Dark Heart

by Margaret Weis;David Baldwin

  “What did you say?”

  “I said get your head out of the fourteenth century.” Sandra took her attention off the punk long enough to give Justin a wry, mocking look. “I’m a modern girl, remember? And I’m a cop. If he needs confronting, I’ll handle it.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Justin turned back to look at the trench coat-clad punk, but there was a tension in him that had not been there before.

  Slowly and reluctantly, because she was curious about Justin’s reaction to her offhand comment, Sandra returned her attention to the redhead. The kid motioned toward the door again. Sandra nodded, still speaking to Justin. “Look, I do want to talk to him, but I will ask your help for something.”

  “Is he a criminal?”

  “Maybe.”

  Justin nodded. “Very well. I’ll be happy to help, Officer.”

  “After I’ve left the room with him, you go to the phone. You can see out the front window from the phone by the bar. I’ll try to stay in view. If anything bad happens or if I get out of your line of sight, dial 911.”

  “Is it that serious?”

  “I don’t know.” She flashed him a smile.

  “As you say.”

  “Good.”

  Sandra moved away from the bar and crossed the room. The redhead saw her coming and left the bar. Sandra followed.

  When she walked outside, she found him leaning against the wall of the building, looking out at the street. His stained green trench coat made him look like a refugee from a Mickey Spillane novel. His face was shrouded in shadow.

  Sandra checked the bar’s front window. She thought she could see Justin by the phone, but the window was dark and smudged, and it was hard to tell.

  “C’mon.” The redhead pointed toward the mouth of an alley some twenty feet distant.

  “Right here is fine,” Sandra said. She stepped closer. “What’s your name, pal?”

  He shrank back. “It’s uh…Maxie. Look, I don’t like talking in the middle of the street—”

  “And I don’t like walking into a dark alley with some asshole who jumped me once already.”

  The redhead snorted. “I didn’t jump you! You were going to haul me in. Then you got in the way when I tried to run.”

  “What I need now, asshole, is a reason not to bust your ass right here.”

  He twitched, looked over his shoulder, looked back at her. “Get off your high horse, lady. I’m tryin’ to help you.”

  “So stop with the bullshit and help me. You got something to say, spit it out.”

  This kid was right on the edge of withdrawal. Quivering and jittering, a thin trail of snot leaking from one nostril, pupils the size of nail heads.

  But he’d wanted to talk to her enough to forego his high. That, for a junkie, meant it was important. And he was coming on like a C.I.—a confidential informant. A snitch. But how had he found who she was in the first place?

  “Christ, Madrone was never this hard to deal with.”

  Madrone. Finally, it began to make a little sense.

  “You sing for Madrone?” Sandra asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about?”

  “The demon. I heard the demon bragging.”

  “The demon ?”

  Christ. Little fucker was hallucinating on her.

  He caught her sudden withdrawal. “Okay, okay,” he sputtered hastily, “maybe he’s not a demon. He’s just the demon’s little dude or something. But, like, see, I told Madrone about this guy at the bar who killed the lawyer.”

  “Hey, whoa, hold on. What bar?” Sandra asked. “Which lawyer?”

  “That lawyer guy on TV who took on that gang even though they shot up his car. So I talk to Madrone, and all of a sudden he gets his heart fucking ripped out.” The redhead’s wild eyes whipped around, looking over his shoulder again. He glanced over at the bar window nervously. “And I wonder if it might be me next, so I think I need a hundred bucks before I tell you any more.”

  “Lemme get this straight,” she said. “You snitched off somebody to Madrone on the Wheeler murder?”

  “Yeah, I already told you. You want more, the toll’s a big buck. Like I just said.”

  She thought about it. “I don’t have a hundred on me. You take a personal check?”

  “What do I look like, Bank of America?”

  She rummaged in her purse. “How about twenty?” She waved the crumpled bill under his nose.

