The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Turning right into Powell Street, Hastings had a choice: get in the taxi line, or get behind the stopped cable car. Choosing the cable car, he guided the Honda out of the taxicab line, let it coast slowly ahead, downhill.

  As the Honda came to a gentle stop, Hastings saw a familiar figure standing beside the smartly uniformed figure of the St. Francis doorman. It was Friedman, looking anxiously up and down Powell Street, plainly worried. Repeatedly, Hastings pressed the horn button, but realized that the sound would be lost in the din of traffic. He stopped the car, set the brake, put his SFPD placard on the dash, got out of the car in the middle of the street. As he trotted on an angle to the curb, slipping between two parked cabs, he heard the shrill blast of a police whistle. The sound focused Friedman’s attention, and Hastings waved, catching Friedman’s eye. From behind him, almost as loud as the whistle, came the predictable bellow:

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Walking to meet Friedman, Hastings half turned, beckoned the uniformed man to follow as he took out his shield case, showed the patrolman his gold badge.

  “What is it?” Hastings asked Friedman. “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I’m sick. Stomach cramps, bad—the flu, I guess. I was in the bathroom for maybe five minutes, on the can. When I came out, Canelli was gone. I checked with Smitty and Backus, on Post Street. But they didn’t hear from Canelli.”

  “Has he got a radio?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “How do you feel? You look terrible.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “You go back inside—” Hastings pointed to the lobby. “Phone in. Get two more people here, right now. Then stay by the phone—in the house detective’s office, my authority. Clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’m going to take a chance, go down Geary to Mason, the way Elton went before. Got it?”

  “Yessir.” One hand on his stomach, Friedman turned gingerly away, began walking painfully toward the lobby doors. Hastings turned to the patrolman, holding out his arm, keys dangling from a forefinger. “Here’s the keys to the Honda. Park it, lock it, give Inspector Friedman the keys. Then stand by, out here, until I come back. Tell Friedman you’ll be out here.”

  “Yessir.”

  Hastings turned away, began running south on Powell Street.

  Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he turned deliberately now to face Mitchell. The big man was advancing, his squared-off face implacable, resolution bunching at the shoulders, clenched in either hand, moving the legs like round wooden posts made of muscle, a miracle, perhaps—the second of the night’s revelations, this man who might not be mortal, but instead a being from the dimension beyond, flesh but not flesh, substance but not substance, God’s centurion in his earthly disguise.

  Yes, it was the movements of the members that was the final, substantive delineation: muscles but not muscles, the ultimate proof that Mitchell had been transformed, would therefore reveal himself.

  Yet caution was essential, even though recognition had finally been achieved—as if when he was younger, so very young, Mitchell might have given him the secret, or even …

  Even …

  Was it possible?

  Anticipating the miracles of electronics still to come, was it possible that Mitchell had been implanted with a receptor that matched his own? Their receptors could have been preprogrammed for activation now, for this time of recognition, revealing the essential secret they shared since, last night, skillfully pretending to be one of them, the infidels, Mitchell had done what he must to preserve his secret identity, conceal his true status, God’s chosen emissary, his ultimate protector.

  Yes, it was a masterful choice.

  But, as always, the receptors knew.

  Because plainly, when their flesh touched, if only for a moment, Mitchell had managed to activate the circuits within, charging the receptor beneath the skin, therefore completing the secret electronic loops.

  So it was a guessing game that they must play—the same games they had always played, the boy and the man. He would guess. With his fingers touching some secret part of himself—his heart, or his temple, at first—he would guess. Silently, communicating only electronically, not verbally, he would guess.

  And then, when Mitchell nodded—once, only once—he would know.

  Finally, ultimately know …

  Therefore saved.

  Released, therefore, to continue unthreatened, therefore safe.

  Finally, eternally safe.

