Lethal Rage

by Brent Pilkey

Then the suspect disappeared, cutting through a parking lot squeezed into a tiny space between buildings. Jack followed and saw the suspect almost through the lot and heading for the next street. Jack ripped out his radio. Sy was too far back to know Jack’s location. “Suspect . . . north in a parking lot . . . not sure of . . . exact location.” Why couldn’t this chase have been in 51, where he knew all the streets and laneways?

  Jack pounded along, feeling the weight of the belt and vest with every stride. His legs were done, beyond pain. Each breath he drew burned his lungs. And still he ran.

  The suspect cut east and seconds later Jack burst onto a little one-way road, hardly more than a driveway, lined by the ass ends of old commercial buildings and a tiered parking lot. The suspect was still in sight — the gap was probably fifty feet — and nearing the next major cross street. University? No, too soon for that.

  Fuck! I wish I knew where I was!

  Again the suspect vanished, again by cutting sharply from his course. A few more quick changes in direction and Jack would lose him for sure. Finally, he reached the spot where the suspect had turned: a laneway that opened onto King Street. Jack could see Roy Thompson Hall gleaming artistically in the streetlights. The suspect was nowhere to be seen.

  Fuck!

  Jack held up at the mouth of the laneway. The suspect might not be in sight because he had already reached King, or he might be hunkered down somewhere ahead of Jack. Running blindly down the laneway could get Jack killed.

  “Suspect . . . now . . . southbound . . . through alley . . . to King.” God, it hurt to breathe, let alone talk. “Sy . . . might be . . . coming your . . . way.”

  The laneway was a black pit between two tall buildings, the darkness broken only by intermittent lights high up on the walls. Jack tucked his radio in its pouch and drew his gun.

  The mouth of the alley — a driveway, he realized — was narrow, barely wide enough for a single car, but the wall on his left quickly opened up into a loading dock. He kept his right shoulder tight to the wall and took the dock quickly, his gun tracking with his eyes. The bay was only about knee high and except for a square metal box — tool bin? vent hood? — at its far end, it was empty. Nowhere for anyone to hide.

  At the end of the dock, fifteen or twenty feet south, the driveway sprouted parking spaces and a trio of dumpsters. A lonely car sat next to the bins like a forgotten cousin. Between the square metal box and the dumpsters was a shitload of hiding places. Two lights high on the wall, watching over the area like sentinel gargoyles, slashed the deep shadows with geometric precision.

  Jack reached for his flashlight with his left hand. Cradling his gun hand in the crook of his forearm and the back of his hand, he thumbed the compact light on. Its intense beam stabbed at the shadows, ripping away their secrets. Slowly, he edged down the lane, sure he was chasing nothing — but not sure enough.

  “5106, are you still in foot pursuit?”

  Jack swept the dumpsters a final time as best he could from his present angle before trading his flashlight for his radio. “Negative, dispatch. Suspect last seen southbound through a laneway toward King Street. Chances are he’s heading east on King. That was the direction he was going when we started chasing him.”

  “10-4, ’06. 5207 is investigating one at King and University. Can you head over there to see if it is our suspect?”

  Cool! “You bet, dispatch. Let them know I’m heading over. PC Carter on the air? Sy, if you’re out there, I’ll meet you at King and University.” He holstered his radio and gun and trotted down the lane.

  Clang!

  Jack whirled left, drawing smoothly as the brief metallic echoes died away in the man-made canyon. “Police! Don’t move!”

  Laughter from the gloom. “I think I will move, ass-wipe. Let you see the shit you just stepped in.”

  A bulk of darkness, not fifteen feet from Jack, detached itself from the shadows between the dumpster and the car. The man Jack had been chasing was holding Sy, using him as a shield. Sy’s left arm was behind his back and from the way his back was arched in pain, the suspect must have had it wrenched up in some sort of arm bar. With his other hand, the suspect held a knife against Sy’s throat.

  Jack’s vision collapsed into a tunnel focused on the suspect and Sy. Details leapt out at him: the suspect hunched down behind Sy’s right shoulder; a single eye peering out beneath a bare scalp glistening with sweat; a flash of silver as his shirt collar flickered in an errant breeze; a black latex glove on the suspect’s right hand; the thin blade of the butterfly knife along Sy’s throat, the blade gleaming in the stark light; Sy’s gun in its holster, his right arm at his side; Sy grimacing in pain, but his eyes calm, confident in his partner.