  He snorted. “You don’t know a good thing when it’s looking you in the face, bitch. I’m outta here.” He put his hand on her shoulder to push past her. Sandra caught his wrist and pulled. She slammed him into the brick wall just beside the window. He shouted and tried to free himself, but she twisted his wrist into a joint lock and he finally stopped struggling. Just for good measure, Sandra gave another small twist. One way or another, this punk had managed to ruin her whole day, and it was time for a little payback.

  The redhead started running through an unimaginative litany of street language in a low, desolate croak.

  Sandra put her lips up to his ear. “Don’t cop that shit with me, butt-boy. You came here to talk, so talk. If your stuff pans out, we’ll talk money. But not until.”

  “All right! Okay! Back off, all right?”

  Sandra let him go and stepped back. The kid grunted as he massaged the feeling back into his arm and shoulder. She watched dispassionately.

  “That hurt, dammit!” he said.

  “So you heard a guy at a bar talking about killing Carlton Wheeler,” Sandra said. “And then…?”

  “Yeah. That’s right,” the redhead said in a surly tone. “That’s what I heard.”

  “And you dropped a dime to Madrone.”

  The kid nodded.

  “So who was this guy? What bar was he in?”

  Sandra heard a door open behind her, but she kept her eyes on the redhead. The kid stared at whoever was coming out of the door. She could practically see the blood drain out of his face as the shock set in. The redhead sucked in a sharp breath. His face bleached out to the color of rancid cottage cheese.

  “Jesus!”

  Sandra spun around. The Arab guy who had tried to dance with her earlier stood looking at her.

  The sound of footsteps on the pavement yanked her attention back to the redhead. He was already halfway to the end of the street.

  “Shit!” Sandra said, sparing one questioning glance back at the middle-eastern man before she took off after the kid. He was still watching her. Almost as if he knew her.

  But he could wait.

  As she ran, she heard the bar door crash open. She looked back. Justin was barreling out of the door, shoving the middle-eastern man roughly aside and joining the chase.

  Fine. Galahad to her rescue. She just hoped he’d called the police first. Men!

  The kid was fast, fueled by panic and withdrawal. But so was she. And this time, he didn’t have a three-block head start. She raced down the sidewalk after him, gaining on him with every step. He was wearing combat boots. She knew from experience that it was tough to get into a sprint wearing kicks like that.

  Red turned the first corner he came to, heading toward Grant Park and the shore of Lake Michigan, his trench coat flapping around his calves. Sandra followed, with Justin close behind her. Car headlights illuminated Red’s running form. People moved hastily out of their way, staring curiously at the oddly mixed trio pounding past them. Red shot a glance over his shoulder and seemed surprised that she was so close. Bending his head, he tried to pour on the speed.

  When Sandra was nearly within tackling distance, the kid veered sharply off the sidewalk and into moving traffic. Tires shrieked and horns blared. Sandra hesitated. She wanted him, but not enough to die for it. A blue Toyota swerved and slammed on its brakes, just missing the kid. He made it safely to the other side and bounded up on the walk.

  “No way. I’m not letting you go now,” she growled, and dived into the swirling traffic after him.

  “San
dra!” Justin cried. A small truck roared by her so close she could feel its fender brush her leg. Screeches and honks filled her ears. Then she was on the other side of the street, and she could still see her quarry. He was leaning against a wall a block away, trying to gulp down enough oxygen to supply his racing heart. As soon as their gazes met, he turned and took off like a damned deer. Sandra was about to follow when she heard tires screeching and a horrible thump behind her. She spun around to see Justin pitched forward, slumped over a parked car.

  Damn it!

  Civilians!

  Sandra glared at Red, dashing down the street, fading in the distance.

  Feeling horribly responsible, she hurried back to Justin. The car that hit him had stopped and the shaken driver was getting out. The car’s front right fender was crumpled. Sandra could only imagine what Justin would look like.

