The Snow Angel (36 page)

Kane reached Whitman. He knelt down and leveled the Beretta directly at the face of Darryl Childress' murderer. The now-unarmed Whitman was writhing in agony, gut-shot. “Shoot me, motherfucker!” Whitman screamed. “Shoot me!”

Kane began to squeeze the trigger.

“Don't do it!” he heard Bell say, from somewhere behind him.

“Why the
fuck
not?” Kane said without turning. His eyes were locked on those of Frederick Whitman, murderer of children, destroyer of innocence.

“Because then
you'll be just like him!”
Bell shouted.

Kane continued staring at Whitman's closing eyes, considering those words. Finally, he relaxed the gun.

As other officers ran up, Bell rolled Whitman over to handcuff him. Blood was gushing from the exit wound in his lower back. “He's circling the drain anyway,” Bell said quietly. “Fucker won't last ten minutes.”

Kane looked up and saw Roberta Easterly looking down at him. “I told you you were a valuable man,” she said.

B
ell sat on the living room couch with Vera curled into his arm, watching the Christmas tree lights flash on and off. “You going to help me put the gifts around the tree?” she asked.

Bell smiled. “Let's make real sure they're asleep first.”

Vera looked up at him. “Was it bad?”

“It's never fun to watch someone die,” he said.

“I know.”

Bell looked at her lovingly. She
did
know, and that was a fact.

Vera got up. “How about some hot chocolate and cookies? Will that fix things up?”

“Hot chocolate and cookies would be real nice.”

When she was gone, Bell just stared at the flashing lights.
Where is Kane tonight? What's he going through?

Bell rose and followed his wife into the kitchen. He came up behind her and put his huge arms around her small waist. “I have something to thank you for,” he said.

“What's that, big man?”

“Why don't you try loving him?'
You remember saying that to me? About Kane?”

“Of course.”

“Where did that come from? Just then, at that moment?”

“I don't know, Ike. Inspiration, I guess.”

“I can't get this guy out of my mind,” Bell said. “All these years—it wasn't as simple as I thought.”

“Baby, it never is. People are complicated. What they are is what their world made them.”

He looked at her with love burning in his eyes. “Well, someone sure did a good job making you. I have so much to be grateful for. Why do I keep forgetting that?”

“Because you're human,” she said. She smiled. “There's something I want to thank
you
for.”

“And what might that be?”

“Like those signs say: thank you for not smoking.”

“I didn't realize you noticed.”

“I notice everything about you.”

Bell took his wife in his arms and held her tight. Together, they rocked gently back and forth.

And then Cassie walked into the kitchen. “I can't sleep,” she announced.

“Speaking of things to be grateful for,” Bell said to Vera. He swept his child into his arms. “Then I guess we'd better go look at the Christmas tree.”

”I'll make that
three
hot chocolates,” Vera said.

Bell carried Cassie back into the living room. They sat down on the couch. She nestled into his powerful chest. “Ikey still believes in Santa,” she said.

“That's okay,” Bell said. “The spirit of Santa Claus, that's what counts.” Cassie snuggled tighter against him.

Then another voice made itself heard. “Daddy?” Ikey called timidly from the stairway.

“Better make that
four
hot chocolates,” Bell called to Vera.

Rubbing his eyes, the little boy walked over to his father and sister. He, too, crawled up onto the couch and snuggled into Bell's other arm.

“You know, little man, if you don't go to sleep, Santa won't come,” Bell said, winking at Cassie.

“I'm scared,” Ikey said.

“Scared?”

“I'm afraid of the bad men.”

Bell hugged his son tight. “The bad men can't hurt you,” he said gently. “Those bad men can't hurt any children any more.” Bell's eyes suddenly misted up. The Christmas tree became a multi-colored blur.

Vera appeared quietly behind them. She just stood there in the doorway, looking down at her family. ‘Your daddy
caught
the bad men,” Vera said proudly. “Your daddy and another policeman. Your daddy's a hero.”

