by Curt Colbert
“Leaving town, son?” Harry brushed the box aside and hoisted Matt to his feet. “I thought you had a job to do.”
Resignation washed over Matt. There was no point lying or being scared. They’d tagged him at the police department. They’d probably been watching him all day.
“Where’s my car?”
“On the way to impound. Would you believe it was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant? But I wouldn’t worry about that. You have other things to worry about.”
Harry signaled and the familiar SUV pulled a U-turn in the street and stopped in front of them. Stein was behind the wheel; Chalmers and Tripplehorn weren’t around. Harry jammed Matt into the rear of the vehicle and Stein reversed back into traffic. Stein kept to downtown, driving for a bit with no particular destination in mind.
“You betrayed us, Matt,” Harry said eventually.
Stein shook his head and said nothing.
“You wanted me to kill a man.”
“He killed a child.”
“But I can’t kill him. That would make me no different.”
Harry snorted. “If you don’t kill him, you’re no different than him. He’s a coward and so are you.”
This logic made Matt’s head swim. He wasn’t an executioner and the Taskmasters had no right thinking they could be either.
“Hang a left here,” Harry instructed.
Stein turned down an alley and stopped the SUV in front of a tow-away zone. Harry flipped Matt over and zip-tied his hands together. Both men dragged him from the vehicle and shoved him through a doorway. Matt didn’t know where he was. Panic blinded him.
The cops dragged him up flight after flight of stairs. Matt knew he should be pleading for his life, but he didn’t have the words. What argument was there worth making for saving his life?
Stein kicked open a door and the three of them ended up on a rooftop amongst vents and air-conditioning units. The sun had long escaped over the horizon. The streets below were alive with activity—everyone looking forward, but not up.
Harry shoved Matt down onto his knees and put a revolver against his forehead. Matt closed his eyes and waited for the trigger to be pulled.
“Open your eyes,” Harry growled.
Before Matt had a chance to respond, Stein kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling onto his face. With his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t lift himself up. Harry lifted him back to his knees, then bent forward and put his face in Matt’s.
“Play time is over, son. You’ve got to make your mind up. Are you going to kill this guy? Because if you aren’t,” Harry cocked the revolver, “you know we can’t have you knowing what you know.” Harry straightened and pointed the gun at Matt’s forehead again. “What’s it to be, son?”
Matt stared at the muzzle. Kill or be killed. What a choice. He would have liked to tell Harry to go to hell, but the man was probably right about him. He was a coward.
“I’ll kill him,” Matt said.
“Are you sure about that? I don’t want you repeating this disappearing act tomorrow night.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your head for your trophy room,” Matt snarled.
Harry smiled and lowered the gun. “Good.” He nodded to Stein, who cut Matt’s wrists free.
“I think you can find your own way back,” Stein said.
The Taskmasters headed for the stairs.
Reaching the doorway, Harry said, “And I wouldn’t think about running. Your picture is in the hand of every cop down at the bus station and train station. You could always thumb a ride or even steal one out of town, but know this: We’re watching you. You’re on a very tight leash from now on. Oh, and Matt…”
Matt looked up.
“You’ve got two nights. If Terrance Robinson isn’t wearing a toe tag by then, you will be.”
Terrance Robinson smiled and shook hands with the young couple. Their loan application must have been successful judging from their broad smiles. When the couple walked away, Robinson beckoned to Matt. Robinson walked him through the loan application procedure. He was very thorough and Matt nodded at all the right times. Robinson printed out an application, then excused himself while Matt completed the form.
Matt scanned the paperwork, then wrote across the top of the form: You’re a hit-and-run killer.
Robinson returned to his desk and Matt handed him the application. The color drained from the loan manager’s face as the sheet of paper slipped from between his fingers. A response failed to make it past his lips.
“I know you killed that little girl and I’ve been sent to kill you.”
“I… I… didn’t.”
