Lethal Rage (16 page)

“You're going to be okay, old man,” Jack whispered. Unfelt tears washed streaks through the blood drying on his cheeks. “You have to hang on. Please, Sy. Please.”

Tires screeched on pavement. A powerful light stabbed into the laneway, blasting away the darkness. Voices shouted.

A second shudder, no more that a ripple this time, quivered along Sy's body. His lips twitched in what might have been a smile, then fell slack. His head splashed in the blood puddled under it. His hands lost their grip, fell free. More splashes.

“No, Sy, no.”

Jack squeezed that muscular hose harder than ever. Sy couldn't die as long as he hung on. As long as he hung on. . . .

He never knew who finally pried his hand free.

The funeral was held four days later on a searing afternoon. Thousands of police officers from across Canada and the United States defied the heat in dress uniforms to pay their respects. Officers from Britain, Australia and other countries around the world sent representatives. It was a global display of police unity, a declaration of the price all officers were willing to pay and a statement of defiance to those who would see the world in chaos.

Ranks of officers stood solemnly outside the church listening to the service over speakers; inside, people stood shoulder to shoulder with bowed heads. Friend, co-worker or stranger, they had all come to bid farewell to a fallen brother, to support those personally touched by the tragedy and to support themselves: when one officer falls, all officers feel the loss.

The day was not without its victims. Men and women, indomitable in spirit, collapsed, succumbing to the heat or to overwhelming grief. Yet, where a few fell, others, be they officers, medics or civilians, helped them to stand and, more often than not, return to the ranks to resume the vigil.

At the conclusion of the service, the same officers who had braved the heat marched to line the route from church to cemetery. Away from church grounds, citizens approached officers to offer condolences, prayers and words of gratitude. Water was freely given, gratefully accepted. On a day of tremendous grief, the union between police and those they protected was at its strongest.

Amid an ocean of solidarity and brotherhood, Jack walked alone. Sy's cap, the cloth brushed a lustrous black, the brim and badge polished to gleaming brightness, lay on a cushion in his arms as he marched behind the casket, a solitary figure. Karen was somewhere in the crowd, her parents with her to show a rare moment of compassion and understanding for their daughter's husband, but still, he was alone.

It shouldn't be his hat. He threw it in the trunk of the car every day. It should be something that meant something to him, shows who he was.

Jack had a sudden urge to fling the hat over the heads of the officers lining the road. He could picture it spinning through the air, the sun flashing off the badge. His hands twitched beneath the cushion, then were still.

The intense August sun glared down on him, burning him from above and baking the asphalt beneath him. As much as the sun punished him, it was a guttering candle compared to the firestorm of grieving guilt within him. If he had run faster, pushed himself harder, reacted quicker. If, if, if . . .

Beneath the grief, under the layers of sorrow, lay something else. It waited patiently, knowing it would have its time once the wounds inside Jack began to heal, to lose their raw tenderness. Now was the time for Jack to say goodbye to Simon. Now was the time for grief.

But soon, it would be time for rage.

Jack was on the deck barbecuing chicken breasts when Karen came back from her run. She had on a sweatshirt and shorts, but no matter how good her legs looked, she wouldn't be staying in shorts for long, as the air had a definite autumn feel to it. Not briskness, exactly, but a memory of it. Summer was on the way out, with fall eagerly awaiting its turn.

Jack liked the fall; it was his favourite time of year. Cool air, crisp nights, a welcome relief from air-conditioned life. Winter, on the other hand, he could do without. If fall went from October to April, he'd be perfectly happy. Karen would prefer summer year-round. How she had survived growing up in northern Ontario he didn't know, but it did explain her aversion to winter. Lucky for her, her parents had decided to move down to Toronto so her father could pursue his academic career.

She came over and gave him a kiss on the ear. She tugged the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Aren't you cold?”

“Not now.” He wrapped an arm around her, held her close. “You know the sight of you always warms me up.”

“Well, if you weren't busy playing chef, I'd invite you to join me in the shower.”