“Like on TV?” Ikey asked.

“Yes, like on TV Only better.” She smiled, her heart aching with love. “Because he's real.”

R
oberta Easterly and David Goldman lingered over a second glass of wine following a late dinner at Farber's, the neighborhood deli. Business was brisk, because so many other restaurants were closed for Christmas.

Normally there would have been a huge party tonight, in some cop bar, celebrating the victory. But tonight all of Easterly's people just wanted to get home to their families. So there'd be no celebration.
That's
as it should be. This crime was too horrid for festivity.

Easterly let the fatigue wash over her. She wasn't in a mood for much talking. She also didn't enjoy watching someone die—even when she herself had wished for it. David knew enough to let her be.

She reviewed the events of the last four days. It had been the most intense period of her life.

Then she remembered the discreet phone call she had placed from the motel as soon as the paramedics pronounced Whitman dead, giving Nanci York a jump on the story. Nanci had been overjoyed. Easterly hoped she'd been able to get at least something on the air during the six o'clock newscast. York would be a valuable ally. Easterly even gave York her home phone number.

Then Easterly reviewed the impromptu press conference she had later held in the motel parking lot. She was pleased with herself for asking Stan Jablonski to arrange things. He had done an extraordinary job. The man was a wizard at detail, and he had shown a surprising flair in dealing with the reporters. They loved his crusty attitude and his old six-shooter.

Easterly resolved to bring Jablonski along with her; that way he could remain her confidant, her voice of reason. She would badger him to take the lieutenant's exam he had always scorned; that was the only way he could get the pay raise he deserved.

Then Easterly critiqued her own on-camera performance. She was glad she had remembered to credit Kane and Bell by name. But she was still worried about Kane. The guy was shaky already, and now he had just killed a man.

She also was pleased that she had mentioned her personal anguish over Darryl's death. She wanted Stephen and Louise Childress to know that she cared about them. She hoped the comments wouldn't come off as self-serving, in light of the lawsuit threatened by Edward Bartholomew She also hoped the commentary wouldn't be edited out.

She was less pleased by the undiplomatic way she had handled a naive question about the FBI's role in cracking the case. “Absolutely none,” she had responded tersely. She knew her anger had shown. That one might come back to haunt her.

To hell with all of it. These things are out of my hands. I can't control what other people do. My conscience is clean.

David, checking his watch, interrupted her thoughts. “We'll have to
get home soon, if we're going to watch the news.”

“I don't need to see the news,” she said. “I was there, remember?”

“Don't you want to see how you come off in an interview?”

“I don't care,” she lied.
“I
just tell the truth.”
Most of the time.

Then she thought of the pictures Slaughter had given her. She wanted in the worst way to tell David about them, to unburden herself of the sleazy secret.

But I'm not finished with Jefferson Mosely yet. And David doesn't really
need
to know.

The thought of Slaughter jolted her. In all of the fast-paced events, had anyone informed the Chief of Detectives that this case was over? Or would he see it on the 11:00 news?

“Excuse me a minute,” she told David. She stepped away from him and dialed Slaughter's number on her cell phone. He sounded groggy when he answered. He had been sleeping, he claimed. He sounded more as if he had been drugged.

Easterly filled him in on the details, and he congratulated her. But something about his voice bothered her. “Byron, is something wrong?”

“You're too good a detective,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

“I'm not coming back to work.”

“What?”

“I'm finished, for good,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Easterly asked.

“I have four months of accumulated leave and sick time. I'm using it up and then retiring. As of today you are the acting Chief of Detectives. I'd planned to tell you tomorrow.” There was a long pause. “Bobbie, I'm checking myself into a clinic for psychiatric care.”

“Jesus, Byron…”

“It's not fashionable for a cop to admit he has a problem. But this depression—I need help. I've been taking heavy medication. But I need something deeper. It's all backed up on me—the war, the years on the streets, Marian's death…”

Easterly felt tears coming to her eyes.

