“Damn you!” Hymie Schmidt yelled, and let out the clutch with a snap. The car shot forward with a deep roar of power. Ackerman spun around, his face twisting with alarm. “Stop!” he shouted, and ran a few yards down the street, waving both arms in the air. Finally, he halted, cursing furiously at the fading tail-light.
When he turned around, Carmody was kneeling as he had left him, but Myers was sitting up in the street with a gun in his lap, his little face frozen and white with pain.
“You won’t kill any more cops,” he said weakly, and shot Ackerman through the head.
14
A police car took Carmody to St. David’s hospital where a doctor cut away his shirt, removed the bullet and dressed the wound in his shoulder. Afterward, Carmody sat on a bench in the starkly clean accident ward and smoked a cigarette. He felt empty and drained but in a little while strength began flowing sluggishly back into his body.
“Hell, man, you’re indestructible,” an intern said, as Carmody got slowly to his feet.
“Don’t bet on that,” Carmody said. The uniformed cop who was waiting to drive him to Headquarters put a coat gently over his bare shoulders. “Ready, Sarge?” he asked.
“We’ll wait until we hear about Myers,” Carmody said.
A nurse came down from the operating room a few minutes later. “How’s he making it?” he asked her.
The nurse was a pretty girl with soft warm eyes and something about Carmody made her feel like taking him in her arms. For all his size and toughness he seemed so bewildered and lost.
“He has a chance,” she said.
“How good?”
“Pretty good, I think.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the nurse said, and touched his arm timidly.
Carmody smiled at her, then glanced at the cop. “Let’s roll,” he said.
The record room at Homicide was jammed with police and reporters, and the noise of their excited, splintered conversations rumbled through the smoky air. There was an uproar when Carmody came in. Reporters on deadline tried to get to him for any kind of statement, but Abrams begged them to shut up and clear the hell out of the way. “You’ll get your stories,” he shouted, circling Carmody like an indignant hen. “But give us a break first, for the Lord’s sake.”
Over the heads of the crowd Carmody saw Karen and George Murphy standing against the wall. She stood on tiptoes, watching him anxiously, and Murphy was patting her shoulder with a big clumsy hand. Abrams took Carmody’s good arm and said, “They want you in Wilson’s office, Mike.”
“Just a second.” Carmody pushed through the ring of reporters and cops and walked over to Karen. “Can you stick around?” he asked her. “I’m going to be busy for a while.”
“Yes, I’ll wait. Are you all right?”
“What? Oh, sure.” He glanced down at the splint and sling on his arm. “It’s not bad.” He felt suddenly as if he were walking through a dream. “Did you identify Langley?”
She nodded and wet her lips. He saw that she was very pale. “The police took me to see him a few minutes ago.”
“You’ll stick around?” he said, frowning slightly.
“Yes, Mike.”
Murphy smiled at him and patted his shoulder gently. “It’s a great story. ‘Cop Nabs Brother’s Slayer.’ The copy desks can ring some beautiful changes on that one.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if that’s the way it was,” Carmody said.
“Yes, that would be pretty,” Murphy said with a little sigh. “Well, I’ll see you later, Mike.”
“You’ll get the whole story, George. That was the deal.”
“Sure, I’m not worried. Take it easy, pal.”
“I’ll see you as soon as I can,” Carmody said to Karen. “You’ll be here?” Even in his confusion he realized he was pressing the point with absurd insistence.
“Yes, Mike.”
Wilson’s office, in comparison to the record room, seemed like a haven of peace. Myerdahl and Powell were talking together at the window, and Wilson was seated at his desk. When Carmody came in Wilson jumped to his feet, grinning with pleasure and excitement, and led him to a chair. “It was a fine night’s work, Mike,” he said. “The best we’ve had since I’ve been in the department. How’re you feeling?”
“Pretty good, I guess.”
Powell sauntered over and patted Carmody’s shoulder. “I’ll say amen to Jimmy’s comment,” he said. “It was a great night’s work. We’ve got your brother’s killer and Ackerman is dead. The organization is in for a terrific thump.”
“How about Beaumonte?”
“He caught a plane for Miami a few hours ago. But Langley has already confessed that Beaumonte hired him to do the job on your brother. So we’ll bring Mr. Beaumonte back on a murder charge. We still haven’t found the pictures Dobbs was using to blackmail Ackerman, but they’ve already served their purpose. They made him stampede.”
Carmody fumbled for a cigarette and discovered he had none. Powell brought out his case quickly. “Have one of these?”
“Thanks.” Carmody blew a stream of smoke at the floor and rubbed his forehead. He could feel fatigue settling on him with a ponderous pressure. “I wonder how Ackerman knew I was going to get Langley?” Wilson said, “Hymie Schmidt answered that for us. Beaumonte tipped off Ackerman you were going out there.”
Carmody sighed wearily. “He used me as his executioner. I was still on the payroll.”
The mood in the room changed slightly. Powell looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to get up to my office. We’ll be working all night, as it is.”
Myerdahl took the short black pipe from his mouth and said bluntly, “I don’t take back my words this afternoon, Carmody. But I say this now. You were all cop tonight.”
Carmody smiled faintly. “Thanks, Superintendent.”
When they had gone Wilson sat on the edge of his desk and drew a long breath. He studied Carmody for a few seconds in silence. Then he said lightly, “The peace and quiet is kind of a relief, isn’t it?”
“Peace?” Carmody said, smiling crookedly. “Where is it, Jim?” He sat slumped in the chair, head bowed, staring at the cracks in the floor. The overhead light gleamed on his thick blond hair, on the hard flat planes of his face, on the white sling stretching diagonally across his bare chest. Sighing, he shook his head slowly. “I was wrong, Jim,” he said. Karen had told him to say that, he remembered. And had warned him that the words might choke. But nothing like that happened. It was a relief to say the words. It was like putting down an intolerable burden. “Yes, I was wrong,” he murmured. What came next? You asked for forgiveness, that was it. He’d done that, he recalled, he’d asked Myers to forgive him. But it didn’t seem enough. He hadn’t changed; no bells of hope pealed in his soul, no promise of salvation blazed before his eyes. Maybe what Father Ahearn had suggested fitted in here. Come back little by little. The way he’d gone away.
“What will happen to me, Jim?” he said quietly. He was curious about that in an impersonal manner; it didn’t really matter because the big thing had already happened. He knew he was ruined. The mainspring that was the core of his strength had been smashed. Goodness had destroyed him. And that was almost comical. Mike Carmody had been hunted down, surrounded and destroyed. Cops like Myers and Wilson, women like Nancy and Karen, even big fat George Murphy had been in on the kill. He had thought they were fools, pushovers, weaklings — looking at them but seeing himself — and they had calmly smashed him to bits with their decency and goodness. Everything he believed had been proven invalid. So what was left of Mike Carmody?