Victims

by Collin Wilcox

  “Now stay there. Stay in the car. Roll up the windows, and lock the door.” Ignoring the driver’s protests, I pocketed the keys and my shield, then gestured for Canelli to join me as I walked between the pickup and the Porsche to the sidewalk. Less than a hundred feet separated us from the Mercedes, still standing with its driver’s door open on the downhill side, toward us. The car was completely blocking the sidewalk. Inside the car, I saw movement. Durkin was sliding across the front seat toward the passenger’s door, on the car’s uphill side.

  “Has he seen us?” Canelli asked.

  “I don’t know. You take this side. I’ll take the passenger side.”

  “Right.”

  Walking shoulder to shoulder, in unison, we unbuttoned our jackets, loosened our revolvers in their holsters.

  Did Durkin have a gun? A knife? Would he—?

  “Hey,” Canelli exclaimed sharply. “Hey.”

  On the far side of the car, the passenger door suddenly swung open. Durkin was out of the car. He was running up the sidewalk, away from us.

  Dodging a casually strolling man and a young woman wheeling a baby in a stroller, I drew my revolver. I began running, shouting, “Police. Hold it there, Durkin. Hold it.”

  Head down, arms pumping, legs driving like pistons, Durkin ignored the command. Beside me, running, Canelli was already panting. “Goddam,” he gasped, “he can run.”

  “Use your walkie-talkie,” I panted. “Make a call. Then catch up.”

  At the Mercedes, Canelli broke stride, stopped, switched on the radio. Ahead, Durkin suddenly dodged to his left—and disappeared. At the same moment, I heard a child’s voice, close beside me.

  “Hey. What’d he do? What Bruce do?”

  Looking down, I saw John Kramer running beside me.

  “Go back,” I gasped, returning my gaze to the spot where Durkin had disappeared. And now I saw two brick pillars that marked the beginning of concrete stairs leading up the hill. Seeing them, I remembered: Parts of Telegraph Hill were protected from real estate development with trees and underbrush as thick as a forest.

  “Are you going to shoot him? Are you?”

  I decided to save my breath, not answer.

  “Are you?” John demanded loudly. He was ahead of me now, running easily. Behind me, Canelli was shouting that he was coming. I was at the foot of the stairs, with the boy beside me. The stairs rose steeply for two flights, with a single landing between. Beyond the stairs, a dirt pathway curved to the right, disappearing among thick-growing scrub trees.

  Two teenage boys, both Chinese, stood midway up the first flight of stairs. They were looking up the hill, toward the narrow, forested pathway. Climbing toward them, I took my shield case from my pocket. One of the boys turned, looked at the shield, looked at my gun, then nudged his companion with one hand while he pointed up the hill with the other hand. Like John, his eyes widened with excitement.

  “He went that way,” the youth said. “Up there. Running like hell.” Then, puzzled, he looked down at John. Canelli was on the stairs below me now, puffing as he climbed.

  “Listen—” I gripped the taller teenager’s arm, pointing down to the street below. “There’ll be police here in a few minutes. Backup. Tell them we’re up here. My name is Hastings. Lieutenant Hastings. Tell them I’m in pursuit of a fugitive. Hot pursuit.”

  “Yeah. Right. Come on, Richard.” He grabbed his friend’s arm.

  “And take him with you.” I pointed to John. Then I turned to Canelli, pointing up the hill. “He’s there. Up there. Off the pathway.” And to the teenage boy I said, “Did you see which way he turned?”

  “To the right, it looked like. He followed the path, is all I could see.”

  “It goes up the hill,” John piped. “Up to Coit Tower. I go up there all the time, up those paths.”

  “All right—” I nodded to the taller teenager. “Go on—take him. Get him out of here. What’s your name?”

  “Wayne. Wayne Gee.”

  “Well, take him, Wayne, and don’t—”

  “But I don’t wanna go,” John shrilled. “I wanna go with you. I wanna—”

  “Listen, John—” I bent double, grasping his shoulder, hard. With my face inches from his, I said, “You’re not going with us. You’re going down to the sidewalk, with Wayne. Either you go with him, or you’ll spend another night in the Youth Guidance Center. And that’s a promise. Understand?”

