian, but it really didn’t matter which cop he killed. He knew that. Any dead cop would keep the rest of them running scared for weeks. They’d be so busy looking under their beds for the boogie man they’d forget about the fucking preacher and stay miles away from Lolita.

  He knew Mapp wanted the Indian first, but Jimmy wanted some trigger time with Cam fucking Neville, could taste dead cop in the air. He had to hold back. Get the Indian and Neville, too. Keep Mapp happy, then it would be easy street. He could see himself sitting in the clubhouse, wearing the patch. Smile at Gunner and not say a fucking word. He was going to do all his talking here and now. Fuck Gunner and his brother. All cops need killing, but some maybe more than others. Neville would be at the top of the list, put the Indian at number two. Neville was a traitor. Should have been killed the day he put that badge on. Everybody knew that. Fuckin’ Snake should have taken care of this business a long time ago. Soft old man.

  He rocked forward in the seat, grabbed the stupid mask again, pulled at the hole where his chin stuck out, tugged the whole thing a little to the right. He caught movement in front of the elevators. Blair Christmas and another man were talking. Man, Mapp had his shit wired fuckin’ tight, putting a cop in the crosshairs like that. Christmas faced the Caddy. The swollen mess on the side of his face made Jimmy smile. Phil’s handiwork for sure. The other man had his back to Jimmy and Phil. Oh yeah, baby. Fuck yes! It was Neville’s curly head. Fucker, all dressed in black like some badass cop. Jimmy stroked the MAC-10, felt a bulge in his pants. Yes, baby.

  “Get ready,” he said, easing the window down.

  Murphy pulled the shifter into drive, and they inched forward.

  “Wait, wait, I need them on my side, so stay put until they come out, then just ease ahead a bit.” Williams placed the tip of the suppressor on the armrest just below the open window.

  Christmas and Neville walked away from him.

  “Shit, they’re going out the wrong door. Roll around past the bikes. Get to the other fucking side. Hurry up.”

  He grabbed at the mask again.

  The navy blue Ford sedan sat alone in a row of empty slots at the back of the underground garage. Inspector MacIntosh pulled the leather case from the passenger seat and fished for the phone. His hand shook as he pressed the power button and watched the tiny screen come to life. A soft green glow bounced from the plastic trim at the centre of the steering wheel. He pressed the speed-dial button and waited, kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror. He knew this had been coming since he got the call from that stubborn Indian. God, how affirmative action was hurting his beloved force. Imagine, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police force made up of blacks, Indians, women, even people from countries he’d never heard of. Mounties wearing turbans, burkas even. God. Back in his day, every Mountie was a real man—a white man—and every Mountie knew how to follow orders. None of this goddamn freelancing these kids were into today. He’d ordered the Indian to find the man feeding cats in the park, that’s it, nothing more. An easy assignment to keep him out of the way. But no, Blair fucking Christmas—like that’s a real name–has to go off to The Fog Bank and get into a brawl. Well, Christmas was about to get a lesson in following orders.

  “It’s me,” he said as a familiar voice answered his call. “No, no problem. I’m here. He’s probably up there now. I called them both in, and Sergeant Cage too, to make it less suspicious,” MacIntosh said. “Look, it’s just that he’s here because I called him in, and I’m getting worried that could spill back on me. I’m thinking maybe there’s another way.”

  He held the phone from his ear and looked in the mirror, turning his head to be sure there was no one around.

  “No, I know what’s at stake. I don’t think you do. He’s one of us, a cop. A quota cop is still a dead cop if he gets shot, maybe more of a real cop if he takes one in the line of duty. I think I can keep this thing bottled up on my end for a little while. We need to take a breath and think it through. Let’s not do something we can’t undo.”

  He waited. He knew there’d be a speech. There was always a speech. He looked at the cement wall in front of the car. The reserved parking sign made him smile. God, he loved the little perks. Funny, when you chase power, you think you want the big things: the influence, the ability to control lives, change policy, destroy careers. He knew those things were fun, but they were complicated, sometimes slippery and hard to control.

  It was the little things, though—the reserved parking, the better tables at the smart restaurants, the meetings that can’t start until you walk in the room—that was real power. The perks that made all the bullshit worthwhile. Of course, his power also helped protect the most important perk of all. With great power comes great pressure. Men who are born to lead feel it more than those who simply fall into power through some quirk of fate. True leaders know they must grasp power, keep it, use it to protect and control those who are unworthy. The burden of true leadership is a price that must be paid. But there are ways to relieve that pressure, to escape for a short time. Great men also recognize that. Others never could, never would, accept that. He must now stand worthy of his power, show his true potential. He knew what was at stake. He interrupted the rambling speech.

