The 7th Canon

by Robert Dugoni

  “I didn’t do anything, Connor. I didn’t even know your father.”

  Connor sat back. “Lawyers and politicians love to talk about the public welfare, but they don’t give a shit about public welfare. It’s about money. Everything is about how much cash everyone can stuff in his pockets. You don’t give a shit about the consequences so long as you get your money.”

  Connor leaned forward again. His breath brushed against Donley’s ear, the same bitter, acidic odor Donley had smelled so many times when his father came into his room, belt in hand.

  “It used to be survival of the fittest. Nature’s way, just like the animals. You fought for what you got, and whoever fought the hardest got the most. You got a job and a promotion because you earned it. What went wrong is this country lost sight of the natural order. We’re no longer Americans. We’re Mexicans and Latinos, blacks and Chinese, and a thousand other things. Men want to be women, and women want to be men. And everybody wants to be treated special. Everybody is entitled to something. You don’t earn anything anymore. You just whine about something long enough, and the politicians hand it to you. If you don’t like what you get, you hire a lawyer, and he sues to get you more. Well, I’m getting what my old man should’ve got, what he was entitled to, and what I’m entitled to. And I’m getting justice in the process.”

  He pulled the key from the ignition between the seats and grabbed the tape and the Bible, putting them in his jacket. “Get out.”

  Donley took a breath, the pain making him disoriented. This would be his one chance. He needed to pull it together. He pushed open the door, swung his legs out, and stood, though he felt off-balance.

  Connor motioned to him with the gun. “Step away from the car, and turn around. Don’t even think about running. I’ll shoot you in the back.”

  Donley took two steps, fighting to focus. He felt dizzy. When he heard Connor push the seat forward and get out of the car, Donley leaped. His left leg swept in an arc head high, but he was too far away. Connor leaned back, and Donley’s foot shot past him. He landed on his left leg, raised his right leg, and kicked out, his foot uncoiling, but Connor had stepped to the side, and Donley had lost the moment of surprise. Connor grabbed the leg and yanked it toward him, pulling Donley off-balance. He fell backward, landing hard, his head slamming against the ground.

  Connor held Donley’s leg in the air, one foot pressed against Donley’s cheek, grinding his face into the dirt.

  “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Still, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t at least tried.” Connor removed his foot and dropped Donley’s leg. “Get up.”

  Donley got to his knees, panting from the exertion and the searing pain in his ear. He stumbled trying to get to his feet. His eyes searched the ground, but he did not see anything he could use as a weapon. Connor kicked him hard in the face, knocking him onto his back. Blood streamed from his lip and nose, filling his mouth with a metallic taste.

  “I said get up.”

  Donley stumbled to his hands and knees and slowly stood.

  “Turn around.”

  He complied. Connor pushed him toward the chain-link fence. Donley bent under a locked chain and squeezed between the gates. Connor followed. He directed Donley to walk down an aisle of flattened cars stacked two stories high. Rusted car parts littered the ground. The air smelled like petroleum.

  “Stop,” Connor said. “Well, what do you know?” Connor motioned to a stripped-down Chevy Impala. “Looks just like the one I used to drive. Must be fate. You can’t say I didn’t pick a proper final resting place. Open the trunk, and try it on for size, Counselor.”

  Donley faced Connor. “No. I’m not making this that easy for you, Connor. If you’re going to kill me, do it here while I’m looking at you. I’m not some young kid you can bully.”

  Connor smiled. “Why is it at the moment when it matters least, everyone becomes so brave?” He shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said, and aimed the gun.

  Frank Ross lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Julia rested her head on his shoulder, rubbing her hand through the hairs on his chest.

  “Frank,” she said in that soft voice.

  Ross closed his eyes. She wanted another child. He knew it. She wasn’t getting any younger. Neither was he, but her biological clock was ticking. He also knew it wasn’t fair to her. She’d stuck by him through his drinking, the car accident, and the year it took to get back some semblance of a life. She had ignored her own pain and suffering to help him, and he had been too self-absorbed to see that she was hurting, too. But now, he felt different, accepting that Frankie was in a better place. It was time to care for her again.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “you know, about what you said in the kitchen, about there being so many kids out there who need a good home, good parents.”

