Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (11 page)

Dusk crawled down into night. It came early this time of year.

The rattle and shake became a solid noise. The train was a greyed-out silver tube hurtling towards him. Interior lights glowed yellow in the darkness. Grant looked down at the track. The wooden cross supports were splintered and worn. Oil and dirt stained the aggregate, turning the big grey stones into chunks of coal. His mind went back to a suicide he'd once dealt with in Bradford. A manic depressive who'd waited all night in the tunnel coming out from the station, smoking himself to death while he built up courage to step in front of the first train of the morning. They'd found his feet three hundred yards from his brains. The rest of him had been spread over the distance between the two. Just like Freddy Sullivan, with one hand on the floor and his eyeball on the ceiling.

The noise became deafening. The train was speeding into Ruggles Station. The squeal of brakes filled the night. Sparks exploded from the track and the wheel arches. He glanced around him at the waiting passengers.

Nobody met his eye. They were all looking at the arriving train.

The edge of the platform was twelve inches from his feet.

The brakes slowed the onrushing metal tube.

A metallic voice announced the arrival of the train to Forest Hills, calling at … The voice trotted out a list of stations, including Green Street. It was the right train. He never got on the wrong train. Warm air was displaced ahead of the lead carriage. A surge of forward passenger movement was barely contained. Just like the London Underground. Just like the Paris Metro. Impatience trumping common sense. There was plenty of room.

The train was still moving fast.

It was almost at the start of the platform.

Grant felt a sharp nudge in his back.

Sparks flew. The brakes squealed. Grant spun around fast. One hand formed into a fist and the other prepared to fend off the attack. Something clattered on the floor. A shadowy figure crouched sharply, fast but not fast enough. Grant's open hand flashed out just in time to—

He stopped as quickly as he'd started. The woman bent and picked up the cell phone she'd dropped on the platform. She apologized, and Grant swiftly picked the phone up for her. The train stopped. The doors opened. The crowd melted away as it separated into the several carriages that made up the length of the T.

Nobody was going to start killing cops.

Unless the cop got killed in a fatal accident.

Grant settled into a forward-facing seat and dismissed the speculation as the effects of a hard day that had seen two brothers killed and more questions raised than answers given.

The doors closed and the train moved off. Slow and even. The gentle swaying of the carriage was relaxing, the sparks outside less fierce. He settled in for the short journey. Four stops. It should be uneventful after the excitement of the day.

When he looked into the glaring eyes of the man in front of him, Grant realized he was wrong.

sixteen

The man with the
staring eyes
was wearing a stained T-shirt and khaki combat pants. The stains looked like vomit and dribble down the front, wiped clean as best he could. The combat pants were crumpled and faded and looked like they'd covered a lot of miles. He wore scuffed black leather boots that might have come from an army surplus store a long, long time ago.

Grant breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose.

Gently.

Twice.

He didn't need to glance around the carriage to get his bearings; he'd already done that before he sat down. The layout was simple. Long silver tube with sliding doors on either side at both ends and in the middle. No connecting door between carriages. Seating was traditional tubular steel and preformed seats and backs. They were arranged in double rows facing forward, with matching double rows facing backwards behind them. There was a single seat on either side of the doors with its back to the wall, facing inwards.

The man with the wild eyes was sitting in the side seat in front of Grant.

The rest of the carriage was sparsely populated. A woman with a young girl sat farther down on the left, facing the front of the train. Another woman, on her own, was sitting on the other side facing Grant. She looked older and was fiddling with something in a shopping bag. She kept looking over at Grant, then back down into her bag. A teenage boy in an NFL shirt and a baseball cap sat with earphones behind Grant but on the other side. His eyes were dull and listless as he listened to whatever was pumping into his ears. The three scruffy guys were sitting at the very back of the carriage, facing front.

Nobody immediately behind Grant. There was a minimum buffer zone of two rows of seats or the center aisle in any direction apart from the front, but he wasn't facing any threat from that direction.

The threat was the man with the wild eyes.

Grant studied him. He didn't hide the fact. It was often the best way to discourage an attack, staring down the opposition and letting them know you weren't afraid. Any sign of weakness could trigger a predator. Grant never displayed a sign of weakness. His eyes flicked over the man, making mental notes in case he needed them later.

