The first thing that caught his attention was the smell of cigar smoke. It was both familiar and frightening. He stood absolutely still, caught up in memories, a surge of emotion flooding him. With all his determination, he had not given much thought as to how he might handle an actual confrontation with his mentor. He couldn’t help but still love this man, respect him, trust him even. He had formed his professional identity within this man’s formidable shadow, had been protected by him, and had, in turn, guarded him as both patron and teacher. He stood at that moment, shotgun in hand, intending to confront him-to accuse him of plotting and carrying out a string of homicides. Charges that would result in Zeller being brought downtown, to where he had earned his reputation as the best of the best.
The kitchen was small and dated back to the fifties: chipped linoleum, a stained sink, and pitted fixtures. The countertop carried crumbs and detritus of past meals. A string of small black ants paraded along the seam of the splash, disappearing behind an old toaster. The cigar smoke hung in the air. He felt it as a warning: Zeller was not far.
Dart set down the shotgun, having intended it for street defense, not necessary with Zeller. Then, having second thoughts, he picked it back up. He moved stealthily into a small sitting room and turned up a narrow flight of stairs. Zeller had been raised here; he had told so many stories about his youth and this place that Dart found himself imagining he knew the floor plan, disappointed now that the real item did not live up to his memory. It was far less grand than Zeller had painted it. Embellished by memory, the home’s size had been exaggerated by its former resident. Dart felt a growing sense of dread as he climbed the stairs: Zeller, a murderer, waiting somewhere in a house he knew well. Dart, the reluctant inquisitor, a stranger here. Zeller did not surprise well; he tended to lash out and ask questions later. Dart neared the top of the stairs, an equally narrow hallway leading to an open door immediately to the right and two opposing doors directly ahead. All the doors were open, all dark. It felt to Dart like a shell game-he expected to find Zeller in one of the three. But he worried too about the noise he’d made with the kitchen door-Zeller could well be expecting him.
Dart searched his memory for a clue left by one of Zeller’s family stories. He could hear the man’s voice inside his head, could see him sitting there…. Something about as a kid having witnessed a mugging down on the street, he recalled, leading him to favor Zeller’s room as being either of the two directly ahead of him. He would duck into the nearest room first, establishing a defensive position behind the doorjamb, then wait for some sure indication of Zeller’s position. His heart seemed stuck up in his throat, his chest was tight, and his mouth dry.
He was drunk on fear; his knees felt like water. Circulating his head were the crime scenes of the so-called suicides, the deaths so neatly orchestrated. Would this be how someone found Joe Dartelli? Were these to be his last few minutes-sneaking around an unfamiliar house in pursuit of a man he felt as close to as a father? He wondered what thoughts had been inside his mother’s numbed mind when she had pursued him. Had she, in her own way, been as terrified of finding Dart as he was of finding Zeller?
He lifted the stock of the shotgun, training the barrel at the floor in front of him; it would require only a slight lift and a squeeze of the trigger. At close range, a shotgun made everyone an expert marksman.
He counted down slowly from five, an old habit meant to settle the nerves. As far as he could tell, the technique failed miserably: three … two … He took one quick step up the last stair and turned quickly to his right.
The back of a wooden chair hit him squarely in the chest, as if the person on the other end of it were swinging for a home run. As the wind exploded from him, Dart raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger, and then pulled it again, but nothing happened-jammed from the tumble out on the street. The concussion of the chair lifted him off his feet; he skidded across the hall and banged into the far wall, expelling what little air remained. Dart gasped for breath, his chest feeling paralyzed, his ribs bruised. The shotgun flew from his hands as a boot connected with it. That same brown boot then came for Dart’s face, swinging straight up toward his chin, but Dart managed to lean away to one side, sagging, and the blow missed.
Walter Zeller lost his balance and caught himself on the banister, nearly going down the stairs instead. The brief look that Dart caught of the man’s face showed a person different from the one Dart remembered: haggard and worn, destroyed by grief and guilt and exhaustion. He’s an old man, Dart thought, knowing that Zeller was only in his early fifties. He wore a dark green plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans, but they fit him loosely, like a man diseased. He had a weathered round face, sparse graying hair, and an Irish nose broken too many times to count. He looked hard and mean, but to Dart the man’s soft blue eyes gave away his true personality.
Dart tried to reach for his weapon, but his arms weighed tons and his chest had been set afire by the crushing blow of the chair. His one feeble effort was to rear back and slide his right foot along the floor, connecting with the one boot that held all of Zeller’s unsteady weight. For Zeller, it happened too quickly-first he lost his balance, and then Dart kicked away his only solid platform, sending him down the stairway headfirst. He went down hard, turning a full somersault. Dart, whose arms still would not function, rolled himself face down on the dusty floor and drove himself forward with his feet. His hurt ankle cried out. Splinters tore from the floor and embedded into his chest and arms. He heard Zeller groan, curse, and then start back up the stairs. “You’re dead, Ivy,” the sergeant barked, clawing his way up the stairs. Dart had lived ten years believing in that voice and everything it said.
Dart propelled himself to the end of the hallway and into the dark room to the right. His arms began to tingle; they were coming back to life. He rolled across the rug, about to lodge himself beneath the bed but grasped the absurdity of trying to hide. As a child he had developed himself into a professional hider, and as he reached again for those talents he glanced around, assessing that he had to get out of the room. Now!
He heard the recoil of the shotgun and a shell bang and roll on the hardwood floor. Zeller was in the hallway; had cleared the weapon.
Dart could move both shoulders; he had feeling in both hands though he still found it hard to walk. He struggled to breathe-his chest felt caved in; his head pounded from a lack of oxygen. Of the room’s two windows, one faced the street, the other, nearest to Dart, faced a flat rooftop.
Footsteps …
He tried for his sidearm, but both hands proved useless. He was a sitting duck.
No time to break the glass first; this registered immediately. He came to his feet, tucked his head into his chest, and ran backward, ducking and propelling himself through the pane of glass. His head smacked the top frame, dizzying him. Glass flew everywhere in a deafening explosion. Dart felt the cold of the outside air. He felt a warm trickle down his back. He rolled across the hard tar until the crunching sound stopped and he was out of the shards of glass. He came to his feet and headed across the roof to the unforgiving brick wall that faced him.
“Forget it, Ivy!” Zeller yelled across the expanse. “We should talk.”