Pure Hate
Page 28
The horror that bled itself out on the gymnasium floor had no place in the light. In the morning sun, it all turned easily from horror to tragedy. Even Malcolm lost all menace and became an object of sympathy, even empathy. James found himself wondering what this monster might have become if not for the years of abuse dealt out by his stepfather, if not for the betrayal of his best friend, if not for the hell he’d managed to drag them all into.
James walked out of the high school building as it began filling up with his police brethren. They walked about so casually that it seemed none of them were even aware of the danger that had been living, breathing, and still killing just moments before.
Cynical teenaged artists, writers, and musicians were lined up in the chill November air, waiting for the all clear so that they could enter the school and resume their mild flirtation with education. James was too beaten down to tell them that school was cancelled that day. He walked pensively through their gauntlet of stares, ranging from curious to disinterested to openly hostile.
One of the fashionably angst-stricken kids, long-haired, overweight, tragically pimpled, wearing pinstriped bell bottom pants and a new age hippie version of a dashiki, commented on how happy he was to be missing first period class no matter who had to die to make it happen. Yet another pale, anemic, black lipsticked, black nail-polished, black eye-shadowed, trench coat Mafia type, yelled out, “Scrape the muthafuckin’ bodies up off the floor and let us get to class!”
James looked to see if any of the teachers who were corralling the unruly gaggle of teens would reprimand the boy for his language. None of them even seemed to be paying attention. They had no doubt heard worse and had long learned to ignore it all.
None of the kids seemed the least bit awed by the fact that their high school was now a murder scene. Growing up in Philadelphia had accustomed them to tragedy. Every street they passed between home and school had at one time or another been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape with a chalk outline drawn on the asphalt. James couldn’t help but wonder how many of these kids had actually witnessed a murder, how many had watched blood being hosed off a sidewalk and down the gutter, how many would someday be murderers themselves. In fact, none seemed to be the least bit impressed by Malcolm’s death. James could see them distancing themselves from the horror already. The forced laughter masked a collective sigh of relief.
Last night Malcolm was the most serious topic of discussion in Philadelphia, talked about in hushed tones, the reason mothers didn’t let their kids stay out past dark and fathers slept with shotguns by the beds. Today, all the pain and death and fear of the last few days would become nothing more than bad jokes and interesting dining room conversation.
Except for the friends and families of Malcolm’s victims. For them, the memories would hold their terrible power for years to come. Malcolm was a boogieman who had merely left the world of the living to be reborn in their memories and nightmares.
As exhausted as James was, he was in no hurry to face a rejuvenated and revitalized Malcolm Davis in his dreams. He would much rather delay that inevitable battle and stay awake a few more hours. He knew he would have years yet to contend with Malcolm’s ghost. James shivered at that thought and pulled the collar up on his trench coat to shield his neck and face from the cold air, which of course had absolutely nothing to do with why he was shivering. He bumped into David Malcovich on his way across the school parking lot.
“I thought you said you were off this case.”
“I figured if another cop had to die trying to stop this wacko, it might as well be someone worn out and expendable like me.”
“So, tell me Detective, did you give Malcolm a warning before you shot him? Did you identify yourself? Who shot first?” Malcovich asked.
“You don’t know me well enough to ask that question,” James replied, and slid behind the wheel of the Intrepid.
Agent Malcovich leaned his head through the car window.
“I thought you’d be interested to know that your girlfriend just got out of surgery and they think she’s going to make it. She’s in the ICU right now.”
“Thanks, Malcovich,” James replied and whipped the Intrepid up onto the curb as he spun it into a U-turn and headed back to the hospital. He wondered if the curiously emotionless FBI agent was planning to report him to IAD for violating Malcolm’s civil rights. It sounded ridiculous, but he’d seen stranger things happen, and Malcovich was strange.
No one would ever know whether or not James gave Malcolm a warning before he shot. Other detectives were writing his shooting report for him right now, and the report would say the shooting was justified. Only James would ever know for sure. He shrugged his shoulders, deciding that he really didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about how he handled the shooting. The bastard deserved to die and was right where he belonged. End of story.
James fought off his final image of Malcolm, bloodied and dying, blowing Reed’s head apart with the nine millimeter. Everyone on the force would give James the credit for stopping Malcolm, but James knew that Reed had really done the killing, Reed and CC and Natasha. The bullets from James’s gun were merely the smallest and the last contributions to Malcolm’s death.
As he pulled into the hospital parking lot, the image of Malcolm growling savagely as bullets smashed into his chest played in James’s head. There had been a brief second when Malcolm had continued to glare at him, his eyes still savagely alive, vibrant with murderous hate, his hand still gripping the nine millimeter.
James emptied his entire clip into Malcolm, yet Malcolm still radiated an aura of invincible menace. In that moment, James had been once again at Malcolm’s mercy. Malcolm smiled a horrible, blood-drenched grimace as his entire body shuddered, and then he died, but James knew that he would never be free of that moment. It would haunt him forever. Malcolm was immortal.
A dart of pain lanced James’s heart as he watched CC’s battered body lying motionless in ICU. She looked even worse than she had when he’d last seen her. It was more than a miracle that she was still alive. A nurse checked one of the many IV drips in CC’s arm. James sat by her side as the elderly nurse checked CC’s bandages. She acknowledged James’s presence without taking her eyes off her patient.
“Are you her husband?”
“No. Her husband helped do this to her. I’m the cop who killed the bastard.”
The nurse, who to James seemed ready for her own hospital bed, looked at him with what could only be described as horror then, when she saw the pain written in lines of stress and worry all over his face, her expression softened into pity. A shaky, wavering smile tried to take root on her face and failed. She turned on her heels and walked to the door. She paused before stepping out into the hall.
“Good job, Detective.”
CC’s eyes fluttered open and focused on James with a tentative smile. She reached out for the detective’s hand.
“Is Malcolm dead?”
“Yeah. You killed him, baby. No one will ever hurt you again.”
She smiled and fell back to sleep, cradling James’s fingers in her taped and bandaged hand. James closed his eyes and found Malcolm waiting for him just beyond consciousness. He snapped awake, breathing heavily and shaking with fear. Sweat soaked through his clothes, adding yet more stains to the already dirty and wrinkled suit. He touched his holster for reassurance, flipped a White Owl cigar between his lips, and began to chew it nervously as he sat watching CC the rest of the morning. He popped a No-Doze and asked a nurse for some coffee.
He didn’t know when he would gather the courage to sleep.
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