  Suddenly his face clouded—then stubbornly hardened. I’d seen that expression before, when he was making his mother obey his querulous demands. With Durkin escaping and darkness falling, I was wasting valuable seconds arguing with a spoiled child.

  “Oh, Jesus—” I relaxed my grip. Pleading now: “Please. Go down the stairs. He could have a gun. You could be shot, if you go with us. You could be killed, for God’s sake.”

  “Then I wanna stay here,” he answered petulantly. “Right here, on the stairs. Besides, you never showed me your handcuffs. And you promised.”

  Desperate, I straightened, turned to the younger teenager. “You watch for our backup, down on the street, Richard. Tell them what’s happened, where we are. And you—” I turned to Wayne. “You stay here, with him.” Vehemently I pushed John toward the youth. “Keep him here. Hold him here. Any way you want, just hold him.”

  “Right—” Wayne stepped closer to John. Wayne’s face was serious; his arms flexed purposefully.

  I returned the shield to my pocket and started up the stairs, with Canelli beside me. Overhead, the trees grew thick. In seconds, we were on the path. Ahead, to the right, the path forked. The shadows around us were deepening fast.

  “Jeez, Lieutenant,” Canelli said uneasily, “he could be anywhere up here, and we’d never see him.”

  “I know.” At the intersection of the two leaf-strewn pathways now, I pointed to the steepest one. “Let’s try that.”

  “Do you think he’s got a gun?” Canelli whispered.

  “I didn’t see one.”

  The uphill path was narrower, forcing us to walk in single file. Below us, I thought I could hear John’s voice, still protesting shrilly. I wondered whether Wayne was restraining him. Then I heard the sound of a police siren. I remembered the pickup truck, blocking traffic—and remembered the driver’s keys, still in my pocket. By now, Telegraph Hill’s closed-circuit traffic would be stopped cold. Unless the pickup had been pushed into a driveway, clearing traffic, our backup would have to walk the last half mile.

  “Jeez,” Canelli breathed, looking apprehensively from side to side, “this is like jungle warfare, or something.”

  With the light failing, it was impossible to see more than a few feet into the tangle of trees beside the path. As we continued uphill, I was trying to decide on my next move. If Durkin kept away from Telegraph Place and off the pathways, he could easily stay concealed on the forested hillside until darkness fell. Then he could walk out anywhere, join with other pedestrians. There was no way we could deploy enough men to seal off Telegraph Hill, even in full daylight. Durkin could—

  From behind and below, from the direction we’d just come, I heard a thin, sharp voice: unmistakably John’s voice. Instantly, another voice joined his. Both voices were startled—then alarmed. Then frightened.

  “That’s the kid,” Canelli said. “John.”

  “Give it to me.” I took the walkie-talkie, described the public stairway where he’d left John, and called an emergency. As I talked, transmitting in the blind, I walked back down the hill, taking the lead. I released the radio’s “transmit” button, handed the radio back to Canelli. We couldn’t wait for an acknowledgment.

  Fifty feet ahead, the narrow path we were using joined the wider path, which led downhill to our left, opening on the concrete pedestrian stairway.

  Could we be seen from the stairs when we ventured out onto the wider pathway?

  “Let’s take it easy,” I said over my shoulder. “Slow and easy, single file.”

  “Right.”

/>   As I spoke, I saw a young couple walking fast along the wide path ahead, going downhill. They’d heard the cries, and were going to help.

  “Hey—” I called softly to them, once more taking out my shield. This time, I pinned the badge to my lapel, ordering Canelli to do the same.

  Uncertainly, the young couple hesitated, staring open-mouthed at my revolver. Then the girl nudged her companion, pointing to my chest. She’d seen the shield. When I beckoned for them to join us on the narrow, tree-arched tunnel of the smaller pathway, they obeyed.

  “This is police business,” I said. “You stay here, out of sight. Anyone else that comes, tell them to do the same. Don’t let them get out on those stairs. Okay?”

  Excited, they nodded in unison. “Yes,” the girl breathed. “Okay.” I saw the boy nudge the girl, then slip his arm around her waist. This day they would long remember.

  I stepped cautiously into the wide path, looking to my left, toward the stairs. The upper flight of stairs was deserted. But, because of the angle, the topmost step cut off my view of the lower flight, below the single landing.

