“I’m going hunting for Sabra. His wound is fresh, so she can’t be far away.”
“If you take her in, you know what will happen to her. She’ll be a circus freak for the media. Just let her be. I promise you I’ll find her again, and I’ll find another hospital. She’s weak and sick, she can’t do any real damage.”
“She did Charles in rather nicely, didn’t she? I think you know exactly what she’s capable of.”
“You don’t know what she’s been through. You can’t. Aubry’s skull was split up the back. Her brains were falling out through the bone fragments. I watched Sabra trying to force the tissue back into Aubry’s skull. And then the back of it fell off, and it was all in her hands, a piece of the skull, the blood and the brains. She was trying to fix the skull when I pulled her away. She was trying to fix her dead child.”
“That’s why it took you so long to call it in. You took her to a safe, quiet place and then you went back.”
“Yes, you were right about everything.”
“You believe she killed Starr and Koozeman. And you gave her Andrew. You told her about that pathetic little rooftop confession-all the sins he ever committed before the age of twelve. But all that Sabra knows is that he confessed. Am I right? For all I know, Andrew is already dead. Now I’m going to get Sabra, and you’re not going to stop me.”
He pushed her into the doorway and blocked her escape with outstretched arms, palms pressed to the stone wall on either side of her. He was surprised to see the gun in her hand. It just appeared. He never saw her pull it from the holster, and now it was leveled at his heart.
“Get out of my way, Quinn.”
“No, you won’t fire that. The game field is all different now. Different rules and weapons. I’m unarmed, and you’re a police officer. I know you a little better now. You do have rules, Mallory, and I don’t think you’ll break them. You wouldn’t maim me with a sword when I was helpless, and you won’t shoot me now.”
Mallory shot him.
He was so startled by the explosion of sound and the sight of the blood, he never felt the butt end of the gun as she pistol-whipped him and sent him to the ground.
A naked man can walk unmolested down any street in New York City. It is a place where people rely on peripheral vision for the imminent dangers of day-to-day living. If no figure rushes at them in peripheral, then no one else exists. There should be no eye contact with lunatics; they all agree on this. When the eye of the New Yorker does fall upon an unfortunate whose mind is absent without leave, said New Yorker’s eye, in the interest of preserving the life of the body, will often fail to inform the brain so long as the lunatic remains on some outer periphery. Eye contact might draw the crazy closer. Eye contact, they tell their young, is to be avoided.
And so it was that Andrew crossed all the traffic lanes of wide streets without incident or interference. No homeward-bound commuter, no hack-bound cabdriver ever thought of pulling over to alert the authorities. So Andrew continued to walk north, wearing only a broken smile that tipped up on one side of his mouth and down on the other.
Two men, standing on a street corner, were speaking in heated, rapid Spanish. He passed by them without causing a lull in their conversation. Near Seventieth Street, he walked by a young woman who was debating the affordability of a cheeseburger. After he passed by, she decided, yeah, she might as well spend the money. An old woman carrying a bag of groceries came out of the deli on the corner of Lexington and had to make a detour around Andrew when he paused on the sidewalk. The woman’s mind only registered the darkness. She wanted to be off the street while it was still only a semi-savage hour.
The naked man walked on, stopped by no one, safe in the constant that a cop was never where a cop was needed.
The cellular phone beeped. He raised the antenna. “Hello?”
“Hello, Andrew.”
“Oh, Mallory.” She asked where he was, and he told her.
“Look out for a bag lady, Andrew. I’m on my way.”
Mallory was coming for him. He had not long to make his last act of atonement. He should hurry.
He crossed the street.
Charles heard the beeping noise and opened his eyes to focus on the burning ember of a cigarette dangling from the side of Riker’s mouth. The spinning cherry light of a police car was illuminating his immediate surroundings in revolving bright red flashes. It was clear that he was not in his own bed, but spread out on the concrete. Riker’s worried face was relaxing to a broad smile of relief.
“Riker, I think your phone is beeping.” Charles put one hand to the back of his head where it ached with dull, throbbing pain. When he tried to sit up, it hurt more. He lay back again, staring at the sky.
Riker was speaking into the phone. “Yeah?” He listened a moment and said to Charles, “It’s Mallory.” Into the phone he said, “Naw, Charles is fine. The other one’s still breathing too… Sure. No problem.”
Charles propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Quinn’s prone body. He reached over and placed one finger on Quinn’s jugular. As he felt for the pulse, he was wondering if Riker might think it was rude of him to double-check on Quinn’s continuation among the living. Above the bloody wound on the man’s arm was the makeshift tourniquet, an Irish linen handkerchief with the initial M.
“Riker, did you call an ambulance?”
“What-for a little flesh wound like that? Naw, think of the paperwork. And Mallory would have to take another psych evaluation. It’s standard after a shooting. How many of those tests do you think she can take before the department finds out what they’ve really got here?”
“He has a big hole in his arm, Riker, and he’s losing blood.”
“Oh, I’ve seen a lot worse wounds than that one. She put the shot where she wanted it. That’s the least amount of damage it’s possible to do with a cannon like Mallory’s. And I’ve got twenty bucks says she didn’t even fracture his skull with the gun butt. Look at that scalp wound,” he said, turning Quinn’s head to the side and pointing at the cut as though offering up something to be admired. “See how low it is? She laid him out right. Her old man would’ve approved.”
“He’s not conscious, Riker. He needs medical attention, and right now.”
“When he gets to the hospital, they’ll file the mandatory report for a gunshot wound. No way you can pass that off as an accident with a knitting needle. If he mentions that a cop shot him, we’ll be going round and round with the paperwork and the newspapers for weeks. Quinn’s not gonna like that any better than we will. We’d have to nail him with obstruction charges to cover for Mallory, and her career would still go down the tubes. It’s just not a real good idea, Charles.”
“He’s right,” said Quinn. His eyes were not yet open as one hand was going to the base of his skull where Mallory had kissed him with the butt of her gun. “I’m sure we can manage without the ambulance.”
“You need a doctor.”
“But I don’t need the media circus. And then there’s Mallory to consider.”
Riker gave him the thumbs-up sign. “You’re a good sport, Quinn.”
Now Charles realized that he and Jamie Quinn had a great deal more in common than fencing. First she shot him, and now Quinn would rather bleed to death than damage her in any way. And Riker was right. She would not go on with her career after shooting a prominent art critic. It would not play well in the newspapers or the commissioner’s office.
“Jamie, you still need medical attention. There’s a doctor in my building who could patch that up in a hurry.” He watched Quinn’s face go slack again, fading out of consciousness.
Riker stood up and signaled to a uniformed officer leaning against a police car. “Charles. That kid’ll take you wherever you like. So I can tell Mallory we’re bypassing channels on the shoot, right?”