Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

When they got to the road in front of the Gardens, however, the cops lost their cohesion: a dozen police cars parked on our side of the avenue, but only a few of cops joined the lynch mob parked across the way.

The small number of cops supporting them had an immediate effect on the enemy camp: suddenly they stood still and silent. An air of hopeless disbelief crawled across them like a visible entity. Faces grew unhappy, and many of them eyed their vehicles with longing.

A steroid-buffed cop I recognized from the deposition got out his car with megaphone in hand; he stood in the middle of the avenue between the two opposing camps, facing our enemies. “This is an unlawful gathering, and you will disperse immediately,” the amplified voice of the law boomed. “Cease and desist – it’s time to go home, folks.”

Our opponents did so, cringing away in driblets to their cars and driving away singly, no longer a caravan, no longer a mob, without that sense of communal purpose and predatory hum they’d seemed to bring with them. They drove home alone, hunched over their steering wheels, defeated. The few cop cars that had parked with them drove away too; I wondered if they’d still be on the department payroll after tonight.

Moe dropped to one knee. “Yes,” he said, karate-chopping his hand down at the ground like he thought he could split the earth. “You lost, bitches,” he laughed. “Don’t come back to the Gardens.”

All Sam’s friends erupted into applause. People threw hats and clapped one another on the back.

They looked around at one another, powerful emotions on their faces. This was the night Stagger Bay rolled over like a giantess in her sleep and escaped to less unpleasant dreams.

The cops unbent enough to smile and shake hands with everyone around them, appearing a little sheepish but still standing on Sam’s side of the street. The cop with the megaphone – the new Chief of police after tonight I assumed – looked my way and gave me a miniscule diplomatic nod which I returned.

I walked through the crowd, meeting everyone’s eyes. Tonight I could let them look right at me despite the grotesquerie my eye patch concealed. I circulated with everyone else, soaking up the feelings just as though I had any right to share them.

News crews had shown up without me noticing. That redheaded newscaster from Oakland eyed me intently as she advanced through the crowd clutching her microphone, her ever dutiful cameraman behind her in tow. She was one determined newswoman.

“Moe,” I said. “Here’s your chance to be on TV.”

I pointed at the newscaster and his eyes lit up like a hungry man seeing a delicious meal. He got in front of her and started talking even as Sam and I commenced our getaway, me limping along as rapidly as possible whilst clutching his shoulder for support.

As we left Big Moe spoke enthusiastically about the Driver and the war on the Gardens; about the atmosphere of fear ruling Stagger Bay. His bloody head made for a dramatic on-camera touch. He sounded like a natural, more comfortable in front of the camera than I’d ever be.

I heard a siren behind us and turned to watch as a fire truck warbled along the ridge line highway and up Moose Creek Road. Looking back into the hills in the ambulance’s direction of travel I saw a flickering glow up there in the woods, like a fire was blazing just about where Chief Jansen had lived.

Tubbs said he was cleaning up loose ends tonight. The Ancients believed fire was a good purifier, a good cleanser; it was also a great way to destroy CSI evidence. How wonderful when two ages could agree together on a course of action.

As Sam helped me hobble toward Natalie’s, that redheaded newscaster peered at me over Big Moe’s shoulder. I wasn’t going to be able to dodge that promised exclusive interview much longer.

Natalie’s door was wide open, and she stood in it with the light from inside backlighting her like enclosure.

“You’re a mess,” she said, canting her head to the side with hooded eyes. “Listen, Markus – I know you like to take your time and all, but you have to get some kind of move on eventually. Randy and I are going clothes shopping tomorrow, and you might want to tag along. That raggedy outfit is tired – it’s time to shuck it off and put it away for good, time to move on to where you need to be.”

Elaine had arrived before us with Karl’s hard-bought box of evidence. Sam helped me totter to the porch, and then Elaine picked up the box, stepped over to me, and plopped it at my feet.

“Now it’s on you,” she said with a grimace.

“Thanks loads,” I said. “Really looking forward to it.”

She chuckled at my tone, knowing how neatly she’d trapped me: if I really didn’t want my potential daughter-in-law to go through with whatever scam she had cooking, I had to take responsibility for this package.

But if Elaine thought she’d pulled a fast one on me, she might not be so tickled when I made sure she never folded on the injunction preserving the Gardens. Whether she knew it or not she was gonna ram that one through till the Man puked, with me standing behind her, arms crossed and tapping my foot.

I was free now, freer than I’d ever been in my life. I felt bigger than I ever had before, like I could rip the sky open with my bare hands tonight. But I was also juggling a lot of options, a million things I could turn my back on or face all the way, a potentially overwhelming number of decisions to make:

If I stayed in Stagger Bay and opposed Tubbs. If I walked through Natalie’s door and saw where that led us.

‘If’ I called Agent Miller? Please. It had nothing to do with whether or not I could trust the law – when I got ahold of him I knew he’d be up within hours, with bells on.

If.

God’s will, Natalie said. I still had my doubts about me being the kind of tool the Big Man would use if he existed. But I looked up at the stars, feeling the need to hedge my bets here at the end.

“Thank you,” I said, to whoever might be listening: Karl, or God, or Mister Montaigne and his homies – or most likely nobody at all.

“You’re welcome,” Sam said with an airy wave.

He stared at something behind me and I turned to follow his gaze. About a block down I saw that foxy redheaded Oakland newscaster closing in with cameraman in tow. I couldn’t hide from her anymore; it was time to keep my promise to her.

Seeing that camera inspired me to fumble Alden Wong’s business card out my otherwise empty wallet – first things first.

‘The biggest soap box in the world,’ the little agent had said. It would mean living in the fishbowl a little while longer. But what was wrong with a payout if I didn’t have to whore myself too hard, and if nobody else got hurt? “I need the phone one more time,” I said. “I need to call a man about a little thing.”

“No,” Sam said with a grin as he recognized the card. “That’s my Dad,” he noted to all and sundry. “The fucking old sellout.”

Sam smirked at me, awaiting my obligatorily obnoxious reply. But I just looked at him, keeping my proud fondness for him hidden in my heart as was always best.

Even though my son was mocking up on me harshly as ever, he’d been willing to call me ‘Dad’ twice in one night. Maybe, if I had patience and played my cards right, with any luck he’d call me the ‘D’ word again sometime.

Sam was still the typical teenager he’d been before tonight: an insolent little spud to be sure. But at least I’d made sure my son wasn’t a killer. It meant much that I’d kept that from happening here: Sam was still clean.

I dialed Alden’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

And I guess if you watch much TV at all or listen to the radio, if you surf the Internet, read the papers, or thumb through the tabloid magazines stacked high at every grocery checkout in America, you KNOW what happened next.