It’s a lot lower than the basketball hoop in high school, he tells himself, and you could reach that.
Two. .
Except I was a lot younger then. And fitter. And I weighed less.
One. .
And it was always a running jump, never from a fucking bandylegged nutcracker position like this.
Go!
He hears a starting pistol go off in his head, and suddenly he’s shooting up like a rocket, willing himself up and up. He imagines himself back at school, stretching for that basket, seconds left to win the trophy for his team. At the apex of his jump he gives a loud grunt of exertion. .
His hands snap into position around the pipe. He hears the metal groan at the sudden burden, but it doesn’t give way.
The pipe is so cold it burns Doyle’s hands. He knows he can’t stay in this position for very long. Not that that was ever his desire.
He slides his left hand along the metal, feeling as though he’s leaving a layer of frozen flesh behind, then follows it with his right hand. His legs dangle and swing freely below him, cold air fluttering up the inside of his pants. He continues his motion sideways and slowly downwards, trying to ignore the pain in his hands, his arms, his shoulders. You’re okay, he tells himself. Focus and keep going. We’re gonna do this.
He moves again, and hears more squeals of complaint from the drainpipe. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he hisses at it. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’
He keeps going. Another couple of feet, then another. How come that damned fire escape doesn’t seem to be getting any closer?
There is a sudden outpouring of noise from below. He stops moving and looks past his armpit to the alley that still appears a thousand miles down. Light spills out from an open doorway, and the night is filled with voices and throbbing music. Some kind of side entrance to the club, Doyle realizes.
A lone figure exits the club and closes the door behind him. He is tall, with dark hair and a Saturday Night Fever swagger. He wears a heavy gray overcoat and gloves.
Sonny Rocca.
Rocca heads toward his Lexus, almost directly below Doyle. Don’t look up, Doyle thinks. He hangs there in space, praying that his arms don’t pop out of their sockets. His hands burn like they’re on fire, like they’re becoming fused with the drainpipe.
Rocca opens his car door, climbs behind the wheel, closes the door.
Shit, he’s gonna get away! The only man who can help me now is about to take off, probably never to be seen again.
He starts moving again with renewed vigor. I have to get down there, he thinks. I have to stop him.
The drainpipe creaks more loudly now. Doyle is certain he feels it give slightly, but he can’t slow down now.
Below, Rocca starts up his engine.
Doyle puts everything into one last desperate push. The fire escape is just feet away.
Rocca backs the Lexus up, just enough to give him clearance to pull out.
Come on, Doyle tells himself. Get the fuck down there!
And then, as if granting his wish, the drainpipe gives out a loud crack and breaks away from the wall.
There is no time for thought, no time for any reasoning along the lines of Okay, I’m plummeting to my death, here’s what I should do. . All that Doyle can do is live the experience of his body twisting in free space, register the unusual sight of a car’s roof hurtling toward him at God knows how many miles per hour.
He lands on his side, smashing into the roof of the Lexus. He feels it crumple below him, absorbing his impact. There is an explosive sound as the metal collapses and the windows blow out, showering fragments of glass in all directions.
Doyle lies there for a second, appreciating the fact that he’s still alive. He feels pain in his ribs and in his leg, and wonders if any bones are broken. He looks around him, realizes that he’s landed on the driver’s side, and that the roof on that side is now almost level with the car’s hood.
Rocca! Jesus Christ, have I just killed him?
He drags himself forward and peers upside down through the shattered windshield. At first he’s not sure what he’s looking at, but then he sees motion. The face of Rocca looks straight at him, rivulets of blood streaming down past his eyes and mouth. There is more movement. Rocca’s arm comes up, his gloved hand comes into view, and. .
Shit!
Doyle rolls sideways off the car just milliseconds before Rocca starts shooting upwards through the roof. He lands heavily on the cobblestones, agonizing jolts of pain firing through his bones.