Matt held up a hand to silence Robinson’s gibbering. “Doesn’t matter. It’s been decided that you have to die.”
Robinson’s eyes flitted from person to person in the bank.
“They can’t help you.” Matt let him see the gun tucked into the front of his pants. “It’s closing time in a few minutes. Just excuse yourself early. You’re having a business meeting with me. Make a fuss and you’ll still have to explain the girl you killed. It’s a no-win for you. Are we cool?”
Robinson nodded.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Matt followed Robinson to the tellers. He told them he was leaving, then Matt guided him out the doors and onto the street. This was the tricky part. Robinson kept his car parked in a garage two blocks away. It wasn’t an inconsiderable distance in itself, but it was when there were hundreds of people filling the street and you had a frightened hostage in tow. But holding the barrel of the gun where Robinson could feel it kept him docile.
Matt made Robinson drive. When he pulled onto the street, Matt scanned for the Taskmasters. He didn’t spot them but he sensed them shadowing his every move. He couldn’t imagine them not being there at the kill. They’d still be worrying about him. Oh yeah, they would be close.
“Don’t shoot me,” Robinson squeezed out between sobs.
“You brought this on yourself. You shouldn’t have killed that girl.”
“I didn’t.”
“The least you could do is man up here.”
Robinson shook his head. “They sent you, didn’t they?”
Matt went cold. Robinson knew the Taskmasters. That couldn’t be right. “Who’s they? ”
“Jesus, I told them I wouldn’t say anything. I even paid them. Ten grand. All the money I have. I should’ve known they’d send someone to get me. Lying bastards.”
Robinson’s ramble came out too fast for Matt to take in. “Whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?”
“The cops. I saw them kill that guy. Shot him in the face. I’d never seen anyone die before. It was horrible. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s so stupid. I shouldn’t have been there. Wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t needed to take a short cut through the alley to Spring Street. I didn’t want to pay for parking and I have a space I use sometimes. Christ, I tried to save a buck and it’s cost me everything.”
The revelations slammed into Matt one after another. But instead of leaving him punch drunk, they gave him clarity. Pieces fell into place of a much larger picture.
Robinson had broken down into nonsensical sobs. If he didn’t get his shit together, he was going to crash the car.
“Hey, snap out of it. I need you straight. This guy you saw killed, what’d he look like?”
“I don’t know. Skinny. Hispanic. All I saw was the hole in his forehead and four pissed-off cops.” Robinson stared at Matt. He’d picked up on Matt’s change of heart.
Some things had changed. Some things hadn’t.
“Keep driving.”
“Do I get a last request?” Robinson asked.
“What?”
“All condemned men are granted a last request.”
“What is it?”
With a shaking hand, Robinson reached inside his jacket. Matt’s grip tightened on his gun and he fixed his aim on Robinson’s stomach just in case the bank worker carried a w
eapon. Instead, Robinson brought out a phone.
“Can I call my family?” Tears ran down his face. “Just this last time?”
Matt was softhearted but not soft in the head. He snatched the phone away. “No way. Do I look retarded? I’m not giving you the green light to call 911.”
Robinson broke down. Matt examined the phone. He wasn’t too up on these things but it looked to be the latest in cell phone technology.
“Does this thing have video capability on it?”
Robinson palmed away his tears. “Yes.”
Matt punched in a number and waited for an answer. “It’s me. I’m going through with it. I’ll be at the clubhouse as arranged.” He hung up.
Robinson looked at him with questioning fear. “There’ll be others?”
“Don’t look so worried. This’ll all be over soon.”
Matt directed Robinson to the derelict restaurant on Yesler that served as the Taskmasters’ clubhouse. He pulled Robinson out of the car and shoved him toward the rear of the building, ignoring the slowing sedan across the street.
The backdoor wasn’t as fortified as the front. Matt kicked it in without too much trouble. The dead bolt remained intact, but the rotted frame gave way. He pushed Robinson inside the building and into a large dining area. He wished he had the keys to the main doors; he only had one means of escape. He stopped Robinson by a table with a missing leg.
