Rip the Angels from Heaven

by David Krugler

  “It occurred to you,” Durkin repeated acidly. “Two months go by, you do nothing, then it occurs to you. Something happened, what?”

  Flash thought: Durkin and Paslett aren’t going to compare notes, Durkin’s too good’a cop to snow, gotta give him something. So, “Two Russians came to see me the night before, asking about Himmel.”

  “You visit regular with the Russians, do you?”

  “That case I was working, it’s still open. My job is to string the Reds along, just like I did at the clipping service. I don’t have to tell you, you gotta keep—”

  He cut me off. “So these Russians, whatever they say, it gets you worrying about Kenny.”

  “Right. I go to the Automat the next day, he hasn’t shown up for his shift, so I go to see his folks next.”

  “This is when you tell Georgette Newhurst you’re William Brady of Horn and Hardart. Why lie?”

  “Instinct. Training. Stupid, I know, I didn’t think about how it would—”

  “What’d you do after you peddled your story to the mother?” Durkin was having none of my excuses. Who could blame him?

  “I went looking for Kenny.”

  “Alone?”

  I nodded.

  “Why didn’t you get your partner?”

  “No time.”

  “Not even to call? Have him catch up with you?”

  “All I was thinking about was finding Kenny.”

  “S’a big city, Voigt—where’d you know to look?”

  “Figured if the Reds had picked him up, they’d probably take him to the same place I met them at.”

  He lit a cigarette before responding, snapping open a well-worn brass Zippo.

  “The empty factory.” A statement, not a question.

  “Right. But when I got there, what I saw, what was happening …” I trailed off, unable to continue. I lit a cigarette, hoping that would help, but I almost choked on the first inhale. I set the Lucky on the ashtray with a trembling hand.

  “What happened, Voigt?” Durkin’s tone had hardened.

  I told him. My voice was steady but sounded remote, different, as if I was listening to a stranger recite words I was thinking. Got on the roof, saw what was happening … banged on the door, shouting I was a cop … Open up! Open up! … heard the shot, broke a window to get in … had to stop Kenny’s bleeding … The stranger tried to finish my statement, but the words were crushed in a convulsing sob, a total breakdown, a man who had never cried in front of another man now bending forward, head clasped in his hands, tears streaking his cheeks.

  Durkin reached across the table, knocked my chin up with his knuckles, and backhanded me, hard. Out of his chair now, he grabbed me by the collar and yanked me across the table, eyes blazing. His cigarette fell to the table, smoldering, smoke drifting into our faces.

  “You don’t cry, understand? You don’t have that right, you miserable sonofabitch. You’re crying because you got the kid shot? What do you think his mother cries for, Voigt? Where do her sobs come from?”

  The table edge pressed against my ribs, my breathing was constricted, but I didn’t jerk free, didn’t protest.

  “Is he all right?” I finally managed to ask, looking straight into Durkin’s pale gray eyes.

  Again no answer. He shoved me away and picked up his cigarette, stubbed it, lit a new one, and flipped to a clean page in his notepad.

  “What happened after you gave the boy first aid?”

  I picked up my Lucky from the ashtray, drew deeply, composed myself, and recounted how I’d carried Kenny to the Harbor Patrol, how I’d shanghaied the portly workman, my good Samaritan, into helping me. Durkin wanted to know how I’d escaped, I told all.

  “You pissed all over those Harbor boys, Voigt—they’re itching to have a long moment alone with you.”

  Nothing to say to that, so I asked if they’d let the good Samaritan go without too much trouble.

  Durkin shook his head. “Jesus, some nerve! After the pickle you put that poor joe in, d’hell d’you care what happened to him?”

  Nothing I could say to that, either—claiming I’d had to protect my case was no defense.

  “Back to the Russians, I wanna know everything about them, no holding back.”

  I dutifully described Shovel-face and his partner down to every detail, even mimicking their accents.

  “No names?”

  “Wouldn’t matter even if we had some, they use so many aliases. What you’re gonna need to do is, you’re gonna need to start with the State Department, the Consular Service, you wanna get a hold of a’joe named Hendrick Thorsen—”

  “What I need to do?” Durkin interjected.