He keeps rolling, putting distance between himself and the car. When the shots cease, he stops too. He gets up on one knee and fumbles for his Glock. Ahead of him, Rocca has begun squeezing himself through the passenger-side window, forcing himself up the narrow gap between the crushed Lexus and the wall of the nightclub. He looks on the edge of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings.
Doyle takes up a two-handed stance and steadies his aim.
‘Sonny! Drop the gun, man!’
Rocca pauses in his struggle. Shakes his head as if to clear his blood-filled eyes and his addled brain. His gun waves lazily in Doyle’s direction.
‘Don’t do it, man!’
As if working by echo location, Rocca homes his gun in on Doyle’s voice, leaving Doyle with no option.
It’s not like it was with Lomax. It could be just a matter of physical distance, Rocca not being right on top of him like Lomax was, or the fact that Rocca doesn’t appear able to shoot straight. Maybe it’s because he quite likes Sonny Rocca, whereas Lomax was just a worthless piece of shit. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want Rocca dead, because he is so much more valuable alive. Or perhaps it’s because Doyle has already killed once, and now finds it easier to tell when to pull on the reins.
Whatever the reason, he stops firing after four rapid shots. He sees Rocca loll back against the brick wall, the gun dropping from his hand. Doyle gets to his feet. Fights the pain racking his body as he limps across to the car. He climbs onto the hood, feeling fragments of glass crunching beneath his feet, then gets onto the roof. He cups a hand under Rocca’s blood-soaked chin and turns his face toward him. The man’s alive, but only by a thread.
‘Sonny. Who got to you? Who put you up to this?’
Sonny opens his mouth and releases a dribble of scarlet. ‘I was gonna go someplace nice,’ he croaks. ‘I was thinking of Europe. Maybe even Ireland. I hear it’s nice there, right, Mr Doyle?’
‘The name, Sonny. What was Bartok about to tell me?’
‘Bartok? Bartok was scum. Shoulda. . shoulda whacked him a long time ago. He gave me money, you know that? A lot of money.’
‘Who? Who gave you money?’
‘I made him an offer. He. . he made me a better one. And you know what? Now I know how it feels, I’da done it for free.’
Doyle grabs him by the lapels and shakes him. ‘He give you enough to die for? You ready to go out of this world for that garbage? Give him up, Sonny. Make it right.’
A twisted smile crosses Rocca’s lips. ‘I like you, Mr Doyle. You’re a funny guy.’
Doyle feels the life leave Rocca’s body. It floats from his form, leaving him sagging and heavy in Doyle’s grasp. Doyle takes his hands away. Looks at Rocca’s blood staining them. He stays there longer than he should, just staring at his hands.
Red-letter day.
When he finally comes to his senses he climbs down from the car and, like a deformed criminal from an old B-movie, limps away into the night.
He doesn’t know how long he’s got, but he can’t stay here.
He races around his room, yanking open drawers and closets and tossing the contents into the case yawning open on his bed. Rocca and Bartok knew where he was staying. That means there may be others in the Bartok organization who know where he’s staying. And if that set of people now includes Lucas Bartok, it won’t be long before hell descends on this place.
He thinks it was bad enough when he was being isolated, but now that
he’s got people actively trying to kill him too. .
Shit.
He locks up his bag, performs one last check of the room, then gets the hell out of there.
The door still has yellow crime-scene tape stuck across it. Doyle tears some of it away; then, after a quick look up and down the hallway, he kicks the door open. Somewhere in the building a dog barks, but at least the big black woman in the neighboring apartment seems to be a sound sleeper.
Doyle steps inside and feels for a light switch. He flicks it on, and a bare bulb shows him his new home. Not exactly the Ritz, he thinks, but then Spinner led a pretty spartan existence.
He closes the door again and puts a couple of Spinner’s locks into place. He looks around. There is an unpleasant odor in the air which Doyle decides it might be better not to identify, and the bleak apartment looks as though it has been devoid of occupants for months rather than days. Much of the clutter that used to be here has gone. All of the boxes of electronic equipment have disappeared. Impounded as evidence, presumably, although Doyle can’t help thinking that there may be one or two cops or technicians who are giving nice DVD players for Christmas this year.