“Show me how to record a message.”
Robinson helped Matt record two video messages of him, one for his family and the other about the hit he witnessed.
“I’ll send these when it’s all over.”
“Thank you.”
Up until this point, there’d been a pleading element to Robinson. Everything from his posture to his expression had revealed a thin hope that Matt wouldn’t go through with the execution—but not anymore. He knew these were his last moments on earth.
“Facedown, please.” Matt pointed to a nook which must have served as some sort of station for the waitstaff. Robinson did as he was told and lay in the dirt and rubble without complaint. “I’m sorry to put you through this, but it should be all over soon.”
Matt waited for a response, but Robinson said nothing.
Matt took a breath, aimed, and fired the gun twice.
With the reports still bouncing off the walls, the Taskmasters, in uniform, poured in through the rear entrance with guns drawn and spread out until they each had Matt in their sights.
“Drop the gun!” Harry shouted.
Matt dropped the gun and raised his hands. “I figured this would come next. There’s no Taskmasters. No vigilante hit squad. Just a group of dirty cops who got seen killing a pimp. Who was Hernandez?”
“A scumbag who didn’t want to pay a toll for working our streets,” Stein answered.
“You should have taken him up to the roof to do your business,” Matt said. “Fewer witnesses up there.”
Stein ground his jaw in quiet fury. Chalmers and Tripplehorn didn’t like having their noses rubbed in their own mess. Harry was the only one unaffected by Matt’s jibes.
“So I’m the patsy you need to take the fall for Robinson. What happens now? You shoot me, pin it all on me, and you guys walk off into the sunset?”
“I’m afraid so, son,” Harry said. “You’re just a punk kid, a loser who’s going to pay for our mistakes. I hate to do it to you, but it’s for the greater good.”
“You left it a little too late to get smart,” Tripplehorn added.
“Maybe not.” Matt nodded at the cell phone. “That’s one of those phones with the video camera built in. It’s recording right now.”
Chalmers cursed and shot the phone off the table.
“There’s still the problem of the murder you just committed,” Harry said. “You’re still a killer.”
“No, I’m an innocent man with a witness.”
Robinson rose awkwardly to his feet, looking dazed and confused. He stared at the two bullet holes in the ground to the right of his head.
“We’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Stein snarled, and made for Matt’s gun on the ground.
“Hold it right there!” a voice barked.
The Taskmasters froze as the men wearing King County Sheriffs’ windbreakers from the courthouse just a street away stormed the room through the upper level and kitchen area. The Taskmasters quickly surrendered and the sheriffs relieved them of their weapons. The Taskmasters cursed Matt—except for Harry, who just smiled.
Matt walked up to Harry. “You kept a tail on me to keep me from leaving, but you couldn’t stop me from using the phone. I’ve been talking to some friends.”
“I underestimated you,” Harry said, as a deputy cuffed him.
Matt grinned. He’d underestimated himself. “You said you’d make me a better man.”
“Enjoy this moment.” Harry leaned forward and whispered in Matt’s ear: “Smile while you can. Do you honestly think we’re the only Taskmasters inside the SPD?” He winked at Matt as the deputy hauled him away. “You’ve still got a lot of work ahead of you, son.”
WHAT PRICE RETRIBUTION?
BY PATRICIA HARRINGTON
Capitol Hill
Gus Maloney struggled awake, fighting the pain that shot electrical currents through his head. “Who the hell’s out there?” His words rasped, hurting his raw throat. The sound of his own voice thudded in his ears. His mouth tasted foul, like he’d been guzzling Lake Union’s polluted waters.
How long have I been out?
He pulled off his tangled blankets, belched, and tasted bile. He rubbed his gut.
When was the last time I ate?
The tin door to his shack rattled again.
I’ll kill Sweet Sue for making that racket!
