Black Cobra aq-2

by John Avery

  * * *

  Inside, Jason saw the familiar signs of recent mayhem and brutal violence: fresh blood spattered the floor, walls and ceiling, and the entire room was riddled with bullet holes.

  Two bodies lay sprawled on the floor: The first, lying under one of the stools at the counter, appeared to be an old man. Jason tried to check the gentleman’s pulse, but the old geezer jerked awake and abruptly stood and wandered out the front door, as if he’d simply finished his donut and was heading home.

  Jason turned to the other body and saw lying next to it a familiar, worn leather fedora, and, although the dead man’s face was obscured with blood, he knew at once who it was. He leaned down and knelt next to his dead brother.

  * * *

  “Drop the gun and put your hands in the air!”

  The booming voice from behind sent a sharp chill up Jason’s spine. Damn it! he thought, kicking himself for forgetting about the police. He let the pistol slide through his fingers and onto the floor and then slowly raised his hands.

  “Now, stand up and turn around so I can see you,” the voice said.

  Jason did as he was told, and as he turned he was surprised to see only two men: one, about 5’7”, wearing plain clothes, pointing a pistol at his face; the other, approximately 6’2”, in uniform, wielding a shotgun.

  The one in plain clothes was clearly in charge. He glanced around at the disaster that used to be a diner. “Damn, Roberts,” he said. “I’d say this guy’s one mean son-of-a-bitch.”

  Officer Roberts smiled and leveled his 12 gauge on Jason, cherishing the moment. Action like this was scarce in the Podunk 3rd Precinct, and it was a rare pleasure to aim a gun at a real person as opposed to a cardboard cutout. Wielding that kind of power made up for his deep lack of self-confidence, and the adrenaline rush felt really good.

  “You went a little too far this time, my friend,” he said.

  Jason hated when strangers called him friend — especially cops. He looked at Roberts and his shotgun, weighing his options. “I’m not your friend,” he said.

  Roberts’s eyes narrowed and his finger twitched on his shotgun’s hair trigger.

  “I’ll need to see some I.D.,” the man in charge said.

  Jason wished he’d gotten around to changing the name on his driver’s license to the pseudonym he used around Brandy: ‘Jason Beckham’; but it was too late now, so he reluctantly handed the license over.

  “Jason Souther,” the one in plain clothes read aloud. “I’m Detective Harness, Third Precinct. This is Officer Roberts.” He indicated his partner.

  Jason did not respond. Not counting visiting rooms, he had never set foot inside a bonafide state prison, much less done time in one. Sure, he’d overnighted in a few county jails, and there were the three months in the brig awaiting his dishonorable discharge from the Navy; but whenever there’d been serious trouble, his big brother had always figured out a clever way to take the fall for him — spending half his life behind prison bars so that his little brother could remain free. Jason had always loved and respected Johnny for that.

  But his big brother was dead now, and he couldn’t take the fall for him this time. Jason was finally going to experience, first hand, what Johnny Souther had tried so hard, and for so long, to protect him from.

  Always the teacher, Detective Harness looked at his partner. “Roberts,” he said. “Pretend you’re in charge. What would you do in this situation?”

  Roberts’s grin widened. He had always thought he should be the one in charge. “I’d waste this fucker right here, right now,” he said, without hesitation.

  Jason swallowed and glanced at Harness.

  Harness returned Jason’s glance. “I’m not sure I’d recommend that, Roberts. In case you missed that chapter in the handbook, police brutality is frowned upon in this city.”

  “No one would ever know,” Roberts said, eyes widening at the thought. “Basic self-defense… stands up in court like a dick on prom night.”

  Roberts’s clever bits of humor always put a smile on Harness’s face. That, and the fact that he was fearless, were why he had chosen Roberts as his partner in the first place.

  Beads of cold sweat had formed on Jason’s brow; his chances for escape were diminishing by the second. If he was going to make a move, he’d have to make it soon.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his pistol lying on the floor, three feet from him, and, in spite of a serious adrenaline rush, he forced himself to stay calm.