  When she reached him, she expected to find pools of blood, compound multiple fractures, a crushed skull. Instead, Justin was levering himself to his feet, leaning against the parked convertible he’d landed on. The corners of his eyes were wrinkled in pain, but he was moving well, and when he looked up at her, she could tell he was not seriously injured.

  Oddly enough, he seemed angry at her.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  “You just got hit by a car!”

  “So? Go on after him. I’ll catch up!”

  Sandra turned and ran after the kid. It would have been hopeless, except that he was a strung-out junkie, not a marathon runner. He had to pause every so often to double over and catch his breath. He was actually puking when she finally caught up with him.

  He ducked into an alley and she followed him. Trash cans created an obstacle course for the two of them, but she closed the distance quickly. The end of the alley was near. She could see lights and hear the sounds of traffic from the next street over.

  Again, Red surprised her. As she reached out to grab the tail of his fluttering trench coat, he turned and pulled a trash can over, sent it rolling.

  The can crashed into her legs. She tumbled. She tried to turn her fall into a roll, but her body slammed hard onto the blacktop. Instead of rolling, she and the trash can ended in a painful tangle against one wall of the alley.

  With a grunt, she managed to crawl to her knees in time to see Red jump on the back of a garbage truck that was just pulling out into traffic and speeding up. The kid even had the nerve to wave good-bye.

  “Son of a bitch!” she snarled as she hauled herself to her feet and began to walk back to the street. A passing pedestrian gave her a startled look.

  Justin came hobbling up behind her.

  “What happened? Did he get away?” he asked. With that British accent he sounded like a refugee from the Royal Shakespeare Company.

  A sudden thought struck her. She started to laugh.

  He looked puzzled. “Well? What?”

  “Did you see that kid hop on that trash truck? Can you think of a more fitting getaway vehicle for the little asshole? Garbage for garbage?”

  Her smile was infectious, even though he still seemed confused.

  “I see,” he replied. “Did you hit your head very hard?”

  “No.” She patted him on the shoulder as she leaned back against the wall. “I can’t believe it. Man, I was so close. So damned close.”

  Justin nodded, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and whacked it against his palm. He offered one to her.

  She looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t smoke anymore.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite understandable. Cancer and all that. You’re a modern woman.” He paused for the length of a heartbeat, then, “Cigarette?” He offered the pack to her again.

  She looked up into his blue eyes and shrugged. “You’re too much for me. Sure, why not?” She slid a cigarette out of the packet and held it to her lips. He pulled out what appeared to be a solid gold Dunhill lighter and held the flame under the tip of her cigarette. She inhaled. The smoke flowed into her lungs in that old familiar way. She leaned against the wall and relaxed. Her knees and elbows hurt where she’d skinned them hitting the ground. She grimaced as she finally got a good look at herself. Nothing she had on would be fit to wear again, between the rips and the stains. She took another drag on the cigarette.

  “Nasty habit,” she said.

  “Undeniably.” He lit up and puffed. “Strangely appropriate for moments such as this, though, don’t you think?”

  She smiled and leaned back against the wall. He was right. She couldn’t deny it.

  A moment later the nicotine buzz hit her and the world became pleasantly fuzzy. The insistent pain from her scraped skin receded to a distant hum.

  “I’d forgotten what these things do to anybody who doesn’t smoke them regularly.”

  “Ah, yes. Nicotine has quite a kick in isolated doses.”

  She nodded. Someone shouted at someone else down the street. A passing cab hit a puddle and sprayed a crowd of tourists on their way to the Buckingham Fountain. Sandra couldn’t believe she was enjoying standing on State Street on a rainy night in the heart of downtown Chicago. But she was.

  “Did you call the police?” she suddenly thought to ask him.

  He shook his head. “I apologize. I saw you disappear from the window and my first reaction was to run to help you. All due to my head being stuck in the fourteenth century, I’m sure.”

  Sandra laughed. “Ahhh, it’s for the best. The backup would never have arrived in time to do any good. He’d still have gotten away.”

