by Dan Stout
“Gellica.” He straightened his cuffs. “I think she’s right.”
“About what?”
“About what?” He stared at me, frozen in mid-jacket adjustment. “About the guy you want to pin this homicide on.”
I twisted my mouth like I’d bit on something sour and pulled into traffic. “Like she said, she’s no cop.”
“Well, I am a cop, and I think she’s right.”
A box truck pulled up in the adjoining lane, its turn signal blinking wildly. I let it slide in ahead of us, taking our place in the slow-motion dance of swearing and sudden braking we called traffic.
“She’s a politician, Jax. She’s got an agenda.”
“Yes, she does. And she told us what it is, then gave us her advice anyway.”
“She seems awfully eager to roll on her people,” I said.
“And you seem awfully hesitant to follow any leads that don’t line up with your assumptions. Or was it just by accident that your friend Talena’s photo wasn’t laid out on the interview table for Lowell and Cordray?”
I didn’t have a rebuttal for such a brazenly true statement. I kept my eyes on the road, but I could feel his stare, judging, trying to figure if I was fighting to uncover the truth or hide it. I chose my words carefully. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to tip my hand, either.
“People get killed for all kinds of reasons,” I said. “But the motive I see the most is greed. Haberdine was a key player in one of the richest land grabs of the last century. We’d be crazy if that’s not the first thing we look into. Even if the politicians don’t like it.” I allowed myself a grin and added, “Especially if the politicians don’t like it.”
I glanced at Ajax. He was nodding slightly, absently tugging his shirt collar away from his speaking mouth. He could hear the truth in what I was saying.
“Besides,” I said, “you’re only taking Gellica’s side ’cause you’re sweet on her.”
He rolled down his window and stuck his arm outside. “Other way around, Carter. She’s sweet on me.”
“Now I know you’re delusional.”
“Am I deluded? Or has my keen investigative mind led me to the realization that you’re jealous of my special connection with the envoy?”
I cracked a grin, despite my better judgment.
“Let’s go find our killer and call it a day, alright?”
“Whatever,” he said. “You just try to convince yourself I’m wrong.”
14
IT ONLY TOOK TWO DAYS for Myris and Hemingway to produce results. Hemingway delivered the news to me personally, dropping the surveillance photo on my desk and not even bothering to hide the smile that said “On a silver platter. Just like I promised.”
The photo showed Flanagan tending to a pair of tibron beetles. He wore the muted colors of the Therreau, his white cotton shirt and tan pants streaked with mud. In the photo his bald head almost gleamed. He’d obviously plucked his face to blend in with the Therreau since Lowell had seen him. But I immediately recognized the hard lines of Flanagan’s nose and brow. It was a face I couldn’t have forgotten if I’d wanted to.
I tapped a blurry shape in the bottom of the picture. A satchel hung on the side of the wagon.
“College, is that what I think it is?”
Jax studied the photo, then whistled. “Shortcuts,” he muttered.
Hemingway interrupted with a snap of her gum. “What is it?”
“That,” he said, “is the emblem of Alargo.” Jax pronounced the name of the Squib nation with a slight gurgle. “For all we know,” he said, “Flanagan took it right off Haberdine’s corpse.”
“So we’re grabbing him?” asked Hemingway. “We gotta be grabbing him, right?”
“An ex-con who’s already gone underground once, was seen with the victim, and has the victim’s clothes?” I looked at Ajax, seated at his desk, and then back to her. “Yeah,” I said. “I think we’ll go get him.”
The three of us practically ran across the Bullpen where we found Kravitz wiping down a chalkboard on the big wall, erasing some of the false leads and tips that flooded the station in the wake of increasing press coverage. He looked at us with bleary eyes when we approached.
While we told him what we wanted, Kravitz gave the eraser a squeeze, releasing a small cloud of chalk dust.
“Fine,” he said. “Bring him in. Call up the Special Response Team.”
Ajax leaned into the conversation. “To get one of their own?”
