Cabal (21 page)

‘Decker’s right, Chief,’ Pettine said. ‘It’s sun these bastards are afraid of. I tell you, I don’t think we want to be here at nightfall. There’s a lot of them down there.’

‘We’ll be here as long as it takes to clear this shit up,’ said Eigerman. ‘How many gates are there?’

‘Two. The big one, and another on the north-east side.’

‘All right. So it shouldn’t be difficult to contain them. Get one of the trucks in front of the main gate, and then we’ll post men at intervals around the wall just to make sure nobody gets out. Once they’re sealed in we make our approach.’

‘See you brought some insurance,’ Pettine commented, looking at Ashbery.

‘Damn right.’

Eigerman turned to the priest.

‘You can bless water, right? Make it holy?’

‘Yes.’

‘So do it. Any water we can find. Bless it. Spread it amongst the men. It may do some good if bullets don’t. And you, Decker, stay out of the fucking way. This is police business now.’

Orders given, Eigerman walked down towards the cemetery gates. Crossing the dusty ground he rapidly understood what Pettine had meant by
the termite hill
. There was something going on below ground. He even seemed to hear voices bringing thoughts of premature burial to mind. He’d seen that once; or its consequences. Done the spadework disinterring a woman who’d been heard screaming underground. She’d had reason: she’d given birth and died in her coffin. The child, a freak, had survived. Ended up in an asylum, probably. Or here perhaps, in the earth with the rest of the motherfuckers.

If so, he could count the minutes left of his sick life on his six-fingered hand. Soon as they showed their heads Eigerman would kick them right back where they came from, bullets in their brain. So let them come. He wasn’t afraid. Let them come. Let them try and dig their way out.

His heel was waiting.

Decker watched the organization of the troops until it began to make him uneasy. Then he withdrew up the hill a little. He loathed being an observer of other men’s labour. It made him feel impotent. It made him long to show them
his
power. And that was always a dangerous urge. The only eyes that could stare safely at his murder-hard were eyes about to glaze, and even then he had to erase them when they’d looked, for fear they told what they’d seen.

He turned his back on the cemetery and entertained himself with plans for the future. With Boone’s trial over, he’d be free to begin the Mask’s work afresh. He looked forward to that with a passion. He’d go further afield from now on. Find slaughtering places in Manitoba and Saskatchewan; or maybe over in Vancouver. He became hot with pleasure just thinking about it. From the briefcase he was carrying he could almost hear Button-Face sigh through his silver teeth.

‘Hush,’
he found himself telling the Mask.

‘What’s that?’

Decker turned. Pettine was standing a yard from him.

‘Did you say something?’ the cop wanted to know.

He’ll go to the wall, the Mask said.

‘Yes,’ Decker replied.

‘I didn’t hear.’

‘Just talking to myself.’

Pettine shrugged.

‘Word from the Chief. He says we’re about to move in. Do you want to give a hand?’

‘I’m ready,’
the Mask said.

‘No,’ said Decker.

‘Don’t blame you. Are you just a head-doctor?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Think we might need some medics before too long. They’re not going to give up without a fight.’

‘I can’t help. Don’t even like the sight of blood.’

There was laughter from the briefcase, so loud Decker was certain Pettine would hear. But no.

‘You’d better keep your distance, then,’ he said, and turned away to head back to the field of action.

Decker drew the bag up towards his chest, and held it tight in his arms. From inside he could hear the zipper opening and closing, opening and closing.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ he whispered.

‘Don’t lock me away,’
the Mask whined.
‘Not tonight of all nights. If you don’t like the sight of blood let me look for you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘
You owe me,
’ it said. ‘
You denied me in Midian, remember
?’

‘I had no choice.’

‘
You have now. You can give me some air. You know you’d like it.
’

‘I’d be seen.’

‘Soon then.’

Decker didn’t reply.

‘
Soon
!’ the Mask yelled.

‘Hush.’

‘Just say it.’

‘… please …’

‘Say it.’

‘Yes.
Soon.’

T
wo men had been left on duty at the station to guard the prisoner in Cell Five. Eigerman had given them explicit instructions. They were not on any account to unlock the cell door, whatever noises they heard from within. Nor was any outside agency – Judge, doctor or the Good Lord Himself – to be given access to the prisoner. And to enforce these edicts, should enforcement be necessary, troopers Cormack and Koestenbaum had been given the keys to the arsenal, and carte blanche to use extreme prejudice should the security of the station be in jeopardy. They weren’t surprised. Shere Neck would most likely never see another prisoner so certain to find his way into the annals of atrocity as Boone. If he were to be sprung from custody Eigerman’s good name would be cursed from coast to coast.

But there was more to the story than that, and both of them knew it. Though the Chief had not been explicit about the condition of the prisoner, rumours had been rife. The man was in some way
freakish;
possessed of powers that made him dangerous, even behind a locked and bolted door.

Cormack was grateful, then, to have been left to guard the front of the station, while Koestenbaum watched the cell itself. The whole place was a fortress. Every window and door sealed. Now it was simply a question of sitting it out, rifle at the ready, until the cavalry returned from Midian.

It wouldn’t be long. The kind of human garbage they’d be likely to find at Midian – addicts, perverts, radicals – would be rounded up in a few hours, and the convoy on its way back to relieve the sentinels. Then tomorrow there’d be a force up from Calgary to take possession of the prisoner, and things would settle back into their regular pattern. Cormack wasn’t in the policing business to sit and sweat the way he was now – he was in it for the easy feeling that came on a summer night when he could drive down to the corner of South and Emmett, and coerce one of the professionals to put her face in his lap for half an hour. That was what he liked the law for. Not this fortress under siege shit.

