by Tracy Clark
I scanned the bay again without looking like I was doing it.
I stared at the van. White. Like the one Dee Dee’s friend remembered, the one Lillian Gibson recalled being loud, the one that had spooked Dee Dee and Cesar at Christmas. Driven by her overprotective stepfather, the one who’d kept her a virtual prisoner, George Cummings.
He caught me looking. “You got a thing for vans?”
“Not particularly.”
Fleece grinned. He was in no rush. Who would think to look for him here? Or for me? I furtively surveyed the bay. There wasn’t much to it. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. Oil spots. Along the walls, hip-high work benches and storage shelves stacked with electrical wire in a variety of lengths and diameters, metal pipes (like the one I’d had before pushing it away outside the fence), and pipe connectors, things I’d normally designate as doohickeys. “So you’re his henchman?”
He cocked a finger at me. “Hey, I like that. Yeah, I’m the henchman.”
“You killed Yancy, Father Ray, and Cesar Luna?”
“You ask too many questions.” He slowly pulled his gun out of his pocket and aimed it at me. It was a cheap automatic, nothing special about it. You could buy one on any street corner anytime of the day or night. “Banger was sniffing around the man’s kid. Man didn’t like it. The priest thought it was just fine by him. Man didn’t like that either. It was personal for the boss, just a job for me.”
I moved my hand toward the pocket with my gun in it, but didn’t get far.
“Nu-uh. Slide it. Left-handed.”
“I could be left-handed,” I said.
“Don’t matter.” He motioned with his gun. “Slide.”
I did as he instructed, wincing as I slid a perfectly good gun across the floor to him. Keeping his eyes on me, he moved to pick it up, faltering just a fraction of a second. Was it a lingering effect of our tussle in the stairwell? I didn’t care. It was all I needed. I took off, flinging myself over the hood of the cooling Cutlass, smacking down onto the concrete on the other side. I hit the ground moving and duckwalked fast around the back of the van. I made it to the door and tried the knob. The door was locked.
In frustration, I pounded the door with my fist and was surprised at how flimsy it was. Now why invest in padlocks and monster chains and then hang crappy plywood on your hinges? Where was the logic?
“You tired of fooling around yet?” Fleece wanted to know from the other side of the room. He wasn’t even bothering to follow. That’s how cocky he was.
“I’ll let you know when I’m tired of fooling around.”
I crawled back over to the van and popped off its front hubcap. It was light in my hands. When did they stop making hubcaps out of heavy metal? Used to be, you kicked a cap, you risked breaking a toe. This cheap piece of plastic was an offense to the American auto industry.
“Don’t know where you think you’re going,” Fleece said. “Door’s locked. I checked this whole place out.”
“Since we’ve got some time,” I said, looking around for something heavier than plastic. “The cops are looking for you. They’ve got you on surveillance footage from the hospital. They’re looking for Cummings, too, so the van and Cutlass are nonstarters as getaway vehicles. Needless to say, you won’t get far on foot.”
“I’ll use your car. Keys are in your pocket, right?”
“I don’t like strangers driving my car.” I sneered at the hubcap, not at all satisfied with it as a weapon, but what choice did I have? “I have the driver’s seat set just right, the mirror at just the right angle.”
“Trust me, you’ll be beyond giving a shit.”
I took a quick bead and slung the hubcap, Frisbee-style, toward the bay door windows. The cap had a fat chance of shattering the glass, but the clatter the discus made startled Fleece enough that he was momentarily distracted. That’s when I hit the flimsy door with all the force a desperate body could muster, popping it open with all the punch of a child’s jack-in-the-box. Night air smacked me in the face as I tumbled out into the yard, scrambled to my feet, and took off in an all-out run, praising cheap building materials and giving thanks for overconfident henchmen.
It didn’t take long for the chase to start. I could hear Fleece behind me. It wouldn’t be long before he caught up. Of course, he now had two guns, his and mine. If he really thought about it, he’d discover that he didn’t have to run after me at all, just aim and fire, but I tried not to think about that. I kept running, making a beeline for the hole.