  At the intersection of Mason and Geary, panting, stumbling, Hastings slowed to a trot, then to a walk as he stepped into the street, momentarily stopping as he tried for a better angle, scanning the sidewalks on both sides of Mason. Ahead, across from the Bayside Hotel, just as it had been parked on Tuesday night, he saw Dancer Browne’s Continental. Drawing air deep into his lungs, Hastings began trotting again, dodging, sharply bumping shoulders, forcing his way through the sidewalk crowds. As he came closer to the Continental, he saw Canelli suddenly step from between two parked cars on the far side of the street, anxiously waving. Gratefully slackening his pace, Hastings waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the street to meet Canelli, running toward him.

  “Jeez, Lieutenant, am I glad to see you.”

  Nodding, struggling for breath, hands on hips, head low, Hastings managed to ask, “What’s up? Where are they?”

  “In the next block—” Canelli pointed toward Market Street. “I been tailing them, and also looking out for you, or someone. I figured you’d probably—”

  “Let’s go.” Hastings turned, began walking as fast as exhaustion would allow. “Show me. Tell me while we walk.”

  “Here—” Mitchell gestured to the entryway of an all-glass storefront displaying cameras and radios. “Let’s stop a minute.” As he spoke he looked quickly behind them. Across the street, standing between two parked cars, looking back the way he’d come, Inspector Canelli was broadly, urgently waving. Reinforcements, Canelli’s backup, had arrived. All the time—all the years, all the memories, all the pain—it had come down to this moment, this place: eternity unhinged, sanity shattered, all of it focused in this pale face before him, the child grown into a madman, this monster with nothing behind his eyes. The monster raved, but the child still mewled, words twisted into gibberish, his hands bent to implore, abjectly appealing to a god long lost:

  “All this time,” Elton was saying, “all these years, and I’ve never known. But now I see, finally I see, why they sent you.”

  For a moment, one last long moment, Mitchell made no reply. But sadness—regret—took time, and danger was coming closer: the two detectives, walking shoulder to shoulder now.

  “Here—” He took the thin forearm in his massive hand, drawing the other man away from the display window, toward the place he’d chosen, the alleyway close by. “Here, Elton. There’s something I’ve got to show you, something you’ve got to see, before we talk anymore.”

  “Yes—” Solemnly, the young man nodded. “Yes, I knew it—know it. That’s what I said, what I meant, when I said that I see. We’re together now, just the two of us. And nobody knows, will ever know.”

  “Please—quick. Quick.” Tightening his grip, he looked a last time backward, calculating the distance, therefore the time. If the sidewalk was brightly lit, neon glaring, the alley was dark—and, yes, deserted. Thank God, deserted.

  No, God couldn’t come into it, not now, not tonight. God must be blind tonight. Mercifully, charitably blind.

  “Here—” A final tug, and they were alone in the darkness: the damp-smelling, garbage-reeking darkness. Momentarily alone.

  He released Elton’s forearm, stepped one pace back, dropped his left arm, gripped the pipe with his right hand as it fell free from the sleeve.

  “Hey—” Canelli pointed. “Hey. Where’d they go?”

  “Come on—” Sprinting ahead, fighting free of
pedestrians, Hastings reached across his body and yanked his revolver from its spring holster. Beside him, slightly behind, Canelli was loudly swearing. Five running strides took Hastings to Ellis Street: two lanes of traffic, jammed bumper to bumper. Throwing up his left arm, he drew back from a bouncing front bumper, heard brakes protesting, tires squealing, horns blaring, drivers shouting.

  “Hold it,” the two detectives called in unison, bobbing, weaving, shouting obscenities. “Police. Hold it.”

  Until, finally, they were on the opposite sidewalk, wildly running, both of them already breathing hard.

  As the pipe fell free from his left sleeve, Mitchell grasped it firmly with his right hand. Holding the pipe low, concealed along his right leg, invisible in the alleyway darkness, Mitchell raised his left arm, pointing back to the brightly lit street. Instantly—mercifully—Elton turned his head, following the gesture. Mitchell raised the pipe, asked for forgiveness, brought the pipe down on the narrow, unprotected head, striking squarely on center. Sighing softly, twisting, Elton fell to his knees, sighed again, toppled to his left side, his face striking the pavement. Once more the pipe flashed up, then down again, this time sinking into the crushed bone of the skull, a bloody pulp.