“He went to jail almost twelve years ago,” I said. “I don’t think he’s got any pen pals on the force.”
Kravitz scratched his chin, leaving ghostly chalk fingerprints in his beard. “You’re arresting one guy on a farm of religious folk. You’ll be fine with some patrolmen.” A pause, then he tried to look me in the eye. He didn’t quite make it. “Carter, you sit this one out.”
“No,” I said, my voice rising. “No, no. I’m going. I’ll be there when the cuffs go on him.”
“You know the drill.” He wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Nothing that puts your photo in the paper.”
I began to snarl out a response, reminding him that it was Flanagan’s fault that I was toxic, but I was interrupted by the strange, percussive sound of Ajax clearing his throat.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “Myris and Hemingway will be there. If anyone needs to talk to the press, we’ll handle it.”
Kravitz hesitated. Ajax said very calmly, “These partnerships weren’t random. You wanted Carter’s brain, and you wanted me to be his babysitter. This is what you got.”
Shaking his head, a scowl barely visible beneath his beard, Kravitz looked ready to speak. I beat him to it, my tone matching Jax’s.
“If you ever felt you owed me anything,” I said, careful not to name the Reynolds case directly, “now would be a good time to show it.”
There was a long pause, then Kravitz relented. “All right,” he said, “just make sure it’s Hemingway or Myris who puts the cuffs on him.”
I nodded my thanks, then took a breath.
“One other thing,” I said. “The Therreau ranch is leased. The land is owned by Rediron.” The Cedrow family had a history of donating money and property to the Therreau community, and the company they owned followed suit.
Kravitz turned and gave the blackboard another halfhearted swipe. “Shit,” he said. “Any Rediron employees on site?”
I looked at Hemingway. Her gum squished as she spoke. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Half a dozen families. They all look Therreau. Each in their own house and farming the land together.”
“Fine.” Kravitz pointed the eraser at me. The tremble in his hand was barely noticeable. “Get in and out quick. Don’t do anything stupid, and get that SOB back here as clean as possible.” He turned and resumed erasing, smearing temporary letters back in on themselves.
* * *
The Therreau ranch sat at the edge of the Borderlands where the thermal vents were sparse and the snow swirled in lazy patterns across the ground. They’d once lived at the foot of the mountain, but progress and rising real estate values had pushed them to the fringes of the habitable zone. A glance over my shoulder and I could still see the fog-wrapped center of business and commerce that nestled against the imposing silhouette of the mountain. The people of the Borderlands were kept separate from the city center by an invisible curtain of wealth as flimsy and tenuous as the fabric that shields first-class passengers from their fellow travelers.
I adjusted the hood of my coat, cinching it tight over my body armor vest as I turned back to the ranch. It was a pretty standard Therreau setup, almost unchanged since they’d splintered off during the Shortage. Refusing to adopt new technology, they still clung to outdated equipment that belonged in museum displays of manna-based equipment. Which made it all the more ironic that it had been a
Therreau family who first struck oil in Titanshade.
The settlement comprised half a dozen residences clustered around one large greenhouse where crops were raised. Most of the buildings were emblazoned with a sideways figure eight along the eaves or over the front door. At the settlement’s edge tibron beetles harnessed to generator cranks walked in endless circles, providing electricity.
The homes were similar in style, simple but skillfully constructed with thick, heavily insulated walls to keep out the creeping cold. Dark smoke rose from chimneys, a sign that coals smoldered in stoves to supplement the geo-vents. Wood was far too expensive in Titanshade to be used for something as fleeting as life-giving heat. Each of the houses held a family, maybe two, passing through simple lives and trying to make ends meet. Flanagan was in the third house on the right, a cancer in the lives of those who’d taken him in.
The walkie at my belt crackled. The other half of the squad was in place. They had coverage duty, watching the other homes and our backside while we went in the front door. One patrolman stayed with the vehicle, ready to radio in for assistance if things went wrong. I looked around at our small team. Checking and rechecking their equipment, they bounced on the balls of their feet and forced smiles that stretched their cheeks and reeked of bravado. They were young cops displaying that blend of fear and excitement that would never quite fade. It was psychological self-defense. You can’t walk into a house knowing you might catch a bullet and not have an adrenaline boost.
