Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

The stalls of the fish market blocked me partially from view, allowing me to scoot unseen along the small seldom-used lip of the pier on the north side of the pavilion. I reached the pavilion and pushed quickly through the first set of double glass doors.

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. A forty-foot evergreen rose from the mall floor up to the other levels. It was decorated with large colored disks. They looked like psychedelic hubcaps. At the base of the tree was Santa’s Workshop, now abandoned except for several mechanical reindeer whose heads swiveled left and right as if the animals were trying to figure out where everybody had gone. Thick silver strands of tinsel were draped everywhere, and most of the shopwindows had been frosted around the borders with spray-on snow. The sound system crooned “Silver Bells” to an empty house. I pulled out my.38.

Moving as swiftly as I could, I double-stepped it up the escalator to the second floor level and ducked into the nearest shop. It sold brightly colored wooden animals from South and Central America. A dozen Technicolor parrots were perched on colored loops hanging from the ceiling. I moved behind a blue gorilla the size of a small car and peered out the shopwindow.

There were two ways I could see for reaching the third level. One was to continue up the escalator I’d just been on. The other was to head down the low-ceilinged corridor of shops toward the rear of the pavilion. At the end of the corridor, a set of switchback stairs went up either side to the top level. My memory of the time Margo had dragged me here was that at the top of the escalator were several restaurants. The food court itself ran along an area corresponding to the corridor of shops on my level, then opened up to a large common area with tables and chairs and bolted-down lollipop tables for eating while standing. That was where the steps led to. It would have been nice to know if Ramos was holed up with his hostages on my end of the building or down at the far end. I glanced at the parrots. They weren’t talking.

I didn’t relish the idea of being delivered to Ramos via the escalator, so I decided to try the corridor. Between the shop and the far end of the corridor stood several market carts in the middle of the floor, the kind that sell bad jewelry and refrigerator magnets and various cheap gewgaws. I decided I’d make my way down the hallway cart by cart. They weren’t much cover, but they were all I had.

I rubbed the gorilla’s nose for good luck, then I took off out of the shop, keeping low, and made it to the first cart. “Silver Bells” had given way to “The Little Drummer Boy.” Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum .

I dashed to the second cart and crouched behind it. A refrigerator magnet next to my head read: TIME EXISTS SO THAT EVERYTHING DOESN’T HAPPEN ALL AT ONCE. I liked that. I grabbed it and stuffed it in my pocket. I was halfway to the final cart when a shot sounded out and I felt a bullet zip by just inches from my face. I dove to the floor and slid the final few feet to the cart. A second shot rang out. This one took a chip off the cart, just above my head.

I made myself as small as I could and crawled beneath the cart, wedging myself between the wheels and the centering post. I flattened my cheek against the cold floor and eased my head forward, like a reluctant turtle.

Leonard Cox was crouched behind the railing at the top of the right-side stairway. His elbows were locked in front of him, and he was holding his service revolver in both hands. The gun bucked. The bullet hit something metal and ricocheted into the window of a toy store in front of me on the left. The exploding glass looked like water from a burst dam. I kissed the floor as bits of glass rained down all around me.

“Malone!” It was Cox. “Malone, it’s the police! Hold your fire! Throw down your weapon!”

I knew immediately what he was doing. Cops carry transmitters on their shoulders, and my good friend Leonard Cox was setting it down for the record. In that instant, I knew Charlie’s theory was correct. The so-called murder-suicide of Pearson and Cash. However the shootings went down, in the end it was Cox who’d set things up to look the way they had. Twisting and reshaping. Cox seemed to have a talent for it.

I had a lousy shot. I’d have to bring my shooting arm out from under the cart, and he’d have a free shot at me. Besides, I wanted to avoid firing my gun if at all possible. Cox would have a trickier time putting his self-defense story over on his superiors if there was no evidence that I’d fired at him.

“Malone!”

I didn’t respond. I crawled slowly backward from under the cart and squatted on my haunches behind it. The toy store was the last shop in the corridor. Rising to a crouch, I grabbed hold of the cart’s wooden handles, tilted it off its centering post and gave it a shove. It resisted at first, then moved. Keeping the cart between myself and Cox, I started rolling it forward, breaking into a slow run. As I neared the toy store, Cox fired again. I torqued the handles so that the cart began to tip. With a deep grunt, I shoved the cart with all my strength toward the shattered window and followed behind it, leaping at the last second through the window and rolling into a ball. Toys crashed down all around me in a clatter of plastic and metal. A toy drum set’s cymbals gave a tinny crash. I rolled to a stop. There was a five-inch gash in the sleeve of my jacket. I sensed a warmth beneath it. I scooted immediately up against the wall, flat on the floor, and peered out over the pile of toys.

The tipped-over cart partially blocked my view-and kept me partially hidden-but I could see Cox clearly, up at the top of the stairs. He was still crouched behind the railing. I brought my.38 up to my nose, squinting along the barrel. I had a perfect shot.

Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.

He pitched sideways. Simultaneously, I heard the shots. Cox started to rise to his knees, then spun around violently as a second volley of shots was fired. His gun dropped and his arm flailed for the railing, just missing it. His mouth dropped open and he toppled forward, belly flopping onto the top three steps. He didn’t move. That was it. He looked as if he were glued to the spot.

I raced out of the toy store. From the floor above me, people were screaming. I heard another burst of automatic gunfire as I reached the stairs. I paused. Running up the stairs would be suicide. Blood was dripping down onto the railing next to me. I craned my neck and saw Leonard Cox’s body. The entire building began to roar. It was the sound of helicopters. The sound was drowning out everything except the screaming. I couldn’t remain where I was.

Move!

I spotted an elevator partway back down the corridor and I ran to it and slammed the button. The helicopter roar gained volume and, with it, ferocity. The elevator door slid open and I got in. I hit 3. As the door slid closed I muttered a soft prayer.

ANGEL RAMOS WAS STANDING TWENTY FEET AWAY WHEN THE ELEVATOR door opened. My gun was already up and aiming. My knuckles were white on the handle. Just as the elevator bumped to a halt, I’d noted the blood oozing from the gash in my coat sleeve. The warmth had given way to a hot searing pain. I realized what had happened. A large piece of the toy store’s plate-glass window had sliced open my shooting arm when I dove through the window. A nasty thought tore through my brain as Ramos appeared before me: What if my trigger finger doesn’t respond?

Ramos was cradling an Uzi rifle. He was in jeans and a white oversize Sean John sweatshirt. A black scarf covered his head. A black knapsack was on the floor between his feet.

He turned. Whether he actually saw me or not, I’ll never know. Abruptly his body began to jerk as if he were having an epileptic seizure. The rifle clattered to the ground. Ramos’s sweatshirt had a fit of its own, rippling in a breeze of gunfire. The splotches of red appeared even before the man had crumpled to the ground. It was over in seconds. His last movement-and he was probably already dead at this point-was his left leg. It kicked. His foot hit the Uzi, and the rifle skidded about ten feet along the floor.