  His chest rose, shuddered, and fell.

  “I know it’s hard for you to think about, and I’m not trying to replace Frankie. I just want us to have a family, to be a family again. You’re a good dad. You’re a good father. So many kids out there need a good father like you.”

  He shifted so he could see her face. “What are you saying?”

  “We could adopt, Frank. We could help some of those kids out there who are lost. We could give them a better life, a chance.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He thought of his conversation with Peter Donley about children with bad fathers; not necessarily fathers that abused them, but fathers who ignored them, didn’t spend time with them, didn’t offer them all of the things that a good father could offer and teach. Ross had been a good father. He had so much to offer.

  He kissed the top of her head. The moisture from her cheek dampened his chest. “What did I do to deserve someone as good as you?” he asked.

  “Will you at least think about it, Frank?”

  He already had.

  The telephone rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” his wife said with a trace of humor.

  Ross reached over his head and blindly lifted the receiver, thinking it might be Sam Goldman, or Donley. “Hello?”

  “Frank? It’s Lieutenant Aileen O’Malley.”

  Ross sat up.

  His wife rolled to the side. “Who is it?”

  Ross mouthed, “O’Malley.”

  “Aileen?” Julia said.

  “Frank, I’m sorry to call so late. I’m sure I’m not a voice you expected to hear.”

  She might have been the last voice he expected to hear. “Can’t say I did.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But I got a kid down here telling one hell of a story, and I think you’ll want to hear it.”

  “Come again?”

  “He has your card in his pocket, and he says you gave it to him.”

  Ross swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Red-haired kid?”

  “He says Peter Donley dropped him off here and told the officers the kid had a story to tell me.”

  “Dropped him off?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ross got a bad feeling. “Donley isn’t with him?”

  “No. The kid said Donley told him not to be afraid anymore, to just tell the officers the truth and we’d keep him safe.”

  “Did he say where Donley went?”

  “That’s what concerns me. The kid said this had to do with Dixon Connor and that Peter Donley said he was going to take care of the problem. Do you know what the hell he’s talking about Frank? Frank?”

  “I’m here, Aileen.”

  “Do you know what he meant?”

  Ross did. “Aileen, I’m going to need your help. I’m going to need some black-and-whites to meet me at Dixon Connor’s house in the Sunset and do what I tell them. Can you do that, for old time’s sake? There might be a life at stake.”

  Donley heard the growl before the thick, dark shape materialized, darting from the shadows between the canyon of gutted car frames.

  Connor, too, turned at the sound, but the R
ottweiler had already closed the distance. Its paws impacted Connor’s chest with the full force of its weight and momentum, knocking him off his feet. The big gun exploded, off target, echoing like a cannon blast. Connor rolled, but the Rottweiler had seized the arm holding the gun, locking its teeth into flesh, shaking its head.

  Connor howled, a horrific cry of pain.

  Donley backed away, uncertain what he had just witnessed, what he was continuing to witness. Then the inner voice of instinct shouted.

  Run!

  The videotape and Bible lay on the ground, having fallen from Connor’s pocket. Donley grabbed both, turned, and ran. He ducked his way through the maze of gutted car frames, searching for a way out. The holes where the car headlights had once been followed him like hollow eye sockets, the front grills menacing grins. He ran blindly, uncertain of his direction or his path.

  Behind him, the dog growled, and he heard Connor yell again in anguish.

  Donley chose another row. Circles. He was running in circles. He turned yet again and skidded to a stop at the base of the cyclone fence.

  Dead end.

  He started back in the direction he had come but stopped when he heard the same guttural growl from somewhere in the dark. It came out of the darkness and shadows.

  A second dog.

