by R. D. Cain
It was still morning; however, the alcoholics from the nearby shelters and halfway houses — turfed out at daybreak — were roaming the streets, going through garbage bins and dumpsters looking for thrown-away food or bottles from last night’s drunks.
Nastos’ phone rang. He put it on speaker so Carscadden could listen.
“Yeah?”
It was Dennehy. “Yeah, Nastos. I put a call in for a surveillance team, but they aren’t going to be ready to go for two more hours.”
“Hey, that’s not so bad.”
“No. The thing is, I have court this afternoon. So I can’t stick around.”
“Maybe we should stir the pot. Why don’t you go in there and ask some stupid questions about your dog? Try to spook him?”
“Not going to happen.”
Nastos looked at Carscadden. “We’ll need Viktor again. We can’t do this by ourselves.” Carscadden started dialing his phone. “I know he’s busy. Maybe he can send over one of his tough guys.”
Dennehy butted in. “I don’t think you get it, Nastos — you’re not sanctioned for this. Byrne and me are going; you have to go too.”
Nastos read the look on Carscadden’s face. It said not a chance. He said, “Yeah, no problem, Dennehy, whatever you say.”
Dennehy wasn’t falling for it. “So take a hike, Nastos. The pros will be here by one o’clock.”
“Sure thing, one sec. I just have to put my seatbelt on. You guys go first.”
“No, Nastos, you guys go first, you fucking asshole!”
Carscadden cut in. “Guys guys guys! Wait, I see him. I see him. Dennehy, your five o’clock position, coming up behind you on the sidewalk.”
Nastos peered ahead, squinting. A large, muscular man was walking on the sidewalk, one arm in a black sling, carrying a brown grocery bag with the other. He had a satchel over his shoulder. Most people would be bogged down by the awkward weight, but to Chavez it was nothing.
Nastos saw that Dennehy and Byrne turned and looked back slowly. Maybe because they moved in unison, the motion caught Chavez’s eye. He stopped in his tracks and stared.
Nastos shouted, “Carscadden, go!”
In one fluid movement, Carscadden started the car, hit the gas and veered out into traffic. Chavez initially backed away from Dennehy’s car, but when the cops started to open their doors, he charged Byrne on the passenger side before Byrne could get his gun out and draw down on him. Nastos lost his view of what was happening. When Carscadden stopped at the red light, Nastos bolted from the car and ran over to the east side of the road.
From there he saw the groceries strewn across the street and Chavez punching Byrne down to the ground. His target unarmed, with only one hand, Dennehy was unjustified to shoot despite having a perfect sight over the roof of the detective car. Chavez forced his way into the passenger side of the car and began climbing into the driver’s seat.
Dennehy pulled the door open and grabbed hold of Chavez around the neck. Nastos ran across the street, bulldozing through a throng of pedestrians mesmerized by the disturbance. Nastos heard a grinding from the engine as Chavez turned the key while the car was already running; repeated punches from Dennehy were having no effect on him. Dennehy was in awful physical shape, and watching him moving so frantically and being of such little use made Nastos feel that it was all on him to stop Chavez before he escaped.
Nastos was within ten paces when Chavez was able to push Dennehy free, throw the car in drive and hit the gas. Chavez lurched out into traffic, nearly running down a cyclist and speeding westbound on Wellesley Street.
Nastos shouted, “Dennehy!” to break him from his slack-jawed trance. Dennehy glanced back toward traffic, narrowly stepping out of the way of a city bus.
Nastos rushed over to Byrne and helped him up. Byrne shouted, “Go get him!”
Carscadden screeched up to Dennehy in his Ford Escape, facing the wrong way in a parking lane. He called, “Get in!”
Byrne said, “You guys go — I’ll stay with the vet.”
Dennehy and Nastos dove into the car. The tires squealed as he reversed, then sped west on Wellesley, cutting off traffic in all directions.