A shot rang out and a bullet whizzed past my ear. Dammit, I was tired of getting shot at. I checked myself for pain. Nope. No pain, except for the pain I brought in with me. Guess he missed. I kept running. Almost to the fence now. Another shot and the sound of big feet coming up behind me. Still no pain. Hot damn. I was on a veritable roll. I touched the fence, slid my hand through the gap, then turned back to see how much time I had, discovering I had little to none. Fleece was just a few seconds off me. I knelt down. He rushed up. And when he got within range, I swung the pipe upward, beaning him hard along the side of his head. He was out before he hit the ground, the two guns skittering and spinning away from him like empty bottles in a kids’ kissing game.
“That’s right!” I said, taunting him, pumped up on adrenaline. I grabbed up my gun and kicked his far away from him. “Henchman, my ass.”
I rolled him over and checked his pockets, flicking a cautious look behind me for clueless hospital guards. The wallet was empty, except for his ID. His name was Amon Jarvis. It was a dumb name. Who looks down at a cute little newborn and comes up with a name like Amon? I tossed the ID and the wallet down beside him. I had all I needed. I scrambled out of the fence hole and ran for my car. I called 911 so Amon wouldn’t die before a jury sent him to prison, then I called Ben to tell him where he could find him. One down. One to go.
* * *
Ben didn’t show up alone, of course; he came with Weber and a whole bunch of other cops. Amon was still out, which was just fine by me. He didn’t look nearly as lethal out cold as he did while awake. Before long, there were a ton of cops crawling like ants all over Cummings’s property, every last one of them eager to hear what happened to poor old Amon.
“That’s the guy I chased out of Yancy’s room.”
Ben stared at me. He didn’t look happy. He checked his watch. “I talked to you not an hour ago. Thought I said sit tight.”
“I’ve just identified a murderer and presented him to you on a silver platter. Do you really want to quibble over tiny details?”
He bristled.
Weber jumped in. “So why were you two in Cummings’s place?”
I took a moment. “Amon Jarvis is doing Cummings’s dirty work. He was hiding out inside. You’ll have to ask him why.”
“And, again, how’d he get knocked out?” Weber pressed. He looked slightly amused, which, I could tell, wasn’t sitting well with Ben.
“He fell,” I said. It was absolutely true. I bashed him and he fell. He fell like a frigging tree.
Ben rolled his eyes. “How?”
“Pretty impressively, as a matter of fact. You should have seen it.”
Neither one of them thought that was funny.
The questions continued long after the paramedics bundled Amon up and sped him off. Same questions asked by different detectives, each testing for inconsistencies. I told it backward and forward the same each time—excluding only the picklocks, the gloves, the peeling back of the fence, the pipe, and the chewing gum. I didn’t need to draw them the whole picture. They saw the padlocks. I blamed the hubcap fling and the busted door on Amon. That’s what he got for trying to kill me. Twice.
“But you still haven’t explained why you’re here and how you got in,” Weber asked. I refused to look at Ben, but I could feel his steely gaze searing into the side of my head.
“I told you all the important things. Jarvis killed Yancy. He tried to kill me. He admits working for Cummings. He’s who you should be looking for.�
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“You broke into the man’s place,” Ben said. “You knocked him out with that dumb pipe you keep in your trunk.”
I scoffed. Dumb pipe? That pipe saved my bacon. “How do you know what I keep in my trunk?” Ben pulled at his hair, turned around in circles.
“Did you know the guy was there?” Weber asked. I looked from one to the other. If Ben kept his dance up for too much longer he’d summon rain. I shook my head.
Ben stopped, faced me. “So, you went in there blind with no backup?”
“I repeat. I just caught a killer. Can we please just focus on the endgame here?”
“Sounds like he almost caught you,” Weber said.
I zipped up my jacket. “Almost doesn’t count. We’ve got to find Cummings. Our advantage is he doesn’t know we’ve got Amon. He might still think he can pull this off, if he gets me out of the way. He doesn’t like loose ends, according to Yancy, so he’ll try to tie it all up. Or would you rather I just sit tight and wait for him to make his play, test the fates?”