  She let the matter drop. She wondered if Madrone’s files would have anything on where the kid hung out, where he could be reached. Cops were supposed to write up their snitches, but a lot of them didn’t.

  She let the city noises and the company soothe her. The chill of the night air was cool on her skin, a pleasant sensation after her run.

  “So,” Justin said, “I had just asked you a question when you took off.”

  “You had? Ah, yes. I remember,” she said. “Sorry about that.”

  “You said you knew which crime you’d commit. Which crime would that be?”

  “Murder,” she said.

  He looked startled.

  “It goes all the way back to Cain killing Abel. Murder is the oldest crime in the world. I believe everyone is capable of murder. And I’ve seen enough grief caused by evil men that I know some people need killing. Even people who don’t need killing can make you mad enough to want to kill them. You should’ve seen me with that redhead back there, when he banged me around earlier today, I wanted to rip out his throat and make him eat it.”

  She paused, startled at her own vehemence.

  Justin frowned. “It’s your crime to choose, of course, but murder isn’t the oldest of crimes.”

  “No?” she asked.

  “Certainly not. Curiosity is the oldest crime. Eve ate the apple long before she had children.”

  Sandra considered that. “Perhaps. If it was a crime.”

  “You don’t agree with the old tale?”

  “I just don’t consider curiosity a crime. Or a sin.”

  “Of course, you don’t,” he said. “But curiosity is your primary weakness. Like Dr. Faust, hungry for knowledge, you go out and stir up who knows what kind of trouble as you seek your answers. You could have been killed tonight, you know, and I could have been, too, as a result of your actions. I believe you would sell your soul to get all the killers in Chicago.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Catch them or convict them?”

  “Bring them to justice. To whatever you call justice, in your own heart.”

  She took another drag of the cigarette. “Yeah. You got me there. But make a deal with the devil for it? Tempting, I have to admit. But I don’t think so. There’d have to be another way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Deals with the devil always backfire. I’d rather depend on my own resources. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.�
��

  “I must disagree with you there. One can always do business with the devil, provided one is willing to pay his price.”

  “I don’t buy it. The world doesn’t really work on credit.”

  “Certainly it does. Look around you. Our society is built upon credit—and credit, at bottom, is nothing more than trust.”

  “Trust. You should try my job for a while. You wouldn’t trust anybody. And you’d be a fool if you did.”

  “Doomsayers go to their graves unrequited.”

  “Cute. Did you make that up?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. He had a brooding, shadowed look, as if he didn’t much relish the direction the conversation had taken.

  “I’m a cop,” she told him. “I’ve seen too much to ever believe that you can sell your soul and get it back. Nobody ever comes out of a deal with the devil unscathed,” she mused. “Ask the scumbags I deal with every day. Ask them if it was worth it—at the end of ends, they’ll tell you their lives would’ve been better if they’d never made the deal at all.”

  “Not necessarily,” Justin countered. “If they chose well, if they chose something truly wonderful, how could they possibly regret it? Don’t you think any misery the devil visits upon them afterward could be worth it? Wouldn’t you sacrifice your own life, for instance, to achieve goodness worldwide?”

  “You’re asking if I’d sell my soul for peace on earth? Sure I would. In a minute. But the devil is too careful, too clever for that. There’s always a wicked catch in the offer. Look, there are no free lunches. The devil is the lord of lies. Perhaps he doesn’t even have the power to fulfill the deals he makes, only the power to create the illusion of fulfillment. Besides, I don’t think even God could wave a wand and have peace on earth. People have free will. God could lay peace wrapped in a big, red bow at the feet of humanity, but we’d screw it up before we even had the box unwrapped. It’s our nature. It’s human nature, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ah, so it’s not the devil you fear, but yourself. You think humanity is irredeemable? That from the moment Cain raised his hand against his brother, we’ve never been able to stop the violence, the killing?”