“If you can wait a few minutes, these are almost done and I'll gladly wash your back and any other parts of you that are dirty.” He nuzzled her neck, nipping playfully at the ticklish spot below her ear. She squirmed in his grip but didn't move away.

In the time since Sy's death, Karen had given him space when he needed to grieve privately, a sympathetic ear when he needed to vent and had been a willing partner when he needed love.

Even her parents had supported him in their own way: they had kept contact at the funeral very brief and then stayed away. No Sunday dinners, no unexpected visits. Jack could get used to that.

“Are we having company I'm unaware of?” she asked, gesturing to the half dozen breasts on the grill.

“Since the barbecue was on, I thought I'd do some extra. We can use them in our lunches at work.”

She stiffened. “You're going back to work?”

“Yeah. I thought I'd give it a try tomorrow.” He switched the tongs for his beer. He had been drinking a lot lately: more beer but also coffee, water, whatever was available. He found having something in his hand oddly comforting. It gave him something to fiddle with, helped keep his thoughts from wandering too far down a dark alley.

“When did you decide this?”

He set the beer down and started flipping chicken. “I've been thinking about it for the last few days. Figure it's time.”

Karen stepped back, pulling free of his arm and crossing hers. “And when were you going to tell me about this?”

“I'm telling you now. Come on, Karen, you knew I was going back eventually. I can't stay home for the rest of my life.”

“I know, but it hasn't even been three weeks since Simon died.” It had taken her two weeks before she could say those words to him; he knew she feared hearing them would tear open wounds not even close to being healed.

“I know that, Karen. But I can't sit around here all day with nothing to do. Now that you're back to work, I realize how big and empty this house is with you gone. I can only work out and clean so much.” He smiled at his little joke and was relieved to see her smile back.

“But I've gotten used to the house being so clean.” She relaxed her defensive stance, even moved closer to lay her hands on his chest. “If you think you're ready, then do it.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Thanks, hon. I appreciate it.”

“Are you going back to 51?”

“Where else would I go?” he asked, genuinely perplexed at her question.

“I thought . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. You'll put in your transfer tomorrow, though. Right?”

Again he gave her a puzzled look. “I'm not transferring anywhere.”

“What?” She clutched his shirt and pulled him to face her. “You said you weren't going back there. You promised me!”

“Ouch! Careful, hon, you got some hair.” He put his hands on hers. “I never said I was going to leave 51. I said I wasn't going back for a while, that I was taking some time off. That's all.”

“This is bullshit!” She yanked her hands free and stalked away, her back to him, then rounded on him. “How can you go back there? Simon's dead and it could have been you!” She was angry and fighting tears.

“I'm a cop, Karen. That could happen wherever I work.”

“Bullshit! You said when you were in 32 you never once pulled your gun out. Now every damn story you tell me is either a fight or a gun arrest thing.”

“Gunpoint arrest,” he offered.

“I don't fucking care!” she screamed. Her tears were flowing. “Why do you want to go back there? Why?”

He shrugged. “I like it there. I feel like I'm accomplishing something instead of just writing reports or giving out tickets.”

“That's bullshit and you know it,” she threw at him. “It's some macho thing, isn't it? You have to be the big, tough cop, don't you? Even if it kills you.”

“It's not going to kill me.” He knew she was scared, but he knew better than to say it.

“Can you promise me that? You can't and you know it.” She roughly palmed away her tears. “What if I say I won't be here if you go back?”

His stomach clenched. “Don't say that. Don't even joke about it.”

“What if I'm not joking? Me or 51, Jack. Which is it?”

“You know that isn't even a decision. Of course it's you.” He dropped his eyes and softly added, “But I'd hate that you made me make that choice.”

“I know.” The anger was gone, but the tears remained. “Go back. But don't bother calling me when you end up in the hospital.” She walked into the house and closed the door behind her.

“Crap.” Slump shouldered, Jack turned back to the barbecue and reached for the tongs; the chicken had started to burn.

