The Snow Angel (35 page)

“Yeah, like a cease-fire in the Middle East.”

“I don't understand those fuckers. I mean, they're all black kids, they all come from the same place…”

“They direct their rage at themselves. They've been programmed to do that. It's a form of self-genocide.”

“Well, I don't get it.”

“I'll explain it some time,” Bell said.

Kane lifted his binoculars and watched a pair of black hookers leaving the hotel, waving goodbye to a white man in an upper room. “Looks like Santa came early.”

“Another ten minutes, he'll be driving home to his loving family, out in suburbia,” Bell said. “Out where I live. Out where everything is safe
and life is sweet.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Never mind.”

The two men sat in silence for several more minutes. Then Kane asked casually, “So what's your opinion of Titus Webster?”

“Is that a legitimate question or are you baiting me?”

“He
is
a crook, you know”

“You think I'm going to defend some corrupt politician just because he's black? Is that what you're driving at?”

“Man, don't get defensive,” Kane said. “We're just passing time here. I mean, we could talk about baseball, but I don't know shit about sports.”

“We've been doing just fine the last little while. Let's not screw it up now.”

Kane shrugged and picked up the binoculars again, scanning the street. Without lowering them, he asked, “So why
did
your father kill himself?”

Bell looked over at him, surprised. “Why do you ask?”

Kane shrugged. “Nothing personal. I've always wondered what makes a person do that.”

“Pain. Unbearable, endless, hopeless pain.” He stared into the distance. “It's not you you're trying to kill. You're trying to kill the pain.” He looked back at Kane. “But I have a hunch you already know that.”

Kane said nothing, just kept scanning the street. Finally he lowered the binoculars. “What was it like,” he asked, “growing up black in the Deep South?”

“You mean you care?”

“No, Bell, I just say shit like that to hear myself talk.”

“It sucked. It sucked big-time. That's what it was like. My grandfather was lynched by the Ku Klux Klan. My father was seven years old when it happened. He witnessed it. Then, when I was seven years old, my father blew his brains out.” He closed his eyes, seeing it again. “I was the same age as Darryl Childress. He was my daddy, and I loved him.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“As far as I'm concerned, the Klan murdered both of them. And they damned near murdered me, too, a coupla years ago when I came close to shooting my
own
sorry-assed self.” He grimaced.
“That's
what it was like, growing up black in the Deep South, just a little taste of it. Ask
any of us. Like I said, it sucked.”

Kane shut his eyes momentarily. “I'm sorry.”

“Suicide's a shitty thing, my friend,” Bell added softly. “That's why I didn't do it. I couldn't do that to my own children.”

Both men silently contemplated that. Then a real wino, a black man, came along and began rummaging through a dumpster. “Some life,” Kane muttered.

“There but for the grace of God…”

“You really believe that stuff, don't you?”

“Most of the time.”

“You go to church?”

“Some of the time. Listen, Kane, I'm not sure I want to talk about this.”

“Well, I want to talk about it. It's important to
me.”

“I don't go to church because I'm impressed with the titles and vestments and rituals. I go to hear the
message.”

“‘Blessed are the merciful, blessed are the peacemakers'—that kinda stuff.”

“Yeah, that kinda stuff. I need to hear how love can redeem the world. I need
desperately
to hear that.”

“The world?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Kane, I don't know about the world. But I believe it can redeem me.”

“You don't have to be a churchgoer to believe that.”

“No, but it
was
the Man's main message. Love your neighbor, forgive your enemy, feed the hungry, comfort the afflicted—you know, that kind of shit. Can we drop this now?”

“Sure thing, Ike. Let's drop it. I was just curious, that's all. I didn't want a big fucking debate.”

Bell calmed down and studied his old nemesis. Four days ago, he would not have believed this. “Since you got so personal with me, let me ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

“What was it like being an abused child?”

The question caught Kane off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“Ralph, I worked Child Abuse for two years. I know it when I see it.”

Kane thought for a moment before he answered. “It sucked,” he finally said. “It sucked big-time.”

“I couldn't handle that duty, Child Abuse. Every night I'd come home and think about those poor kids. That's when my drinking really started getting bad, working Child Abuse.” He looked at Kane. “So I guessed right, didn't I? You
were
one of those kids.”

Kane just stared at the Christmas lights on the forlorn motel. “Yeah,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I was.”

Bell raised the binoculars again. “You know why I drank?”

“You just said it—to kill the pain,” Kane said.

“Yeah. And to fill the hole in my soul that was the size of Rhode Island. No matter what, I couldn't fill that hole. It didn't matter what I did, or how many people loved me. The only thing that filled the hole was booze.”

Kane laughed bitterly. “You want to hear a real pisser? I used to
pray
my old man would kill himself. Your father did what I prayed mine would do.”

Bell thought about that for a long moment. Then he asked softly, “How
did
he hurt you, Ralph? What did he do?”

Kane turned on the dome light. He pulled back the hair on his wrist and showed Bell the old knife scar. “There's a bunch more on my back. Plus a few burn marks on the soles of my feet. Fun guy, old Howard Kane. He smoked Camels.”

“That scar on your cheek?” Bell asked. “Was that him, too?”

