The Four-Night Run (17 page)

Scrbacek felt a thrill in the pit of his stomach when first he saw her. He bought her an ice-cream soda at the local drugstore, learned that she was happy and well. And when the girl asked about her mother, Scrbacek hesitated a moment, but only a moment, before telling the girl that he was trying to help her mother and that she, Maya, might be able to help, too.

It took a full-scale hearing to get a sample of Remi Bozant’s blood to compare to Maya’s. Representing the state was a rising county prosecutor named Thomas Surwin, who fought bitterly against the test, but Scrbacek cross-examined Bozant for five full hours, using shards of conflicting statements from his testimony at the trial seven years before to knock the smirk off his face and impeach his credibility. Through a welter of Surwin objections, Scrbacek was able to create enough doubt for the judge, at first exasperated and then intrigued, to consider ordering the procedure. Then he put Maya on the stand, ribbons tied carefully around her pigtails. Three weeks after the judge’s ruling, the results of the DNA analysis arrived.

Remi Bozant was Maya’s father. He’d had a sexual relationship with Amber Grace. His entire testimony in her murder case was a lie.

A new trial for Amber Grace was ordered by the court forthwith. With seven years already served, Surwin declined to retry the case. Instead, he indicted Remi Bozant for perjury and kicked him smack off the force and into jail for eighteen months. There wasn’t enough evidence to try him for murder, but everyone knew what he had done. Remi Bozant entered jail a pariah, cursing Scrbacek with every breath, and, when released, drifted into Crapstown and then out again, disappearing into the dusty reaches of the desert West.

And J.D. Scrbacek?

On an early morning in October, J.D. Scrbacek stood alone in a soft rain, bareheaded, his raincoat belted tightly around his waist, waiting outside a heavy metal door. Behind him were vans from every television station in the city. Off to the side stood a gaggle of reporters from all the local papers, from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, the
Washington Post
, the
New York Times
. Two network newsmagazines were there to do a feature, and the
Today
show was providing a live feed to its national audience, but still Scrbacek stood alone, bareheaded, in the rain.

This was before his caseload grew, before the money started pouring in, before his dreams of success were answered and replaced with other dreams, before he found himself spending late nights with his clients, before he found his taste for cognac and cocaine and blow jobs from the sweet young things his clients so generously provided to their famous lawyer, before he fell into the dark haze of excess that swallowed him whole, just as Jenny Ling had said—though not for the reasons Jenny Ling had said, not for those reasons at all. No, this was before all of that, when Scrbacek was still a young lawyer, still struggling, yes, but about to inhabit the role that he believed then to be his destiny: savior of those in the direst circumstances, those with the gravest needs, noble defender of the beleaguered innocent.

He stood alone, in the rain, waiting for that heavy metal door to open, and for Amber Grace, two months and seven days before the scheduled date of her execution, to take that long walk from the jaws of death into the cold light of freedom, to make her awestruck way to Scrbacek, to wrap her arms around his neck with the deepest, deepest gratitude.

26

T
RENT
F
ALLOW
, PI, C
ONT
’
D
.

Trent Fallow, PI, likes his eggs runny, his home fries crisp, his bacon rare enough so that the strips of rippling fat on either side of the lean are almost clear. He likes his sausage patties sizzling, and his cinnamon buns split and grilled, and his rye toast smeared with real butter and strawberry jam. He likes his French apple pie with the icing white and thick, and he likes whipped cream on his waffles, and fresh cream in his coffee, and normally he likes two rib-eye steaks to keep it all down, but because of his problem he is off his feed this morning, so he only orders one. And when it all arrives at his booth with the chrome jukebox selector filled with nothing but Sinatra, he eats it fast, with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, giving it only the most cursory attention from his rotting molars before it slides down his gullet and into his great, cavernous gut.

When the waitress with the teeth so crooked Trent gets piss-proud just looking at them comes to refill his coffee, he says, “Yo, Cassie, is Ed in?”

“Ed’s always in,” she says, bored and tired.

He grabs her wrist before she can pull the steaming pot away from the table. “Tell him I need to talk.”

“Let go, or I swear I’ll burn that little thing until the skin peels off.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” he says without letting go.

She tilts her wrist.

Trent Fallow, PI, screams like a crazed Arkansas farmer calling for his hogs. He reflexively tries to stand and thumps his thighs into the table, rattling plates and toppling his filled coffee cup, which releases a black steaming stream that rolls right into his lap as he falls back onto the green leatherette. As the coffee soaks into his pants, he tries to stand again and fails, he slaps at his thighs and crotch, he pours his water onto his lap, his breaths come out in fast little moans.

The waitress simply watches, arms crossed now, her thin lips curved at the edges in amusement.