  He dropped the pipe beside the body, knelt, ripped at the hip pocket, found the wallet. He took the money, dropped the wallet beside the pipe, straightened, thrust the money in his jacket pocket as he began walking fast down the alley, away from Mason Street. As he walked, keeping close to the buildings, in deepest shadow, he looked over his shoulder, scanning the mouth of the alley. The rectangle of light from Mason Street limned the shape of the dead body, already shapeless, strangely amorphous.

  Arriving first at the alley, Hastings threw himself against a brick building front, raised the muzzle of his revolver, held his breath, listening. Then, pivoting as he crouched, legs spread wide, revolver level, he sprang forward, into the dark rectangle of the alley’s mouth, darker still beyond the glare of the street.

  “Jesus,” he muttered seeing the body. “Jesus Christ.” With Canelli behind him, covering, Hastings knelt, cocked his head, looked into the dead face, its left cheek flattened against the slime of the uneven paving bricks. In the uncertain light, the slime had a pale, silverescent sheen, a contrast to the dark, fluid crimson of the blood.

  Elton Holloway. Dead.

  Not Mitchell dead. But Elton.

  As Canelli began to speak, Hastings sharply raised his hand as he straightened from his crouch, turned to face down the long, dark length of the alley.

  “Shhh. Listen.”

  What was it, that soft scurry of sound? Footsteps? Rats? Imagination, abetted by a cop’s sudden fear of dark, silent places?

  With a working radio, they could call for backup, get lights, get the other end of the alley covered, get shotguns. Working in unison, a trained team, four men could slowly, carefully flush him out, nobody hurt—

  —nobody killed.

  “He’s got to be here somewhere,” Hastings whispered. “He didn’t have time to make it to the other end.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep to the sides, out of the light.”

  “Right.”

  Moving to his left, picking his way through the nauseous litter of plastic refuse bags and raw garbage, crouched low, Hastings began silently advancing.

  Standing motionless in the shadow of a doorway, he stripped off the surgical gloves, dropped them behind a dumpster, unbuttoned his jacket, drew the .45 automatic from its shoulder holster. Was there a cartridge in the chamber? To make sure, he must pull back the slide, let it slam forward, carrying a cartridge from the clip into the receiver. But the sound, in the silence of the alley, would betray him. So, gambling, he must cock the gun: two clicks, drawing the hammer through half cock to full cock.

  He couldn’t run. He’d never been a runner. So he must wait for them. He must take careful aim, must squeeze the trigger—and hope the gun fired.

  With his back pressed hard against the steel of the door, pistol raised, ready to fire, he drew a long, deep breath. He could feel the hammering of his heart, hear the rush of blood at his temples.

  But he could control it, control his body. However the heart hammered, the blood rushed, the demons raged, his mind was still clear, his hand still steady.

  What had to be done was done, finally finished. They’d been created together, Elton the infant, himself already a man, both of them created by the same man.

  But first, the hunted tracking the hunters, he must identify the sound of approaching footsteps, must separate that sound from the other sounds of the hostile night. He must distinguish substance from shadow, movement from stillness. He must find them, sight them over the barrel of his pistol.

  Then he must kill them.

  Kill them, and escape, return to the father who had just lost a son.

  In the deadly silence of the alleyway, the night sounds were individualized, eerily clarified: a distant siren, the thunder of a departing jet, rock music, auto horns, someone crying, someone swearing—all of them concealing a soft shuffle of footsteps on paving stones, a rustle of clothing, the metallic scrape of a weapon: the sounds of the urban jungle, the sounds of life or death.

  Across the alley, the squared-off shape of a dumpster cast a long, dark shadow. Above the dumpster, light from a second-story window fell on a building wall beside Hastings. If Mitchell was crouched beside the dumpster, and Hastings stepped into the rectangle of light …

  The thought—the fear—had locked his knees, forced his back sharply against the rough brick wall, numbed him at his center, closed his throat, left him momentarily helpless. If he were alone, he could have gotten out of it, gone back the way he’d come, to the safety of Mason Street.