  “You wanna find these bastards, don’t you?”

  “And you don’t?!”

  “A’course. But I might—I gotta leave town.”

  “Might? Or gotta?”

  “For the case,” I said.

  A reply so weak Durkin didn’t even bother to swat; it shriveled and died on the table like a moth in a flame.

  “Look Durkin, these Reds didn’t shoot the boy for the hell of it. What we’re trying to do here, what we’re trying to prevent, it’s awful goddamned big. There’s a lotta lives at stake.”

  He snorted derisively. “There always is, for you cloak-and-dagger types. ‘Lives at stake.’ Funny how it’s never any of you who lose their lives.”

  That wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. Jesus, I was exhausted, yet I felt like I’d never sleep again, doomed to permanent wakefulness, every moment of the rest of my life haunted by my sins, my misdeeds, my failure to be a decent human being. All my service so far, the case had always washed away the wrongs I’d done in its name—but not this time, not anymore.

  “Look, Durkin, I want these two to dance from the end of a rope for what they did.”

  “D.C. doesn’t hang in capital cases.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I? Maybe I’m just a flatfoot, a thick-headed city cop, but if you want these two Russians brought up on murder charges, why’re you walking away?”

  “I’m not walking away, I told you, after you get the files from—”

  “That’s bullshit!” Durkin exploded. “You’re gonna look at some photos, then we’re gonna pick these two Russians up, huh, that’s all you gotta do? Another bum’s rush, Voigt, just like last time.”

  He had me there. Durkin had been assigned to investigate the murder of Lt. Logan Skerrill, the case that had led us to Himmel and his nest of spies, but we had wrenched it away from M.P.D. and locked them out—until we needed their help.

  “Commander Paslett told me he wants the Russians arrested, okay? That means O.N.I. is gonna give you whatever you need to find them. Just because I’m not with you doesn’t mean you’re on your own.”

  “Funny how I don’t believe that.”

  I wasn’t going to argue, I couldn’t, weariness was overtaking me.

  “Would you tell me how the boy’s doing already?” I said, practically pleading.

  Durkin stood, walked to the door, rapped twice.

  “Why don’t you ask his mother, Voigt?”

  CHAPTER 21

  AFTER AN AGONIZING MOMENT, THE DOOR OPENED. STARING AT ME WITH horrified recognition was Georgette Newhurst.

  “That’s him!” she shouted. “That’s William Brady!”

  Durkin shook his head slowly. “No, Missus Newhurst, this is Lieutenant j.g. Ellis Voigt of the Office of Naval Intelligence.”

  She was a wreck of the woman I’d met just days earlier, her pretty face now puffy, smudges of lost sleep beneath her eyes, hair unkempt. Durkin gestured for her to enter. A man next to her gently took her arm and guided her to the table. Kenny’s father, Lyle. Late thirties, stocky build, receding brown hair cut close to leave a sharp widow’s peak. An angular face: sharp nose, pointed chin, thin lips. Kenny had his father’s eyes, round and expressive. Lyle glanced at Durkin, then me, his look hardening.

  What had I done t
o this family? The fear that had transfixed me the night before surged back. When Shovel-face had loomed behind me, gripping the electrical prod, I’d told myself the impending pain was my penance, my punishment, for what I’d let happen to Kenny. Not even close, I now realized.

  Durkin pulled two chairs from the wall to the table, lined them up next to his. He motioned for the Newhursts to sit, then took the chair on my right.

  “I don’t understand,” Georgette said quietly, “he came to the house, he said he was from Horn and Hardart, he said his name was William Brady.”

  “Missus Newhurst, I lied to you,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I had to follow a man. For a case I’m working on, for the Navy, for our—” I bit off the word country. “This man, he’s a foreign national, and he went to the Automat for a meeting with another man. They’re spies, both of them, and I needed to watch them from the kitchen. Kenny was there that night. I asked for his help.”

  “You dragged our son into a spy case.” This from Lyle, every word pounded, like nails driven into wood.

  My head swarmed with Wait, no! but I shut out the excuses. Instead: “Yes.”