Also gone are the chair, table and tape recorder that formed the centerpiece of the living room the last time Doyle was here. For that he is grateful, although there are other reminders. The vast dark bloodstain on the carpet, for example.
He is not a believer in the supernatural, but knowing what happened here colors his normally skeptical view. There is a feeling of unearthly presence here. A sharp coldness like a razor blade scraping the hairs from the nape of his neck. A sensation of things left unfinished.
He doesn’t want to be here. He can still picture Spinner, still hear his screams. The emptiness of the room and the lateness of the hour serve only to amplify these mental sounds and images.
‘It’s me, man,’ he whispers to the ceiling. ‘Doyle. I got nowhere else to go, man. Look after me, okay?’
He knows he must appear crazy saying these things. When dawn arrives and its light chases away the shadows and shows him the truth, he knows he will rebuke himself for acting like an idiot. But right now talking to walls doesn’t seem so absurd.
He walks over to the bathroom, switches on another naked bulb. In the corner, something small and black scuttles behind the bath. Doyle tries to overlook the obvious fact that this room is a stranger to cleansing products.
He steps over to the shower control and turns it on full blast. Another memory jumps to mind, of him almost drowning Spinner beneath this jet of water.
As the steam rises and begins to fill the room, Doyle strips off and does his best to take a look at himself in the grime-caked mirror over the sink. Almost the whole of his left side is swollen and tender. Tomorrow it’ll be one enormous bruise. He touches his ribs and feels a stab of pain. It hurts to breathe, to walk, to lift his arm. Shit, it hurts to live.
He steps into the bathtub, then moves under the water. It’s hot, and it stings at first, but gradually he becomes accustomed to it. He lets it wash over his body, soothing his tired aching muscles.
When he’s done, he climbs out and picks up one of Spinner’s old towels. It feels cold and damp, and has the stiffness of fabric that hasn’t been washed for weeks. As he rasps it over his body, he closes his eyes and tries to imagine that it’s one of the white fluffy ones from his hotel. If he’d been thinking ahead, he would have stolen one before he left.
He walks back into the living room and opens his case. Pulls out some clothes. He’s worn them before, but they’ll do for tonight. He has the feeling he needs to be dressed. Just in case.
When he’s got his clothes on, he reloads his Glock, ensuring there’s a round in the chamber. Just in case.
He picks up one of Spinner’s chairs, turns it to face the door, then sits down. It doesn’t escape him that he’s in almost exactly the same position that Spinner was when he found him.
A thought occurs to him. He goes back to the bathroom, where his jacket is hooked on a door peg. He reaches into the pocket and pulls out the white envelope that Rocca delivered. He brings it back to his chair, studying the familiar lettering of his name typed across the front.
He sits down, rips open the envelope and begins to read.
Dear Detective Doyle,
Are you finally getting the hang of this now? Has it finally sunk into your dim policeman’s brain? Do you need any more deaths to convince you?
Wherever you go, I know about it. Whoever you speak to, I know about it. I don’t care if they’re good or evil. Make them your friends, and they’re dead. That’s the sickness you carry with you. There’s no cure. You need to be quarantined for your own good.
I think you’re starting to feel it now, aren’t you? You’re starting to understand what it’s like to be me.
We’ve almost become one.
Merry Christmas, Detective.
Doyle crumples up the letter and throws it across the room. It seems a pitiful gesture of defiance, but it’s all he has. Every battle has been fought and lost. The war is over. Here he is, stuck in a bare decrepit room amid the stench and the aura of death. Hidden away like the mad relative in the attic. Separated from the rest of humanity so that he can’t hurt them and they can’t hurt him.
He stares at the door and waits, praying that sleep will overtake him and provide some brief respite from this hell that is a man truly alone.