  “Never mind. Forget I said anything. Just jitters…I know that. Let’s just get it done. But before we do, let me ask you. The Russian threat. Was that you?”

  He smiled as he listened. The Russians, a brilliant touch. This morning’s intelligence briefing included a warning about the Russian mob ordering a hit on an unnamed Mountie. The tip came from a Vancouver addict and snitch. No one knew whether to take it seriously or ignore it. The snitch had told his handler about the Russian mob’s plan to kill a Mountie, but said he didn’t know where, didn’t know when, just knew it was coming in the next twenty-four hours.

  MacIntosh had to admit, he couldn’t have made that happen. He shut the phone off. Tossed it back into the leather briefcase and stepped out o
f the car. Smiled at the parking sign.

  Blair followed Father Greg through the glass doors into the parking garage. He needed to know what Bobby Simms had said about the Little Maria Foundation. He just had to ask the right question so that Greg could tell him without violating the sanctity of the confessional. Until now, the foundation had been little more than background. Now maybe it was a lead, at least that was something. He’d kick it around with Cam when he went back upstairs. Hell, with Gardner and Waters dead, were there any real big players left in the foundation? Mrs. Gardner probably. They’d need a list from her.

  “Father, I’m going back upstairs to get a list of everybody associated with the foundation. I appreciate what you’ve done for us. Is there anything else, anything at all, that you can tell me that will help focus our search? Help us save lives?” He stopped walking behind Greg’s parked car.

  Greg turned to him, his hand still kneading the black fabric in the centre of his chest. He looked like maybe he regretted what he’d shared already. No way to help him with that. He would get over it if they caught the killer and saved some lives. He was about to say something when Inspector MacIntosh walked around from behind the cement box housing the elevator shaft. He wore a red musical ride sweatshirt over blue jeans. The tan leather briefcase he carried looked out of place with the casual outfit. A nod to the white shirt, even in street clothes.

  “Good evening, Father Neville, Constable.” He stopped halfway between the door and the space where Blair and Father Greg stood.

  “Inspector. Working on a Saturday evening?” Greg asked.

  “Case like this, no one gets a break until we catch the killer. Isn’t that right, Constable Christmas?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You headed home before our briefing?” The question sounded like a scolding.

  “No, sir, just walking Father Neville out. I’ll be right up. Cam and Sergeant Cage are upstairs now.”

  “Good, good. We’re going to have to chat about last night, as well. You should never have been at that bar, but you were, and that means he should have been with you. See you up there. Good evening, Father.” He moved to the glass door.

  Blair pulled his Blackberry from his pocket and pushed the C on the tiny keypad. He lifted the phone to his ear to wait for Cam to pick up. Might as well warn him. He noticed a blacked-out Caddy with low-profile tires and trick rims rolling through the parking spaces behind Greg. It seemed odd. The driver was cutting across the parking grid, not heading for the exit. He lifted the phone to his ear as he noticed the passenger, a kid wearing a balaclava. That was strange. He looked past the kid to the driver and dropped the phone. Big man, big balaclava.

  “Father, get down.” He grabbed for the priest with his left hand as he drove his right under his jacket for his gun. A lone finger of flame reached out from the passenger side of the Caddy, and Father Greg seemed to leap into Blair’s arms. He tried to push the priest down to safety as he struggled to pull the gun out from between them, fighting back the pain from his ribs as he moved. He stumbled backward and down with Father Greg tangled in his arms. He felt a strange vibration. The priest was shaking violently in some kind of seizure. His gun finally cleared, and Blair aimed at the SUV looming above them. He squeezed the trigger four times, fast. He couldn’t tell if his aim was true. The gun was slippery, hard to hold. It was taking on a life of its own. He watched it rise higher as he squeezed one more time. The light suspended above erupted in sparks and flying glass. Then blackness. Blair wondered why all of the lights had gone out. He’d only shot one. In the darkness he saw Sue, her beautiful smile. Why was she here? He noticed his ribs were okay, no more pain. Father Greg started vibrating again.

  Williams spotted the two cops as the Escalade cleared the entry to the elevators. Too bad Neville had his back to him again. He’d like to see the expression on his face when the lights went out. He locked eyes with Blair Christmas and saw the Indian drop his cellphone. That’s right, fucker, it’s your time. At least one of them saw it coming. He shoved the 10 through the opening and let loose. He could see the back of Neville’s black shirt billowing as the bullets found the target. He let the pistol ride up as the magazine fed the cylinder more lead, needed to clear Neville to nail Christmas. Head shot was all he had.

  Shit. The two men fell in a heap on the cement. He pulled on the front strap to bring the barrel of the 10 down into them, but it was fighting him, still pulling up and away with a life force of its own. It went dry before he made the kill shots. He pulled it in and grabbed the final clip, made the switch, and went back to the window. His balaclava shifted as he tried to find the targets again.