  The impact knocked Connor backward, as if he’d been hit by a train. His legs came out from under him, and when he hit the ground, a sharp pain exploded at the small of his back, followed by an intense heat and electric jolt. It felt like the time he’d been shot.

  Something had embedded deep in his flesh, but Connor was in no position to try and dislodge whatever had impaled him. The dog had bit down with such force, Connor thought the bones in his arm would snap. Blood saturated the sleeve of his sport coat. He feared the taste would send the dog into a primal frenzy.

  Connor had spent eight years with the canine unit, and through his pain and shock, he still could recognize that the dog was well trained, attacking and immobilizing the arm holding the weapon. The junkyard was clearly no longer abandoned. The dog would not let go. There was no one to call it off. Still, as long as the dog had its jaws clamped around Connor’s arm, it could not go for his throat, and that gave Connor a chance. The problem was, with the dog’s jaws immobilizing Connor’s arm, he could not use the gun to kill it.

  He felt the strength in his grip waning and rotated his body to kick at the animal, but the dog dragged him in a circle, causing the sharp object to embed deeper into Connor’s flesh, the pain now searing.

  Connor squeezed the trigger, hoping the sound might scare the animal, but it had no effect. The dog maintained its grip. Connor rolled onto his right side and reached behind him with his left hand, feeling something cylindrical protruding from his back. It was his only chance. He gripped it, took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and yanked the shiv free, swallowing the pain. He flipped his legs around the dog’s thick body, momentarily straddling it like a bull, raised the jagged metal, and struck.

  The second Rottweiler stepped from the shadows. As big as the one chewing on Connor’s arm, the dog thrust out its front paws, lowered its head, and bared its teeth, daring Donley to get past it.

  Donley heard an anguished cry of pain. So did the dog. Its ears perked and it turned its head, but only momentarily. It returned its attention to Donley, inching closer.

  Donley looked over his shoulder at the fence. He could climb it, but not as fast as the dog would attack. He thought of Kim and what she had taught him for so many years about finding an inner peace even during moments of chaos. He just didn’t know if he had the courage to do it, but he also knew he had no choice.

  With no other option, he slowly dropped to a knee. The dog lurched forward, digging its front paws into the dirt, barking and growling. Donley paused, then, slowly, he lowered to his other knee. He kept his eyes down, each movement slow and deliberate.

  “Easy, boy. Easy now,” he whispered.

  The dog made another false charge.

  Donley fought not to panic. He fought his instinct to get up and run. Instead, he willed himself to lower his body onto the ground.

  The dog bared its teeth and made another charge, but this time Donley sensed it did so because it was confused. Donley slowly brought his knees to his chest and cradled his face in his arms, assuming a fetal position, trying to slip into that place of tranquility. He could hear the chain around the dog’s neck rattling and the low growl as it circled. Dog breath warmed the side of Donley’s face. He did not dare move. The dog gripped his forearm with its jaws and pulled, but it did not bite down. The leather jacket offered some protection, but Donley could still feel the power in the dog’s jaws. Strong as a bull, the animal dragged Donley’s body inches along the ground.

  When Donley did not resist, the dog dropped his arm. Then it sniffed at Donley’s face, moving closer to his bloodied ear.

  Frank Ross slowed at an intersection to allow a car to pass, then gunned the Cadillac through the red light. Dixon Connor lived in the Sunset District near the ocean. It was Connor’s parents’ house, less than five miles from Frank Ross’s home. Ross remembered thinking it was too close. Now, he wished it were closer.

  Red was in a conference room in homicide talking about Connor and videotapes, and generally confusing the hell out of Lieutenant Aileen O’Malley and Detective John Begley.

  Before leaving the house, Ross had called Kim Donley, but she said Peter wasn’t home, that he’d eaten dinner and said he had to go back to the office to work on his motion to exclude the evidence. He gave her his car-phone number and asked her to call him back when she’d heard from her husband. Kim Donley called Ross back five minutes later and said she’d called the office but no one had answered. Now stricken with worry, she said she’d asked Danny Simeon if he knew where Peter had gone. Simeon had told her Peter had said he was going to find a red-haired kid who’d stayed at the shelter, but he had no idea where else Donley would have gone. Frank Ross did.