  “That was stupid, piggy, kicking the bin like that. Scared me so much I almost cut you open.” Then, to Jack, “Your turn not to move, ass-wipe. If you reach for your radio, I’ll slit open his throat quick as can be.” Jack kept both hands on his gun. “That’s good. Now drop your gun. Drop it, ass-wipe, or I cut him.” A slight pressure and blood seeped onto the blade, dark as death in the shadow, vibrantly alive as it spilled into the light.

  “You do that and I splatter the wall behind you with your brains. Drop the blade, do it now!”

  “How you going to do that, ass-wipe?” Silver Shirt pulled Sy closer and all but disappeared. Sy groaned and rose up higher on his toes. “Don’t you be reaching for your gun either, piggy, or I might have to slice me some ham.”

  This guy must be strong to keep Sy in such a hold. Jack didn’t recall him being big enough to manhandle Sy. A trained fighter, then. Dangerous.

  “Tell you what, man. I’ll make you a deal. Let him go and I’ll let you take off. You outran me before, so you know I can’t catch you. Just go.”

  Silver Shirt’s laugh was sharp, abrasive. The laugh of a man wound too tight, a man capable of murder. Again.

  “I don’t think so, piggy. ’Course I can run faster’n you. But you’ll just shoot me in the back. Fucking pigs always shooting brothers in the back.”

  It was Jack’s turn to laugh. A bare snicker, but he had to convince this madman. “This is Canada, bud, not L.A. We’re not allowed to shoot at people who run away from us.” And as soon as you let Sy go, I’ll drop you before you have a chance to move. Jack kept the thought from his face, but Sy would know what Jack was thinking. He just had to make sure Silver Shirt didn’t.

  As he bargained, Jack eased to his right and Silver Shirt mimicked his movement, which put his back to the north end of the lane.

  “See, man? Take off up the alley. Nothing in your way. You heard my dispatcher. They think they have you over on University, so there’s no one up that way to stop you. I swear to you, man, I won’t chase you.” Jack lowered his gun, the barrel aimed near Sy’s feet. At this range, he wouldn’t need sights to put three in the guy’s chest.

  No answer. Silver Shirt’s face, what little of it Jack could see, was in Sy’s shadow. The left side of Sy’s face, sweat-soaked but still calm, was leached of colour by the harsh light. The face of a corpse. Jack forced the image away. Still no answer. Was Silver Shirt considering? Was he close to accepting Jack’s offer?

  “C’mon, man. Just let him go and run. I swear I won’t chase you.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  The words whispered out of the darkness and Jack knew what they meant.

  “No!”

  The blade flashed in the light, slashing open Sy’s throat. Blood sprayed, painting the night vivid scarlet. The suspect shoved Sy into Jack’s arms. Hot blood splashed Jack’s face; he tasted its salty bitterness in his mouth. Sy clutched at his throat, a futile attempt to stem the blood. Jack sagged beneath the sudden weight but let Sy collapse, controlling the fall as best he could.

  Sy fought Jack, not wanting to lie down. Jack shoved him to the asphalt with both hands, dimly aware he had let go of his gun. He was unarmed. Was Silver Shirt still here, waiting to spill Jack’s blood? Jack was defenceless. If he died,
he couldn’t help Sy.

  He glanced up the alley in time to see a dark man-shape silhouetted under the street lights. It darted around the corner and disappeared.

  Sy clutched at Jack with a blood-covered hand. His other hand was clamped on his throat and blood still fountained up between his fingers. His face was splashed with blood, eerily bright against his paling skin. His eyes were wide with fear but still alive. Still alive.

  “Calm down, Sy. Let me help you.”

  Jack tried to move his partner’s hand, but Sy refused to let go.

  “Sy, you have to let go so I can see. I can stop the bleeding. Just trust me, let go. Please, Sy, let go. Please.”

  Jack met Sy’s eyes and the fear was under control — not gone, but controlled. Sy nodded and slid his hand from under Jack’s, sliding free with incredible ease, their skin heavily oiled with Sy’s blood.

