Frames Per Second

by Bill Eidson

  Jesus.

  He got up and stood in the shower, his body swaying with exhaustion. He shaved quickly, looking in the mirror at the dark thumbprints underneath his red-rimmed eyes.

  Ready to interpret the world through them.

  Ready to go to work, deal with the boss.

  But Kurt wasn’t there.

  “You look terrible,” Sarah said as she stopped by Ben’s office on her way to the lab. She peered closer, concerned. “Actually, you look like shit. I mean that in the nice way.”

  “You can leave now. And I mean that in the nice way, too.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  He smiled. “I’ll see you later.”

  She touched his shoulder and then left.

  He bent over the table going through the contact sheets of the prison ladies shoot. They wouldn’t have been his first choice for review that morning, but Ed Liston needed some selections for a meeting he was to have later that day with Kurt.

  Huey, the darkroom lab attendant, brought the last set of prints over. He gestured toward Kurt’s office. “Not like the boss to come in late. Didn’t snuff him out, did you, Ben?”

  Ben didn’t bother to answer him and Huey didn’t wait. Irritating people was a hobby for him.

  Ben went back to the starkness of the prison photos. With what had happened last night, he felt strangely apart from these women.

  He felt that he had changed sides, as if he was no longer a photojournalist hoping to reveal their plight, but an abuser himself.

  On the wrong side of domestic violence himself.

  It was a hard image to hold; hard to see himself in that light.

  I pushed the man in his own house.

  True, Kurt’s poker-up-the-ass righteous attitude was a factor. True, the pompous bastard had bulldozed into Jake’s room as if he needed protection from his own father. And true, Kurt did take the first swing.

  But still Ben couldn’t excuse himself. Pushed him. Hit him. Scared the kids. Made both of them cry.

  Andi. “Get out of our house.’’

  Ben bent down and looked carefully at the shot of Maria, the last woman he had photographed that day. Her tough, hurt, scared face. “… it feels like love. But it ain’t.’’

  Lisa buzzed Ben through the intercom to tell him the FBI was on the phone. It was Parker. “I hear you had a welcoming committee the night you flew back from D.C.”

  “What else are you hearing?”

  “Can’t tell you exactly. But it may be time to go directly to your local police force, see if they can.”

  “Give me a hint. Knowledge is power and all that.”

  Parker chuckled. “So I’ve heard. You remember that bombing down at a black church in Alabama I told you about? Well, we got an informant who says the guy who set it took off for Boston … and he would’ve been there in time for the Gallagher thing. The way the bomb was detonated is pretty damn close to this guy’s MO.”

  Ben sat up. “I thought they didn’t know how it was detonated.”

  “They just didn’t tell you. A piece of it was found imbedded in the wall across from your van. A mercury-filled-type motion device.”

  “So that’d most likely be a connection through Johansen?”

  “Possibly. Brace and Calabro are looking at your boy McGuire for a previous car bombing.”

  “That’d be the one that took out the Gendron brothers?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they were hoping to match it against. But it was entirely different. Detonator on that was hardwired to the ignition; dynamite instead of plastique.”

  “Is this guy a member of the Free America movement?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s definitely in the vicinity. Everything I read about him says he’s a mean piece of white trash with a talent for blowing things up. Former Special Forces grunt in Vietnam.”

  “What’s his name and address?”

  “Ah, now that’s going a little too far,” Parker said. “Can’t have you spoiling Boston Police’s surprise. Agent Ludlow from our Boston office is going to lead the questioning about the Alabama charges. He’s here in D.C. now. I’ll get word out to him to head home, and maybe he can run some interference for you later today. But if you head over to see Calabro and Brace yourself—right now—they might let you come along for the ride.”

  Ben no longer felt tired at all. “What ride’s that?”

  “They’re going to pick up Mr. White Trash this afternoon.”

  Ben and Sarah got to the new police headquarters in Roxbury just as Brace, Calabro, and a SWAT team of half a dozen men were leaving the building.