“What was that for?” he whines when the coffee in his pants cools enough so that it is no longer burning, just wet and warm and not entirely unpleasant. “What the hell you do that for? I didn’t mean nothing. Jesus Christ, Cassie, what the hell was that all about?”

“I told you to let go.”

“Ah, come on. I was just joking with you. Look at this mess. And it hurts. Ah, dammit.” He grabs a fistful of napkins from the chrome dispenser and starts wiping at his jeans. Still looking down, he says, “Tell Ed I need to talk to him.”

She twists in place and calls to the window behind the counter. “The private eye wants a word.”

Ed peers through the red of the heat lamps and nods. He disappears a moment before swinging through the swinging chrome doors. He stands at the edge of Fallow’s booth, arms like hams crossed at his chest, his chef’s hat flopping to the side, a cleaver in the tie of his apron, and a sliver of wood the size of a small dagger in his teeth.

“The bitch poured coffee on my prick,” says Fallow. “I think she burned me. I think she burned me bad.”

“Leastways it getting some action,” says Ed, in his basso profundo.

“Remember what happened with that lady at McDonald’s? I ought to sue. I ought to sue your ass.”

“Don’t mess with the help.”

Fallow watches as Ed’s jaw tenses and the toothpick wiggles in his mouth. “Okay. All right. It’s over. Nothing big. What’s a second-degree burn among friends, hey? Listen, Ed. I heard what you had some trouble round back last night.” He opens the newspaper folded on the end of the table so that Scrbacek’s picture is smiling up at the two of them. “I heard this creep, he made an appearance.”

Ed nods.

“He say anything about what he was doing, where he was going? Anything at all?”

Ed shakes his head.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You see what happened out back, Ed? Because I know this guy. He’s a pussy. A mammy-pammy. Never been so much as in a beer brawl his entire life. So I don’t get how he ended up taking out four of Mickey’s hard boys behind your place. I don’t get it at all.”

“Had help,” says Ed.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Who was with him?”

“A girl,” says Ed.

“Is that all? A girl? A little-wittle girl? So what?”

“Girl had a gun.”

“A little derringer or something?”

“Kalashnikov.”

“Crap,” says Trent Fallow, PI.

“Fitted fat with a suppressor.”

“Crap, crap, crap.”

“Knew how to use it, too.”

“Crap in my hat. Just what I need. You recognize her?”

Ed tilts his head slightly. “Can’t say.”

“Ever seen her before?”

“Can’t say.”

“Look, Ed. I come in this dump every afternoon, right?”

“That you do.”

“I got problems, man, problems you wouldn’t believe.”

“One look at your face,” says Ed, “and I believe them all.”

“They’re not my fault, really, they’re not. They just sprang on me. But I got them still and I really, really need your help. So do me a favor.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a card, wet and stained brown with coffee.

Ed makes no move to take the card.

“You see this creep again, call me, all right? I’ll take care of it. Just call me. Do me the favor, all right?”

Ed stands still, his arms crossed, the toothpick wiggling ferociously in his mouth. Fallow slips the card into a stained white pocket on Ed’s stained white apron.

“That’s good, Ed. Thanks. Tell your girl, too.”

Ed stares a bit more and then heads back to the kitchen.

“And while you’re at it,” calls out Trent Fallow, PI, to Ed’s retreating back, “tell Cassie that I’ll be needing more of that coffee.”

27

B
IRDCALL

Scrbacek dressed slowly, easing his arm into his shirt, fumbling over the buttons. His arm was stronger than before, healing quickly, as if his body knew it had no choice. His muscles all were sore—he wore his pain like a tight-fitting bodysuit—but he also felt quick and lithe and ready for a physical challenge. During his short time on the run, his whole sense of self had somehow shifted. Where once he relied solely on his wiles and wits, now he also felt physically ready to protect himself, like an athlete or a bruiser. And though he was neither, he still believed that in the coming hours his muscle, his nerve, some instinctual physicality would play its part in saving him.

When he was fully dressed, he took hold of his raincoat and headed down the stairs. It was time to leave. After the fight with Jenny and her notice of eviction, there wasn’t much chance of staying, but he also knew that every moment he was in that house, the danger to Jenny and the boy was growing. Still, there was one thing more to talk over with his former lover. Palsgraf ran out of the kitchen to greet him, the dog’s hind legs pumping as his tail wagged eagerly, and then led Scrbacek back to where Jenny was waiting, her hand wrapped around a bottle of beer.

“That was fun,” she said.

“Like old times.”

She hoisted her beer. “You want one?”

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was surprised how fresh the wounds still were.”

“It’s been good seeing you, Jen. You look great still.”

“You’re lying, but thanks. You do, though. Look pretty good, I mean. On TV over the years I thought you had grown heavy and self-satisfied, but now you have the same haunted look I remember from when I first met you.”

“When the only enemy hunting me was Professor DeLoatch.”

