An Empty Hell Page 19
“What are you doing to my car?” The voice was unmistakably Lucas Mosley’s. The build of his body as well.
Herrick said, “I thought Bill Martin owned this car.”
Mosley took a breath. His keys were in one hand. His other one was free. Herrick had expected a gun. “Don’t you have a game to coach?”
“Maybe we should end this, Lucas.”
Mosley nodded. “The police are on their way.”
“It’ll be fun to explain who you are.”
“Yeah, they’re going to listen to the guy covered in broken glass, holding an ASP.”
“We should talk.”
“You have a game to coach.”
“My assistants will take care of it.”
Mosley laughed. “Yeah. If it happens. Haven’t you lost enough?”
“Why are you torturing me?”
Mosley shook his head. “If you loved your team, you’d get there.”
“They can win without me.”
“Not if the game doesn’t happen.”
And that’s when the light bulb went on in Herrick’s brain.
“What did you do?”
Mosley shrugged.
Herrick didn’t ask again. The sirens were coming closer, howling in the distance. But he didn’t wait. He dashed to his car. He’d lost too much already.
He wasn’t going to lose his team. Behind him, Mosley laughed.
Herrick didn’t care. He’d get another chance.
HERRICK PULLED around the corner and saw the smoke hovering in the air over Easton Avenue. His sense of direction set off alarm bells in his head, and he pulled over for a second to process it. He’d been in that area only days earlier, and the smoke in the air was probably not a coincidence.
Sarah’s apartment had been blown sky high, and now a place where Donne had spent a lot of time. Life does not often offer up coincidences that big. He put the car back into drive and headed toward the smoke.
Three minutes later, he was searching for a place to park amongst media, cops, and firemen. The bar was a husk, dark clouds billowing out of the windows. The flames licked the siding and reached into the sky. A stream of water arced into the sky and crashed into the walls. Herrick threw on his hazards and double-parked the car.
He got out and started searching the faces, looking for anyone familiar. Looking for Donne. Over near an ambulance, he saw the bartender. He was standing by himself, blanket over his shoulders and a mug of something hot in his hands. Herrick moved in that direction, searching his brain for the guy’s name. It came to him when he was within three feet of Artie.
Artie saw Herrick coming and said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Are you okay?” Herrick asked.
“Is this your fault?”
Herrick couldn’t smell the drink wafting from the cup. He could only sense the cinders.
“The same thing happened to my—friend’s—house this afternoon,” he said.
“I don’t want to be involved in any of this.”
“Is Jackson here?”
Artie took a sip of coffee and swallowed it like he was downing the strongest whiskey. He crushed his teeth together and steam inched its way out between them.
“He was. But not when this happened. They threw a bomb into my bar. It was all I had.” His eyes were red. He drank more.
Artie told him everything. Herrick listened, but the details were vague. Artie was in the back. He heard a crash, then a boom, and then there were flames. He called 911 and then ran out.
“Where is Jackson?” Herrick asked.
“Hell if I know. He said—” Artie drank. “He said something about Carver. I’ve tried to get in touch with him, but nothing.”
“Did you talk to the police?”
Artie laughed. “How could I not?”
“Artie!” The voice came from behind them. Herrick turned around. It was Donne, clearly not afraid of being spotted by the cops.
“’Bout fucking time,” Artie said.
“I’m sorry,” Donne said. “I’m so sorry.”
Artie just shook his head. He turned and walked away, around the corner of the ambulance. Donne stood next to Herrick, arms at his sides.
“We have to talk,” Herrick said.
“He could be going to find a cop,” Donne said. “I’m … I’m …”
“My car is over there,” Herrick said. “Let’s go.”
Once settled, Herrick pulled a U-turn and went back toward Bill Martin’s apartment. He filled Donne in.
“You let him go?”
“He had a gun, and leverage. The cops were on their way.”
“Why was he taking Bill Martin’s identity?” Donne rubbed his hands together. His voice was softer than earlier. “Let’s go back there. He could be there.”