Jack was sitting in the staff sergeant's office — an extravagant designation for a room crowded by two desks and used primarily as a corridor from front counter to lunchroom — with the platoon's boss, Staff Sergeant O'Rourke. As far as staffs went, O'Rourke was one of the better ones. Tall and lean but with the beginnings of a desk gut, he had enough time on to have learned to let the sergeants and senior pcs run the shift. Yet he was still young enough to try to keep most of the shit that ran downhill from headquarters off his guys.

He was studying Jack, no doubt attempting to decide whether he was some of that down-rolling shit. “It's good to have you back, but I'll be honest, Jack, I'm leery of putting you back out on the road so soon.”

“I know: it's only been three weeks. Trust me, I've heard that several times since I told my wife yesterday that I wanted to come back. But she's back at work, she's a schoolteacher, and I end up sitting around the house by myself. I've run out of things to keep me occupied.”

O'Rourke nodded sagely. “I can appreciate that, which is why I'll let you back out, but —” he held up a cautionary finger “— on my terms. First, you go out as a special car. That way you can pick and choose the calls you want to go on. If you need some downtime, you can sit and relax. If all goes well, you can get back into the regular cars on evenings.”

“No problem. I can handle that. Thanks, Staff.”

Jack got up to leave, but O'Rourke put him back in the chair with a second finger. “And you go out as a two-man car.”

“Come on, Staff, I don't need a babysitter.”

“You ride shotgun, or you go home. No negotiating. You can pick your escort, though. Deal?”

Jack laughed. “A deal would suggest we negotiated.”

“True, but . . .” O'Rourke shrugged.

“If Manny's in, I'll work with him.”

That definitely astonished O'Rourke. “You want to work with Armsman?”

It was Jack's turn to shrug. “Manny's a good guy. I've done some calls with him and I like the way he works.”

“It's your funeral. Oh, shit, sorry, Jack.”

“It's okay, Staff. Actually, I'm getting a little tired of people treating me like I'm fragile or something.” He snorted. “Maybe that's the real reason I came back: to be treated like any other copper.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Speaking of which, I don't think I can handle parade quite yet. All those sympathetic faces.”

“I understand. I'll tell Armsman to meet you at the car. And Jack? I'm sorry about Sy.”

“Yeah, me too.” What else was there to say?

Jack was leaning on the scout car, sipping from a bottle of water, when Manny came out of the station. He spotted Jack and hustled over, an impossibly large duty bag banging against his leg.

“I thought only rookies carried bags that big,” Jack commented when Manny dumped it in the trunk. The car settled noticeably. “What the hell is in it?”

“It's my crime-fighting kit,” Manny said by way of explanation. He was sporting a shaved head — out of necessity, to judge from the faint hairline running across the top of his scalp — and a goatee. Goatees were, of course, prohibited in uniform, but beards were allowed, so Manny did what so many others did. He had a trickle of a beard running along the bottom of his jaw and up to his ears.

“No one given you flak about the goatee?”

Manny tried to look indignant. “Hey, it's a beard . . . technically.”

“I guess. It makes you look like a professional wrestler.”

“Gee, thanks, man.” He sounded like he meant it. “Listen, Jack, the Staff told me you asked to work with me and I just want to say that I feel, you know, kind of privileged that you asked for me.” He held his hand out.

Touched and a little embarrassed, Jack shook with him. “I just figure you don't deserve the reputation you've got.”

“Thanks, man, but quitting time's a ways off. You might change your mind by then.” Manny grinned and Jack couldn't help but smile back. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad day after all.

“The Staff also tell you to drive?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And to keep an eye on me?”

“That too.”

“So you're to be my chauffeur and babysitter.” Jack opened the passenger door. “Well, then, James,” he decreed in a snooty voice, “once around the park and then to a coffee shop. Your charge needs his caffeine.”

“Sure thing, man.” Manny hopped — actually hopped — into the car. Was he old enough to babysit? “Where to, m'lord?”

Jack considered. “Any place but the Baker's Dozen at Wellesley and Sherbourne.” He wasn't ready to face Sy's coffee spot just yet.