  My reply shattered what remained of the Newhursts’ composure. Georgette cried out and she gripped herself tightly, knuckles white on her clenched biceps, as if she was trying to compress herself, make herself disappear. Lyle jumped to his feet, his chair skittering away like a startled animal. He flung himself over the table, tipping my chair over, gripping my collar.

  “Did you get my son shot?” he shouted. He pounded my head against the floor, but I didn’t fight back, didn’t try to push him off. Only the first blow hurt—the second, the third, felt remote and dull. My vision dimmed, my thoughts fogged. Darkness, yes, I thought numbly.

  But I didn’t black out. Durkin wrenched Lyle away. I thought I heard a chair picked up, thought I heard the muffled sobs of Georgette. Now the pain crashed in. My head felt swollen to twice its normal size, the sore spots from my electrocution blazed anew. Groaning, I struggled to my feet, gripping the table edge to keep from collapsing. My eyes watered, blurring Durkin, the Newhursts, the grimy room. My breathing was shallow, forced, rapid.

  “I, I didn’t think any of this would happen, please, believe me,” I managed to say, voice hoarse and cracked.

  “Tell them what happened,” Durkin said coldly. “Just like you told me.” He’d moved his chair to the other side of the table, next to the Newhursts.

  “This case, what’s happening is, we’re trying to prevent the theft of a military secret. A really important one.” Jesus H., I sounded like a two-bit character in a lousy radio serial. I clenched my eyes shut and rubbed my temples, trying in vain to ease the pain so I could concentrate.

  “Who hurt my son?” Lyle demanded. He was seated but still breathing hard from the thrashing he’d given me.

  “The Russians,” Durkin said firmly. “Voigt’s playing patty-cakes with the Russians.”

  Any other situation, I would have immediately denied what Durkin had just said and reported him for compromising an investigation. But this wasn’t any other situation. Tell them everything, Paslett had ordered me. He meant the police, but I couldn’t hide behind the skirts of investigatory secrecy anymore. Whatever happened, I had to come clean with the Newhursts.

  The Newhursts looked confused. I could almost hear their thoughts. Aren’t the Russians our allies?

  “Detective Sergeant Durkin is right. The man I was following is Russian, he was meeting with one of his spies. I needed to hear what they were saying, we had equipment to do that, we had to set it up in the Automat kitchen. Kenny was there that night.”

  “Why didn’t you get him out of there?” Georgette’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but it lashed like a whip.

  “Only my partner and I knew Kenny was there, the Russian and his spy never saw him.”

  “You said Kenny helped you,” Lyle challenged me.

  “I just meant he let us set up our equipment. He never left the kitchen—there was no way the men out front knew he was there.”

  “Kenny never told us any of this.” Georgette again, softly.

  “I—I asked him not to tell anyone we’d been there.”

  From Georgette, an anguished cry; from Lyle, a furious roar.

  “Charge him!” he shouted at Durkin, pounding the table with both fists. “He’s an accessory to attempted murder, he’s negligent, what he did’s the same as pulling the trigger!” He pointed at me. “If Kenny had told us what had happened, we would have made him quit, you understand? He listened to you, he trusted you, he kept your dirty secret, and look what happened! He almost got killed.”

  I didn’t protest, didn’t defend myself.

  “We’ve drafted charges, Mister Newhurst,” Durkin said ominously, looking my way. His way of telling me the M.P.D. and the U.S. attorney could come after me. For impersonating William Brady, for lying to the police, for fleeing the Harbor Patrol Station. The charges wouldn’t stick—the Navy would kill them—but Durkin wanted leverage to force me to help him find the Russians.

  Lyle appeared ready to lunge at me again, but a quiet question from his wife turned his head.

  “Why didn’t you protect him?”

  “That’s why I went to the Automat, Missus Newhurst, that’s why I came to your house and said I was from Horn and Hardart, because I was trying to protect your son, I was trying to find him—”

  “Before that,” she cut in. “Before these, these Russians came looking for him.”

  Too late, too late. I’d realized the danger to her son much too late. I had no reply for her, I had no good reason, I had absolutely nothing to say. I could tell her and her husband about how I’d found their son, how I’d tried to stop the Russians, how I’d broken into the factory and carried him to safety. But none of my desperate, last-minute deeds could excuse my weeks of inaction, when I had all the time in the world to protect Kenny.

