Allen Steele - Jericho Iteration

“I hear you!” he gasped, his voice ragged and hoarse. “I hear you! Please don’t …”

I saw John’s face. I saw Beryl Hinckley’s face. I saw Jamie’s face, even though this scumbucket had had nothing to do with his death. I wanted to beat this nameless bastard to death … but before that, I wanted answers to a lot of questions.

“Where are you from?” I shouted. “Who sent you?”

His face crawled. “Ehh … ehhh …”

“Tell me, you dick! Tell me who sent you or I swear to God you’ll never walk again!”

His chest was rising and falling as if he had just run a ten-mile race. In another minute, he’d go into shock and I’d lose him …

“Speak up, you piece of shit!” I showed him the jagged edge of the rebar, holding it just above his face, and let his imagination do the rest. “Talk to me!”

“ERA!” he cried out. “I’m working for ERA!”

No surprise there. Still holding the rod over his head, I yanked Joker out of my pocket, thumbed it into Audio Record, and held it over him. “Who at ERA sent you?” I demanded, even though I already knew. “Tell me his name! Why did he-”

“Drop it, Rosen!”

Mike Farrentino was standing just inside the door, book-ended by two uniformed officers. The cops were crouched, their revolvers cupped between their hands and aimed straight at me, but Farrentino’s hands were shoved in his pockets.

“Get away from him, Gerry,” he said evenly. “Just let go and-”

“Aw, cut it out, Mike.” I pulled the rebar away from the sniper’s face and let it drop from my hands; it hit the floor with a dull clang. I raised my arms and backed away from the man on the floor. As quickly as it had come, my rage dissipated. “He’s the guy you want, not me. I just-”

“Shut up, Gerry.” Farrentino walked farther into the room. “Simmons, look after the man on the floor. Conklin, make sure Mr. Rosen isn’t carrying anything he shouldn’t be.”

The two cops stood up. Their guns still in hand, they quickly crossed the room. I kept my hands in the air while Conklin patted me down and removed Joker from my right hand. “He’s clean, Lieutenant,” he said as he holstered his pistol and held out my PT to the detective. “That’s all he’s got on him.”

“This guy’s in bad shape, sir.” Simmons was kneeling next to the man on the floor, checking his pulse. “He’s still conscious, but he’s got a broken arm, a busted leg, some hemorrhaging in the testicle area.” He paused, then added, “Gun on the floor over there.”

Farrentino walked over to the gun and knelt down beside it, being careful not to touch it. “Get another ambulance crew up here pronto,” he said to no one in particular, “and collect this piece as evidence. Bag it and have it taken downtown to the lab … dust-up, serial number and registration check, the works.”

Simmons nodded his head, then looked down at the man on the floor. The headset was lying next to his head; he picked it up and held it next to his ear, then looked up at the lieutenant. “Just static,” he said, “but it must have been active.”

“Bag it,” Farrentino said. “Take it downtown.”

“What about this one?” Conklin asked, still standing beside me. “Want me to bring ’im downtown?”

“Before you start reading me the card, Mike,” I said, “you might want to check out that rig over there. That’s the laser rifle you guys have been looking for. This dude’s the one who killed three people so far.”

Farrentino glanced at the man, then stood up and walked over to study the partially disassembled laser more closely, again being careful not to lay his hands on anything. He gave it the once-over, then grunted and looked back at me. “And I guess you’re going to tell me that you found this character up here and worked him over before you thought he was going to shoot you next. Right?”

I lowered my arms to my sides. “No thinking about it, Lieutenant. He shot Beryl Hinckley-that’s the woman down there in the plaza-while we were crossing the street together. He tried to shoot me next, but the courthouse cop got in the way.” I swallowed, remembering the way he had screamed when the laser had struck him. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Hecht? He’s being taken to Barnes right now … he’s a tough kid, he’ll make it.” Farrentino was still eyeballing the laser. “You just happened to figure out where this buck was shooting from and decided to take matters into your own hands, that it?”

I shrugged. “Something like that,” I replied. “I’m sorry about your man, but he didn’t have a clue. I tried to explain it to him, but he wasn’t in the mood to listen, and I didn’t have time to spell it out for his backup.” I pointed to the gun on the floor. “The gun belongs to our friend over there. He pulled it on me when I found him up here. Sorry I beat on him like that, but-”

“Yeah, right.” Farrentino stepped away from the laser. “I can see how shook up you are.”

“Call it self-preservation. Oh, and there’s a van parked out back. I think it belongs to him. You might want to look at it-”

“I know. We found it already, just before we came up here.” Farrentino stood idly rubbing at the tip of his nose, then he looked at Conklin and cocked his thumb toward his partner. “Okay, Bill, you can leave him alone. I’ll take care of Mr. Rosen here. You go assist Jerry … oh, and call downtown and get a forensics team sent out here, too.” He gestured toward the laser. “I want prints off this thing, plus anything else they can find. And try to keep the press out of here, okay? One reporter’s enough already.”

Conklin didn’t get the joke. He hesitated, looking uncertainly at me. “Are you sure about this, Lieutenant? I mean, we don’t know if this isn’t the guy who …”

Farrentino sighed. “Bill, you want to spell your first and last name correctly for Mr. Rosen here? He’s from the Big Muddy Inquirer. I’m sure that the chief will be absolutely delighted to see your name in the next issue of his paper.”

Conklin shut up. He gave me a sour look, then handed Joker back to me and went over to help his partner. Simmons was crouched over the automatic on the floor; he had pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his belt and had inserted a pen through the gun’s barrel, delicately lifting it off the floor to deposit it in the bag. Conklin gave me one last backward glance, then shrugged out of his uniform jacket and laid it across the sniper’s chest.

Ambulance sirens were already warbling our way as Farrentino led me into a corner of the room away from the two officers. “I’d appreciate it if you switched off your PT,” he said softly. “I know you’ve got nothing to do with that lady’s murder, but I’d just as soon not see the rest of this in the paper, y’know what I mean?”

I had forgotten Joker’s audio-record mode was left on. I switched off the ’puter and shoved it back in my pocket.

Farrentino pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “you’re such a pain in the ass. I only met you last night, and so far you’ve been in my face three times already. If I didn’t know better, I’d have you cuffed and hauled downtown.”

“I’ve taken that trip already,” I replied, “but thanks anyway-”

“I don’t mean your business with ERA, Gerry.” He exhaled blue smoke, then jabbed the lit end of the cigarette at me. “This is police stuff now. It’s going to be hard for me to explain how I found a reporter whaling the shit out of a possible murder suspect with an iron bar as it is …”

“Chill out, Lieutenant.” I held up Joker. “I got it here on disk. That guy’s working for ERA, he told me so himself.”