“Bobbie, are you there?” Slaughter said.

“Yes, I'm here.”

“What do you think? I value your opinion.”

“I think this is the most heroic thing you've ever done. For you to
admit that you're a human being.This might help some of these macho guys get over their foolish ideas about manhood.”

“I'm not trying to be a role model. I'm just trying to save my
own
life.”

She considered that, then sighed. “You're right,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“For the time being, I'm keeping this problem of mine low-profile. Tell David, but no one else.” He laughed. “Especially not Stan Jablonski.”

“Of course.” Then she choked up. “Yours will be big shoes to fill.”

“No offense, but your feet are big enough. Good luck, my friend.”

After she hung up, Easterly found David paying the bill. “Maybe you don't want to see the news, but I do,” he said. “Not every middle-aged Jewish lawyer in town is married to a gorgeous shiksa celebrity supercop.”

Barely hearing him, Easterly just shook her head. “David, you're not going to believe the conversation I just had.”

K
ane was the only patron left in Harvey's Place. Harvey was closing up early. He washed glasses listlessly while he and Kane watched the news. Kane was drunk again.

There, up on the television screen for the world to see, was the conclusion of Kane's last case. In the glare of the television lights, flush against the chain-link motel fence, lay Whitman's corpse, covered by a coroner's blanket. And there, with a battery of microphones stuck in her face, stood Bobbie Easterly talking about the valor of Detectives Ralph Kane and Isaiah Bell.

Kane sat on the bar stool, re-living the shooting. Then the segment ended, and the news shifted to a follow-up of the plane crash. “Nice job, Ralph,” Harvey said softly.

“Then give me another drink,” Kane said, fumbling in his pocket for money.

“You've had enough, my friend. Go on home. I have a date in the
morning with my grandkids.”

Grandkids. You lucky son of a bitch.
“Sure thing, Harvey. See you around.”

“Go straight home, Ralph.”

“Right you are.”

“Merry Christmas. Thanks for what you did for the city.”

Kane waved listlessly, then walked out to the Pontiac. It was snowing again, hard.
Home? Tonight?
He got in the Pontiac and started it up.
Where the hell is home?

He started driving aimlessly around the streets again. He turned up the volume on the police radio. There was something perversely comforting about knowing the shitheads were out and about, even on Christmas Eve. Somehow it made Kane feel a little less alone. But tonight the radio was quiet, just a series of fender-bender accidents, a DUI, and the predictable domestic violence.

Kane stopped at a liquor store. The owner also was closing up. “You're just in time,” he said. Kane bought a pint of cheap whiskey and got back in the Pontiac. He drove some more, drinking, not even caring if some Motor officer stopped him.

Because tonight was the night. The job was done, and now it was time. The girl in Saigon. Billy. Pete. That kid in the alley, James Caldwell. Darryl Childress. Tonight was the night Kane would join them all. Where they were now
—that
was home.

Kane found himself again passing St. Michael's Church. Despite the snow, several cars were pulling into the parking lot.

Of course! Christmas Eve, Midnight Mass! Perfect!

Kane drove into the lot. He parked at the far end, in the only space available, directly alongside the life-sized, snow-covered statue of St. Michael the Archangel.
God Himself couldn't have picked a better place!
He left the motor running for heat.

The snow fell harder. Kane sat in the car and watched the people entering the church. He heard a choir singing, and then he caught a glimpse of that priest who had been kind to him, dressed in vestments.

Was that only two days ago?
He laughed bitterly, right out loud.
Fat lot of good your prayers did, Padre.

Kane looked up at the snow-covered angel and thought of the Virgin Mary statue in Vito Vitale's mansion, which in turn caused him to think of Vitale's last words to him. “Get
some love in your life—while you
can.”
That's what the old killer had said.
Well, it's too late for that shit now.