No need. Only one gun. The Detective Harrison’s gun. Him’s will shoot. Stop kills. Stop forever.
The Detective Harrison must do. No one else. The Carly can not. Must be the Detective Harrison. Smart. Know the Carly. Understand.
After stop, no more ugly Carly. No more sick-scared look. Bad face will go away. Forever and ever.
Harrison had decided to go it alone.
Not completely alone. He had a van waiting a block and a half away on Seventh Avenue and a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, but he hadn’t told anyone who he was meeting or why. He knew if he did, they’d swarm all over the area and scare Carly off completely. So he had told Jacobi he was meeting an informant and that the van was just a safety measure.
He was on his own here and wanted it that way. Carly Baker wanted to surrender to him and him alone. He understood that. It was part of that strange tenuous bond between them. No one else would do. After he had cuffed her, he would call in the wagon.
After that he would be a hero for a while. He didn’t want to be a hero. All he wanted was to end this thing, end the nightmare for the city and for poor Carly Baker. She’d get help, the kind she needed, and he’d use the publicity to springboard an investigation into what had made Annie and Carly and the others in their ‘cluster’ what they were.
It’s all going to work out fine, he told himself as he entered the alley.
He walked half its length and stood in the darkness. The brick walls of the buildings on either side soared up into the night. The ceaseless roar of the city echoed dimly behind him. The alley itself was quiet-no sound, no movement. He took out his flashlight and flicked it on.
“Carly?”
No answer.
“Carly Baker-are you here?”
More silence, then, ahead to his left, the sound of a garbage can scraping along the stony floor of the alley. He swung the light that way, and gasped.
A looming figure stood a dozen feet in front of him. It could only be Carly Baker. She stood easily as tall as he a good six foot two-and looked like a homeless street person, one of those animated rag-piles that live on subway grates in the winter. Her head was wrapped in a dirty scarf, leaving only her glittery dark eyes showing. The rest of her was muffled in a huge, shapeless overcoat, baggy old polyester slacks with dragging cuffs, and torn sneakers.
“Where the Detective Harrishon’s gun?” said the voice.
Harrison’s mouth was dry but he managed to get his tongue working.
“In its holster.”
“Take out. Pleashe.”
Harrison didn’t argue with her. The grip of his heavy Chief Special felt damn good in his hand.
The figure spread its arms; within the folds of her coat those arms seem to bend the wrong way. And were those black hooked claws protruding from the cuffs of the sleeves?
She said, “Shoot.”
Harrison gaped in shock.
The Detective Harrison not shoot. Eyes wide. Hands with gun and light shake.
Say again: “Shoot!”
“Carly, no! I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to take you in, just as we agreed.”
“No!”
Wrong! The Detective Harrison not understand! Must shoot the Carly! Kill the Carly!
“Not jail! Shoot! Shtop the kills! Shtop the Carly!”
“No! I can get you help, Carly. Really, I can! You’ll go to a place where no one will hurt you. You’ll get medicine to make you feel better!”
Thought him understand! Not understand! Move closer. Put claw out. Him back way. Back to wall.
“Shoot! Kill! Now!”
“No, Annie, please!”
“Not Annie! Carly! Carly!”
“Right. Carly! Don’t make me do this!”
Only inches way now. Still not shoot. Other cops hiding not shoot. Why not protect?
“Shoot!” Pull scarf off face. Point claw at face. “End! End! Pleashe!”
The Detective Harrison face go white. Mouth hang open. Say, “Oh, my God!”
Get sick-scared look. Hate that look! Thought him understand! Say he know the Carly! Not! Stop look! Stop!
Not think. Claw go out. Rip throat of the Detective Harrison. Blood fly just like others.
No-No-No! Not want hurt!
The Detective Harrison gurgle. Drop gun and light. Fall. Stare.
Wait other cops shoot. Please kill the Carly. Wait.