“Mister Mayor, ya gotta get up.”
Gus swung his feet to the dirt floor and sat on his cot, elbows on thighs, and cradled his head in his hands. Then he ran a hand over the stubble of whiskers on his face. Slowly, it sunk through the fog in his brain. The voice yelling wasn’t Sweet Sue’s.
Gus staggered to the door and moved the heavy metal trunk he’d placed there. It was his insurance that no one could push the door open without him knowing. Dead drunk or not, his old cop instincts kicked in when trouble was about to kick him in his face.
When he pulled the makeshift door open, Muffler Man stepped back on his good leg. His face puckered up and his faded blue eyes stared over Gus’s right shoulder at nothing. He had his signature plaid wool scarf around his neck.
At the sight of Gus’s murderous scowl, Muffler Man hitched back a step. “We got bad news,” he said. He half turned around and nodded at the small woman standing behind him. “Me and Bets here, we been hollerin’ a long time.”
Gus looked around Muffler Man at Bets, who seemed scared as a kid about to be whipped. She didn’t return his look but bent her head and hunkered down inside the worn pea coat dwarfing her skinny body.
Gus had slept in his clothes and couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed them. His stink hung close. He felt like hell and looked worse. “Where’s Sweet Sue? Why the hell are you bothering me?”
Even with his alcohol-hazed brain, Gus knew something had gone very wrong in the camp. Like it or not, he’d been elected the “go to” man by its inhabitants. That’s because he was an ex-cop. Once the word had gotten out in the homeless camp set up below St. Mark’s Cathedral, Sweet Sue had started calling him “Mr. Mayor.” The label stuck. So did the responsibilities. He’d questioned himself. Why stay? But then he’d shrug. Why not!
Maybe it was Sweet Sue, the thin old relic who’d attached himself to Gus. The man had been drifting since he was a boy. He’d been called a tramp and a vagrant then, and not the niced-up label of homeless. Sweet Sue liked to say that he was Mr. Mayor’s “aide-de-homeless-camp.” Then he’d laugh his high-pitched cackle.
Just about everybody in the camp went by a street name. Sweet Sue’s came about because he liked to suck o
n hard candy and told over and over about hearing Johnny Cash sing “A Boy Named Sue” in San Quentin.
Mudflat Manor was a loose collection of pitched tents, tarps, and a few lean-tos set on the wooded hillside below the Episcopal cathedral. When the rains came, the place was a muddy, slippery slope. But Gus kept the camp clean, so to speak, so that the Seattle PD and the do-gooders, including the big church’s minister, left them alone. Gus didn’t allow dope dealers or druggies—he could be persuasive. And he made damn sure there weren’t any syringes or used condoms littering 10th Street in front of the cathedral. That way, the police and uptight citizens in the Capitol Hill neighborhood could pretend the homeless squatters didn’t exist. If they did, then they’d have to do something about them.
Gus let alkies like himself stay—if they didn’t make trouble. A core group of drifters and homeless came and went with the seasons. Before he’d gotten the news about his daughter and went on his bender, some had already left and headed south. It was closing in on November. The rains had started and the temperature dropped the last few nights.
Muffler Man’s fingers twitched at his pants legs. He looked away from Gus and mumbled, “I gotta say this: Sweet Sue’s hurt bad.”
Gus grabbed Muffler Man’s arm. “What happened? Where is he?”
Muffler Man stammered. “Huh-huh-Harborview. A dope dealer beat him up. He was a b-b-big black man. Wore his hair in them funny kind of braids. Sweet Sue tried to stop him peddling his dope. Had all kinds on him—kinda like a one-stop drugstore.”
“Why the hell didn’t you get me?”
Muffler Man stumbled back into Bets. “We tried. Honest. But you was worse’n dead—out cold.”
“Did the cops come? How’d Sue get to the hospital?”
Bets wrung her hands behind Muffler Man, her face crumpling like a child’s about to cry.