Dennehy was on his phone, calling in the stolen car — a black Pontiac Vibe with a yellow Support the Troops ribbon on the back — then, to drive the urgency home, told dispatch that it was driven by a person wanted for two murders. Nastos could barely see the car ahead with traffic so tight. When the line of cars came to a stop, Carscadden wheeled into the oncoming lane, paused at the intersection, then forced his way through. They were beginning to catch up when they arrived at Yonge Street, where they came to a dead stop.
Dennehy was in the back passenger seat with the window down and his head out, trying to catch a glimpse of his car. “He’s on foot, he’s on foot!” Dennehy jumped from the car despite the fact that it was still moving forward. He tried his best to maintain speed. Nastos sprang out, following. Chavez had ditched the car in the middle of the lane to stop traffic. He was going full speed into the subway access. Nastos shouted back to Carscadden, “Subway!”
Carscadden drove up on the sidewalk, getting his car clear of the road, to the horror of pedestrians, and leapt out running as well. He’d never catch up in the car with the road blocked. Nastos assumed the lead and soon enough Carscadden caught up with him. Together, the pair stormed down the concrete steps underground at top speed, slowed only by glancing collisions with pedestrians who were too slow to get to the side. Behind him Nastos heard Dennehy shouting, “Police! Watch out, coming through.”
Dennehy shouted into his phone. “You need to put a call in to your management to stop all of the Yonge trains. Do it now!”
A panhandler sucked back into the wall, sliding his guitar case back with his foot. A group of teens saw them coming and pulled an elderly Asian woman out of the way.
Nastos felt his legs slow, as if he was plodding through curing cement. He pushed forward on the main level around the crowd and through the turnstile. At the subway platform, he skidded to a stop and jerked his head from side to side, scanning both directions for any telltale movement to indicate which way Chavez had gone.
Carscadden was the first to catch up to Nastos, then Dennehy. “You’ve got the gun, Dennehy — take left, we’ll take right together. If he pops up between us, don’t do anything stupid like shoot until we’re clear.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Dennehy drew his gun out and went left down the platform. Nastos and Carscadden began searching through the crowd.
Carscadden approached a woman holding a baby who looked to be about six months old in a front pouch. “Ma’am, we have a police emergency here. You should get your little girl out of here.”
She looked at Carscadden, then Nastos. “Are you serious?”
“Lady, did you notice a frantic-looking Mexican guy?”
“No.”
“Good, but get the hell out of here anyway. He’s wanted for murder and he’s not going down without a fight.”
She took the hint and started making her way out. Others stayed, including a bunch of teenaged boys who seemed more interested in getting a good view of the show.
In a moment, for Nastos, the entire concourse, the city and the planet suddenly diminished to a cone-shaped space from his eyes to Chavez, who had appeared about forty feet away. He had stopped at the end of the platform, with nowhere to go but on the tracks. Chavez stood tall, his face in a snarl, narrow dark eyes like a predator’s. He was wearing all black, his pants and shirt, a black sling. His injured arm rested on a tan bag that was still slung over his opposite shoulder.
The people on the concourse seemed to understand that there was something going on between them. They backed off, a father tugging his toddler back, a teen tightening his grip on his girlfriend’s hand. Carscadden appeared from behind Nastos, taking a position on his left.
/> Chavez smiled, like he was seeing old friends. Nastos knew what he was about to say was a waste of time, but he said it anyway. “The cops are coming, Chavez. It’s over.”
Chavez glanced down the train tunnel, apparently deciding that it wasn’t worth the risk. He turned and began walking toward Nastos who bladed his body stance and prepared for a fight. Chavez dropped his bag to the ground, peeled off his coat, and threw it down on the tracks. He knelt down to the bag and pulled out an expandable baton, the kind cops carry, flicked it out to full length with a twist of his wrist and stood ready.
Nastos made quick judgments on the type of attack the wounded Chavez would be likely to launch but there was little time to make a counter plan.