I thumbed the walkie’s talk button. “Go.”
We began the sprint toward the house.
Two of the patrolmen carried a battering ram, a stubby metal bar thicker than my thigh with handles running along its side. Once on the porch they swung the ram back, then slammed it home directly above the handle. The door flew off its hinges and the rest of us stormed in, grinding splinters into the carpet as we passed.
From farther in the house someone screamed. Screams of fright rather than aggressive commands, but we were still on edge. Some of us still remembered seeing the victims of Flanagan’s handiwork: Bodies scattering the site of a busted drug deal, product and cash nowhere to be found. Charred corpses, hands and feet still bound with baling wire, gruesome warnings to the rest of his clients to pay their protection dues on time. At the time none of us could have imagined that such cruelty came from another cop. Now we were hunting him again.
Guns held out before us at a low angle, we moved through the front room, then into the kitchen. A Therreau woman in a simple light-blue dress and bonnet stood over a half-formed pie crust, her hands in the air, lashless eyes wide with terror.
“Get down!” one of the patrol barked, and she started to her knees. Another of the patrol pushed her prone and planted a foot on her back to make sure she didn’t move as he patted her down and handcuffed her. Her flour-sprinkled bonnet had slipped off when she was forced down. With all the hair plucked from her head, she looked like a terrified infant. I knew that face would come back to me someday, probably while drinking, but I ignored it for now, the adrenaline and sense of purpose pushing me forward. Ajax whipped around me, scanning corners and securing the next room as we moved forward. I was surprised again by how fast he could move. He cocked his head and we traded spots, ready to push into the hallway.
One of the doors cracked open, probably a bedroom.
A voice called out, “I’m coming out. I’m unarmed.”
Two hands came through, empty with fingers splayed wide. A man’s bald head followed. I recognized Flanagan’s scarred and mashed nose, and for a moment I had a sense of disorientation, remembering him at trial, grinning as the worst of the charges fell away as witnesses failed to show.
The disgraced former cop looked at us, assessing the danger. When he saw me he grimaced. He mouthed one word, a soundless expletive that I read easily enough: “Carter.”
“Police!” I barked. “Down on the ground!”
Flanagan was big, and his deep-set eyes had none of the fear that the Therreau woman had shown.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stared at me as he knelt. “I’m complying. Don’t hurt anyone.”
He was almost prone when another door opened and a figure appeared in the hall. My gun snapped up, leaving the man unguarded while I responded to the new threat. My finger tightened on the trigger.
A boy of fourteen or fifteen stood in the hallway, staring at us with deep brown eyes that were a match for the woman in the kitchen.
“Down! Down! Down!” Someone was yelling behind me.
From the floor Flanagan called out, “He’s a kid!” Then to me, “Don’t do it, Carter. Don’t do this!”
The boy was frozen. His lower lip trembled as he stared at the hallway full of guns pointed in his direction.
I was frozen, a twenty-three-year-old cop with pistol held in trembling hands as I stared at the wild-eyed shooter. An assault rifle strapped across his chest, thick armored boots and thigh straps. He wore a high-impact military helmet and thick gloves protected his hands. Additional weapons were holstered to his side and back. He had only one exposed area: his face. And tied around his neck in a swaddled sling, a screaming, red-faced infant held tight.
“Get on the floor!” The patrolman’s command was frenzied. The lack of control in his voice made my blood run cold and I regretted not having an SRT squad on this run.
I eased my finger pressure and stepped past Flanagan, leaving him at my back. Against protocol, but I kept myself between the boy and the patrol. From the corner of my eye I saw Jax restrain the man we’d come for.
“Suspect secured,” he called. “Hold your fire.”
The kid was halfway out into the hall, only one hand visible. The other could be holding anything from a shotgun to a toothbrush.