  “Let’s wait,” Sarah said. “We can just follow them and beg forgiveness later.”

  The two cops led the way in their unmarked Ford with the SWAT team following in an equally nondescript van. Ben kept as far back as he could without losing them. They wound through the city and headed down Commonwealth Avenue past Boston University into Brighton. They turned up a side street and parked. Ben banged a U-turn at the next light and parked the van on the other side of the wide avenue.

  “Let’s go.” He slung a camera bag over his shoulder. He and Sarah walked across the busy street, and then waited for one of the Green Line electric trolley cars to pass before crossing the access road.

  Ben took her hand as a car rushed by them on the access road. “Just an old married couple, out for a walk.”

  She looked startled, and then smiled. “For the cops, or you’re just an opportunist?”

  “Both,” he said, pleased that she didn’t take her hand away. “We’ll identify ourselves once we get closer. We don’t want to surprise any cops once they start running around with guns.”

  They continued up the block. Already several of the SWAT members were fanning around the back of a small apartment building. The remaining police were waiting at the front door with a pale-looking man who was standing in his bathrobe, holding a key. Presumably the landlord. The cops held a small battering ram with handles on each side.

  Calabro and Brace were crouched before their car, putting blue and white Boston Police windbreakers over bulletproof vests. Calabro saw Ben and Sarah first and said, “Ah, for Christ sakes. The two of you, get out of here.”

  Ben said, “We’ll stay out of your way.”

  “What’s the suspect’s name?” Sarah asked.

  Calabro shook his head, exasperated.

  Brace said to his partner, “Let’s stop screwing around and do it.” To Ben and Sarah, he said, “You two stay behind our car. You might get lucky. That’s it for now, got me? No more questions.”

  He picked up his walkie-talkie and he and Calabro ran to the door.

  It took a few minutes before things heated up. Ben and Sarah waited behind the police car, watching the cops have a quiet conference on the walkie-talkies.

  “Making sure everyone’s in place,” Ben said to Sarah.

  “Golly, you think so?”

  “Sorry.” Ben mounted a long-range zoom lens onto his camera and panned it across the windows at the front of the building, and then those that he could see in the alley.

  He almost missed it at first, but then there was a bright flash of light, and he pulled back and focused carefully.

  Midway up the building someone was holding a small hand mirror out the window. Ben could see the mirror was first angled to one side of the alley, and then the man switched hands and angled the mirror to the other side, and upward to the roofline. The lens brought Ben in close enough to see the man’s hands. There was a small tattoo across the back of his right hand that Ben couldn’t quite identify.

  “See him?” Ben asked quietly.

  Sarah pressed beside him, looking at where the lens was angled. “Somebody’s scoping out the alley,” she said. “And I don’t think that cop’s seeing it.”

  Ben saw a cop below, looking down momentarily, apparently not seeing the mirror.

  The window slid down quietly.

  “Not good,” Ben said, starting
off to tell Brace.

  Just then, the landlord opened the door and the cops flew in, the pounding of their feet up the stairs audible even out on the curb.

  Ben jumped back behind the car, focusing his lens up at the window. Ready for the suspect to make for the fire escape.

  But the window remained closed.

  He could hear the cops using the battering ram and a moment later, the window did open.

  A cop stuck his head out, black smoke pouring out behind him. The cop coughed, and then yelled out to the officer in the alley. “He come out this way?”

  “Clear here,” the cop yelled back. “You want me to call a truck in?”

  “Naw, it was just set in the garbage can. We got it out.”

  “That’s not right,” Ben said.

  “He’s still in there?” Sarah said. “You think he’s hiding in the apartment?”

  There was a flat cracking sound, and then another.

  Gunshots.

  Then they saw him. On the roof. The head peering down into the alley. Bright, short hair. The man jerked back when the cop on the ground looked up.

  “Oh, Christ,” Ben said. “They’re missing him.”

  The guy jumped.

  They saw him for just a second. Just a shape in black jumping to the next building. Then he was out of their view.