  Jack pressed his fingers into the wound, seeking. The blood was bright and pulsing free. The straight razor had hit an artery. If he could find it, pinch it shut, Sy would make it. Jack searched blindly. There was too much blood. His fingers were drowning in it.

  He fought for Sy’s life with one hand and ripped his radio free with the other. “Assist PC!” he screamed. “Assist PC! My partner’s throat has been cut. I need an ambulance here now! Put a rush on it!” He released the talk button, knowing somewhere deep in his mind that if he let the panic consume him Sy was dead. Simple as that. Panic and Sy dies.

  “5106, what’s your location? I need your location.” The dispatcher’s words were steady, but Jack could tell she had heard the fear in his voice: it echoed faintly in hers.

  Jack groped, feeling a pulsing flow with his fingers. Find the artery, find the cut. “In a laneway north of King,” he managed. “West of . . . west of. . . .” West of what? Where the fuck am I? “University!” he shouted into the radio. “In a laneway off King, west of University. The suspect cut my partner’s throat. I’m trying to stop the bleeding. We need an ambulance here now. Right now!”

  “10-4. Ambulance on the way. Hang on, ’06, hang —” Jack dropped the radio, losing the rest of her message. He added his left hand to the search.

  Sy thrashed beneath him but kept his hands away from Jack’s. “Sorry, Sy. I know it hurts, but I have to find the . . . the cut.” Don’t say artery, don’t tell him that. “Lie still, Sy. Just lie still, please.”

  Jack followed the pulse of the blood as it spurted against his fingers, a pulse that was steadily becoming weaker. There! A cord that felt like a slick, muscular hose. It was the source of the pulse and he clamped his fingers to it, pinching its sides together. He could feel it throbbing, a living — living! — heartbeat beneath his fingertips. The pulse pushed against his fingers faintly. Faintly, but it pushed.

  The blood in the wound receded, a terrible tide retreating. It drained away, no longer swallowing his fingers, no longer adding to the pool surrounding them.

  “I’ve got it, Sy. I’ve stopped the bleeding.” He leaned down and stared into Sy’s eyes, just inches away. “You’re going to be all right, partner. I’ve got you.”

  Sy nodded and, amazingly, smiled.

  Jack grinned back. “You ain’t leaving me to work with Boris.”

  Sy smiled again, at the feeble joke. His face was pale, a deathly white, and his mouth and chin were smeared with red.

  Sirens screamed in the distance, a chorus of avenging angels.

  “Hear that, Sy? Help’s on the way. Hang in there, partner. Hang on.”

  The pulse beneath his fingers was gone. But that was okay, wasn’t it? He had the artery pinched shut. The blood had nowhere to go. It would only pulse if the blood was moving, right? Right?

  Sy convulsed under him, a sudden heave that arched his back off the ground. Jack almost lost his grip on the artery. He pushed down on Sy’s chest with his free hand, frantic to hold him still. “Calm down, Sy, calm down. Don’t move, help’s on the way. Don’t move, help’s on the way,” he chanted, not knowing he was doing so.

  As quickly as it hit, the convulsion passed. Sy dropped flat and the sudden release caught Jack by surprise. His chest slammed into Sy’s. Blood squirted from where it had collected under Sy’s vest and splashed against Jack’s hand. But Jack’s grip was solid. He would die before loosening his hold on his partner’s life.

  The sirens were louder, almost on top of them.

  “Hang on, Sy. Damn it, hang on! The ambulance is almost here.”

  Jack felt a shudder run through Sy. Sy raised his head, stared at Jack with eyes wide with fear . . . and knowing. His hands rose to clutch at Jack’s arms.

  “You’re going to be okay, old man,” Jack whispered. Unfelt tears washed streaks through the blood drying on his cheeks. “You have to hang on. Please, Sy. Please.”

  Tires screeched on pavement. A powerful light stabbed into the laneway, blasting away the darkness. Voices shouted.

  A second shudder, no more that a ripple this time, quivered along Sy’s body. His lips twitched in what might have been a smile, then fell slack. His head splashed in the blood puddled under it. His hands lost their grip, fell free. More splashes.

  “No, Sy, no.”