No shoot. Then know. No cops. Only the poor Detective Harrison. Cry for the Detective Harrison. Then run. Run and climb. Up and down. Back to new home with the Old Jessi.
The Jessi glad hear Carly come. The Jessi try talk. Carly go sit tub. Close door. Cry for the Detective Harrison. Cry long time. Break mirror million piece. Not see face again. Not ever. Never.
The Jessi say, “Carly, I want my bath. Will you scrub my back?”
Stop cry. Do the Old Jessi’s black back.
Comb the Jessi’s hair.
Feel very sad.
None ever comb the Carly’s hair.
Ever.
TENANTS
The mail truck was coming.
Gilroy Connors, shoes full of water and shirt still wet from the morning’s heavy dew, crouched in the tall grass and punk-topped reeds. He ached all over; his thighs particularly were cramped from holding his present position. But he didn’t dare move for fear of giving his presence away.
So he stayed hunkered down across the road from the battered old shack that looked deserted but wasn’t—there had been lights on in the place last night. With its single pitched roof and rotting cedar shake siding, it looked more like an overgrown outhouse than a home. A peeling propane tank squatted on the north side; a crumbling brick chimney supported a canted TV antenna. Beyond the shack, glittering in the morning sunlight lay the northeast end of Monroe Harbor and the Long Island Sound.
The place gave new meaning to the word isolated. As if a few lifetimes ago someone had brought a couple of tandems of fill out to the end of the hard-packed dirt road, dumped them, and built a shack. Except for a rickety old dock with a sodden rowboat tethered to it, there was not another structure in sight in either direction. Only a slender umbilical cord of insulated wire connected it to the rest of the world via a long column of utility poles marching out from town. All around was empty marsh.
Yeah. Isolated as all hell.
It was perfect.
As Gil watched, the shack’s front door opened and a grizzled old man stumbled out, a cigarette in his mouth and a fistful of envelopes in his hand. Tall and lanky with an unruly shock of gray hair standing off his head, he scratched his slightly protruding belly as he squinted in the morning sunlight. He wore a torn undershirt that had probably been white once and a pair of faded green work pants held up by suspenders. He looked as run-down as his home, and as much in need of a shave and a bath as Gil felt. With timing so perfect that it could only be the result of daily practice, the old guy reached the mailbox at exactly the same time as the white Jeep-like mail truck.
Must have been watching from the window.
Not an encouraging thought. Had the old guy seen Gil out here? If he had, he gave no sign. Which meant Gil was still safe.
He fingered the handle of the knife inside his shirt.
Lucky for him.
While the old guy and the mailman jawed, Gil studied the shack again. The place was a sign that his recent run of good luck hadn’t deserted him yet. He had come out to the marshes to hide until things cooled down in and around Monroe and had been expecting to spend a few real uncomfortable nights out here. The shack would make things a lot easier.
Not much of a place. At most it looked big enough for two rooms and no more. Barely enough space for an ancient couple who didn’t move around much—who ate, slept, crapped, watched TV and nothing more. Hopefully, it wasn’t a couple. Just the old guy. That would make it simple. A wife, even a real sickly one, could complicate matters.
Gil wanted to know how many were living there before he invited himself in. Not
that it would matter much. Either way, he was going in and staying for a while. He just liked to know what he was getting into before he made his move.
One thing was sure: He wasn’t going to find any money in there. The old guy had to be next to destitute. But even ten bucks would have made him richer than Gil. He looked at the rusting blue late-sixties Ford Torino with the peeling vinyl roof and hoped it would run. But of course it ran. The old guy had to get into town to cash his Social Security check and buy groceries, didn’t he?
Damn well better run.
It had been a long and sloppy trek into these marshes. He intended to drive out.
Finally the mail truck clinked into gear, did a U-turn, and headed back the way it had come. The old guy shoved a couple of envelopes into his back pocket, picked up a rake that had been leaning against the Ford, and began scratching at the dirt on the south side of the house.