  “Stop the fucking truck, Phil. Give me a second here.”

  He jerked the balaclava back into place, and reached out to steady the gun on the lower frame of the window opening. He glanced over the sight to see the two men on the cement floor. They were still, blood spreading around them. Good sign. The sudden flash he saw was not such a good sign. It came from the left side of the blood-soaked black shirt. Christmas wasn’t dead yet, and the bastard had his gun in play.

  “All right, motherfucker, let’s dance.” A full-on gunfight now. Yeah, baby. “The cowboys are here. Time for you to die, Indian.”

  Williams wasn’t sure if the high-pitched screams were coming from him, or if Phil was into it now. Couldn’t be Phil. He poured more lead into Neville’s back, trying to chew his way through to Christmas underneath. The mirror outside his window exploded and fragments of glass and metal sprayed his face. He tried to cover his eyes with his left hand as he kept the trigger pulled with his right. He couldn’t keep the gun down with just one hand. It rode high and right again, shattering the doors at the entrance to the elevators, taking out a row of fluorescent tubes too. His balaclava shifted again. He pulled it back in place just as the magazine emptied. The thing went through thirty-two shells pretty goddamned fast. He watched Christmas squeeze off a harmless round into the ceiling before his gun dropped from his hand and his arm fell to the floor above his head. Bingo.

  “Go, Phil! Go. Go. Go.”

  He tossed the empty MAC-10 on top of the kit bag. The barrel melted the vinyl. The sour smell of burning plastic mixed with the sweet smell of burned gunpowder filling the Escalade. He pushed the window button to raise the tinted glass back into place. He wanted to pull the oversized balaclava from his head, but not until he was hidden. The window rose up and disintegrated into tiny fragments as it cleared the door. Christmas must have put a hole through the door. Jimmy looked down, felt his legs and his side. Nothing. Shit, too close. His head banged into the shifter as he toppled left in the seat. The sound of screeching tires replaced the hissing of the machine gun’s suppressor as Phil pulled a hard right turn and shot up and out of the garage. Williams fought with the fucking balaclava and struggled to regain his balance and sit up.

  Chapter 15

  I sat at my desk, trying to look busy, while Carla worked the security disc. She rolled her eyes as Bon Jovi erupted from my cell. I punched answer.

  “Hey, partner.” Blair wasn’t there. The line was dead. Pocket dial, great.

  I smiled at Carla and shrugged as I put the phone back in my pocket. A panicked voice came from the police radio near the window. It was Inspector MacIntosh, and he was in trouble. I heard gunfire.

  “Officer down, repeat, officer down. It’s Constable Christmas. We are taking fire in the parking garage beneath the Sunnyside Mall. A civilian’s been hit. Send backup. Now.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Blair was down, taking fire? How could that be? The civilian had to be Greg. Please, God, no. I had no gun. I pushed my way into the hall anyway. Carla was beside me.

  “Was that real? It sounded like MacIntosh.”

  “It was. We have to get to the garage. Blair’s in a gunfight down there.” I looked at the LED display above the elevators. Both were on the ground floor.
I ran for the stairs. I didn’t know if Carla was behind me. I didn’t care.

  I slammed into the wall on every landing as the stairway reversed direction. I fought to keep the adrenaline down. I cursed myself for not going home to grab my gun after the memorial ride. I shouldered the wall one last time as I hit the bottom. I was jumping into a gunfight with no gun. I knew it was the wrong move, maybe a suicide move. I knew I couldn’t stop as I kicked the push bar on the door and rolled low into the vestibule at the bottom of the elevator tower. There was glass everywhere as I crawled toward the shattered doorway. I could see Blair and Greg and blood just beyond the opening. So much blood. Too much blood. I could taste copper and smell gunpowder. The bloody buffet of battle so familiar yet so out of place here. I saw two heads, two sets of shoulders, no movement. Greg on top of Blair, blood pooling around them. I saw another body, another place. Explosions, jets over head, black smoke. I shook my head, willing the ghosts away.

  “Neville, back away from the door and take cover by the wall.” I rolled away from the entry to the wall, saw Inspector MacIntosh hiding in an open elevator, his gun drawn, a police radio in his other hand. “Wait,” he said. “I’ve called it in. Cars are on the way.”

  I looked at him. His briefcase was open on the floor, papers spilled from the elevator into the small lobby. He must have opened it to get the gun. His Blackberry was there. I saw a second cell. A small black phone, a cheap burner. I didn’t see another weapon, and I needed one. He was frozen. I’d seen it in battle before.

  “Give me the gun,” I said. “I’ll clear the garage; you help them.”