Herrick obeyed, but the SUV was gone, like he suspected. Donne stared out the window, looking upward. Herrick wondered what he was thinking.
“I’m sorry about this morning.”
“You can trust me,” Herrick said.
Donne shook his head.
“You’re coming with me. I have a game to coach. We can talk on the way, and figure things out.”
“Just what I want to do. Watch high school basketball.”
“Better than moping.” He sounded like a grandmother.
Herrick accelerated on the open road. He caught the turnpike and pushed the car to seventy. The road was wide open.
“You ever lose someone important?” Donne asked.
“The reason I went into the military at age eighteen. My parents went away.”
Donne nodded. “They’re alive?”
Herrick didn’t look at Donne. Shrugged. Traffic slowed as they neared the Newark Airport.
“Every time I get close to someone,” Donne said. “Every time. People die or get hurt because of me. I can’t do this anymore.”
Herrick kept driving.
IT WAS dark by the time they reached St. Paul’s. Donne filled Herrick in on the trip to see Carver.
“What about Robinson?” Herrick asked.
Donne told him what Robinson said—to think about the team. And when he put the gun down for good. Herrick’s gut burned trying to figure out what Robinson meant when he told Donne that. He didn’t have time to consider it more. He got out of the car and heard the bounce of basketballs. In the gym, the team was shooting around, already in uniform. The stands were just starting to fill.
Herrick nodded for Donne to follow him into the locker room. Herrick had to change into a suit. It was the head coach way. No sweatpants tonight. He always kept his suit locked in one of the lockers the AD let him use. Too often he was out on a case working before a game, and never had time to go and change. So at the beginning of each game week, he brought a suit to the gym and kept it there. At the end of the week, he took it to the dry cleaners.
“You’re just going to stash me back here?” Donne asked.
“For now.”
Herrick’s phone rang. He looked at it and saw the unknown number. “It’s him,” he said.
“Answer it.”
Herrick did.
“I’m surprised you ran away,” Lucas said.
“Live to fight another day.”
“Today is the endgame,” Lucas said. “In fact, I think it’s right now. Jackson’s there right now, isn’t he?”
Herrick’s heart rate picked up and he took a look at Donne, who mouthed the word what.
“You’ll like this,” Lucas grunted. “Alex came up with this one. I was just talking to him. He came to check out my handiwork and saw you two together again.”
Herrick waited. Donne tapped his foot.
“Look in your locker,” Lucas said.
“You’re close to us.”
“You have no idea. Look.”
Herrick turned toward the locker. He opened it. His suit was hanging there, neatly pressed and still in plastic. Below it, resting on the bottom of the locker, was a pistol. The room got cold.
“P
ut me on speakerphone,” Lucas said.
Herrick did as he was told. “You’re on.”
“Here’s how it’s going to go.” Lucas laughed. “It’s going to be fun. If you don’t do what I say, I’m going to take out the school like the apartment and the bar. Don’t believe me? That wouldn’t be smart..”
Herrick said, “Tell me what you want.”
“How long has it been since you used a gun?”
“I think you already know.”
“Pick it up and shoot Donne. You don’t, the place goes up in smoke.” Lucas laughed. “You have three minutes. I’ll let you talk it over. Leave the phone on. I want to hear this.”
ROBINSON TAPPED his fingers on the desk and stared at his landline. Too much of that these days. Too much waiting. Too much praying.
It took a lot to convince Mosley to let Herrick live. Hell, it took a lot to convince himself. He promised Mosley extra money on top of the original agreement. Money he didn’t have and money he couldn’t get.
Robinson pulled the top drawer open on his desk. The gun wasn’t there, taken by Donne. But the switchblade was. It was the only option Robinson had anymore.
Once Mosley completed the job, he was going to have to come and get his cash. His unmarked bills.
And Robinson was going to have to kill him.