Ben placed his arms akimbo. “How the hell do you know all of this?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter how. I know, now you know, so let’s do something about it.”
“No,” Ben said. “Go home.” I opened my mouth to protest. “Go home or go to jail.”
“I’m supposed to just hang around at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for a phone call?”
Ben said, “Do you have a star?” I pulled a face. The question was obviously rhetorical. “Then the answer is yes. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. We have been doing our jobs, just so you know. We ID’d this guy an hour ago from surveillance footage at the hospital. He lives in a halfway house not far from here. Career perp, in and out of prison like they had a turnstile at the door. We even reached out to his parole officer. This Jarvis is, supposedly, enrolled in some post-prison mentoring program meant to ease the transition from prison to outside life. I guess we know how well that turned out for him.”
“George Cummings volunteers all over the place,” I said. “That’s the link. Amon’s an admitted murderer and a psychopath, and I want in.”
“You’re out,” Ben said. “Good and out. One bullet’s enough for one lifetime, wouldn’t you say? Call it tough love. Call it whatever you want, but hit the bricks . . . or cool your heels in a box. Up to you.”
I got in my car, started it, and drove away.
I knew the unit would sit on Cummings’s place in case he came back. He was a murder suspect now. He had to know there was no place he could hide, I thought. All of this, all this time, hadn’t been about a break-in or a stolen Bible; it hadn’t been about a racist janitor pilfering copper gutters from the church. It had been personal, close, evil. It had been about George Cummings, his grip on the necks of his wife and stepdaughter, his control over every aspect of their lives—what they wore, where they went, who they talked to. It was about one man’s obsession, a futile grasp for the perfect family that had been threatened by the influence of Cesar Luna. Had Cummings tried to warn Cesar off, and he wouldn’t go? Was what happened at the church a feeble attempt toward that end?
This is what Pop somehow got in the middle of; Jarvis said he interfered with the man’s family, but that still didn’t explain why he had to die. Was Cummings unhinged enough to misjudge help for interference? Was he that far gone? Didn’t matter. The police had Amon. It was only a matter of time before they had Cummings, too.
It was well after midnight when I slipped my key into my door. I felt light somehow, as though a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The lights were out. I tiptoed past my guest room, not wanting to wake Barb, but noticed that the door to her room was partway open. I flicked on the light, peeked inside. The bed was empty, still made. Her stuff was still here, her knapsack, the dust-caked hiking boots she’d worn halfway around the world. Where was she? Had she gone home to her Mom’s? I slid my phone out of my pocket, hoping she’d left me a voicemail or text telling me where she’d be. The tiny blue light flashing told me I’d missed some calls while Amon Jarvis was chasing me around in the dark. I punched up the last message.
“Yeah, it’s me.” It was Barb. “And my twentieth call. Anyway—again—George Cummings called. He says he remembered something that could be important. We’re headed over to the church now. Follow us. Call me. Bye.”
I checked the time stamp. It had been three hours since Barb had left the call for me. I doubled over, feeling as though someone had just kicked me in the gut. George Cummings. The church. She said we. Who was “we”? I redialed, my hands shaking. Somewhere along the way I forgot to breathe. The phone rang and rang, then someone picked up.
“Took you long enough.” It was Cummings.
A ferocious rage that frightened even me bubbled up, blurring my vision, setting my skin on fire. “Listen to me, you murdering son of a bitch!”
“No, you listen.” His voice was calm, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. “You just wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t stop. You’re just like him, sticking your nose into other peoples’ business.”
I slid down the wall to the floor, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. “The cops have Amon. It’s over. Whatever you do from this point, you’ll have to do on your own. Are you up for that?”
He paused. Was he reconsidering? God, I hoped he was. Up to now, as far as I knew, Amon had been the one to get his hands bloody. Was Cummings prepared to go it alone?
“Who’s there with you? I want to talk to Barb. Now.”
There was a long pause. “I’m up for it.” The four words, delivered without feeling, sent a shiver down my spine. No feeling, no humanity. I was in trouble.