  “I have no answer for you, Missus Newhurst. I failed to see the danger when it mattered the most. When I realized what the Russians were doing, I did everything I could to stop them. I went straight from your house to where I believed they’d taken your son, and—”

  “Why did they kidnap him?” Lyle interrupted. “He’s just a boy, what could he possibly know?”

  “The Russian who met with the spy is now missing. The Reds need to find him in the worst way. They found Kenny because they wanted to know what happened at the Automat that night.”

  “They didn’t have to hurt him,” Georgette said, her voice trembling.

  Her anguish shamed me into silence for a moment. Lyle glared with hatred at me, Durkin’s face was set in stone.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t believe they would go to such extremes. But I should have known.”

  For a moment, no one spoke, my words hanging in the air. My head throbbed, I was thirsty, I wanted to crawl under the table and hide like a child.

  “They tell us two men brought Kenny to the police station,” Lyle broke the silence. “Were you one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was the other man?”

  “A passerby. I asked him to help me, he did.”

  “You don’t know him, not even his name?”

  I shook my head.

  Durkin said, “We have his name, Mister Newhurst, I can tell you it after this.”

  Lyle nodded, his eyes still on me. “They tell us you ran away from the police after you brought Kenny in—why?”

  “Because the man who came with me to the Automat was also in danger. I knew if the Russians had come after your son that he was next. I had to get to him before the Russians got there.”

  “Did you?” This from Georgette, quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Lyle slapped the table in disgust. “You take care of your own, don’t you, but the rest of us, people just living their lives—we don’t matter to you at all, do we?”

  “I have no excuse for what I fail
ed to do, Mister Newhurst. None.”

  Another long silence. Then:

  “How, how is Kenny doing?” I asked.

  “Goddamn you, you got no right to ask that!” Lyle shouted.

  “He’ll be all right, he’ll be all right,” Georgette said softly, more to herself than to me.

  “I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” I said. “For what I didn’t do.”

  Lyle lurched to his feet and stormed to the door, shooting me a look of unrestrained, feral anger as he yanked the door open and left. But his hatred didn’t rattle me as much as the sight of Georgette as she stood slowly to follow her husband, her eyes on me. Abhorrence, despair, grief, disbelief—I saw all on her tear-streaked face. How can such a man exist? she appeared to be thinking.

  DURKIN LEFT WITH THE NEWHURSTS, I LIT A LUCKY WITH SHAKY fingers and thought about what I’d say when he returned. No need—Agent Clayton Slater of the F.B.I. came in instead. I wasn’t surprised. Durkin knew we’d tangled with the Bureau when I was undercover. When he had recognized me from the sketch, he must have asked Slater to come in.

  “You’re looking a lot less cocky than the last time I saw you, Lieutenant,” Slater said, taking one of the chairs across from me.

  Nothing to say to that.

  “Your rough patch is only getting started, Voigt.”

  Four days ago, I would have thrown his comments right back in his smug face. But I had no fight left, not after facing the Newhursts. I deep-dragged my smoke.

  “I don’t think you and Commander Paslett know what you’re getting into. What you’re already neck-deep into, I should say.”

  “What do you want, Slater?”

  “How’s an accessory to kidnapping charge grab you, Voigt? I talked to the boy, know what he remembers after the Russians snatched him? They were working him over, asking him a lotta questions, hurting him, then there’s a gunshot, the pain’s unbearable, then all’a sudden he sees your face. Now, how are we gonna know you weren’t there the whole time unless we have an investigation and a trial?”

  His way of telling me the Bureau wasn’t letting go of what Philip Greene kept saying: that I’d framed him for the murder of my fellow officer Logan Skerrill. Slater wanted me off the street, wanted me behind bars. Even if he couldn’t keep me there, I’d be out of his way. But if the Bureau was going to charge me, Slater wouldn’t have come to taunt me. Like the N.K.V.D., the Bureau picked up defendants quietly and expertly, dark-suited agents swarming the target and hustling him into a black sedan. My best play, keep mum, wait him out.