“I'll take you someplace special, then.” He dropped the car into drive but hesitated before hitting the gas. “Jack, I just want to say I'm sorry about Sy. He was a good cop, man.”

“Yeah, he was.” God, how many more times was he going to hear how sorry people were? It was amazing how such an innocent phrase spoken in honest sympathy could hurt. He'd had enough of sympathy. Let's get over it and move on, folks.

Jack cleared them as Special 51 while Manny wove his way through morning traffic. Jack had experienced less darting and weaving on bumper cars. No bumps, though. Not yet, at least. In less time than Jack thought possible, they pulled up out front of the Second Cup at Church and Wellesley.

“This okay with you? I know some guys aren't comfortable around here. I can get you your coffee if you want.”

“Relax, Manny. Gay Town doesn't scare me.”

“Cool.”

The wide stairs in front of the coffee shop were empty at this time of morning. The stairs, locally known as the Steps, were a popular hangout and meeting place for area residents. As Manny said, many coppers were uncomfortable — in some cases downright terrified — about going into a coffee shop in the heart of the city's gay district.

The door was propped open to exploit the morning's relatively cool air and inside was dim and refreshingly free of conditioned air. A smattering of customers occupied a few tables, but at this time of day most people grabbed their morning commute coffee and left. As usual, two uniformed officers occasioned scrutiny and Jack caught one man giving Manny a prolonged — and favourable, if he had to guess — appraisal over the top of his newspaper. Manny didn't notice. Or chose not to.

“Ooh, a big, strapping policeman in my shop! Well, slap the handcuffs on me and call me a bad boy.” The employee behind the counter pranced — pranced! — over from the pastry case to Manny. “I love the new look! Lemme feel, lemme feel,” he squealed, hands out, wiggling his fingers like a hungry baby reaching for a bottle.

Grinning, Manny bowed over the counter and let the employee run his hands appreciatively over his shaven scalp. “Ooh, I love a man with a big, bald head.”

“All right, that's enough.” Manny laughed, straightening up. “Hey, Chris, how you doing, man?”

“Cool as always, dude, you know me.”

They clasped hands over the counter.

“Chris, this is Jack. Chris is the owner here.”

“They finally get smart and assign someone to keep you on a short leash?” Chris asked before reaching out to shake with Jack. “Sorry you're the one to get the job.”

“It hasn't been too difficult yet.”

“I'm sure it will be.” Chris was short and on the stocky side, almost a squished-down version of Manny, including the clean scalp. His grip was sure and firm, completely at odds with the personality that had fondled Manny's head. “Hope we didn't frighten you back there.”

Jack smiled. “Nope, but I was beginning to think I'd have to go wait in the car for him.”

Chris laughed. “I keep hoping, but the man is hopelessly, utterly straight. What can I get you, gentlemen?”

“Coffee for me,” Manny replied.

“The dark, right? What about you, Jack? Coffee?”

“Um, no. Tea would be good. Earl Grey if you have it.” He couldn't say why, but the notion of coffee just didn't feel right. Maybe coffee on the job would go the way of the Baker's Dozen for now.

“That'll be easy to remember.” Manny stiffened his voice, trying to sound authoritative. “‘Tea, Earl Grey, hot.'”

“Well, at least your TV references are more up to date.”

“What?”

Jack waved it off. “Never mind.”

“Here you go, gentlemen.” Chris waved Jack's offered money away. “No charge for our boys in blue. Or should I say black, now that you've changed shirt colours?”

Jack shrugged. “It's an old saying. Thanks for the tea. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, someone has to offer the olive branch between our two communities. Might as well be me.” The prance suddenly jumped back into his voice. “And if we get known as the place where the sexy policemen
come
—” he dropped a rather lavish wink “— to get their coffees, who am I to complain?”

Manny shook his head in mock disgust. “Play safe, Chris.”

“I always do, sweetie. If you want, I could show you sometime.” Seemed like Manny brought out the prancing side of Chris.

“You know I'm taken, man. Otherwise . . .”

“Yeah, yeah.” The prance was gone. “Get out of here, you big tease.”