Under six feet tall. Slim but not skinny. Gaunt features and pale skin. Not been out in the fresh air and sunshine much lately. Unshaven but not a beard. Greasy black hair cut short but still long enough to be scruffy. The sleeves of the T-shirt were long and baggy but couldn't hide the large white patch stuck to the upper arm, like a quit-smoking patch, only bigger. His right forearm was bandaged from wrist to elbow. The other wrist wore a loose white plastic nametag. Grant subconsciously stroked his own wrist, but the hospital wristband wasn't there anymore. The combat pants were snug fitting. They didn't have a belt. The boots didn't have laces.

The eyes were alternately angry and staring, then dull and listless. When they were angry, he was glaring at Grant. When they became dull and listless, he was staring into space towards the back of the carriage. The patch on his upper arm said he was hiding something. The bandages and lack of belt and laces said that whatever he was hiding made him more of a risk to himself than to others. Suicidal types weren't usually aggressive. They were usually insular and depressed and unable to cope with life outside their own little bubble.

This guy looked like his bubble had burst. He was the exception that proved the rule. This guy was aggressive, and he was building up to doing something about it. The darting eyes became more pronounced. Staring first at Grant, then at the teenager with the earphones, and finally beyond Grant towards the rear of the carriage. It was a quick-fire staccato cycle that became faster the angrier he got. He was getting pretty angry.

Grant relaxed his hands and arms. He flexed his neck and continued to breathe evenly. He watched for the added twitch that would signal the man changing from passive aggression to enemy action. Everybody had one—a subconscious giveaway that was almost impossible to hide. You just had to know how to recognize it. Grant had plenty of practice. He watched everything. The guy's hands lay open in his lap. His feet tapped erratically on the floor. His eyes went through their staccato cycle. Grant. The teenager. The back of the carriage.

The feet stopped tapping.

Grant prepared for the parry.

The eyes locked on Grant for a second, then darted away. Then he lunged.

The head fake didn't fool Grant. He was on his feet almost before the angry man made his lunge. The legs inside the combat pants were strong. They propelled him up and forwards at incredible speed. The hands were relaxed as they flashed up.

Grant was faster. So fast that he had time to stop when he realized the man wasn't lunging at him. The triple click of three switchblades flicking out snapped Grant's attention behind him and he saw the reflections in the window before he saw the men themselves. The three scruffy guys from the back seat, knives in hand, coming for Grant's unprotected back.

Everything else happened in less than five seconds.

In the confined space of the center aisle, the three attackers had to separate. The first one came straight for Grant, while the other two were delayed slightly in the cramped space. Angry Eyes went for the leading knife, blocking upwards with his forearm, then whipping the other arm out with his palm heel open to the guy's chin. The knife arm was swept aside and up. The chin was jerked backwards with such force it broke three of his teeth and bit off a chunk of tongue.

Grant wheeled around on the other two. They couldn't come side by side, so one was slightly behind the other. They held their knives lower, hoping for a quick stab forwards or a slashing cut up from the waist. Grant stepped inside the fighting arc and jabbed down with his left forearm. He brought his right arm up, bent at the elbow. Forward momentum doubled the weight of the blow as he drove the elbow into the guy's throat. The momentum also carried the knifeman back into the guy behind him, becoming a human shield for Grant's next move.

The third guy had lost before he even started. There was nowhere for him to go. His knife was impotent. The second guy stumbled backwards and knocked his comrade into the second row of reversed seats. Grant stepped past him and stamped down hard on the back of his leg just below the knee. He went down hard, wedged between the seats. He tangled the third guy's legs, and all Grant had to do was launch a palm heel strike to the chest, and his balance went. He let out a scream as the weight of the fall snapped his right leg.

The scream coincided with the squeal of brakes. Sparks lit the night outside. The train was coming into the next station. It slowed down on the run up to Roxbury Crossing. The lights flickered. More sparks outside. Grant leaned down and picked up two of the switchblades. Angry Eyes did the same with the third. The woman with the shopping bag stared goggle-eyed at Grant. She couldn't keep the smile off her face.

The train slowed to a stop and the doors opened. The scruffy guys scrambled backwards through the middle door, two of them dragging the third with the broken leg. The mother and daughter got off at the far end. The teenager ignored the commotion and continued to listen to his own private world. The woman with the shopping bag came over before getting off. “I knew it was you. Saw you on TV. Will you sign this, please?”

She pulled a notepad from her bag. Grant scribbled a signature. An electronic voice warned that the doors were closing, and the woman dashed through just in time. She waved through the window as the train pulled out of the station. Grant didn't wave back.

