David Jackson - Pariah

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.