  “Okay—” I gestured for Canelli to follow me, then motioned for him to walk to my right, close to the trees. To the left, I did the same.

  As we drew closer to the top step, cautiously advancing, the lower flight of stairs came slowly into view. And then I saw them: first the top of Durkin’s head, then the taller Chinese youth’s head.

  I saw the shorter teenager’s head.

  Then John’s head.

  Then I saw Durkin’s right arm, cocked. The right hand held a large rock.

  “Christ,” Canelli said. “Jesus Christ. Look at that.”

  “You stay here,” I said. “Call it in. Stay out of sight. Stay on the radio until you find out about backup. Make sure the backup’s got an officer, and tell him what we’ve got here. Make sure they’ve got shotguns. Let’s take it slow and easy. Clear?”

  “Yessir.” Canelli stepped back out of sight, holstered his weapon and switched on the walkie-talkie.

  Durkin had seen me—seen my head and shoulders. In recognition, challenging me, he called out a garbled obscenity. His eyes blazed, locked with mine.

  I drew a deep, shaky breath, holstered my gun, then began walking down the stairs, one slow, deliberate step at a time. As I descended, the scene below came fully into view. Durkin was crouched about ten steps up from street level, with his back pressed against the brick retaining wall that ran up the hill on either side of the steps. He held John clamped close to his body, using the same stranglehold taught in the police academy. The rock, half as large as John’s head, was held in Durkin’s big, muscular right hand, about a foot from the boy’s head. Both Durkin and John were facing me. Wayne, the taller of the two teenagers, was also on the steps, about halfway between Durkin and the street. The shorter Chinese youth, the one I’d told to direct our backup, was at street level, surrounded by a knot of spectators. He was pointing up the stairs. Anxious, avid faces followed his gesture.

  “I’ll smash his skull,” Durkin screamed at me. “You try to take me, I’ll smash his skull.”

  I extended my arms out from my body, palms to the front. “I’m not trying to take you, Durkin.” I descended another step. Only a dozen steps separated us now.

  “You will, though, you son of a bitch. You, and all the rest of them.”

  “Listen, Durkin—” I took another step—and another. I could see every detail of John Kramer’s face. His eyes, enormous, were fixed on mine. But I couldn’t see fear in his eyes, only a kind of frozen fascination. His mouth was clamped shut, his chin was firm. Incredibly, he didn’t appear frightened. Even when he momentarily turned his head to look at the rock, he didn’t flinch.

  “Listen, Durkin, you aren’t doing yourself any good, you know. You’re—”

  “That’s far enough. Stop right there.”

  “Okay—” Quickly, I obeyed. Less than ten feet between us. If I could brace myself, I could throw a tackle. In moments, Canelli would be on him, too.

  But what would happen to the boy in the struggle, crashing down the concrete stairs? Even if the rock missed him, he could strike his head on the steps. A concussion could follow, even death.

  “Take out your gun,” Durkin ordered.

  I shook my head. “No. Not the gun.”

  “I can kill him, with this—” Like some furious, half-coherent caveman, he brandished the huge rock. “And I will, too. I’ll smash his fucking head.”

  “You can’t have the gun, Durkin. No way.”

  “You’d better give it to me. I’ll give you three. I’ll count to three. Then I’m going to smash his fucking—”

  “You’re going to murder a six-year-old kid? In front of witnesses? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I’m telling you that I want the gun. And I—I want out. That’s what I’m telling you. I’m telling you that I’m not going back inside. It—it was an accident, what happened with Quade. It was a fucking accident, and there’s no way I’m going to pay, no way I’m going to—” Suddenly, hysterically, his voice broke. I saw tears in his eyes, streaking his cheeks. John, age six, was dry-eyed. But Durkin, with his weight lifter’s muscles and his bully-boy eyes, was losing control.

  If I could keep him talking, I could take him.

  “You say it was an accident,” I said. “If that’s true, tell us about it. But don’t do this, for God’s sake. Don’t do this to yourself. You’ll just—”

  Involuntarily, I broke off as I caught sight of Wayne, half concealed behind Durkin. Crouched low, the teenager was slowly, purposefully advancing on the man and the boy, from three or four steps below. Instantly—incredulously—I realized what was about to happen. The youth was going to attack Durkin.