“Excuse me, officer.” The second staff member behind the counter spoke up as Jack passed by. He was tall and thin with the pale complexion of a true redhead. He had hung back timidly during Chris's banter but now hesitantly approached Jack. “I don't mean to bother you, but are you the officer whose partner was killed a few weeks ago?”

Blood, vivid and horrible, flashing through the night air.

Jack pushed the damning image away. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Don't say it. For the love of God, don't.

“I recognized you from the news and I just wanted to say . . .” He faltered, swallowing nervously.

“You don't have —” Jack jumped in, hoping to prevent the unbearable words, but the kid found his nerve and pushed on.

“I just wanted to say how much we appreciate the work you do. All of you, I mean. I guess I just wanted to say, well, thank you.”

Jack was speechless, not sure he had heard right. “Thank you,” he managed after a moment. “We don't hear that nearly enough. Thank
you
.”

The kid bobbed his head and shuffled away.

“Where to?” Manny asked when they were settled in the car.

“Cherry Beach, James. I feel like having my tea lakeside.”

“Cherry Beach it is, m'lord.”

The two parking lots at the beach were about as busy as the tables in the Second Cup had been. The scout car bumped through potholes that slowly eroded the dirt parking lots every summer.

“Who needs speed bumps?” Manny muttered as he tried to navigate around the larger of the craters. He found a relatively level spot, parked, and they both got out to enjoy the breeze coming in off the lake.

“It's nice down here. Almost feels like you're not in the city,” Manny said.

“Yeah. There's nothing like this up in 32. The closest we had was the reservoir in Lord Ross Park. Not quite the same.”

They leaned against the hood of their car and watched the seagulls and the occasional dog being walked. A few owners hastily tried to get their dogs on leashes when they spotted the cops, but Manny waved them away, occasionally calling the dogs over for a pat. One exceptionally friendly lab shared some lake water when he joyfully shook himself dry in front of them.

Jack and Manny exchanged brief personal histories like a couple on a blind date. Jack: married, no kids, house in Pickering, six years on the job. Manny: one girlfriend, not serious, renting a basement apartment in the city, three years on the job.

“How'd you end up with the nickname Manny?”

“Sy actually gave it to me. Just from my last name, I guess. Arms
man
, Manny. Not much to it.”

“Figured he would have called you Army, then, not Manny.”

“Army would've been cool, but someone said some other guy's already called Army. Bummer.” He took Jack's empty cup and tossed it with his own into the trash. “Ready to roll?”

They rolled. The typical workday morning calls spilled from the radio, the dispatcher's voice frequently fighting static for dominance. Jack let the litany of house and business alarms, traffic accidents and drunks — it was still summertime in 51, after all, and public drunkenness had no off times — roll over him, oddly comforted by their familiarity. Manny kept off the main streets as much as he could, prowling the laneways and side streets, keeping up a pretty much one-sided conversation. He chatted about work, women, cars, work, the gym and work. Jack listened with half an ear, making appropriate noises when required.

“5103, 5110, in 6's area. Disorderlies in the 7-Eleven at Sherbourne and Dundas. Two males refusing to leave. Time, 0831.”

Manny looked at Jack, eagerness in his eyes. Jack nodded and Manny swerved onto Sherbourne, tromping the gas.

“Take it easy, man,” Jack said. “It's just some disorderlies.”

“I wanna make sure we get there before they leave.” He was like a puppy tugging at the leash. A freaking huge puppy.

“Whatever makes you happy. Special 51 to radio. We're not far from that call at Sherbourne and Dundas. We'll take it; no sense tying up two solo cars on it.”

“10-4, Special 51, thanks. 03 and 10, you can clear off the call, Special 51 will handle.”

The 7-Eleven plaza — although “plaza” was far too grand a word for the two stores — on the southwest corner was steps up from 230 Sherbourne, home of the cockroach-toe man. The convenience store faced Sherbourne across a modest parking lot and a tiny burger shop jutted out from the south end of the plaza like an overgrown wart.