  “Cuff him,” Harness said to Roberts. “And be quick about it. We have that fatal car crash to attend to. I’ll meet you in the car.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roberts said.

  Harness turned to leave.

  Roberts glanced down to pull two long, white zip-ties out of his equipment belt. Jason saw him, dove for his gun, rolled over, and fired, the bullet smacking Roberts square in the chest, sending him flying onto his back as his shotgun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling.

  Harness wheeled around and fired, catching Jason in the thigh as he leaped to his feet. Jason tackled Harness, sending the two of them crashing over a table and onto the floor. Both pistols came loose.

  Harness scrabbled for the shotgun, but Jason outweighed him by forty pounds, catching his arm as they rolled over again and again in a desperate struggle. At last Jason managed to grab a handful of Harness hair and slam his head into the chrome base of a barstool, knocking him unconscious.

  Just then Harness’s backup arrived in a blaze of flashing lights and deafening sirens.

  Jason took one look, and then limped out the back door just as the front door exploded open.

  Chapter 6

  When Detective Harness came to, two uniformed officers were kneeling next to him. “Roberts?” he said, looking around. He tried to sit up, but the officers gently held him down.

  “Officer Roberts is dead, sir,” one said. “Please don’t try to move.”

  Harness waved the officers off and sat up, his head pounding. He spotted Roberts lying motionless a few feet away. It was true: his partner, and long-time friend, had taken a bullet through his heart. He looked at the officers urgently. “The suspect,” he said. “Where’s the suspect?”

  “He evaded us, sir.”

  “What?” Harness demanded. He glanced outside and saw the black Hummer still parked in front of the diner. “He’s on foot and bleeding from a fucking gunshot wound to the leg! How the hell could he evade you?”

  “We’re sorry, sir. H-he was gone when we arrived. There’s an APB out and at least three units are —”

  “FUCK!” Harness shouted, pounding the floor with his fist. “They’re wasting their time!” He got to his feet and looked around, disgusted with himself. “You’ve got this covered?” he said, indicating the crime scene.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harness headed for the door, throwing Roberts’s body a quick salute on his way out.

  * * *

  Exiting the diner, Harness was blinded by the flashing lights of an ambulance parked halfway up on the sidewalk. Two harried paramedics, the oldest no more than twenty, were heading his way, pushing a heavy gurney. He stepped aside to avoid losing some toes.

  He walked over to check out the black Hummer, noting that the front end was smashed in and there were fresh streaks of silver paint scraped into the chrome and down the right side.

  He and Roberts had cruised by the accident scene on their way to the diner, and one look at the gruesome wreckage had told them three things: 1) It was a felony hit-and-run; 2) There were no survivors; and 3) The other vehicle had been big and heavy. Could it be he was standing next to the other vehicle?

  He checked the glove box for the registration. The Hummer was registered in the name of Jason Souther.

  I knew it! Harness thought miserably. He had had the guy in his grasp! The thought sickened him.

  He shined his light around the vehicle’s interior and was shocked to see a young boy, twelve or thirteen maybe, asleep o
n the back seat covered in a wool blanket. He quietly opened the rear side door and laid a gentle hand on the boy’s leg, speaking softly.

  “Kid… are you all right?” he said.

  Aaron jerked awake and tried to lift his head, but the pain was too great and all he could manage was a feeble groan through gritted teeth.

  Harness lifted the blanket gently to see what he was dealing with: The boy looked bad, his face blackened and bloodied. Two purple gashes were obvious on the left side of his face: one, partially healed, across his upper left cheek bone, and a fresh laceration running vertically from there to his lower jaw line. But both had clotted over and could wait.

  Harness opened Aaron’s oddly oversized, black overcoat. It was damp and smelled like wet dog. Fresh blood seeped from a bandage in the area of his chest and shoulder. He closed the coat and replaced the blanket, and then he pulled his sleeve down over the heel of his hand and wiped some of the dirt and blood from Aaron’s face.