Gil decided it was now or never. He straightened up and walked toward the shack. As his feet crunched on the gravel of the yard, the old man wheeled and stared at him with wide, startled eyes.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Gil said in his friendliest voice.
“Well, you sure as hell did, poppin’ outta nowhere like that!” the old man said in a deep, gravelly voice. The cigarette between his lips bobbed up and down like a conductor’s baton. “We don’t exactly get much drop-in company out here. What happen? Boat run outta gas?”
Gil noticed the we with annoyance but played along. A stalled boat was as good an excuse as any for being out here in the middle of nowhere.
“Yeah. Had to paddle it into shore way back over there,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Well, I ain’t got no phone for you to call anybody—”
No phone! It was all Gil could do to keep from cheering.
“—but I can drive you down to the marina and back so you can get some gas.”
“No hurry.” He moved closer and leaned against the old Torino’s fender. “You live out here all by yourself?”
The old man squinted at him, as if trying to recognize him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, son.”
“Oh, right.” Gil stuck out his hand. “Rick . . . Rick Summers.”
“And I’m George Haskins,” he said, giving Gil’s hand a firm shake.
“What’re you growing there?”
“Carrots. I hear fresh carrots are good for your eyes. Mine are so bad I try to eat as many as I can.”
Half blind and no phone. This was sounding better every minute. Now, if he could just find out who the rest of the we was, he’d be golden.
He glanced around. Even though he was out in the middle of nowhere at the end of a dirt road that no one but the mailman and this old fart knew existed, he felt exposed. Naked, even. He wanted to get inside.
“Say, I sure could use a cup of coffee, Mr. Haskins. You think you might spare me some?”
George hesitated. Making coffee for the stranger would mean bringing him inside. He didn’t like that idea at all. He hadn’t had anybody into the house since the late sixties when he took in his tenants. And he’d had damn few visitors before that. People didn’t like coming this far out, and George was just as glad. Most people pried. They wanted to know what you did way out here all by yourself. Couldn’t believe anybody sane would prefer his own company to theirs.
And of course, there was the matter of the tenants.
He studied this young man who had popped out of nowhere. George’s eyes weren’t getting any better—“Cataracts only get worse,” the doctor had told him—but he could plainly see that the stranger wasn’t dressed for boating, what with that blue work shirt and gray denims he was wearing. And those leather shoes! Nobody who knew boats ever wore leather shoes on board. But they were selling boats to anybody with cash these days. This landlubber probably didn’t know the first thing about boating. That no doubt was why he was standing here on land instead of chugging about the harbor.
He seemed pleasant enough, though. Good-looking, too, with his muscular build and wavy dark hair. Bet he had an easy time with the girls. Especially easy, since from what George understood of the world today, all the girls were easy.
Maybe he could risk spotting him a cup of coffee before driving him down to the marina. What harm could there be in that? The tenants were late risers and had the good sense to keep quiet if they heard a strange voice overhead.
He smiled. “Coffee? Sure. Come on inside. And call me George. Everybody else does.” He dropped his cigarette into the sandy soil and stomped on it, then turned toward the house.
Just a quick cup of coffee and George would send him off. The longer he stayed, the greater the chances of him finding out about the tenants. And George couldn’t risk that. He was more than their landlord.
He had sworn to protect them.
Gil followed close on the old guy’s back up the two steps to the door. Inside was dark and stale, reeking of years of cigarette smoke. He wondered when was the last time George had left a window open.
But being indoors was good. Out of sight and inside—even if it stank, it was better than good. It was super. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him.
Now to find out who made up the rest of the we.