Herrick, meanwhile—man, he was going to suffer. Lose his job, his girl, and he would have shot a gun again. What choice would he have had?
The phone didn’t ring.
Robinson stood up and walked over to the window. The sun had set, but the New York crowd was just arriving via New Jersey Transit. Men in suits and women in dresses hurried off the local and tried to find their cars. A few of them waved at family members who were picking them up.
A family that cared.
A family that existed.
He couldn’t bring himself to think of the good times, when he and his sister were little. Not for a long time. But suddenly, as he watched the buses pass, it all came swirling back. Sitting in the kitchen as the toaster went off—ding—on a Saturday morning. That was the sign to watch your head. First, you’d hear the marble roll down the tube. It would clink into something, and the stovetop would go on. Eggs.
Bernie would cackle, and his mother would yell that they were going to make a mess. And, sometimes they did. A lot of times, these crude contraptions his dad made to make Saturday mornings fun didn’t work exactly. If one thing went wrong, the eggs would splatter against the kitchen window and they’d end up at a diner. It always bothered his sister. She wanted things to be perfect.
Complicated perfection.
Just like Leo’s crossword puzzles.
Tonight had to go perfectly.
Robinson leaned his forehead against the window. The air outside made the glass cold.
Soon it would be winter.
Even sooner this would be over, and he’d be able to breathe again.
“DO IT,” Donne said.
Herrick put the phone on the bench next to the gun. He sat down next to it. The flush of adrenaline coursed through his body like a rushing wave. He stared at the gun, resting at an angle. All he had to do was snatch it up, pull the trigger, and watch Jackson Donne crash to the ground.
He looked at Donne, standing against another row of lockers, his hands at his sides. His face was slack, the beard low, eyes droopy. His skin was pale.
“What do you have to lose if you shoot me?” Donne asked. “I have nothing left. If this is what Alex needs, if this is how everything will go away, then do it. Just shoot me.”
Donne spread his hands and gave Herrick a fine target. It was just like when the boy spread his hands and called out to Allah. Herrick picked up the gun, hefting it. Just a quick squeeze, a loud bang, and he’d be done with this. Lucas Mosley would be a memory.
Shooting Jackson Donne. Just like the boy—all the problems would go away. No.
They wouldn’t. Just like they didn’t the last time he shot a gun. The investigation. The tears. The nightmares. The weeks, months—a year?—of therapy.
He took the coaching job to give back. Not make things worse around here.
The silence hung in the locker room like icicles on a gutter. The gray metal of the gun glinted in the pale fluorescent lights above them.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“It’s the only way.” Donne’s voice was calm and soft.
Herrick took a breath and turned the gun on Donne. Muscle memory was kicking in. Instincts and training taking over. Just a few pounds of pressure. Herrick kept his finger on the trigger guard.
The gun was heavy, like a medicine ball. The grip dug into his palm. He put his finger on the trigger. Donne took a step forward. A split second and Donne would be dead, and Herrick could move on from there.
The next step.
Was Donne right? Did this job mean people close to you would get hurt? He pictured Sarah out in the gym hearing the shot go off. He thought of the team—the kids he asked to trust him—confused and then running in terror.
Herrick adjusted the grip of the gun.
“I pull this trigger, and your problems are over, Jackson,” Herrick said. Then he shook his head. “But mine would just start.”
The phone crackled. “Now you’re getting it. Two minutes.”
Donne tilted his head. “Shoot me.”
Herrick aimed.
“Think about it, Jackson. I pull the trigger—guns aren’t quiet. They’re going to hear it. Coach shoots man in locker room. Great headline.”
Donne said, “You can work your way out of it.”
It would be so easy. Just like it was in the sandbox.
“Do you have a death wish or something?”
Herrick lowered the gun.
“I’m just tired.”
“There has to be another way.”
“Sixty seconds,” the phone crackled.
Herrick put the gun down, reached for the phone, and hung up. “Now we can talk.”
“You probably just accelerated his plan.”