He scanned the carriage. Nothing had changed apart from the passengers who had got off at Roxbury Crossing. Nobody else had got on. The teenager continued to listen, eyes half closed, oblivious to the commotion. Another thought struck him briefly.
Nobody was going to start killing cops. Unless the cop got killed in a fatal accident. Or a mugging.
Once Grant was satisfied that the danger was over, he concentrated on his unexpected helper.

The man looked more focused than at any time since Grant got on the train.

“Thanks.”

Grant didn't hold out a hand to shake on it. This guy didn't look like the type for effusive handshakes. He looked like a guy with enough problems of his own, and that made his intervention all the more impressive. It was the kind of thing people of a certain nature did. Emergency service kind of people. Or military. He thought he knew what was hiding under the patch on the guy's upper arm.

Angry Eyes didn't reply. He simply nodded, then suddenly seemed to weaken. He slumped back into his seat. Grant noticed the bandaged forearm had begun weeping. Blood seeped through the clean white dressing. He sat but didn't try to examine the wound. Men capable of self-harming didn't like physical contact, especially with strangers.

“We'd better get that seen to.”

The man jerked upright, cradling the bandaged arm like a baby in his lap. “No hospitals.”

“Okay.”

The man wouldn't meet Grant's eyes, a marked contrast to his behavior earlier. This guy was damaged goods, and Grant reckoned he knew what branch of the services had damaged him. It was an old story. This was a case for tact and diplomacy. Grant could occasionally come up with a bit of tact and diplomacy.

“Still needs seeing to, though. I think I know just the place.”

The train rattled through the night. Two more stops before it was time to get off. He hoped the pharmacy would still be open.

seventeen

The CVS Pharmacy on
Centre
Street
was a haven of bright lights and friendly voices. The staff were pleasant and helpful. Grant found what he was looking for at the back of the shop, past displays of children's books and cuddly toys. He'd never understood the sell-everything mentality of modern shopping. There were no speciality stores anymore. Back in his youth, a chemist sold medicine and a toy shop sold kids' stuff. Nowadays you could buy everything from men's clothes to condoms all under one roof. He didn't need condoms, but the men's clothes were a bonus.

The shuffling figure Grant had met on the T had become more confident with each step as they'd walked along Green Street and cut through Seaverns Avenue onto Centre Street. By the time John Cornejo followed Grant into the pharmacy, they were more comfortable in each other's company.

Grant checked the medication display and selected crepe bandages, gauze pads, alcohol wipes, and antiseptic cream. He asked Cornejo about painkillers, but he'd been given some to take with him at the hospital. The T-shirt was a problem. Grant went to the clothing section and found a sale rack advertising two for five dollars. “D'you want Mickey Mouse or American Eagle?”

Cornejo looked blank. The question was rhetorical. Grant nodded. “Yeah. Gotcha.”

Grant picked two dusky beige T-shirts that wouldn't look out of place with Cornejo's combat pants. Having just met the man, he didn't think having him take his trousers off was a good idea. He checked the T-shirt sizes. They ranged from M through L to XXXL. There were far more XXXLs than Ms. He held one up. It could cover the state of Texas. He couldn't imagine anyone being big enough to fill it, but then he remembered the fat family at the Purple Cactus. And they hadn't been eating a Santa Fe chicken salad you could graze your herd on, they'd been eating something bigger.

The L was a UK equivalent to XL. The M was more Cornejo's size. Grant used the T-shirts as a makeshift basket and wrapped the medication in them. Halfway to the checkout he passed a refrigerated food cabinet with cold drinks and vacuum-packed sandwiches. “You eaten?”

“This year? A couple of times.”

Grant smiled. Military humor. That was a good sign. “You won't need anything just yet then?”

Cornejo looked sheepish. Accepting charity appeared to weigh heavy on him. “I could manage a bite.”

“Take your pick.”

“No. You.”

The prices varied. He reckoned Cornejo didn't want to pick anything too expensive. Grant split the difference and picked a ham and cheese sandwich. That was everything. He nodded to the exit. “See you outside.”

Cornejo went through the doors that Grant had last gone out of in a rush just the night before. Grant went to the checkout. A young girl stared at him as if Elvis had just walked in. She took his money and put everything into a plastic CVS Pharmacy bag. Grant was putting the change in his pocket when she stopped him.

“I just want to say I thought you were great. On TV. With that poor guy at the auto repair. You were, like, so cool.”

Grant didn't know what to say. “Thanks.”

“You were, like, Crocodile Dundee or something. Wow.”

“Yeah, well. G'day, mate.”