Kane turned off the light. “No, that's from a little hand-to-hand tussle with a Viet Cong. I won.”

“Had a couple of those myself.”

“I figured as much.”

“So your entire life's been a war.”

Kane nodded. “I could say the same thing about you.”

“Yeah, I guess you could. Where's your old man now?”

“He died of lung cancer. From what I hear, it was painful. He went down hard.”

“Must've been all those Camels.” Bell opened the door. “I gotta piss.”

Bell walked over to a bush in the shadows. Kane picked up the binoculars and continued scanning the street.

Easterly sat on the bed in Frederick Whitman's room, a hand-held radio lying next to her. Stan Jablonski sat across from her, drinking a coke and reading
USA Today.
Jablonski wore a battered shoulder holster with a hogleg .357 Smith. Normally he carried only a snub-nosed .38 Detective Special, about the age of the two Homicide detectives sitting here with them. But tonight he was taking no chances. Jablonski was one of the last of the city's police to carry a wheel-gun.

The two young Homicide guys, Parker and Dalessandro, sat nervously on the floor, smoking and watching “It's A Wonderful Life” on the nearly-muted television. Half an hour ago, when they tossed the room, the detectives had found two assault rifles and two hundred rounds of ammunition. Now Easterly looked over at the rifles, bagged for prints and tagged as evidence.

This evil prick means business. God only knows what kind of a walking-around piece he's carrying.

Easterly now found herself saying a silent to-whom-it-may-concern prayer—for the safety of her own people and the safety of innocent bystanders. She glanced over at Whitman's suitcase, also evidence-tagged. In addition to a bag of weed and a bottle of methamphetamine, the suitcase contained neatly-clipped stories about the Childress case.

The clips were from the
Daily Times
and four other papers, including
USA Today.
The articles were circumstantial evidence, but Easterly knew how they would look to a jury. The last thing she wanted was to need Thomas Blackstone to make a case on Whitman. Sentence bargaining with an asshole like that, enticing him to betray his partner to save himself, was more than she could bear to imagine. She needed iron-clad, dead-bang evidence, on both men.
I want
both
of them on Death Row.

She wondered what her deceased parents would have thought of such a wish. They had both been free-thinking intellectuals, university professors, active in the ACLU. They had been appalled when she dropped her law-school plans and joined the police department. Then, not long afterward, they were utterly terrified when they heard details of the shootout in which she had earned the Medal of Valor.

It took a long time, but her parents finally came to accept Easterly's chosen life. Eventually they saw how fulfilled she was by her work, and how the community benefited. Then, as she made rank, they even began
to tell their friends how proud they were of her.

As she watched a roach scurry across the motel floor, Easterly second-guessed herself, wondering if her parents had been right in the first place.
What's a nice girl like me doing in a dump like this? If I had gone to law school, what would I be doing tonight, Christmas Eve?

The thought of law school made her think of David. As soon as this caper was over—whichever way it went—they'd have to go somewhere for a nice, romantic dinner.

Love, she reminded herself, needs to be nurtured. Especially if so much of your life is a Horror Show

Bell was out of the van for two minutes while Kane watched the street. Suddenly a lone black male rounded a corner half a block away, headed for the motel. An overcoat hung below his knees, and his hands were deep in his pockets.

Heart pounding, Kane focused in with the field glasses. It was White Man! Kane tooted the horn discreetly for Bell, then picked up the handheld. “Cobra Seven to all units, subject approaching from the east! We're out!”

Kane grabbed the wine bottle and slipped out of the van. Bell was waiting. “Here comes Satan,” Kane said under his breath.

Both officers unholstered their Berettas and held them behind their legs. Faking intoxication, they laughed and staggered toward Whitman. Kane waved the wine bottle. “Yo, buddy, you know where a dude can cop some weed?” Whitman stopped walking and warily watched them approach, appraising them.

Then suddenly Bell slipped on the ice. As he reached out to break his fall, his pistol came into view. “Shit!” he yelled as he went down.

Whitman spotted the gun, then saw Kane coming toward him. He turned and ran, darting through the motel parking lot, slipping on the ice, splashing through puddles. Kane sprinted after him, screaming into his radio, “Officer in foot pursuit, rear of the motel!”

As Whitman ran, he pulled a MAC-10 from under his coat. He found himself blocked by a chain-link fence at the rear of the parking lot. Trapped, he spun around and blindly opened fire, the little machine gun on full automatic.

Kane dived for cover, skidding in the slush. Bullets were hitting
cars all around him. The frenzied Whitman was looking everywhere, searching for Kane. With his peripheral vision, Kane saw Bell running toward him. “BELL! GET DOWN!” he screamed. Bell dived for cover, just as Whitman fired another burst.

Lying on his belly in a pool of water, Kane took fast aim and fired a single round. It struck Whitman squarely in the stomach. He fell back against the fence and slid down into a sitting position. The MAC-10 dropped from his hands, landing in a puddle inches from his fingers.

Now everything was in slow motion, dreamlike. Kane moved toward Whitman in a low crouch, holding the Beretta in both hands. He could hear Bell again rushing toward him, and sirens in the distance. Easterly, Jablonski and the Homicide detectives were racing down the motel stairway.