C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

He began a Beethoven sonata, enjoying the pure physical pleasure of his fingers on the keyboard. He played the adagio movement first, lingering on the graceful phrases, the swell and rise of the melodic line. Then he plunged into the allegro passage, channeling his rage and frustration through his fingertips onto the keys. He couldn't help thinking about what Nelson had said. There were fourteen Stations of the Cross, and the Slasher was only up to number four.

During the dark days, there were times when music alone could reach him, when it was the only thing that passed through the wall of his depression, to lift him back into life.

He was dimly aware of the sound of the phone ringing, but he blocked it out and continued until he finished the sonata. Then he rose, went to the answering machine, and listened to the message.

The minute he heard Diesel's voice, he knew something was terribly wrong. He listened to the message in a fog of impending horror. He was vaguely aware of hearing the words "Eddie…subway train," and "killed instantly."

No, not Eddie…

He dialed the number showing on his caller ID. Diesel answered after one ring.

Fifty minutes later he was sitting in McHale's, nursing a pint of Saranac Amber, waiting for Diesel and Rhino to show up. The beer, with its dark, nutty flavor, reminded him of Eddie. Maybe the demons that had plagued him since the war-the napalm-scarred corpses of his nightmares-really had come to call on him one final time, luring him down onto the subway tracks. Even Eddie's chattiness was just another camouflage for his pain. In his tales of wartime horrors, he always appeared to leave something out. Lee had the sense that things happened in Vietnam that even now he couldn't come to grips with.

But suicide? Lee didn't believe it. Something else was at work.

When Diesel and Rhino arrived, Diesel's eyes were red rimmed. Rhino wore dark glasses, his white skin pasty in the weak light coming in through the grimy windows. They both slid into the booth across from him without a word. They were both wearing dark jeans and very white T-shirts under black leather jackets.

"Sorry," Diesel said. "I had a few people to call-you know, to tell them."

"What happened?" Lee asked. Their phone conversation had been brief, confined to the where and the when, leaving out the uncomfortable question of why.

Diesel shook his head. "I don't know yet. It's only been a couple of hours so far. They haven't even released his name to the press yet."

"How did you find out?"

Diesel leaned back in his chair. "I have a few contacts here and there."

As usual, Rhino did not speak. He took off his glasses, cleaned them carefully, and put them in his jacket pocket. His hands were surprisingly delicate for such a powerful-looking man. Lee noticed that his eyes, too, were bloodshot.

"You want anything?" Lee asked them.

"Let us get this round," Diesel said as Rhino rose from his seat and headed for the bar.

"Thanks," Lee said. He could use a second drink.

"Eddie didn't even like riding the subway," Diesel said. "Always said he hated standing on that yellow warning track."

Lee leaned forward. "Do you think he jumped?"

"Absolutely not. I know Eddie could get low-it wasn't any secret that he suffered from ups and down-but right now he was in an up phase." He picked up a beer coaster and ran his fingers lightly over the edges. "Could have been an accident, I guess. He had just won a lot of money, and he was probably excited about it. He may not have been paying attention because of all the money he'd just won-maybe he was thinking about that."

"But you said he hated standing on the warning track. Why would he even be close to the edge like that?"

"That's what I can't figure out."

Rhino returned with three glasses of very cold beer. Lee drank half of his in one gulp, and felt the bubbles rise to his head.

For the first time since Lee had met him, Rhino spoke.

"I think someone got to him." His voice was oddly thin and high, like the upper reaches of a woodwind instrument-a reedy oboe or clarinet.

"You mean someone pushed him?" The minute Lee spoke the words, he knew that was what he had been thinking all along, in the back of his mind.

Rhino's pale eyes narrowed. "No way a guy like Eddie falls onto a track-or even jumps. It's not his style."

Lee turned to Diesel. "Do you agree?"

Diesel nodded slowly. "I can't figure it any other way." He took a long drink and wiped his mouth delicately with a cocktail napkin.

"Did Eddie have any enemies that might have-I mean, he did gamble, right?"

"Yeah, but he didn't owe his bookie, and he'd just won big at the track."

Lee frowned. "He told me he was clean-that he'd given it up."

His companions exchanged a glance.

"Eddie didn't always exactly tell the truth," Rhino said, looking down at his beer glass.

"This guy you're after," Diesel said, "is he capable of something like that?"

"Oh, he's capable of just about anything."

"But I thought he killed women."

"Yes, but a murder like this would be different. It would be to protect himself from getting caught. But how would he know who Eddie is?"

"I don't know," Diesel said. "But maybe he tailed him into the subway and waited for his chance."

"But why? What did Eddie know? That's a big risk to take."

"Yeah, it is. I don't know what Eddie knew, because I hadn't spoken to him for a couple of days. But maybe this guy had been watching him."

"Okay," Lee said to the pair sitting opposite him, "I'm going to need some information from you."

"Anything you want, you got it," Rhino replied.

"Right," said Diesel. "If this guy did Eddie, we want to help you any way we can."

Lee shivered as another thought came into his head. For the first time it occurred to him that whoever wanted him off the case might very well be someone he knew.

The SRO desk clerk was a thick, lumpy man with a face that looked like it had been hewn from an oak tree with a rusty ax. His cheekbones were set at different heights, giving his whole face a lopsided look, and his nose was flattened and crooked. Lee realized he was looking at a boxer's face. The man's clothes and haircut belonged to a different era. They reminded Lee of gangster films of the '30s and '40s.

"Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me," Lee said as he approached the desk.

The man looked up from the sports pages he was reading. "Sure, Mac, whaddya need?" Even his voice was straight out of a B movie.

Diesel and Rhino had given Lee the address of the West Side flophouse where Eddie lived, but they didn't know the manager's name. This guy had night staff written all over him, though, and a couple of twenties later Lee was seated on the bed in Eddie's room, going through his things. Word had already gotten around about what happened to Eddie, and the clerk insisted on watching while Lee went through his friend's possessions. He stood in the doorway fingering a cigarette, as if he couldn't wait to go outside and smoke it.

It was a dismal room, the stale smell of desperation clinging to the peeling wallpaper, and Lee felt ashamed that he hadn't known how close to the edge his friend was living. Any offers of help had been politely rebuked. Eddie had a way of appearing to be able to take care of himself. A single bed and an unpainted pine dresser were the only pieces of furniture, a green braided rug the only touch of comfort.

He looked through the contents of the dresser: half a dozen shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, socks and underwear, and a couple of sports jackets. The rest of Eddie's possessions were unremarkable-pens, paper, and other simple office supplies, a few cans of soup, a box of crackers, several decks of cards, well thumbed and grimy-but one thing caught Lee's eye. It was a racing form dated the day Eddie died. In the first race, a horse's name was circled in red pen: Lock, Stock, and Barrel. Lee looked at the night clerk and held up the form.