  He thought of Jason Souther, finding it hard to believe that a man would drive so recklessly with his child on board. If he ever married and had children of his own, he would never do that.

  Sorry, kid, he thought sadly, but if we ever catch up with him, your daddy’s going to prison for a long, long time.

  * * *

  Back in the diner, the officers were busy filling out a report. The two paramedics had zipped Officer Roberts and Johnny Souther up in fluid-tight body bags and were preparing to lift one of them onto the gurney.

  Harness leaned out of the Hummer and called to them. “Hey kids!” he shouted. “Leave those poor bastards for the coroner. Trundle your butts out here and help the living.”

  The paramedics looked at each other then quickly followed the detective’s orders.

  Chapter 7

  Harness stood by while the paramedics transferred Aaron onto the gurney and carefully strapped him down in preparation for loading into the ambulance.

  Aaron was awake. He looked at Harness. “My mother,” he said weakly. “I-is she okay?”

  Your mother was with you? Harness thought, incredulous. He had assumed that the boy and his dad were the only passengers in the Hummer. He was about to ask Aaron to explain, when suddenly a clear image of the crash scene flashed into his mind and he made the connection. He’d been concentrating on the wrong vehicle!

  “Wait a minute…” he said. “You and your mom… you were in the Aston Martin?”

  Aaron nodded.

  Oh my God, Harness thought. “I thought you were —” He glanced at the Hummer and stopped himself. This was too much to believe. “Was anyone else in the Aston with you?”

  All hope drained from Aaron’s face. He knew what was coming next. “Yes,” he replied, “My best friend, Willy… a-and my new dad, Michael.”

  Harness rested his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Aaron Quinn.”

  “I am so sorry, Aaron… but I’d bet my badge that with the exception of the little miracle I see lying before me on this gurney, no one could possibly have survived that wreck.”

  Aaron closed his eyes and turned his head away. God had given him everything he’d wished for… and now He’d taken it all away.

  Harness took out one of his business cards and placed it in Aaron’s hand. “My name’s Jim,” he said. “Call me anytime, for any reason, okay?”

  Aaron nodded and closed his fingers over the card. Harness patted him on the arm, and the paramedics finished loading him into the ambulance.

  “I want hourly updates on this kid’s condition,” Harness ordered. “You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” one said.

  Satisfied that the boy was in capable hands, Harness took the patrol car and drove back over to the scene of the accident.

  Chapter 8

  Brandy Fine sat in Jason’s apartment staring at a blank TV screen. She heard a car pull up and ran to the window, but there was no black Hummer, just another taxi cab. But then she saw Jason Beckham step out and pay the driver.

  That’s odd, she thought. She could have sworn Jason left in his Hummer. As she watched him enter the building she noticed he was limping. She quickly sat down and pretended she wasn’t waiting for him.

  The front door banged open. “Pack your bags,” Jason barked. “We’re leaving town.” He grabbed Brandy’s coat off a chair and tossed it to her.

  Brandy was alarmed to see that one of his pant legs was soaked with blood; but before she could say anything, he snatched her car keys off the kitchen counter and limped out the door.

  “What about Johnny?” she called after him, fumbling with the sleeves of her coat, her mind a blur.

  “Johnny’s dead,” Jason said over his shoulder, his voice echoing in the wooden stairwell.

  “What?” she said, closing the door behind her. “Oh, my God!” Then she stumbled down the hall after him.

  Chapter 9

  Jason had no way of knowing it at the time, but as he was backing his Hummer away from the dumpster back at the crash scene, he had come within inches of hitting a woman lying just to one side amid a pile of cardboard boxes. She was unconscious , but alive, thrown clear of the Aston Martin upon impact, just as her son had been.

  * * *

  Ashley came to and looked around, confused, unable to determine where she was or why she was there. Near her, smashed across the sidewalk, was a twisted, gray, street-light pole, its glass lens shattered and bulb burst — in the gloom it looked to Ashley like a great serpent that had suddenly turned to stone.