  Peter Donley was going after the evidence. Donley had told him as much. He’d said, to win, he had to find Andrew Bennet’s killer. Now he had.

  Headlights appeared to his right. Ross slammed on the brakes, sending the Cadillac into a skid on the fog-slickened pavement. He turned the wheel hard against the spin, correcting. A horn blared. He punched the accelerator. The back end fishtailed, but he avoided the oncoming vehicle. His heart raced, and for a brief moment he’d flashed back to that morning when he’d hit the minivan, but he dismissed it. He needed to focus. Connor was a trained cop, a good one, and one mean, strong son of a bitch. He would think nothing of blowing a hole in Peter Donley if he found him in his house.

  Ross skidded the Cadillac to a stop at the curb. Within seconds, the patrol cars Aileen O’Malley had sent pulled up behind him. Ross jumped from the car, slapping a clip into his SIG. He quickly apprised the uniformed officers of the situation and said Connor would be armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Beyond that, he had no idea what they would find inside.

  He approached Dixon Connor’s house in a thick blanket of fog, using arm and hand signals to tell the officers to fan out. Two went down the side of the house. Two went to the front door. Ross touched the hood of the SUV in the driveway. It was cold. He pressed his back against the stucco exterior and looked inside the windows. A television glowed. He went down the side of the house to a gate and peered over the top into an overgrown back yard. He unlatched the gate and went in, the officers following. As Ross approached the back door, he noticed that the staircase handrail was broken, the railing lying in the tall grass. He stepped on something hard, bent down, and picked up a police service revolver. He knew Connor’s preferred weapon was a .44 Magnum. This was not it.

  He stuffed the revolver in his pants, held the SIG in front of him, and stepped onto the porch, feeling the wood sag. He tried the door handle and found the back door unlocked, which seemed unlike Dixon Connor.

  He nodded to the two officers.
One used a radio to alert the two officers at the front door that they were going in. They entered the house combat-style, low to the ground, aiming left and right. The kitchen was clear. So was the dining room and the living room. Ross turned to the hallway and two closed doors.

  Connor sat with his back pressed against a car frame, the sleeve of his jacket bloodied and torn. He couldn’t be sure of the extent of the damage in the dim moonlight, but he suspected it was bad. He took off his jacket and used the metal shiv to cut strips of cloth, tying two strips tight around his forearm. He could do nothing about the wound in his back, which he sensed was also bad. The dog lay nearby on its side.

  Connor holstered the .44 with his good hand and stumbled to his feet. A searing pain burned down both legs. His shirt stuck to his back. He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Peter Donley was here somewhere, and he had the tape and Bible with the log-in record. Without them, Connor was screwed.

  In pain, he stumbled forward, through the rows of cars.

  The dog circled, sniffing at Donley’s cheek and ear, nudging him with its bony head, growling. Then it stepped back and barked. Donley didn’t move, thinking of those red taillights he used to watch on the Bay Bridge, thinking of himself in one of those cars, leaving. Across the junkyard, a dog yelped, followed by a gunshot. The first dog was dead.

  Connor was coming.

  The chain around the animal’s neck rattled and shook. Donley opened one eye and watched the dog step back, maybe four feet, and turn its head in the direction of the sound. It took two steps down the path, sniffing the air before turning back to Donley and growling, as if to warn him not to move. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the dog darted between the rows of cars. This time, Connor would not be surprised. He would kill the second dog immediately.

  Donley jumped up quickly, stumbled to the fence, and started to climb. Poorly anchored, the fence swayed like unsecured netting, making it difficult for Donley to pull himself up, to find the next toehold. It forced him to climb cautiously, fearful of losing his grip, of falling and having to start over. He put his toe in another link, climbing higher, chain link by chain link. The fence looked a hundred feet tall.