“I…I guess.”
The cop bent suddenly forward, his eyes blazing. “You guess?”
Mike recoiled, but the cop came so close that he could smell the man’s breath. It was awful, like spoiled meat.
“You guess?” the cop snarled again. “Well, let me tell you something, you young piece of shit, that man could have been killed. Killed! Do you understand that? Do you think it’s just all right for punk bastards to try and kill honest citizens?”
“No! No, sir…of course not.”
“Oh, good, then you’re a good, upstanding citizen, aren’t you?” the cop said, suddenly smiling, straightening, and once more consulting his notebook. He absently pawed at his ear.
“It’s too loud,” he muttered to himself, then looked at Mike again, his smile brightening. “Do you go to church?”
The question came out of complete left field, and Mike just stared at him. He’s out of his freaking mind, he thought, but on the heels of that came the certain knowledge that the cop didn’t recognize him. It made no real sense, but there it was.
“I guess…” He caught himself. “Sure,” he lied. “Every Sunday.”
Tow-Truck Eddie reached out with one of his bandaged hands and tousled Mike’s hair. “You’re a good boy, I can tell that. If you did know something about that incident, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” The transition to Officer Friendly was just as scary as the seething vehemence had been a moment before. Dumbfounded, Mike just nodded. “I’m sorry, son, I didn’t catch that.” Just the slightest edge there.
“Yes…yes, sir, if I knew something about it, I’d tell you.”
“Good boy.” The cop stood there and for a few seconds, consulting whatever notes he had written in his notebook and staring at the top sheet unblinkingly. He turned without comment and walked to the door, but as his big hand was touching the handle he paused and looked back at Mike. “You’re…not him,” he asked. His voice was infused with sadness, perhaps loss. “Are you?”
Mike’s throat was as hot and dry as Hell’s back door. “No,” he said. “No…I’m not him.”
“Okay then,” he said, paused, and then added, “God bless you.”
“Um,” Mike said. “You…too?”
The cop flashed him a tired grin, and then he was gone.
Mike sagged back away from the counter, took two wobbly steps, and sat down hard on the floor, numb even to the shock of the impact. Bees and termites seemed to be crawling around the inside of his stomach and there were fireworks exploding in his eyes.
“God!” he gasped, and then tumbled over onto his hands and knees and vomited into a small plastic trash can. His guts clenched and spasmed and his whole body bucked with the effort as the fireworks turned to blooming black flowers and his blood roared in his ears. When his stomach was empty he crawled under the counter, curled into a ball with arms wrapped around his bowed head, and began shivering uncontrollably.
The convulsions didn’t start for at least another ten minutes.
In the middle of the store, halfway between the counter and the front door, the air shimmered again and again, and if Mike had been in any condition to pay attention he might have caught just the faintest ghostly echo of the fading notes of a wailing blues riff and an even fainter sound of bitter laughter.
The shimmer wafted like heat vapor toward the door and in the harsh intensity of the morning sunlight it melted away into nothingness.
(2)
A long time ago, back when Vic had started schooling him on his role in the Red Wave, Polk had managed to steal a set of passkeys for the hospital, copy them, and return the originals before anyone noticed they were gone. There was no part of the hospital, not even the private offices of the senior staff, that he couldn’t enter. When he saw Saul Weinstock and Crow enter the elevator, he took that moment to use his master key and slip into Weinstock’s office, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and in three quick minutes made a fast and thorough search of desk, cabinets, and files. Whatever else he might be, Polk was efficient.
In the bottom left drawer of the doctor’s desk he found an accordion folder marked Ruger et al. that was crammed with notes, lab reports on Cowan and Castle, photos, and medical records. It was exactly what Vic had told him to find. There were computer disks and several security camera digital tapes in there as well. The whole shebang.
“Sweet,” he said, but the second he said it the word turned sour on his tongue and doubt took a giant step into his heart. This was he stuff Vic had told him—ordered him—to get and destroy. On the other hand there was no way to make this stuff vanish without making things worse. No way in the world. If he took it, then somehow the shit was going to land on him. Polk knew that as sure as he knew dogs didn’t fart gold coins. It wouldn’t be Vic’s ass on the line…it would be his.
He chewed his lip, glancing from folder to desk clock to closed door and back to folder, but he knew the decision had already been made. Maybe even before he broke in here. The bottom line, as he saw it, was that Vic wasn’t paying him enough to take a fall for this. Taking one for the team was not part of Polk’s game plan, no way José. Plus, doubt had been growing in him like a brushfire, fueled by the fact that Vic never quite detailed what Polk’s role would be once the Red Wave had swept through Pine Deep. Too often when he probed Vic on that subject, the coldhearted bastard just gave him a crocodile smile and a wink, saying some shit like, “We always take care of our friends, Jimmy Boy.”
“You know what, Vic?” he murmured, “You can kiss my ass.” He put the folder back as neatly as he’d found it, closed and locked the desk. Maybe it was good enough to know where it was in case he needed the leverage. He slipped out of the office, stripped off the gloves, and shoved them into a pocket, then ducked into the fire stairs.
Two flights down he stopped, checked the stairs, and punched Vic’s number on speed dial. “Vic? It’s me,” Polk whispered.
“Yeah? And?”
“Nothing. I checked Weinstock’s office from top to bottom. No files, no evidence. Nothing.”
There was a pause and Polk felt little jabs of stress pain under his heart.
“Okay,” Vic said. “You’re sure? You checked everywhere?”
“Maybe it’s at his house. Or…um, in a safety deposit box. Maybe he gave it to someone. Maybe he gave it to Crow.”
Another pause. “Shit,” Vic said at last, “that sounds about right. Damn it.”
“What do you want me to do?” He took a risk, guessing what Vic would say. “You want me to creep his place?”
“No. Not at the moment. Just go back to watching the hospital and I’ll get back to you.”
Vic hung up and Polk sagged against the wall. His armpits were soaked and he felt sick to his stomach. With Vic it was never easy to tell whether he believed something or not. Not until Vic brought it up face-to-face. Polk fumbled a bottle of aspirin out of his pocket and dry-swallowed three of them before pulling the door open.
(3)
“That’s funny,” Weinstock said as he reached for the doorknob, “this should be locked.”
The door was open just a crack, showing a vertical line of shadows inside the morgue. Crow saw it and immediately pushed Weinstock’s hand away. “No! Don’t.”