Lark

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Lark

Richard Forrest

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

In memory of Frank Sisk

1

Frank Pemperton's finger tightened on the .357 Magnum. “I'm taking you off the streets, Tommy.”

Lark shrugged. “That's up to you. There's nothing I can do about it.”

“Consider it done.” Pemperton squeezed the trigger until the weapon bucked in his hand. Downrange a covey of birds swirled overhead and arched in perfect V formation as they flew to the east. “Damn! A perp could be down there ready to open up on me and I'd'a missed him. Never could fire a handgun accurately.”

“You did once, Frank,” Lark snapped off two quick shots, both of which struck the center body ring of the torso-shaped target.

Pemperton angrily ejected empty shell casings from the revolver and vehemently ground the fallen brass into the dirt with the heel of his shoe. “That's what's wrong with you, Tommy. You don't know when to keep your mouth shut. I remember what you did for me, and I don't need to be reminded. If you'd keep your mouth quiet, I might be your rabbi. You'd be a captain by now. You'll never make captain, Tommy. Not as long as I'm chief, and not as long as anyone around now is chief.”

Lark's lips curled in a skewed smile. “If that's a promise, Frank, I'm going to hold you to it.”

Pemperton glanced over at Lark. Once, twenty-two years ago as rookie patrolmen, they had looked the same age. Frank knew that his own hair was graying and his body weight was shifting, but Lark had aged in different ways: his body was still firm, his hair not yet gray, but facial lines had hardened and an inner tenseness developed that made others uneasy. If he sat next to you on the bus, you'd want to change seats.

“Why did you put that throw-down knife on the kid for me, Tommy?”

“Who the hell remembers? What's this crap about taking me off the streets? You know I'm not good for anything else.”

“The Méndez family are filing charges against you. When you busted their kid, they claim you threw him down the stairs.”

“He fell.”

“Keep to that story and you'll beat it—maybe.”

“You made me a garbage collector, Frank. I busted that kid three times and each time the court recycled the garbage and I had to collect him again. This last time I got him with enough stuff to start his own pharmacy.”

“So you threw him down the stairs?”

“You said that, Frank, I didn't.”

“You're going to kill someone, Tommy. That's next on the agenda.”

Lark shrugged. “When you live with garbage it rubs off.”

“That's why I'm bringing you in. You've got over twenty in, take an early retirement.”

“And do what?”

“How the hell should I know? Go fishing.”

“I'm going all the way.”

Their eyes met and it was Frank Pemperton who turned away. “Report to my office this afternoon for a new assignment.”

“Doing what?”

“I'll think of something.” Pemperton turned stiffly and strode toward his car, which was parked at the edge of the firing range. He unconsciously straightened his shoulders as if the other man's glare at his back were a physical assault.

Lark swiveled and fired the remaining rounds in the revolver at the distant target in rapid-fire succession. The smash of sound reverberating across the hills did little to ease his anger.

He walked slowly toward the parking lot with the revolver dangling from his right hand. A warm sun brushed his face. He wanted to lie in its glare, close his eyes, and soak up its warmth until the bad years faded away. He shook off the inclination as he reached the red Dodge pickup. The utility locker attached to the cab at the rear of the truckbed contained an ice chest filled with cans of Narragansett beer, a gun-cleaning kit, and a number of other things. He flipped the tab off a can of beer, drained half of it, and began to fieldstrip his weapon. He stood at the tailgate of the pickup and worked slowly and methodically as he cleaned the pistol.

Lark didn't care to examine his past life, for he knew that once he dredged up a certain image, others were sure to follow—and they were the painful ones that bit deep. It had happened eighteen years ago when he and Frank were still beat cops. The Corvette had been driving erratically and they had signaled for it to pull over to the curb. Instead, the sports car had accelerated and a high speed chase had ensued. While Lark drove, Frank had radioed the marker numbers to headquarters and learned that the car was stolen. The chase had ended in the river warehouse district when the driver lost control and smashed into a utility pole. Frank had leapt from the squad car and chased the suspect into an alley between two vacant buildings.

Lark was ten yards behind Frank when the suspect, only a blur in the deep shadows, suddenly stopped and turned. Frank had fired once, and the single shot had pierced the forehead of the victim. With drawn weapons at the ready, they had silently approached the still form. Revealed under the wavering beam of Lark's flashlight was the six-foot, two-hundred-pound body of what had obviously been a very young man.

They hadn't spoken and Lark had dropped the knife inches from the dead kid's hand. He had wondered then as he had today, what quirk of fate made Frank Pemperton's only shot fired in anger so deadly accurate.

It took Lark two cans of beer and a dozen gun patches to put his weapon into satisfactory condition. He jammed the Colt Python into his shoulder holster and put on a light jacket that he grabbed from the seat of the truck.

He slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition. The radio instantly blared.

“This is all talk, WGBZ radio Middleburg, and your host is Johnny Gross, the show is Gross Out! You're on the air, babe.”

“Is that really you, Johnny?”

“No, this is Oral Roberts, helium head. Who did you think it is?”

“I've been trying to get through for days.”

“You're going to be through in three seconds unless you give me an answer. For today's Gross Out, where is the weirdest place you ever did it? And don't crock me, babe.”

“You probably won't believe this, Johnny, but my boyfriend and I did it in a Goodwill collection hamper and—”

“You sound like a charity case …”

Lark snapped off the radio and stared at the set a moment in astonishment before he spoke aloud. “Scum.” He pulled out onto the highway, still shaking his head.

As he drove toward the city, the other images returned as he knew they would: a young Margaret on the beach at Cape Cod, Margaret's passion as they made love in the early days, a radiant Margaret in the hospital maternity ward at Cathy's birth … Margaret dead in the living room.

“No!” It was an audible cry meant to drive away the devils that peopled his mind. Frank should have known, Lark could never retire. Retirement would only bring more time to think and endless repetition of images he couldn't endure.

Middleburg, Connecticut, had once been a river town. Its now-vanished wharves had bustled with activity as riverboats plied the Connecticut. The only boating activity the city now boasted were scull races by the University of Middleburg crews; even the yacht club had moved farther upstream to less polluted waters.

In addition to the university, the city was also the location of the home office of the Nutmeg Insurance Company, a flock of small machine shops, and the large plant of an aerospace manufacturing company on the outskirts of town. From river town to mill town to technical city, the place had gone through its costly transitions, but now seemed stable with a population of 82,000.

It was his town. He felt a proprietary interest in its well-being, and any transgressions became a personal affront. This attitude had grown over the years until it nearly consumed him. He knew objectively that it was a malignant obsession, but it was all he had, for he was the garbage collector.

With a start he realized that he had driven to the outskirts of the college campus, nearly to Cathy's house. It had been five months since he had last seen his daughter, and that was an unsatisfactory and perfunctory Christmas visit. On impulse, he swerved the pickup into Garden Street toward the two-family house halfway down the block.

Lark squeezed the truck into a parking place between a very old van whose side panels were a painted recreation of an Alpine mountain scene, and a VW bug that he recognized as Cathy's. He flicked off the ignition and turned in the seat to glare at the wood-frame house set back from the sidewalk. The outside needed a coat of paint, and there were no curtains on the second floor where Cathy's apartment was located.

He sat for a few minutes gazing up at the second floor while simultaneously patting his pockets for a nonexistent package of cigarettes. It had been over three years, but the craving was still there.