The flutter in my throat felt like I’d swallowed a nest of butterflies. “Put someone on the phone right now, George, or I swear . . .” I stopped when he began to laugh uncontrollably, and I wondered if he’d suffered some kind of psychotic break.
“No police, just you. You’re the last. Ten minutes.”
The line went dead.
I shot up from the floor, snatched up my keys, and raced out of my apartment. Ten minutes. My tires squealed as I tore away from the curb. I ignored the stop sign at the corner and all the other stops and traffic signals along the way, tracking the time on the dashboard clock, sweating as time slipped away from me with blocks yet to go.
I’d been right. Cummings wasn’t done killing. I was the last, but he couldn’t get me without taking my friends first. It’s what I feared would happen, that I’d put the ones I cared about in danger; now here it was. Who had he taken besides Barb? She’d said we. Whip? Mrs. Vincent? Why hadn’t I checked to see if she had been in her apartment? I slammed a fist against the steering wheel and pressed my foot to the gas, my mind disordered by fear. I took the final corner on two wheels and dovetailed the car into a spot in front of the church with just seconds to spare. I ran for the front steps, slipping my cellphone back into my pocket. For a moment, I hovered at the door, my hands unsteady on the handles. I stood there, just for a moment, just to breathe, then pulled the doors free and walked calmly inside.
There was just enough light emanating from the gothic sconces running along the stone walls to cast an eerie pale over the altar table, the far ends of the wooden pews, and along the side aisles, but not nearly enough to do anything for the transepts. A glance there was like staring into a black hole. I dipped a finger in the font of holy water, mostly ritual, but at this point I needed all the help I could get. I coaxed myself forward, moving up the nave toward the rose window, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness.
An alabaster sculpture of the crucified Christ hung over the altar watching my progress; the thick scents of candle wax, incense, and wood polish mingled. This was Pop’s church, and he was proud of it, proud of the beautiful mosaics, the gilded altarpiece, the statues of the twelve stoic disciples painstakingly chiseled in pink marble, proud of the people who called this church their spiritual home. He hadn’t counted on Ge
orge Cummings. As I walked, I slowly swept my eyes over the empty pews. Where was Barb? Where was Cummings? Who else did I need to worry about?
“Put your hands up.” Cummings’s strident voice bounced off the stained glass like an echo whipping around a deep canyon. I stopped cold, slowly raised my hands in surrender. “Keep coming. Join us.”
I started again, but stopped again, startled, when the overhead lights suddenly came on and bathed the church in light. I could now see that Barb was sitting in the first pew, along with my father. I pulled up short, confused for a time. How’d he end up here with Barb? Both of them turned to watch me approach, both looked worried. I knew Cummings had to be at the light switch just inside the vestry door, so I waited for him to step out where I could see him. When he did, he slowly made his way toward the altar, a gun in his hand. My heart sank. I’d hoped we could end this easily; the gun dashed that hope. I started walking again, heading for the first pew. Cummings smiled, his eyes holding mine. He looked rock-solid, not the least bit jittery. When I made it all the way up the center aisle, inches from Barb and my father, I stopped.
“Sit,” Cummings said. “With them.”
I stared at the gun. It was a cheap throwaway, like Amon’s. They must have gotten a group discount. Maybe he had seven rounds, maybe more. Whatever the number, he had more than what he’d need. “You took Father Heaton’s keys,” I said. “That was a mistake.”
The church’s back door had been jimmied the night of the murders to make Cesar’s presence look like a break-in. It had been a ruse, a fake.
He grinned. “Amon’s mistake. He was going to plant them on that homeless bum when he found him, but he got the wrong one.”
“That homeless bum had a name,” I said. “It was Yancy Gantt. He was here when you murdered Father Heaton and Cesar Luna. He saw you.”
Cummings smirked. “How was I supposed to know he was sleeping in a pew? He ran out from the back there screaming about wolves. I almost had him, but he got away from me.” He angled his head. “I tried to find him. I looked all over the neighborhood. In the end, I figured no one would believe him anyway. He was touched in the head.... I said sit.”