  “He didn’t see him,” Sarah said, pointing to the cop in the alley. “He missed it.”

  Ben said, “Go over to him slowly. Don’t surprise him.”

  Ben ran down the street, parallel to the buildings, back toward Commonwealth Avenue. He reached the next alley just in time to see the guy make it across the third building.

  Ben kept up the pace.

  Buildings four, five, and six, Ben saw him. The guy made it to the last building, the one along Commonwealth Avenue. He peered out over the edge. Ben raised his Nikon and banged away, the lens bringing the suspect close enough for solid identification.

  The way Ben saw it, the guy was trapped.

  By now, the cops were probably after him on the rooftops. The guy’s best choice would probably be to find his way down through the building—but most likely the roof door was locked from the inside. And if he went for the fire escape in the back of the building, the cops would almost certainly be waiting. Possibly the guy could take a left and continue hopping from building to building parallel to Commonwealth, but that would only give the cops more time to position themselves.

  Ben took a few more shots.

  Then he saw the guy leaning far out over the edge of the building, his sharp-edged features tense as he craned his neck. He seemed to be looking for something. Ben heard it before he saw it. Another one of the Green Line trolley cars was coming toward him about a block away. Bumping along at about twenty miles an hour, swinging from side to side.

  The guy was looking at it.

  “Dream on,” Ben said. The man was five stories up. Between him and the trolley line there was a sidewalk and the narrow access road lined with cars and trucks on each side. Nevertheless, Ben stopped shooting and checked his film count. A half-dozen shots left before he had to reload.

  The guy made his move.

  He pulled off his belt, and swung over the edge of the building to step out onto a small roof overlooking the top apartment’s narrow deck. Laying on his belly, he leaned out over the gutter, looped his belt around one of the pillars supporting the deck roof—and without hesitation, slid off the roof.

  Ben’s stomach dropped.

  At first, the man swung wildly, but he quickly got his legs around the pillar, and slid down.

  He did pretty much the same thing to get to the third floor, moving with the efficiency of a soldier.

  Special Forces, Parker had said.

  Ben got three shots of it, the guy sliding, almost falling, but catching himself.

  On the roof of the third-floor deck, he stood balanced on the edge, poised as if to dive.

  What the hell are you doing? Ben thought.

  Then he saw it. There was a big flagpole angled out from the building alongside the roof. And underneath the pole, there was a UPS truck parked in front of the building. A panel truck with a big flat roof.

  Ben could hear the cops coming up the side street now, the tramp of many feet.

  The man stood on the edge of the little roof and jumped. Ben released the shutter and caught the power of his dive. The guy made it to the end of the flagpole, and swung through the air to land on the top of the truck with a hollow boom.

  He pulled a revolver from his shoulder harness, slid down the front windshield of the truck, and was running on the ground alongside the trolley within seconds.

  It began to slow for the next intersection.

  Ben took another frame, capturing the man running alongside the approaching train.

  Ben turned.

  The cops were just rounding the corner. Brace and then Calabro. The SWAT guys not there yet.

  Ben saw how it was going to happen. The trolley was half-full of people. The guy shoving his way in and taking it over. Maybe shooting the driver, pulling him out of the way and going on for a few blocks. Surrounding himself with more than a dozen hostages.

  By the time the cops got back to their cars and around the block to follow the trolley, the guy would be three blocks away.

  From there, he could hijack a car just the way he was going to hijack the trolley car.

  Ben took the camera from his eye.

  He looked at the people inside the trolley.

  College students. Near the front, an Asian woman looked out the window tiredly. Behind her was a young mother with two preschool kids who were slapping their hands on the window.

  The driver. A middle-aged white man with a tough, square face. The sort of guy who might fight back.

  Ben saw the running man cock the gun; saw it with the sort of eye for detail that was truly Ben’s talent. Everything else fell away. Ben saw the little tattoo on the back of the man’s hand as he thumbed back the hammer on the revolver. Ben felt he actually could hear the click of metal on metal, although that was impossible over the racket of the trolley.