  Jack squeezed that muscular hose harder than ever. Sy couldn’t die as long as he hung on. As long as he hung on. . . .

  He never knew who finally pried his hand free.

  Sunday, 27 August

  1400 hours

  The funeral was held four days later on a searing afternoon. Thousands of police officers from across Canada and the United States defied the heat in dress uniforms to pay their respects. Officers from Britain, Australia and other countries around the world sent representatives. It was a global display of police unity, a declaration of the price all officers were willing to pay and a statement of defiance to those who would see the world in chaos.

  Ranks of officers stood solemnly outside the church listening to the service over speakers; inside, people stood shoulder to shoulder with bowed heads. Friend, co-worker or stranger, they had all come to bid farewell to a fallen brother, to support those personally touched by the tragedy and to support themselves: when one officer falls, all officers feel the loss.

  The day was not without its victims. Men and women, indomitable in spirit, collapsed, succumbing to the heat or to overwhelming grief. Yet, where a few fell, others, be they officers, medics or civilians, helped them to stand and, more often than not, return to the ranks to resume the vigil.

  At the conclusion of the service, the same officers who had braved the heat marched to line the route from church to cemetery. Away from church grounds, citizens approached officers to offer condolences, prayers and words of gratitude. Water was freely given, gratefully accepted. On a day of tremendous grief, the union between police and those they protected was at its strongest.

  Amid an ocean of solidarity and brotherhood, Jack walked alone. Sy’s cap, the cloth brushed a lustrous black, the brim and badge polished to gleaming brightness, lay on a cushion in his arms as he marched behind the casket, a solitary figure. Karen was somewhere in the crowd, her parents with her to show a rare moment of compassion and understanding for their daughter’s husband, but still, he was alone.

  It shouldn’t be his hat. He threw it in the trunk of the car every day. It should be something that meant something to him, shows who he was.

  Jack had a sudden urge to fling the hat over the heads of the officers lining the road. He could picture it spinning through the air, the sun flashing off the badge. His hands twitched beneath the cushion, then were still.

  The intense August sun glared down on him, burning him from above and baking the asphalt beneath him. As much as the sun punished him, it was a guttering candle compared to the firestorm of grieving guilt within him. If he had run faster, pushed himself harder, reacted quicker. If, if, if . . .

  Beneath the grief, under the layers of sorrow, lay something else. It waited patiently, knowing it would have its time once the wounds inside Jack began to
heal, to lose their raw tenderness. Now was the time for Jack to say goodbye to Simon. Now was the time for grief.

  But soon, it would be time for rage.

  Sunday, 10 September

  1700 hours

  Jack was on the deck barbecuing chicken breasts when Karen came back from her run. She had on a sweatshirt and shorts, but no matter how good her legs looked, she wouldn’t be staying in shorts for long, as the air had a definite autumn feel to it. Not briskness, exactly, but a memory of it. Summer was on the way out, with fall eagerly awaiting its turn.

  Jack liked the fall; it was his favourite time of year. Cool air, crisp nights, a welcome relief from air-conditioned life. Winter, on the other hand, he could do without. If fall went from October to April, he’d be perfectly happy. Karen would prefer summer year-round. How she had survived growing up in northern Ontario he didn’t know, but it did explain her aversion to winter. Lucky for her, her parents had decided to move down to Toronto so her father could pursue his academic career.

  She came over and gave him a kiss on the ear. She tugged the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Not now.” He wrapped an arm around her, held her close. “You know the sight of you always warms me up.”

  “Well, if you weren’t busy playing chef, I’d invite you to join me in the shower.”

  “If you can wait a few minutes, these are almost done and I’ll gladly wash your back and any other parts of you that are dirty.” He nuzzled her neck, nipping playfully at the ticklish spot below her ear. She squirmed in his grip but didn’t move away.

  In the time since Sy’s death, Karen had given him space when he needed to grieve privately, a sympathetic ear when he needed to vent and had been a willing partner when he needed love.

  Even her parents had supported him in their own way: they had kept contact at the funeral very brief and then stayed away. No Sunday dinners, no unexpected visits. Jack could get used to that.

  “Are we having company I’m unaware of?” she asked, gesturing to the half dozen breasts on the grill.