The Snow Angel (12 page)

“Forget the parents,” Kane said. “Think about the kidnappers. These guys get away with it, this'll just encourage more white-black partnerships.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Klemmer, you know how tight crime partners are with each other—it's like a marriage. I don't have to tell you that. So a mixed-race team is sort of like—what's that old word?—miscegenation. And if they're fucking each other, then it's homosexual miscegenation.” Kane shook his head in disgust. “I hear that kinda shit's going on all over in prisons these days.”

Kane studied Klemmer's face in the dim light. This psycho's actually buying this bullshit!

Klemmer took a Galil machine gun down from the wall and fondled it. “I'll tell you what, Ralph,” he said finally. “I'll see what I can find out. But there
is
a price tag.”

“We've been authorized a thousand bucks. It's chump change, I know, but it's all they'll authorize.”

“I'm not talking money.”

“Then what
are
you talking about?”

Klemmer grinned, savoring this. “See, from time to time we could use some help from someone inside the police. Nothing heavy, just a little information.”

“Raid plans. Undercovers. That sort of thing.”

“Yes. And it also would be quite helpful to learn if any of our own members ever supply information to the authorities.” He smiled murderously. “You see, we have a very active counter-intelligence operation. For our own protection.”

So that's the deal. Billy's asshole pal wants me for a spy. He wants me to endanger other cops.

Kane almost laughed aloud. Klemmer hadn't a clue that Kane was going to be a dead man as soon as this job was over.

“It's a deal,” Kane said. “You get me something on these two scrotes, then you've got yourself a righteous snitch.”

E
asterly leaned against the wall of an interrogation room, frustrated. Her CCB captain, Nick Georgiades, and two of his female detectives, Alberts and Gregorio, were trying to coax information from a frightened Chinese woman whose command of English was limited. Next to the woman sat an interpreter, a young man with a worried frown.

The woman, Lin Loh, was the middle-aged housekeeper for one of the prosperous black families on Lawndale Avenue. Earlier that morning, before leaving her house, she had told her daughter about something she had noticed while driving to work the day before—a young black boy standing with two men outside an idling car, talking. Lin Loh, of course, had no idea what they were saying, and besides, she was concentrating on her driving because of the heavy snow. She had put the incident out of her mind, thinking it some sort of disciplinary matter. But it struck her as peculiar that one man was white and the other black.

Then, later that afternoon, plainclothes police had come to her employers' house, showing pictures of the boy. But no one had interviewed her. Out of fear, Lin Loh had kept quiet. Back in China, when the police came to visit, it could only mean trouble. And now, here in the new country, she lived in a neighborhood controlled by street gangs. She had decided to tell no one what she had seen.

The matter had troubled her all night. Because of the media blackout, she knew none of the details, although the little boy's face in the picture had haunted her dreams. And it had to be serious if so many police were involved. So she told her daughter about it in the morning before again leaving for work.

After four hours of anguished soul-searching, the daughter, who had a seven-year-old girl of her own, decided to call the police.

Gregorio and Alberts had been hurriedly dispatched to pick up Lin Loh. But now, here in the station, she was refusing to cooperate. Not only was she terrified, she was enraged at her daughter's betrayal.

The assembled detectives were almost shaking in frustration. They were desperate for an artist's sketch of the suspects, or for a hypnosis-recalled license plate number, anything. “Please, Mrs. Loh,” Alberts pleaded. “We can't tell you how important this is.”

The interpreter repeated the plea. The woman sobbed and shook her head, mumbling. “She repeats that she never saw anything,” the interpreter said softly.

Detective Gregorio, herself the mother of three, was growing visibly angry. “Then why in the name of God did she tell her daughter…?”

Easterly held up her hand to calm Gregorio, who took a deep breath, shaking her head. “I'm going out for a cigarette,” she said.

Easterly stepped outside with her. “Sorry, boss,” Gregorio said. “I just don't have any sympathy.” She examined her watch. “Every minute that goes by.”