“Nastos.” Chavez lunged, swinging at him. Nastos jumped back to avoid the metal baton. Carscadden rammed his shoulder into Chavez’s chest as if he was trying to push him down to the tracks but Chavez, although shorter, outweighed him and didn’t budge. Instead he rammed the butt end of the baton down on Carscadden’s back, driving him to the ground. Nastos leapt forward with a haymaker punch, landing it on Chavez’s jaw. Chavez slowed and Nastos hit him again, as hard as he could. It must have become at least somewhat annoying, because Chavez dismissed Carscadden with a final kick to the back, then turned on Nastos.
He swung full force with the baton, striking Nastos on his side, in the ribs. Nastos collapsed forward with a feeling that his body had been snapped in half. He saw Chavez’s arm raise to load for another swing, but it didn’t come There was screaming from somewhere above him.
Dennehy charged with his gun out. “Down, get down, you piece of shit, you’re under arrest!” Dennehy fired while running, but missed — it wasn’t that close.
Most of the crowd hit the ground immediately; the teenaged kids were the first to run, obscuring another chance for Dennehy to get some shots away. A woman’s two toddlers wandered away from her when she hit the deck. A big burly biker-looking guy scooped them up in his arms and carried them to the brick wall, shielding them with his body. Slowly, he scraped against the wall toward the exit. The mom followed him in a crouch, tentatively reaching for her children.
Carscadden made another attempt to push Chavez onto the tracks; again Chavez weaved and drove the baton into his back — this time, though, Chavez lost his grip on the weapon as Carscadden went down, and it clinked as it hit the subway tile. Nastos tried to reach for it, but his entire body locked up in pain when he extended his hand. He found himself bracing his arm over his ribs. It felt like he had to hold his guts in and when he breathed the pain was excruciating.
Carscadden was writhing on the floor. He rolled onto his back, unable to get up. Nastos saw that the baton had rolled to his feet and he picked it up.
He swung. Then he swung again. He aimed for Chavez’s forearm in the sling, trying to smash through it, visualizing the arm splintering like a dry stick. When Chavez tried to protect himself with the other arm, Nastos swung at that one. With every movement of his upper body, Nastos felt like he was going to break apart, but he swung again, this time at Chavez’s head.
The big man dropped to the ground, his face smashing into the cement platform, blood gushing from his mouth. Nastos knelt next to Carscadden.
“You’ll be okay.” Nastos meant it to be reassuring, but the way the words came out, it sounded more like a question.
Carscadden winced, but seemed comforted by having his back flat on the ground. He reached a hand up. “Help me up, would ya?”
Nastos tried to hold an arm out to help Carscadden, but it hurt his ribs too much. He found himself tucking his left arm in tight. Carscadden climbed his way up. “Cops must have found a coffee shop on the way over.”
Dennehy stormed over, red-faced, sucking air. The spectators were gone. Flanked by two uniformed officers, he kept his gun pointed at Chavez, who was slowly getting to his feet. “You’re under arrest for murder, Chavez.”
Nastos tapped the baton on Dennehy’s arm. When Dennehy saw that Nastos was offering it to him, he took it. Dennehy asked, “You going to be okay, Steve?”
Nastos nodded slowly. “Yeah, Brian. Thanks.”
Dennehy turned to one of the cops. “Go get him, guys.”
The cops started to advance, but Nastos stopped them. “Wait, wait! He only has one hand — you can’t cuff him. If we have to fight him, he could pull us onto the tracks.”
Dennehy said, “I called to have the trains stopped.”
Nastos countered, “Okay, you be the first to jump down and touch the third rail and tell me it’s not full of hydro. Let’s wait for a road sergeant with a Taser. He can’t go anywhere; he’s trapped. Let’s wait this out.”
Howling screeches came from the darkened subway tunnel, discordant and terrifying. It confirmed Nastos’ fear that the lines were still active. Chavez stood staring into the black tunnel, his arms — one shorter than the other and dripping blood — hanging by his sides. He was in rapture, his mouth hanging open, slowly reaching forward to the light on the front of the train. For the first time, Nastos noticed the scrapes, more like gouges, on his face. Fresh claw marks. A transient thought ran through his mind that the claw marks weren’t from them or from Byrne during the failed takedown at street level. They must have been from before.