TWENTY-FIVE
He comes awake to the sound of a bang. He doesn’t know whether it’s real or imagined. Perhaps his mind is replaying one of the many gunshots it’s witnessed recently. At first he doesn’t know where he is, his eyes scanning the apartment, wondering what happened to his hotel room. Then, with a groan, he remembers and wishes he’d never woken up.
He looks down at his watch, feeling a painful tug in his neck after being stuck in such a peculiar position all night. It’s seven-thirty in the morning. A cold gray light filters through the dirt on the windows. He rises from his chair, wincing with the effort of moving joints and bones and flesh that have been pounded against metal at great speed. He hobbles over to the bathroom. Treats himself to another hot shower and another session with Spinner’s delightful towels.
As he re-dresses, he hears the drone of the neighbor’s television through the walls. It stops suddenly, to be followed by the click and slam of a door. Doyle steps over to his own front door and puts his eye to the spy-hole. As the figure of the huge woman comes into view, it fills the whole of his field of vision, the distortion of the eyepiece making her appear even more spherical than she is. She pauses for a second and turns her head toward Doyle, staring directly at him it seems, before resuming her waddle along the hallway.
Doyle gives her ten minutes to get out of the building, then leaves. Outside, he turns up the collar of his leather coat, partly against the cold but also to hide his face. Feeling like an over-dramatic spy, he takes a good look around him before setting off down the street. On the next block he finds a small burger joint. He buys a bacon and egg muffin and some coffee, and takes them back to Spinner’s apartment.
Before he settles down to his breakfast, he switches on Spinner’s television. It’s an old portable, not worth enough to sell for drugs. As he eats, he flicks through the channels, on the lookout for any local news. He sees nothing about Rocca or Bartok. Nothing about any killings or shootings in the Meatpacking District. All of which tells him that Bartok’s men must have been the first to discover Sonny Rocca’s dead body. It’s not something about which they would have wanted to make public announcements.
Doyle is ashamed to admit that it comes as something of a relief. He thinks, I’m a cop, involved in a string of fatal shootings, and all I can think about is keeping it under wraps. That stinks, Doyle. That’s really low, man.
But then how much lower can I get? Look at me. I hand confidential police intelligence over to known criminals. I get smashed up on a car. I kill a guy and then run away. I camp out in a shit-hole ow
ned by a dead junkie fence. I got mobsters out looking to waste me. And I got this unknown perp willing to waste everyone I so much as look at. A guy who has this uncanny ability to follow my every move.
Speaking of which, how the fuck does he do that? How does this guy always seem to know what I’m doing? How is it possible for him to have eyes everywhere like that?
Doyle walks across the room, his eyes scanning the floor. He kicks aside a cardboard box, then bends to pick up the ball of paper he threw last night. As he goes to straighten up, something on the box catches his eye. A picture of a bird stamped onto it in red. He’d noticed the same picture on many of the boxes when he came here to ask for Spinner’s help. What is it about that bird?
He shakes his head, then turns his attention to the piece of paper as he unfurls and rereads it.
Wherever you go, I know about it. Whoever you speak to, I know about it.
Okay, so how?
Doyle is certain nobody knew about his meetings with Bartok. Not his wife, not his squad. Nobody. So how could the killer know? How could he be watching Doyle that closely, that carefully, that Doyle never sees him, never knows he’s there? How is that possible?
And then there’s Spinner. Okay, there were a few people who knew about their first meeting at the boxing gym, but Doyle told no one when he came to see Spinner here at his apartment. He was extra careful to make sure nobody followed him here, and Spinner made it clear that he wasn’t too happy about a walking bullet-magnet being in his vicinity, so he wouldn’t have blabbed about it either. So how did that news leak out?
It’s like the perp has superhuman powers, Doyle thinks. Like maybe he’s there in the room with me, but he’s invisible. Or maybe he can see through walls or listen from a great distance.
And he’s not the only one. Take Kurt Bartok. How did he get the killer’s name so quickly? When the various divisions of the NYPD working flat out on this case were getting nowhere, how could Bartok be so confident he could get the name in just a few hours? And who the fuck was he getting the name from?
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