‘Help me,’ somebody said.

He heard the words quite clearly. The speaker – a woman – was just outside the front door.

‘Help me,
please.’

The appeal was so pitiful he couldn’t ignore it. Rifle cocked he went to the door. There was no glass in it, not even a spy-hole, so he couldn’t see the speaker on the step. But he heard her again. First a sob; then a soft rapping, which was failing even as it came.

‘You’ll have to go someplace else,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you right now.’

‘I’m hurt,’ she seemed to say, but he wasn’t sure. He put his ear to the door.

‘Did ya hear me?’ he asked. ‘I can’t help you. Go on down to the drug store.’

There was not even a sob by way of reply. Only the faintest of breaths.

Cormack liked women; liked to play the boss-man and bread-winner. Even the hero, as long as it didn’t cost him too much sweat. It went against the grain not to open the door to a woman begging for help. She’d sounded young, and desperate. It was not his heart that hardened, thinking of her vulnerability. Checking first that Koestenbaum wasn’t in sight to witness his defiance of Eigerman’s orders, he whispered:

‘Hold on.’

And unbolted the door top and bottom.

He’d only opened it an inch and a hand darted through, its thumb slashing his face. The wound missed his eye by a centimetre, but the spurting blood turned half the world red. Semi-blind, he was thrown backwards as the force on the other side of the door threw it open. He didn’t let the rifle go, however. He fired, first at the woman (the shot went wide), then at her companion, who ran at him half-crouching to avoid the bullets. The second shot, though as wide as the first, brought blood. Not his target’s, however. It was his own boot, and the good flesh and bone inside, that was spattered across the floor.

‘
Jesus Fucking Christ
!’

In his horror he let the rifle drop from his fingers. Knowing he’d not be able to bend and snatch it up again without losing his balance he turned and started to hop towards the desk, where his gun lay.

But Silver Thumbs was already there, swallowing the bullets like vitamin pills.

Denied his defences, and knowing he could not stay vertical for more than a few seconds, he began to howl.

Outside Cell Five, Koestenbaum held his post. He had his orders. Whatever happened beyond the door into the station itself he was to stand guard by the cell, defending it from any and every assault. That he was determined to do, however much Cormack yelled.

Grinding out his cigarette he drew the shutter in the cell door aside and put his eyes to the peep-hole. The killer had moved in the last few minutes, edging into the corner by degrees, as if hunted by a patch of weak sunlight that fell through the tiny window high above him. Now he could go no further. He was wedged in the corner, wrapped up in himself. Movement aside, he looked much as he had all along: like wreckage. No danger to anyone.

Appearances deceived, of course; Koestenbaum had been in uniform too long to be naïve about that. But he knew a defeated man when he saw one. Boone didn’t even look up when Cormack let out another yelp. He just watched the crawling sunlight from the corner of his eye, and shook.

Koestenbaum slammed the peep-hole shut and turned back to watch the door through which Cormack’s attackers – whoever they were – had to come. They’d find him ready and waiting, guns blazing.

He didn’t have long to contemplate his last stand, as a blast blew out the lock and half the door with it, shards and smoke filling the air. He fired into the confusion, seeing somebody coming at him. The man was tossing away the rifle he’d used to blow the door, and was raising his hands, which
glinted
as they swept towards Koestenbaum’s eyes. The trooper hesitated long enough to catch sight of his assailant’s face – like something that should have been under bandages or six feet of earth – then he fired. The bullet struck its target, but slowed the man not a jot, and before he could fire a second time he was up against the wall, with the raw face inches from his. Now he saw all too clearly what glinted in the man’s hands. A hook hovered an inch from the gleam of his left eye. There was another at his groin.

‘Which do you want to live without?’ the man said.

‘No need,’ said a woman’s voice, before Koestenbaum had a chance to choose between sight and sex.

‘Let me,’ Narcisse said.

‘Don’t let him,’ Koestenbaum murmured. ‘Please … don’t let him.’

The woman came into view now. The parts of her that showed seemed natural enough, but he wouldn’t have wanted to lay bets on what she looked like under her blouse. More tits than a bitch, most likely. He was in the hands of freaks.

‘Where’s Boone?’ she said.

There was no purpose in risking his balls, eye or otherwise. They’d find the prisoner with or without his help.

‘Here,’ he said, glancing back towards Cell Five.

‘And the keys?’

‘On my belt.’

The woman reached down and took the keys from him.

‘Which one?’ she said.

‘Blue tag,’ he replied.

‘Thank you.’

She moved past him to the door.

‘Wait –’ Koestenbaum said.

‘What?’

‘– make him let me alone.’

‘Narcisse,’ she said.

The hook was withdrawn from his eye, but the one at his groin remained, pricking him.

‘We have to be quick,’ Narcisse said.

‘I know,’ the woman replied.

Koestenbaum heard the door swing open. He glanced round to see her stepping into the cell. As he looked back the fist came at his face, and he dropped to the floor with his jaw broken in three places.

Cormack had suffered the same summary blow, but he’d been already toppling when it came, and instead of knocking him solidly into unconsciousness it had merely left him in a daze, from which he quickly shook himself. He crawled to the door, and hauled himself, hand over hand, to his foot. Then he stumbled out in the street. The rush of homeward traffic was over, but there were still vehicles passing in both directions, and the sight of a toeless trooper hobbling into the middle of the street, arms raised, was enough to bring the flow of traffic to a squealing halt.