by Dylan Rust
80
Aside from Jack and the priest, there was only one other person in attendance at Agent Osgoode’s funeral. Mary Sokolov, the woman Claire had befriended in Igor’s cellar.
There was a light drizzle. Slivers of light cut through the clouds.
Jack was somber. He hands hurt and he was tired. He was going over the events of the night before.
He’d paid Tom Dunce a visit . The FBI agent was on the run. Jack found him in a diner in Jersey. He was wearing a big trench coat, top hat and dark glasses and a big burger and a plate of fries in front of him. He stood out like a sore thumb.
Jack wanted to beat his face inside out. He wanted to drag him through the streets. He’d handed Elaine over to Igor.
He handcuffed Tom and brought him to the precinct, booked him, and threw him in a cell.
The asshole wouldn’t last long in prison. He found some solace in that.
Tom had confessed that after Jack left to go to The Dacha House, he called the FBI assistant director and informed him of what had happened. Tom said Assistant Director Clarence Edward had told him that he had arranged a deal with Igor. As long as Clarence let Igor get away with Jack Spade and the murders of the other federal agents, Igor would give information to the FBI and work as an informant. Clarence said he could protect Tom if he handed over the girl. He could help Tom assume a new identity in Phoenix.
Tom, just looking out for himself, agreed to it. He told Clarence where he and Elaine were.
Clarence didn’t show up. The NYPD didn’t show up. Igor’s men did.
They brought Tom back to Assistant Director’s penthouse and Elaine to The Dacha House. He stayed with Clarence until both men got word about Jack’s shootout at the club and Igor’s downfall.
The Assistant Director told Tom to leave right away. They couldn’t be seen together.
Clarence didn’t know what he Igor had on him. He decided to flee the country.
Tom was just trying to make it back to his father’s house in California.
He only made it to Jersey.
Jack believed Tom was telling the truth.
The asshole wasn’t smart enough to come with something like that on his own.
He opened his eyes and looked at Claire’s casket. Light pellets of rain dripped off of its glossy surface.
The ground was moist and muddy.
Mary was crying. She hadn’t known Claire for long, but the two of them had struck up a bond in that cellar.
She told Jack that Claire helped her get through the pain. She told Jack that Claire never stopped believing in him.
Mary was now living with Jack’s sister. The two of them had found an apartment in Queens.
Elaine didn’t want to see Jack.
She’d been through a lot.
She needed space, time.
He gave it to her.
The priest said his closing words and the body lowered into the dirt.
Jack watched it disappear.
He’d made a promise to her.
A promise he’d intended to keep.
He was going to remain a detective.
He was going to work for the NYPD as a detective.
He was no longer a vigilante.
The funeral ended.
He walked back to his car.
There were buds blossoming in the trees. The air smelled of earth.
He opened the door to his car.
Mary stopped him.
“Hey,” she said. “Want to grab a coffee?”
“No.”
Mary looked him in the eyes. “I know you loved her,” she said.
Jack turned away. He got into the drivers seat. “Just make sure my sister stays clean,” he said.
“She is. Her man left her. You should come by and visit.”
Jack smiled. It was reassuring to hear that his sister had cleaned up her act . He hoped she stayed that way.
And he knew she didn’t clean herself up because of him.
It was because of Claire.
Her sacrifice.
Her courage.
Her belief.
Mary walked away from the car and Jack turned the engine.
He pulled out of the cemetery parking lot.
He turned on the radio.
The radio hosts were discussing the events following the collapse of The Dacha House. The NYPD commissioner and over three hundred cops had been charged with corruption. They were all on their way to Rikers. The new warden there had told the press that he wanted to clean things up.
Jack smirked. He’d believe it when he saw it.
He drove down the narrow streets of the city. The rain had stopped. He pulled into a coffee shop and grabbed himself a coffee.
He sat down and watched the TV above the bar.
CNN was on. A talking head was discussing the tens of thousands of hours of incriminating video that the feds had found in The Dacha House.
High rollers, big players in the city were dropping like flies. Anyone who did anything illegal in that club was getting their comeuppance.
Breaking News flashed across the screen.
The assistant director of the FBI’s New York office had been arrested boarding a flight in O’Hare International Airport in Chicago.
Jack didn’t respond to the news. He just watched and sipped his coffee.
He had work to do.
His job would never be done.
He’d made a promise to someone who believed in him that he would do it the right way, even if every bone in his body pushed him toward the wrong.
Jack Spade was no longer a vigilante, but that didn’t mean he didn’t believe in true, real justice.
He finished his coffee, got up and walked back to his car.
He sat down and headed to the 77th. Captain John Meyer said he had a case for him.
