Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

I turned to Noon. “ Drive !”

Lights flashing and siren screaming at the top of its lungs, we raced over the bridge, and I directed Noon to Charlie’s neighborhood. The officer looked over at me. “Plan?” He was cool, calm and collected. Good man. I took my cue.

“Plan. Okay.” My right arm was throbbing. “Cut the sirens,” I said. “Pull over. Here.”

Noon brought the patrol car deftly to the curb in front of a florist. Charlie’s street was two blocks away. I thought a moment, then I directed Noon to the intersection at the end of the block. The top of Charlie’s house was visible from where we stopped. I took another twenty seconds to think.

“Okay. Here’s how we do it.”

I got out of the car and made my way down the alley that ran behind Charlie’s house. I passed the house and went into the backyard of his next-door neighbors, Powell and Louise Harrison. Louise appeared at the back door. I put my finger to my lips, and she got the message.

The Harrisons are a retired couple. They have five grandchildren, a fact that Margo’s mother likes to recycle to her daughter whenever I’m within earshot. Some years back, Powell and his son, Scott, built a slapdash tree house in the only tree in the Harrisons’ backyard that could sustain one. Scott pounded a half-dozen two-by-fours into the tree trunk to serve as a ladder. There was a brief problem a few years ago with local teenagers finding their way up into the tree house late at night to indulge in any of several sports that teenagers generally indulge in. Charlie had solved the problem with several late-night vigils and a few revolver shots into the air.

I scurried up the tree, passed through the plywood tree house and shimmied out onto the thick branch that Charlie has been complaining to Powell about for twenty-three years. Charlie was convinced that with just the right kind of storm, the branch would break off and either land on his roof or go right through it. So far it hadn’t. From the branch, I lowered myself soundlessly onto Charlie’s roof. The pain in my injured arm was like fire. Blood had begun to ooze through the gauze.

I tried the windows first, suspecting they’d be locked. I was right. On to Plan B. I moved around to the far side of the house. I could see Noon’s patrol car parked at the end of the block. I waved my arm three times in the air. Noon flashed his lights. A second later, his roof lights came on. I checked my watch, then made my way to the window to Margo’s old room. I looked at my watch and counted down the final seconds. Four, three, two, one… I heard the not so distant squeal of tires.

I jabbed at the glass with my elbow just as Noon’s siren and horn sounded full blast. He must have slipped the car into neutral, since the engine revved with a scream. By comparison, the tinkle of breaking glass was tiny. I hoped it was tiny enough. I’d know soon enough.

I unlocked the lock on Margo’s window and let myself inside. I could hear voices from downstairs. I’d told Noon to wait in his car for two minutes before coming in, but that by all means he was to ignore that directive if he heard shooting. I took off my shoes and set them on the bed. I pulled my gun and made my way as catlike as I could through Margo’s room and into the hallway. The voices from downstairs had stopped. I checked my watch. Thirty seconds, give or take. Our timing, I figured, would be approximate at best. I went down the short hallway to the top of the steps. I could see a corner of the living room, just enough to see the television set and Margo’s mother’s aquarium. The burbling of the filter was the only sound in the house.

Noon pounded on the door. By my calculations, he was early.

“Police! Open the door!”

I took a five count, then started down the steps.

Charlie was seated in his wheelchair on the far side of the room, facing the stairs. Next to him sat Margo. They were both looking up at me as I descended the top three stairs. There was a third person in the room as well.

Sitting next to Margo.

Holding a gun to her head.

My heart stopped. It’s the devil you know.

Tommy Carroll got off his shot before I did. We both missed. I dropped and rolled down the steps. The front door flew open and Patrick Noon rushed into the house. Carroll swung his gun and fired another shot as Margo let out a scream. The tall officer dropped to the floor. Carroll swung his gun right back to Margo’s head as I scrambled up onto all fours. He grabbed hold of her hair. I had time to do absolutely nothing. Zip.

“Drop the gun, Fritz,” Carroll said. “It’s a three count, then she’s gone. I’m sorry. One-”

I skidded the gun along the floor. Noon had doubled over into fetal position and was groaning softly.

“Tommy,” I said, “we’ve got to call an ambulance.”

“Shut up.”

“Tommy, he’s a cop .”

“I said shut up.”

I got up slowly from the floor. I saw now that the television set was on. Breaking-news coverage of the events at Pier 17. The volume was off. Carroll tilted his chin in the direction of the TV. He was perspiring profusely. For that matter, so was I.

“Charlie here was watching the tube when I arrived. I saw your little act there with blondie. Nice language, Fritz.”

I took a step forward and Carroll waved his gun at me. “Stop right there.” He returned the gun to Margo’s head. She hadn’t said a word. Her hair had fallen into her face and she was giving me one of her darkest looks. It came to me as if it were at the far end of a long tunnel.

“Let her go,” I said evenly. “Let them both go. For Christ’s sake, get an ambulance out here. If you want to take me off somewhere and point your gun at me, let’s do it. Leave them out of it. They have nothing to do with any of this.”

“That’s exactly what I came out here to find out,” Carroll said. He refixed his grip on Margo’s hair, pulling her head back.

My breath was short. “Let her go, Tommy. Or I swear-”

Carroll was having trouble with his own breath. “Or you swear what ? Goddammit, I asked you to do one… simple thing. Just one. Locate Ramos. I should have known better. I know how you run everything by your old partner. I thought I’d come out here and see what kind of progress report old Charlie could give me. I can’t say he was… being too cooperative.” He tugged again on Margo’s hair. “Then this one came dropping by. And look what she had with her.”

I followed his eyes. I noticed that Donna Bia’s cell phone was sitting on the coffee table, next to a stack of magazines. Over by the door, Patrick Noon attempted to rise up onto an elbow. He managed to make it halfway up, then collapsed again.

Charlie spoke up. “Your man’s dying over there, Carroll. Why don’t-”

“Shut up.” Carroll inclined his head toward Noon.

“What does he know?”

“Jesus, Tommy, he doesn’t know anything, either. Is this your latest method of damage control?”

Carroll considered me a moment. “What do you know?”

“Angel Ramos is dead,” I said.

“I got that on the TV.”

“Cox isn’t.”

He tried not to show his reaction, but he failed. “Bullshit. You’re lying.”

“I’m not. He got hit, but he’s alive. So far, anyway.”

“That’s crap.”

“It’s not. It’s fact. What’s wrong? Do you have a problem with that? Cox is as corrupt a cop as they come, Tommy. What should you care if he lives?”

Carroll said nothing. He was trying to sort out whether I was bluffing. Margo started doing something strange with her eyes. She clenched them tightly, then opened them widely and looked off to her right. She did this several times. I saw what she was trying to say. When Noon had tried to rise, he’d rolled off of his service pistol. Carroll followed my eyes.