  The man’s eyes slid over Ben but then came back to the camera. His eyes widened as if in recognition, and then the gun was on Ben himself.

  Someone shouted, maybe Brace, and the gunman looked over at them and fired a shot. He didn’t miss a step, he kept running alongside the trolley, just about to pass Ben on the way to the door near the driver. Ben saw the door was loose already, partially open. Nothing that would hold up against a good shove.

  The guy was less than twenty feet from Ben now.

  Calabro and Brace were yelling, but the first of the SWAT team was just rounding the corner.

  Ben dropped his shoulder and charged the man.

  It surprised the guy and he bounced off the moving train, saying, “Huh!” He spun and tripped.

  Ben went for the gun, but the guy was too quick. He yanked it away and cracked Ben across the face and then turned to face the cops, the train still running behind him, his back inches away from that moving green wall.

  The guy fired three fast rounds at the cops and they dropped to the ground. Ben expect a fusillade in return, but the cops held off, probably because of the people in the train.

  Maybe because of him.

  The guy turned as soon as the train went by, starting across the tracks. He fired immediately at an approaching car that was already slowing for the intersection ahead. The bullet starred the windshield and the car veered hard to the left and collided with the one beside it.

  Ben leapt out and grabbed the man by the legs, taking him down.

  A dumb move because the guy still had the gun. He rolled onto his back, and sat up with the pistol steady in his right hand.

  Ben shoved himself back, and then there was an explosion of noise, a metallic screaming sound that couldn’t have come from him, but somehow felt as if it did.

  Minutes later, Ben told Sarah that he was damn luck
y. He told Brace, and then Calabro. For a couple of minutes there, Ben was telling anyone who would listen.

  They all agreed with him, looking down at the bloody wreckage of the man that none of them would ever get to question.

  Because neither Ben nor the gunman had figured on the oncoming train.

  CHAPTER 22

  “WE’VE GOT A TERM IN THE POLICE BUSINESS FOR THAT STUNT YOU pulled,” Calabro said to Ben. “We call it ‘Fucking up.’“

  Ben and Sarah were back at the new police headquarters, sitting in an interrogation room. The smell of new carpets and fresh linen-white paint competed with the sweat stink from the previous confrontation.

  Detective Brace had disappeared to make a phone call.

  A tall man wearing an impeccable gray suit entered the room without knocking. Calabro seemed to know him but didn’t like him.

  “Agent Ludlow, FBI,” he said to Sarah and Ben. Ludlow was clean shaven, with an otherwise handsome face pitted by ancient acne scars. Right now, his face looked thunderous. He said to Calabro, “That was a goddamn important arrest for us. You assured us you had the team that could bring him in and we let you have him.”

  “Screw your important arrest,” Calabro snapped. “I got two SWAT team members in surgery right now. I got to deal with this reporter’s interference, who you Feebies tipped off.”

  Ludlow said, “The way I hear it you guys were losing him and Harris here kept him from making a train full of juicy hostages. The way I hear it your two SWAT guys got taken down on the roof by one man with a handgun.”

  “Yeah, well, you hear shit,” Calabro said.

  Ludlow snorted. “That’s a cogent argument.”

  “Fuck your cogent argument,” Calabro said. “This interfering bastard—”

  “Find another scapegoat,” Ben said. He had calmed down considerably on the drive back. “You fucked up and you know it.”

  Calabro leaned forward, his cigarette breath badly masked by wintergreen mint. “Don’t count on your press pass to stop me from kicking your butt.”

  “Boys, boys,” Sarah said. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  Just then, Brace slipped back into the room. He put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Calm down, Tony.” Brace looked at Ben, his black eyes shining with animosity. “I just gave your editor a call, tell him the effect one of his employees had on an arrest. It sounds like you’ve been screwing up on a coupla fronts. Tells me you hit him, right in front of the kids, huh? I gave him a name on the Sudbury police department. He’s looking into getting a restraining order, keep you away from him and the family. I think he’s got a shot.”