  A light rain was falling and it was very cold. A sour, smoky odor burned her nostrils and she sensed that something horrible had happened, but she had no clue what it was.

  She shoved some loose boxes aside and got to her feet, noticing that the bodice of her dress had been torn away in the area of her right breast, revealing one of the white-lace cups of her bra. She instinctively pulled her lavender, faux-suede jacket closed to cover herself.

  Her head hurt, and when she put her hand to her forehead she touched what felt like streaks of dried mud, or perhaps blood. She thought of checking herself in her compact mirror, but her purse was nowhere to be found. She felt for her glasses, but they were missing too.

  She looked down at her throbbing left calf and saw she had a deep gash, just below the hem of her sundress — it, too, had clotted over, and she knew she’d been unconscious for quite a while.

  She started when she saw flashing lights and several men in uniform hovering around what appeared to be the smoldering wreckage of a car in the middle of the street. The area had been cordoned off from the public with wide, yellow plastic tape with the familiar phrase:

  POLICE - Do Not Cross — POLICE - Do Not Cross.

  The car’s fabric top had burned away, exposing its skeletal frame, and under the receding coating of fire-extinguishing foam, the car lay blackened and cold, like the ravaged corpse of a mastodon after an arctic thaw.

  A midnight blue van was parked nearby, the word CORONER painted in bright yellow on its side; but it meant nothing to her. She felt no anguish, no emotion of any kind, only a deep, overwhelming sense of numbness.

  * * *

  Detective Harness pulled up to the scene in his cruiser. He stepped out and shook hands with some of the men and then stepped over to inspect the charred remains of the Aston Martin.

  The vehicle lay on its side and was totaled, but Harness found enough of the original paint to verify that it had indeed been tungsten silver — a stock color for the DBS during that model year, and the same shade as the paint he’d found on the Hummer. He followed two faint skid marks up the street and found a small piece of amber turn-signal lens — a tiny, but vital clue that would no doubt fit nicely into the front-left lighting cluster of that same black Hummer.

  * * *

  Ashley watched from the shadows. She felt no need to call to the men as they went about their work. She felt nothing, wanting nothing. She was very tired, but she no longer
knew why. A lot had happened to her in the last 72 hours, but she remembered none of it.

  She discovered she was clutching something in her left hand. It was the photo Aaron had given her just before the accident, the photo of her with Aaron’s father, Danny, in the alpine meadow. But Ashley didn’t recognize it. She had no idea where the snapshot came from or who the man she was hugging in the photo was.

  She absently tucked the photo into her jacket pocket and wandered off down the street.

  * * *

  Detective Harness walked the area’s perimeter searching for more clues. He came to the downed light pole and saw the evidence of a car having smashed through it and into a nearby dumpster. But there was no car.

  Near the dumpster he was surprised to find a woman’s purse partially covered by a loose cardboard box. The purse was cheap vinyl but new. He checked inside: a hair brush, a bottle of acetaminophen 500s, a set of car keys, a small cell phone, and a credit card. The name on the credit card read:

  Ashley Quinn

  Harness did a double-take. The purse belonged to the boy’s mother!

  He quickly checked the immediate area, hoping to find Ashley alive. But she was nowhere to be found and he had to assume she had died in the crash.

  He stopped when he spotted a small fragment of cloth lying on the sidewalk. It was wet from the rain, but appeared to be printed cotton, a fabric commonly used in a woman’s dress, and it was new. He glanced back at the wreckage, judging the distance at thirty feet, and wondered how a piece of light fabric could have been thrown that far.

  Then something shiny caught his eye. It was a pair of women’s eyeglasses. They were shattered and bent, but the frames were certainly newer than the other trash in the gutter. He tucked the glasses and the piece of fabric into a plastic bag with the other evidence.

  When he had concluded his search, Harness climbed into his cruiser and left the scene, knowing he — and whoever his new partner turned out to be — had a nearly impossible task ahead of them.