“Got this place all to yourself, ay?” he said, glancing quickly about. They were standing in a rectangular space that passed for a living room/dining room/kitchen. The furniture consisted of an old card table, a rocker, a tilted easy chair, and a dilapidated couch. Shapeless piles of junk cluttered every corner. An ancient Motorola television set with a huge chassis and a tiny screen stood on the far side of the room diagonally across from the door. The screen was lit and a black chick was reading some news into the camera:
“. . . eriously injuring an orderly in a daring escape from the Monroe Neuropsychiatry Institute. He was last reported in Glen Cove-—”
Gil whooped. “Glen Cove! Awright!” That was the wrong direction! He was safe for the moment. “Fanfemic!” he yelled, stomping his foot on the floor.
“Hey! Hold it down!” George said as he filled a greasy, dented aluminum kettle with water and put it on the gas stove.
Gil felt the customary flash of anger at being told what he could or couldn’t do, but cooled it. He stepped between George and the TV set as he saw his most recent mug shot appear on the screen. The black chick was saying:
“If you see this man, do not approach him. He might be armed and is considered dangerous.”
Gil said, “Sorry. It’s just that sometimes I get excited by the news.”
“Yeah?” George said, lighting another cigarette. “Don’t follow it much myself. But you got to keep quiet. You might disturb the tenants and they—”
“Tenants?” Gil said a lot more loudly than he intended. “You’ve got tenants?”
The old guy was biting his upper lip with what few teeth he had left and saying nothing.
Gil stepped down the short hall, gripping the handle of the knife inside his shirt as he moved. Two doors: The one on the left was open, revealing a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink, and mildewy shower stall; the one on the right was closed. He gave it a gentle push. Empty: dirty, wrinkled sheets on a narrow bed, dresser, mirror, clothes thrown all around, but nobody there.
“Where are they?” he said, returning to the larger room.
George laughed—a little too loudly, Gil thought—and said, “No tenants. Just a joke. Creepy-crawlies in the crawl space is all. You know, snapping turtles and frogs and snakes and crickets.”
“You keep things like that under your house?” This was turning out to be one weird guy.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. You see, a zillion years ago when I built this place, a big family of crickets took up residence”—he pointed down—“in the crawl space. Drove me crazy at night. So one day I get the bright idea of catching some frogs and throwing them in there to eat the crickets. Worked great. Within two days, there wasn’t a chirp to be heard down there
.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah. So I thought. Until the frogs started croaking all night. They were worse than the crickets!”
Gil laughed. “I get it. So you put the snakes down there to catch the frogs!”
“Right. Snakes are quiet. They eat crickets, too. Should’ve thought of them in the first place. Except I wasn’t crazy about living over a nest of snakes.”
This was getting to sound like the old lady who swallowed the fly.
Gil said, “And so the next step was to put the turtles down there to eat the snakes.”
“Yeah.” As George spooned instant coffee into a couple of stained mugs, Gil tried not to think about when they last might have had a good washing. “But I don’t think they ate them all, just like I don’t think the snakes ate all the frogs, or the frogs ate all the crickets. I still hear an occasional chirp and croak once in a while. Anyway, they’ve all been down there for years. I ain’t for adding anything else to the stew, or even looking down there.”
“Don’t blame you.”
George poured boiling water into the mugs and handed him one.
“So if you hear something moving underfoot, it’s just one of my tenants.”
“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
This old guy was fruitcake city. As crazy as—
. . . Crazy. That was what that college chick had called him that night when he had tried to pick her up along the road. She was cute. There were a lot of cute girls at Monroe Community College, and he always made it a point to drive by every chance he could. Shed said he was crazy to think she’d take a ride from a stranger at that hour of the night. That had made him mad. All these college broads thought they were better and smarter than everybody else. And she started to scream when he grabbed her, so he hit her to make her stop but she wouldn’t stop. She kept on screaming so he kept on hitting her and hitting her and hitting and hitting . . .
“You’re spilling your coffee,” George said.
Gil looked down. So he was. It was dripping over the edge of his tilted mug and splashing onto the floor. As he slurped some off the top and sat on the creaking couch, he realized how tired he was. No sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe the coffee would boost him.
A Soft Barren Aftershock Page 44