She laughed out of politeness and picked at the label on her beer.

“How’s legal aid doing?” he said.

“The same old crap. Landlord-tenant disputes. SSI. A class action against the city now and then when things get slow. Changing the world one miserable case at a time.”

“I saw the sign in your window for the rally.”

“Fat lot of good that will do.”

“You’ll save the day. You always do.”

“Not this time. Diamond’s indomitable. It’s like he has some deep primal wound driving him to build a casino resort that will trump even the finest in Vegas. Diamond’s Fantasy Marina. I bet he’ll even hire a midget to greet the guests.”

“Da bus, boss, da bus.”

“Once all the details are in place, he wants the state to eminent-domain us at cut-rate prices and then hand the land over to him. He’s shown them he’d pay five times more in taxes than the current residents.”

“What could be better than a tax base without the inconvenience of taxpayers?”

“His whole plan depends on him being able to build a highway right through Crapstown, so that’s where the battle is being waged, but it seems pretty one-sided. Diamond has bought the entire city council. It’s not a fair game.”

“It never was.”

“I used to think I could make a difference.”

“I remember.”

“We were so young, weren’t we, J.D.? But nothing ages you like getting kicked in the face every day.”

“I know what you mean.”

“No, you don’t. Not you. You’ve gotten everything you ever wanted.”

“It wasn’t like you said, Jen. I didn’t leave here for what I thought was a better world.”

“No?”

“I left because what I had become didn’t belong here anymore.”

“And what had you become, J.D.? A legal rock star?”

“An impostor.”

She stared at him for a moment, finished her beer, picked again at the label. “Where are you going?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out who the hell did this to me and make them pay.”

“How can I help?”

“You can’t.”

“Let me call someone for you. You can stop running, start defending yourself. How about Surwin?”

“Far as I know, Surwin’s involved.”

“Are you certain?”

“Certain enough not to give him the chance to prove me right. Anyway, I think it’s safer if no one can link me to you and Sean.”

Pause.

“Are we going to talk about him?” said Scrbacek.

“No.”

“Is he mine?”

“No.”

“He told me he was five.”

“He’s just a kid. What does he know?”

“He knows his age. You should have told me you had a son. I could have helped.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. When I had him, you couldn’t even help yourself.”

“I’ve cleaned up. It was hard, but I did it. If he’s mine, I have a right to know.”

“You have no rights when it comes to Sean.”

“There are ways to be certain.”

“And you’re the expert on that, aren’t you?”

“Five years and nine months,” said Scrbacek, “that puts me here.”

“You were drugged out of your skull, barely stopping in to change your clothes. I was already looking for your replacement.”

“With Cirilio?”

“Go to hell.”

“With Newcome?”

“Yeah, that’s right. With Newcome.”

“I just want to help.”

“Why don’t you see, J.D., if you can save your own life before you start trying to help my son.”

Just that instant, Palsgraf perked up and started growling at the back door. Scrbacek froze. Jenny looked at the door, then the dog, then the door again.

A knock.

The dog was up and barking, baring his teeth. Scrbacek backed away until he was partly hidden by a series of cabinets. He nodded at Jenny to open the door.

Standing in the rear doorway was Sean, water dripping down his face. And behind Sean, a hand firm on the boy’s shoulder, was a girl in cargo pants and a slick black poncho, an assault rifle hanging off her shoulder.

“Mom,” said the boy.

Jenny grabbed the wet boy away from the door. “Who the hell are you?”

“What’s the story?” said Scrbacek, coming out from behind the counter and taking hold of the dog’s collar.

“They’re coming,” said the Nightingale, over the dog’s barks.

“Do we have a route out?” said Scrbacek.

“Yes, but we’ll need to climb,” said the Nightingale.

“All right.” Scrbacek, still holding the dog, looked at Jenny. “Both you and Sean need to come with us immediately.”

“What is this about?” said Jenny, holding her son tight and refusing to move. “Who is this girl?”

“There’s no time,” said Scrbacek, surprised at his own calm. “They’re coming for me.”

“Then you go. We’ll send them in the opposite direction.”

“The last time they came for me, they came in shooting. They bring fire and they bring death, and they don’t give a crap who is in the way.”

“You bastard.”

He pointed at the counter. “Take your phone.”

“You careless bastard,” said Jenny Ling as she reached for the phone and slipped it in her pocket.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.”

“You goddamn careless bastard,” she said. But by the time she finished saying it she had already grabbed a jacket and was out the door, her son firmly in tow.

Scrbacek scooted down, roughly rubbed the dog’s throat, kissed his nose. “You can’t come with us. Take care of the house, old pal,” he said, giving him a final hug. The dog started barking again when Scrbacek locked him inside.

Outside, Scrbacek slipped on his raincoat and then headed after the two women and the boy, the wild woofs of the dog chasing after them all.