“He seems to play by rules. A sick set of rules, but rules nonetheless,” Herrick said. “Take the gun and see if you can find him out there. I’m going to evacuate everyone out the front of the building.”
“What if that’s where Lucas is?”
Herrick shook his head. “That’s not a smart attack point. If he’s serious, he’ll take out the gym. With all the wood and rubber and open air, it’ll go up in flames quick. Take the gun, but don’t let anyone see you with it. Go out the door we came in. Find him.”
Donne reached over to the bench and picked up the gun. He tucked it into his pants, and then untucked his shirt. “If this were anywhere else, you would have shot me.”
Herrick shook his head. “Go get him.”
DONNE SPRINTED across the basketball court, sidestepping a lay-up line on the St. Paul’s side. One of the kids told him to watch the fuck out. He ignored the comment and hit the door at full stride. He heard Herrick behind him asking for the crowd’s attention.
Donne kept moving, the crunch of asphalt beneath his feet and the weight of the gun in his waistband. The street was quiet. Halfway down the block, Donne could see the whirling blue light of a police car. Donne squinted and could see something next to the cruiser, leaning up against the driver’s side door. His stomach clenched.
He approached, his nerves jangling like Christmas bells. Fight-or-flight kicked in—a feeling Donne had experienced too many times in his life. Always so easy to run away. He took a breath and pushed through it, turning up toward the cop car. He kept the gun hidden. That was the last thing he needed. The moment the cops figured out who he was, the tenor of the day would change.
Three feet later, Donne realized what it was he approached. The blue light from the cop car glinted off a small piece of metal on the front of the oblong shape. It was reflecting off a badge. The person wearing that badge wasn’t moving.
That was when Donne realized the police cruiser was still running. And someone was behind the wheel. The siren wailed first. Then the engine roared. The car leapt from its parking spot and headed directly toward Donne. He dove out of the way, praying the cop was able to keep his head.
The cruiser sped by Donne just as he hit asphalt, shoulder first. Fire ran up his arm into his fingertips. He grunted and rolled on to his back. He pulled the gun, sat up, and aimed. But the cop car turned the corner before he could shoot.
He stood up slowly, letting the pain wind down into a dull throb. He spotted the cop, leaning head first along the curb. His body was twisted awkwardly like a human pretzel. Donne jogged up to him and found the officer, mouth open, no air escaping.
Donne tried to find a pulse, but couldn’t. The cop was dead. He turned back toward the school and saw the police cruiser had made a U-turn. It was now sitting at the corner of the T, pointed nose first toward the school. A flame sparked up in the driver’s seat.
Time was up.
DONNE HAD scars from bullet wounds all over his torso. Any time he showered, he rubbed soap over the grainy bumps, and remembered. He’d remember seeing bullets flying in his direction, his mind usually playing it in slow motion. Bill Martin pulling the trigger, the flash going off and then the impact knocking him back onto the warehouse floor.
Now, as he charged the police cruiser, his stomach wasn’t full of butterflies or nerves. What he told Herrick just minutes earlier was correct. He didn’t care. All that mattered was saving the people inside the gym, and if that meant he had to take the fall, so be it.
Donne pulled his gun, stopped running, and aimed. The flash of fire in the cruiser grew brighter. Donne squeezed the trigger and fired three bullets in quick succession. He didn’t aim at the glass, didn’t want to kill Lucas. He wanted to talk to Lucas. All he wanted to do was draw the man away from the school. The bullets embedded themselves into the police car passenger door with three thumps. The flame flashed left; Mosley was looking at him.
Donne jogged forward three more steps and saw the passenger window recede. The ball of light came his way, a bottle of alcohol flying on a low line drive. It wasn’t a kill shot, no way it’d even travel enough distance to hit Donne, but it shattered in front of him, a burst of flame and heat spreading along the street. Donne stepped back, a wave of sweat forming at his forehead. He cringed and leveled the gun at the police car again.