“Liz, you're preaching to the choir.” Easterly looked back through the one-way window at the trembling woman. “You know Faye Yang, works Central Holdup?”

“Yes.”

“I think she speaks Cantonese. See if you can get her in here, code three.”

Gregorio nodded and rushed off to Communications. Easterly looked back through the fake mirror.
Damn this country. Why is everyone so frightened? What the hell went wrong here?
She decided to phone David for a dose of sanity.

K
ane drove through another snowfall back into the city, straining to see through the windshield wipers. He wondered what his next move should be. Adding together the Whites, the Outlaws and the Mob, he had enlisted into the cause every major white dirtbag in the city. Then he found himself wondering how Isaiah Bell was making out on the black side of town.

Kane reached in the glove compartment for a joint. He stopped for a red light and fired it up. Any onlooker would just see a middle-aged guy smoking a cigarette. He took three strong hits, then stubbed it out.

The light turned green. The tires spun in the wet snow before gaining a purchase. Driving with one hand, Kane took his flask out of the glove box. He took two more belts, not even trying to conceal it.
Let the assholes burn me. I'm a walking dead man.

Soon he felt the desired buzz. He replaced the bottle in the glove box, and glanced down at the photos of Darryl that were on the car seat. He turned them over so he wouldn't have to look at the boy's face. Then he rolled down the windows and turned on the fan to ventilate the Pontiac.

The citywide frequency cut in with an urgent message. Dispatch was trying to locate unit 4120, a Central Holdup detective car. Kane idly wondered why.

At the next red light, he glanced over at the sidewalk. A young mother was struggling in the snow with a baby carriage. She also clutched the hand of a little boy, who looked to be about five or six, muffled against the cold.

That had been about the age difference between him and Billy, Kane realized. He tried to picture Blanche as a young mother, but the chemicals in his bloodstream were making it difficult for him to think clearly, and try as he might, he could not bring her image into focus. Once again he found himself thinking of the girl in Saigon. He forced her out of his head and instead tried to remember Billy as a little boy.

The light turned green but Kane didn't notice. The driver behind him leaned on his horn. Kane felt the old murderous rage. He rolled down the window. “Fuck you, asshole!” he yelled back.

He realized that he had gone over the line. He was on duty and he was drunk.
Watch it, Ralphie. You don't want to show any weakness, not now. When the time comes to end it,you don't want to give the dickheads any easy explanations.

He crept along the curb lane, studying the people on the sidewalk. He felt like a patrolman again, forcing himself to notice everything in the vague hope of spotting Darryl Childress.
Where are you, goddamn it?

Instead he noticed another little boy, a white kid. He was hatless, and his wet hair was the color of Billy's. Kane flashed on the beatings in the basement, when Howard would take one or both of the boys to the coal bin and whip their bare backs with a leather belt.

That's
what Klemmer's basement smelled like—home.

He could feel the sting of his father's belt even now. But he also felt something far worse—the wrenching powerlessness to protect his little brother. The memory of that helplessness made Kane feel sick to his stomach.

He inched along, his policeman's eyes still scanning the sidewalk. He just let himself run with the memories. His mind went back to the last time he saw Billy, on a Christmas visit to Statesville. It was the only time Kane ever visited his brother in prison. It was to be Billy's last Christmas.

The two of them hit some mutually raw nerves that day. Billy brought up something they had never discussed—the incident in which Howard crushed Billy's spirit for once and for all.

About half a mile from the neighborhood where the Kanes then lived was a sprawling parcel of undeveloped land, still covered with woods. In the middle of the woods was an open field known as “Skunk Hollow,” and in the middle of the field was a large pond. The hollow was populated with all manner of wildlife, from mallard ducks and catfish to turtles and rabbits.

Ralph, about ten at the time, loved that hollow from the moment they moved into the neighborhood. It was a place of safety and peace. Sometimes he would go there alone after school and hide out, an hour or two at a time, taking a story book and sometimes his crayons.