  I must keep Durkin talking, must keep his attention fixed on me. “You’ll just make it worse for yourself, doing this. Because there’s no way you’re going to win, Durkin. Not like this. You’ll only—”

  I saw Wayne’s body snap straight, saw his hands reach for the rock. In the same instant, sensing the movement behind him, Durkin turned to face the threat, drawing back the rock, poised to strike. As I leaped forward, I called out for Canelli. My leap was short; my left foot struck the edge of the third step below, throwing me off balance. But my right foot found solid purchase; my body was arching forward, committed. I caught Durkin with both arms around the waist. John was down on the steps beneath me, screaming. I braced myself, heaved, felt Durkin stagger, fall off balance. The rock crashed on the steps, bounced once. With my arms still locked around Durkin’s waist, with my face fast against his chest, I heaved again. We were falling together, grappling, rolling down the sharp, cruel concrete steps. Wayne was calling out for his friend: “Richard, Richard.” Durkin was struggling with a wild man’s strength, almost free of my grasp. I must hold on, must keep my arms locked around him, keep my head pressed to his chest, keep close to him, protected from his flailing arms. Wherever he went, I thought wildly, he’d have to drag me—me and Wayne—still clinging to Durkin’s right arm. As the three of us tumbled down the stairs, we were—

  A shot exploded close above me. And a second shot. My ears were ringing; I couldn’t hear what Canelli was shouting.

  But, suddenly, I felt Durkin’s body go slack.

  Instantly, I rolled free, backed away, staggered to my feet, drew my revolver. Durkin was on his knees, head hanging, his body pressed against the brick retaining wall. Was he wounded? Had Canelli shot him? At the thought, numbly, I shook my head. Canelli couldn’t have done it—shouldn’t have done it. Crouched over my revolver, I asked, “Is he all right?”

  “He’s all right,” Canelli answered. “He’s okay, don’t worry.”

  Still crouched on all fours, still with his head hanging low, still with his body pressed close to the brick wall, Durkin looked like a refugee who’d been caught in an air raid, cravenly cowering, dumbly trying to save himself from terror from above. The two Chinese youths stood back fr
om Durkin, looking solemnly down at him. The boldest of the onlookers came closer. They were staring at Durkin as if he were an animal behind bars. Wayne was daubing at a bloody nose—and smiling widely. Suddenly, exuberantly, Richard pounded him on the back, as if he’d scored a touchdown, or made a game-winning basket. Both boys were talking Chinese—laughing boisterously—pounding each other.

  “Hey—” It was John’s voice, behind me. Keeping my gun trained on Durkin, I put my left arm around the boy’s shoulders, drawing him close.

  “Are you all right, John?”

  Looking up into my face, he nodded gravely. Then, in a hushed voice, he said, “He didn’t hurt me. But he sure scared me.”

  My sudden laugh tittered on hysteria’s edge, the backwash of fear, of my adrenaline’s rush.

  “He scared me, too, John. Anybody’s not scared of someone like that, he’s crazy.”

  “I always hated him,” the boy answered seriously. “I always did.”

  For a moment we stood silently, close together, while Canelli holstered his revolver and handcuffed the suspect. Still with his head hanging low, Durkin made no move to resist. Once his hands were cuffed behind his back, Canelli offered to let him rise to his feet, but the suspect only shook his head. From down below, more of the onlookers began venturing up the stairs for a closer look at the beaten captive. The spectators who stayed below were pointing, babbling among themselves.

  I holstered my revolver and looked closely at John. “You’re not hurt, are you? Anywhere?”

  He lifted his arm, twisted so I could see a scraped elbow, oozing blood. “That’s all.”

  “Good.” I kept my arm around his shoulders. “As soon as our backup comes—more police—I’ll take you to your mother. Okay?” As I drew him close to me, I remembered how it used to feel, holding my own son close, comforting him.

  For a moment he didn’t reply. Then, still speaking in a slow, somber voice, he said, “I want my daddy, too. I want to see my daddy. Can I see him?”

  I took a deep breath. “Soon, maybe. Not right now. But maybe soon.”

  As he nodded, I felt him grasp the slack of my trousers. It was another long-forgotten moment of precious memory: the small, trusting hand, holding on.