  But Canelli was there, his witness.

  And he was there, Canelli’s witness.

  So, separately, each of them trembling inside themselves, secretly afraid, they must nevertheless continue this deadly game, each fearing disgrace more than death. They must—

  Across the alley, from the shadow of a doorway, pale light glinted on moving metal: a gun barrel, tracking him. As he dropped facedown, the shots sounded. Bullets screamed, ricocheting: one shot, and another. And another. He was rolling—once, twice, bricks bruising elbows and knees: a merciful pain, better than the bullets tearing into his flesh. He was on his feet now, crouched, springing across the alley, crashing against the clanging side of the dumpster.

  Safe.

  “Canelli. You okay?”

  “Okay, Lieutenant.” The reply came from across the alley. Good. When Canelli saw him cross to this side, Canelli had crossed to the opposite side and crouched low behind a row of garbage cans, safe.

  Both of them, safe.

  “He’s in the doorway, on this side. Ten feet up the alley.”

  “Right.”

  And now, yelling: “Give it up, Mitchell. Throw it down. You’ve got—”

  Footsteps, clattering: slow, clumsy footsteps, running.

  Exposing only his head and his revolver, Hastings looked, saw him: Mitchell, shoulders hunched, head down, legs pumping slow-motion: an old man, running, escaping.

  “Hold it. Freeze.”

  Across the alley, with his torso showing above the garbage cans, Canelli was crouched over his gun, holding the big .357 Magnum with both hands, head low, crouching in the approved departmental stance.

  “Hold it.” Hastings raised his gun, fired in the air. Above him, a woman screamed, a man was shouting, loudly swearing.

  As if he’d been hit, Mitchell suddenly faltered, fell heavily to the pavement.

  Was he giving it up? Was he—?

  “No—” Canelli yelled. “Don’t.”

  But the big man in the blue business suit was on one elbow, lifting his arm, raising his hand, aiming the pistol at Canelli—

  —as Canelli fired. Once. Twice.

  The first shot drove Mitchell back again
st the pavement, his head smacking the bricks like a rotten melon.

  With the second shot the big man’s body bucked, as if he’d been kicked hard. Then he lay still, with only the fingers of one hand slightly twitching.

  30

  AS HOLLOWAY CHECKED HIMSELF in the bathroom mirror, then raised his wrist to check the time, Flournoy spoke through the open bathroom door:

  “I still say you should think about this, Austin. It’s too early. You should be in seclusion, not talking to reporters. Besides, you don’t know what they know—what they’ve found out from the police.”

  “It’ll take the police days to decide how they’re going to handle this, what they’re going to do. They’ll be looking for guidance. That’s what I intend to give them. Guidance.” He turned away from the mirror, walked into the living room. Dressed in funereal dark blue, Flournoy was standing in the middle of the room. His expression was grave.

  “Austin, we’ve got to talk.”

  “It’s ten o’clock. We told the reporters ten o’clock.”

  “I think you should wait for Harlan, Austin, before you make any public statements. I really do. He’s probably at the airport by now. You should wait for him.”

  Decisively, Holloway shook his head. “I don’t want to talk to the press with a lawyer beside me. That’s begging the question, a presumption of guilt. You should understand that, Herbert.”

  “I’m not saying you should have him beside you on camera. That’s not what I’m saying. But you should talk to him, get his advice, before you go ahead with this.”

  “Herbert, the few times I’ve ever taken other people’s advice on what to say, it’s been disastrous. I learned long go that whatever it is we’re selling, it comes from me—from deep down inside me, from my subconscious, if you will. When I keep to that—when I’m talking from deep inside, operating on instinct, that’s when I’m most effective. And that’s what I intend to do now downstairs. I think I know what needs to be done. I have faith that when I start speaking, the words will be there.”