One spring afternoon, Ralph was assigned to babysit little Billy. On an impulse, he decided to take his brother with him to the Hollow, introduce him to his sanctuary. It was a childish act of generosity; he wanted Billy to have a place to hide, too, once he was old enough to come and go by himself. The two boys took along a mason jar with holes punched in the cap, in the hope of catching a butterfly.

And, in fact, they did capture one, a big monarch, as it lit atop a flowering bush. For half an hour, the boys sat in the sun studying the confused butterfly, fascinated. Ralph thought they should release it, but Billy wanted to take it home to their bedroom. In the morning they would let it go. They slipped a few blades of grass into the jar so the butterfly would have something to eat.

On the way home, Ralph carried the jar, periodically checking on the butterfly. Billy spotted a small dog and went running after it, but in the pursuit, he fell and skinned his knee, tearing his trousers.

Both boys were terrified as they headed home. They knew the wrath of Howard Kane awaited them. Billy started to cry. Ralph put his arm around him, protectively. “Come on, I'll say it was my fault.” Without even realizing it, he hung onto the butterfly jar, when he just as easily could have released the poor creature right there.

Howard was in the kitchen when they got home. He reeked of cheap
booze. Sure enough, when he saw the torn trousers and the butterfly, he flew into one of the worst rages the Kane boys ever suffered. He would not listen to Ralph's entreaties on behalf of his brother. The butterfly jar was on the kitchen table, near the edge.

“Kill it!” Howard screamed at Billy. “Kill that fucking butterfly!”

Billy just stared in panicky disbelief. His eyes went back and forth, from Howard to Ralph, pleading.

“I said kill that fucking bug! You bring
bugs
into my house, you kill them.”

“No!” Ralph pleaded. “Please don't make him do that!”

“He tears his clothes, paid for with
my
hard-earned money, chasing
bugs!
I want you to tear the wings off that thing, make him die slowly!”

“Dad, no!” Ralph said, choking back tears. “It was my fault!”

With that, Howard backhanded Ralph hard across the face. Ralph went sprawling across the room, his nose bleeding and one of his front teeth loosened. He lay in the corner weeping helplessly.

“Faggot!” Howard sneered at Ralph. Then he turned back to the cowering Billy. “Another butterfly-collecting faggot! Both my sons, queers!” He started after Billy but staggered, bouncing against the dinner table. The mason jar fell and shattered. The butterfly was thrown loose onto the linoleum floor and tried to find its wings.

Howard looked down at the struggling insect. Then, staring straight into Billy's eyes, he crushed it underfoot, grinding it into the linoleum. “You fucking pansies,” he grunted. Then he staggered into the living room, lay down on the couch and passed out.

Ralph Kane had just witnessed his first murder, the murder of his brother's spirit. Right then, an unfeeling hardness descended on his little brother, and Ralph watched it happen. He was never again the same, sweet kid.

And, from that day on, Ralph Kane never wept again either, not even in Vietnam.

The incident went unmentioned all those years, until the day of his last Christmas visit with his brother at Statesville three years ago. “Why did he do it?” Billy asked Ralph over the intercom, studying him through the plate-glass barrier. “Why would that fucker do a thing like that to an innocent kid?”

“I don't know,” Ralph said. “I stopped asking questions like that a long time ago. He was an evil prick, end of story. Why are you bringing
it up now?”

“I don't know, big brother. I guess I'm just trying to understand myself.”

“Understand yourself?”

“Yeah. How did I get so fucked up?”

Ralph noticed that Billy's eyes were shiny; obviously he was fighting tears. For some reason, seeing his brother this way frightened him. So he said a hasty goodbye. Billy didn't try to stop him, just thanked him for coming. And in a few months Billy was dead.

Kane snapped back to the present.
Quit this sentimental horseshit. The world is full of Howard Kanes. You've got a job to do.

But first he needed to go somewhere and sober up, just a little. Up ahead, he spotted a landmark from his boyhood, the spire of St. Michael's Catholic Church.

Old St. Mike's. Perfect!