He followed Cornejo into the street. A faint hint of smoke still lingered in the cool night air, but the disruption of last night had left no lasting scars. Grant thought of looking in at Flanagan's, but now wasn't the time. In the aftermath of battle, field dressings were the first order of business. He turned towards the Seaverns Hotel, and they fell into step. Two old soldiers together.

Grant didn't offer
to
wash Cornejo's cuts or dress his wounds. He simply pointed him at the bathroom and gave him the medical supplies. No words were exchanged. This wasn't battlefield emergency treatment. Most soldiers could do the basics until they reached an aid station. Having a bathroom, plenty of time, and no bombs going off around you was a luxury. Grant was beginning to understand that the combat pants weren't army surplus bought from some corner shop. They looked worn out because they had put on the mileage in real life.
“Go knock yourself out.”

“I will.”

That was all they said for half an hour. Cornejo went in the bathroom and closed the door. Grant turned on the TV to cover any noises the veteran might make. Local news was delivered with the same dripping insincerity he'd seen during the day. He wondered how they managed to keep the smile going without being medically altered. And they hadn't even got to the Lassie moment they always ended the news with—the
smile, life's-not-really-that-bad
story that was supposed send you away from the TV with hope for humanity.

The newsreader voice-overed a story about the price of petrol going up while images of queues at a gas station played on the TV. She then segued into a story about the forthcoming oil summit being held in downtown Boston over the next few days. Footage of a group of Arabs sweeping into Logan International was followed by a grinning politician waving at a crowd, then police setting up trestle barriers in front of an expensive glass and chrome building.

He could hear the faucets running in the bathroom but no cries of pain. If Cornejo had been in the regiment he thought he'd been in, cries of pain were the last thing Grant would hear.

The penultimate story on the news confirmed why the checkout girl thought Grant was Crocodile Dundee. He saw himself being stretchered out of the wreckage of the E-13 police station and into an ambulance. That switched to pictures of him walking towards Parkway Auto Repair. The orange windcheater bloused open in the wind. Dust swirled around his feet. It was a biblical moment, walking with his arms out like Jesus on the cross. What the fuck had he been thinking? No wonder the news was bigging him up.

The Resurrection Man strikes again.

He thought he even detected an Australian accent as the newsreader unraveled the story, but Americans often got that mixed up with a Yorkshire accent. The story played up the fact that the quaint visiting English cop patrolled the mean streets of Bradford unarmed and had walked into the face of a sniper's rifle without a gun. It played down the fact that the sniper was shot by Boston police, although they did link the tragedy to the death of his brother the same day. That brought the pictures full circle, right back at the scene of the explosion and the orange jacket being carried to the ambulance.

The Resurrection Man.

Grant turned the TV off before the Lassie story. Any more saccharine and he thought he'd be sick. The sudden silence highlighted the fact that the faucet had stopped running. The bathroom door was open.

“Sounds like you've been busy.” Cornejo was standing in the doorway, holding the loose ends of a freshly wrapped bandage. He looked clean and fresh with his new T-shirt and washed face. He held the bandaged arm out to Grant. “I need a hand with this.”

The dressing was tightly wrapped from elbow to wrist, but there was no elastic gripper to fasten the ends. Grant stood up and knotted the length of bandage about six inches from the end, then tore the crepe down the middle to form two ribbons. He wrapped the bandage all the way to the knot, then used the ribbon ends to tie it off. He waited a few seconds, then checked both sides of Cornejo's forearm. There was no blood. Good.

Grant indicated a plastic kettle on the bedside table. “You want tea or coffee with the sandwich?”

“Coffee. Black.”

No please or thank you. There was still a hint of madness in Cornejo's eyes, but it was toned down from the stuttering flicker he'd displayed on the T. Grant thought there was more sadness than anger in them, but occasionally anger flared in the background.
Coffee
. Black.
For some reason American servicemen always seemed to like strong black coffee. Maybe that's why they always seemed so hyperactive. He filled the kettle from the bathroom and switched it on. “Caffeine overload. Is that wise?”

“You mean because I'm suicidal? Decaf won't slow that down.”

“You're not suicidal. You're just misunderstood.” Grant wasn't sure if that was true, but for sure if Cornejo really wanted to kill himself, he was more than capable of doing it. The kind of training he showed on the train proved one thing. He was military right down to his boots. “Marines, was it?”

Cornejo's eyes steadied. He stared at Grant without blinking. “Better put two sugars in that. Help sweeten me up.”

“How long you been out?”

“How long
you
been out?”