From behind me, Flanagan again: “Benny, get down!”
I drew a bead on the shooter, but the wriggling infant was in and out of my shot. The shooter fired again, and I heard a howl from the SRT team as another of their comrades fell.
Revolver in one hand, I held the other out, palm down, and gestured to the ground, like I would a nervous dog.
“Kid, get on the ground. No one’s getting hurt, but I need you on the ground.” I kept my revolver pointed at him and tried not to think about what a .38 slug would do to his head. Please, please, PLEASE, don’t make me do this.
The boy shook, not moving. Keeping my eyes forward, I called out, “Talk to him, Flanagan.”
He responded, “It’s okay, Benny. Do what they say, and they’ll leave you and your mom out of this.” His voice was calm, low, and patient. “Okay, son? Just do what they say.”
For an agonizing second, the kid still hesitated, but finally he went down to one knee, then prone, with his hands out in front of him.
I could hear Flanagan and his men screaming for help. I pulled the trigger. My revolver bucked, the man went down, and the infant stopped crying. It was a solid shot, a one-stopper that killed the shooter on impact. When I made my way to them, I found the shooter on his back, the infant sprawled on his chest, her arms spread wide as if embracing him. I’d almost pulled it off. But the world doesn’t run on “almost.”
I stood over them and stared as innocent blood merged with the shooter’s before draining out, drip by drip toward the ground, toward the oil, and toward the tortured god whose suffering kept us warm and alive. Toward everything that lay hidden beneath the cobblestone streets of Titanshade.
I stepped aside while the patrol secured the remaining rooms. I stared at Flanagan, facedown and handcuffed on the floor, and I wondered who that infant would have grown up to be in the last twenty years. A doctor? A scientist? Maybe just a good person, trying to pay the bills and get by in the world—anyone other than a dirty cop, preying on the very people he was supposed to protect.
Jax put a firm hand on Flanagan’s shoulder. “Is there anyone else here? Tell us now if there
is.”
“Me, the boy, and his mother. No one else.”
The calls from the patrol came from the other rooms, a sequence of “Clear!” as each room was confirmed to be empty.
One of the patrol squad stuck her head in the hallway and gave me a thumbs-up. I holstered my weapon.
“Alright,” I called out. “Sit the bystanders in the living room. Detective Ajax, please read our friend his rights.” I plucked the walkie off my belt and cranked it live.
“Let’s get a tech crew in here. Tell them to go over the whole damn farm. Twice if we have to.” For once, Flanagan wasn’t going to walk away from the lives he’d ruined. For once, all the deaths he’d caused weren’t going to haunt my dreams, pointing at me with accusing fingers.
15
FLANAGAN SAT IN THE SMALL interrogation room, hands cuffed to the security ring mounted in the table before him. His eyes were half closed, but his lips were in constant motion, mouthing the words to a prayer that was audible only in bits and pieces. I could make out just enough to recognize it as the Traveler’s Prayer. I fought the temptation to smack him across the mouth and stop him from reciting the words of a faith that his actions had made a mockery of.
Instead I stood in the corner, hands clasped in front of me, far enough away from Flanagan that I wouldn’t be tempted to shake a confession out of him. I didn’t know who was on the other side of the one-way mirror, but I knew they were watching me just as closely as they watched him.
I focused on Flanagan’s hairless face. The sensitive skin around his brows didn’t have the red, agitated look of freshly plucked hairs. He must have adopted the Therreau’s grooming fashion some time ago. Lowell had said that Flanagan had a full head of hair when he’d seen him only a few weeks ago. Of course, the bald head wouldn’t be much of a disguise when Flanagan’s picture hit the papers.
The media were waiting for us at the Bunker. Some greased palm had resulted in a tip that we were bringing a suspect in, and they’d gone into a frenzy as some of the old newspaper hacks recognized Flanagan. His picture would be splashed all over the newsstands and talking heads shows. I knew my picture would be alongside his. After all, we were forever linked.