Chavez turned back to Nastos and shouted over the noise of the train. “She’s dead. I killed her.”
Nastos shouted back, “You didn’t kill Lindsay; we found her. She’s alive.”
“Not Lindsay. You’ll see, Nastos.”
His words disappeared into the howls of the tracks. Nastos moved a pace after him, but Chavez was too fast. Nastos charged, reaching his hands out. “No, Chavez, no.”
In slow motion, he saw Chavez crouch to load his legs, like a sprinter in the starting blocks. His arms and legs exploded in motion, driving, pushing for flight. He leapt out into the path of the train, his back arched, arms thrust out in front, as if trying to fly; his black shirt, black pants, the black wrap over the amputated hand unfurling in the wind, flapping like a wing.
Later Nastos would swear that he felt Chavez’s shoes brush against his fingertips. He was that close — only a stride away from pulling him back. Nastos felt a strong yank on the collar of his coat. His feet slid on the smooth surface and he fell back onto his ass as the train blurred past, coming to a stop at the end of the tunnel, too late for Chavez Vega Alvarez.
It was twenty minutes before the train pulled back, revealing the mess beneath it. Limbs and head severed, skin wrapped around grease-stained raw meat.
Nastos sat on a bench, Carscadden at his side. Carscadden asked, “What the hell was he talking about?”
“I have no idea. The freak was delusional.”
Carscadden gulped water that a street cop had brought over from a vending machine. “He was so loaded up on drugs, it’s the only reason he survived the explosion.”
Nastos checked his cell phone; there were no messages. He thought of calling Madeleine, but decided to wait until he could get a better signal at ground level. Dennehy came over and joined them. “Thank Christ this mess isn’t going to a trial. Holy shit.”
Nastos nodded his agreement, then winced as he tried to straighten up. “My buddy Jacques needs a transfer from the Sexual Assault Unit. I want you to bring him into Homicide.”
Dennehy snorted. “That’s mighty gracious of me.”
“Hey, it’s the least —”
“Easy, easy, Nastos. Jacques is a good guy. I’ll bring him up. I owe you that.”
Dennehy squeezed the button on his police radio to silence its incessant beeping. He stepped away to have a conversation.
Nastos noticed the papers — no, wait, they were cards — that littered the station. He picked a few up. It was like a tarot card, but not like one he had ever seen before. The images were horrific. Monsters with multiple mouths eating themselves, blood and ent
rails everywhere.
He was interrupted by Dennehy. “We checked the history on this guy. He was a glorified serial killer in the Colombian army. Beaten as a child. They say he shot his whole family the day he joined up.”
Carscadden said, “Nice. To them a hero; to us a monster.”
Dennehy observed, “He was just a man, a victim. If he was thirty years younger he might be the one we were saving. Instead, his abuse was rewarded with neglect; he resented the world and eventually we killed him for it.”
Nastos replied, “Not every abused child becomes a psycho, and this guy was as psycho as it gets. I wish we had killed him when we had the chance.” He stole a last look at what was left of Chavez and dropped the cards to the ground below. “What a mess this turned into. Sure, we saved them from death, but Lindsay will be haunted for the rest of her life — same with Hopkins.”
Carscadden was bracing his lower back and trying to stretch. “If they had hired us right away, I don’t know if we would have found them any sooner.”
Nastos agreed. “We got lucky, I think. Anthony was trying so hard to get a consulting fee from the Bannermans that he drew our attention.”
Dennehy chimed in. “When we interrogated Anthony, he held up fine — polygraph, everything we threw at him.” He picked up one of the Oracle cards and grimaced at the awful image. “He said that Chavez stole these cards from him, and a few other valuables. If these are the Oracles, they’re worth two hundred grand.”
Dennehy pulled out his phone and said “Hello?” He held a finger up for Nastos and began to listen intently to the speaker, the whole while maintaining eye contact with Nastos. He eyes suddenly dropped, then he began fidgeting with his fingers.