“Too long.”

“Asked and answered.”

“It was the marine corps, wasn't it?”

“That's my business.”

Grant thought he understood. Being in the forces was like being in a family with lots of brothers and sisters. Being in the United States Marine Corps was like being in the closest family imaginable. Mustering out, whatever the reason, would be like cutting your arm off. You could still feel the hand and fingers, but they weren't there any more. Grant had been in that situation. “Life goes on, you know?”

“That's what they told me at the VA. It goes on better for some than others.”

The kettle boiled, then clicked off. Grant made the coffee and mashed himself a cup of tea. The Englishman's brew. He left the coffee for Cornejo. He wasn't a waiter. He went to the window and leaned his back against the sill. Cornejo sat in the bedside chair and unwrapped his sandwich. Conversation dried up while he ate and drank. Grant knew better than to probe but couldn't resist making one observation. He tapped his upper arm, then pointed at the large square plaster on Cornejo's. “Wear it with pride. You deserve it or they wouldn't have let you in.”

“It's pride that covered it up.”

“Don't be ashamed of it.”

Anger flared behind the eyes, and Grant thought Cornejo was going to kick off, but he simply finished chewing before he spoke. “Ain't ashamed of it being seen. I just don't want it seeing me.”

“If it could see you, it'd see someone who stepped in when he didn't need to.”

“Don't patronize me.”

“Not patronizing. Hard truth. Whatever you had with the corps, you've still got now. The family's still there. They leave no man behind. Keep in touch. Keep up to date. You've still got what it takes.”

“Holy Christ. This is the most expensive sandwich I ever had.”

“You paid on the train. That don't come cheap.”

Cornejo ate the last of his sandwich. He looked hungry, but Grant reckoned it was to give him time to think. Coffee swilled it down. Grant had only drunk half of his tea, but it was cold now. He set the cup on the tray beside the kettle, then went back to the window. Didn't look out. Leaned against the sill again and looked at the man opposite. The ex-marine wiped his mouth and stared back. “You know why you joined the po-lice? So you could replace the family you lost when you mustered out.”

Grant thought about that. It was true that lots of cops were ex-military. There was something about being in a disciplined service that appealed to old soldiers, even ones who were only typists. He often told himself it was just because he wanted to help people, but that wasn't true. He could have become a school-crossing warden and still helped people. No, it was more to do with righting wrongs and putting bad guys behind bars. That's what he really told himself, but talking to Cornejo made him realize that wasn't true either. He was a cop because frontline cops were the same as frontline troops. They were a band of brothers, and he couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose that. He couldn't imagine how bad Cornejo must feel. So maybe he had been patronizing. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

He hadn't noticed the tension cranking up until he said that. Now the room felt calmer. Cornejo appeared to unwind, the madness in his eyes dialing down. He put his cup down and indicated the TV. “What was that all about? You can't trust the news.”

“Ain't that the truth.”

“No, it's not. That's why you can't trust the news.”

Grant laughed. Cornejo smiled. This was the closest to barrack- room banter the ex-marine had probably had since being treated at the VA hospital. A closeness that was more intimate than marriage.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Been trying for years.”

A siren sounded in the distance, some emergency across town being attended by the police or fire or ambulance. The emergency services. Grant looked over his shoulder at the traffic on Centre Street. There wasn't much. A few big American cars guzzling petrol. A couple of pedestrians walking to a restaurant or bar. Night owls spreading their wings across Boston.

“Well, it's like this.” He told Cornejo about Freddy Sullivan and his brother Sean. Not everything but enough to give a flavor of why he was over here. He explained about the drugs in Freddy's past and the possible gun connections now. Illegal imports leading to two deaths and one media icon.

Cornejo smiled. “The Resurrection Man. Yeah. They're going to haunt you with that shit.”

“Tell me about it.” He offered Cornejo another coffee, but he turned it down.

“Better be going. Thanks for your help.”

“You need a lift? Where you staying?”

Cornejo shook his head. “You ain't got a lift. Else why you using the T?”

“Call you a cab?”

“Don't call me a cab. Name's John.”

“Very funny. Do you need one?”

“No. Only one stop to Forest Hills. Got a place round back of the cemetery. Keeps me grounded.”

“As long as you're above ground and sucking air. That's grounded enough.”

“So they say. Thanks again.”

They shook hands, and Grant walked him to the elevator. The doors pinged open and Cornejo stepped inside. He pressed the button, then threw one last glance at Grant. “That Sullivan guy. The first one?”