'And you, you goddamn fool, you were worried about your reputation?'
He shook his head, watching his own reflection admonish him. Not going to have a reputation now, unless you do something and do it quickly, he told himself.
What can you do?
He was reminded of a story his friend Edna McGee had once written for the Journal. She had learned that the police in one Miami suburb were investigating a half dozen rape-assaults that had occurred along a single stretch of highway. When she had confronted the detectives handling the investigation, they had insisted she not write a word. They complained that a story in the paper would alert the serial rapist to the fact that they were on to him, and he would change his routine, alter his distinctive style, move to a different location, and slip through the decoys and stakeouts they had planned. Edna McGee had considered this request, then ignored it, believing it wiser to warn the other, unsuspecting women who were nightly traveling the rapist's route.
The stories had run, front page, Sunday edition, above the fold, along with a police composite of the suspect that stared out in malevolent black and white from the hundreds of thousands of newspapers that hit the streets. The detectives working the case were, predictably, furious, thinking that their quarry would be scared off.
But that wasn't what had happened. The rapist hadn't committed any half dozen rapes. The number had actually been in excess of forty. Almost four dozen women had been assaulted, but most, in pain and humiliation, had refused to go to the police. Instead, they had gone home after being victimized, thanking their lucky stars they were still alive, trying to mend their ripped bodies and torn self-esteem. One by one, they had all called Edna, Cowart remembered. Tears and hesitancy, sobbing voices, barely able to wring through their misery the horror that had befallen them, but anxious to tell this reporter, if perhaps she could save another woman, somewhere, from falling prey to this man. Within a few days of the story running, they had all called. Anonymous and terrified, but they had called. Each one thought they had been alone, a solitary, single victim. By the end of the week, Edna had the full license plate number of the rapist's car, a much improved description of the vehicle and the assailant, and dozens of other small details that had led the police to the man's door one night, a fortnight after the stories ran, just as he was readying himself to head out.
Cowart leaned back remembering. He weighed Ferguson's threat in his hands to see if it had substance.
Do it, he told himself.
Take it all, all the lies, the mistakes, the illegally obtained evidence, everything, and put it into a story and run it in the paper. Do it right away, before he has a chance to move. Smash into him with words and then run and take your daughter and hide her.
It's the only weapon you have.
'Of course,' he said out loud, 'your buddies in the business are going to tear you limb from limb for writing that story. Then you're going to be drawn and quartered, keelhauled, and your head placed on a stake. After that, things are gonna get real rough, because your wife is going to hate you and her husband is going to hate you and your daughter isn't going to understand, but maybe, if you're lucky, she won't hate you.' But it was the only way.
He sat back on the bed and thought, You're going to bring the whole world down on your head and his head. And then, maybe everyone will get what they deserve. Even Ferguson.
Inch-high headlines, full-color pictures. Make certain the wires pick it up, and the newsweeklies. Hit the talk shows. Keep shouting out the truth about Ferguson until it's a din that deafens him and overcomes all his denials. Then no one will ignore anything. Surround him, wherever he goes, with notepads, flashbulbs, and camera lights. Paint him with attention so that wherever he tries to hide, he glows with suspicion. Don't let him slide into the background, where he can continue to do what he does.
Steal his invisibility. That will kill him, Cowart thought.
Are you a killer, Cowart?
I can be.
He reached over to the telephone to call Will Martin, when there was a sharp rap at the motel door. Probably Tanny Brown, he thought.
He got up, his head filling with the words of the story he was preparing to write as he opened the door and saw Andrea Shaeffer standing in the corridor.
'Is he here?'
Her hair was damp and bedraggled. Rain streaked her tan coat, making dark splashes. Her eyes pitched past Cowart immediately, searching the space behind him desperately. Before he could speak, she asked again, Ts Wilcox here? We got separated.'
He started to shake his head, but she pushed past him, glanced around the room, turned, and said, 'I thought he'd be here. Where's Lieutenant Brown?'
'He'll be back in a moment. Did something happen?'
'No!' she snapped, then, modulating her voice, 'We just lost sight of each other. We were trying to tail Ferguson. He was on foot and I was in the car. I thought he'd have called by now.'
'No. No calls. You left him?'
'He left me! When's Lieutenant Brown gonna be here?'
'Any minute.'
She strode into the small room and stripped off her damp raincoat. He saw her shiver once. 'I'm frozen,' she said. 'I need some coffee. I need to change.'
He reached into the small bathroom, grabbed a white bath towel and tossed it to her. 'Here. Dry off.'
She rubbed the towel over her head, then over her eyes. He saw that she lingered with the towel as it crossed her face, hiding for just a moment or two behind the fluffy, white cotton. She was breathing heavily when she dropped the towel away.
Cowart was about to continue asking her questions, when there was another rapping at the door.
'Maybe that's Wilcox,' she said.
It was Tanny Brown. He carried a pair of brown paper bags in his hands, pushing them toward Cowart as he came through the door. 'They only had mayonnaise, he said. His eyes took in the sight of Shaeffer, standing rigidly in the middle of the room. "Where's Bruce?' he asked.
'We got separated,' she said.
Brown's eyebrows curved upward in surprise. At the same moment, he felt a solid shaft of fear drop through his stomach. He blanked his mind instantly to everything save the problem at hand and moved slowly into the room, as if by exaggerating the deliberate quality of his pace, he could temper the thoughts that instantly threatened to fill his imagination. 'Separated? Where? How?'
Shaeffer looked up nervously. 'He spotted Ferguson coming out of his apartment and set off on foot after him. I tried to get ahead of them both in the car. They were moving quickly, and I must have misjudged. Anyway, we got separated. I looked for him throughout a five-, six-block area. I went back and tried to find him at Ferguson's apartment. He wasn't either place. I figured he either made his way back here or flagged down a patrol car. Or a cab.'
'Let me get this straight. He went after Ferguson
'They were moving fast.'
'Had Ferguson made him?'
I don't think so.'
'But why would he?'
'I don't know,' Shaeffer replied, half in despair, half in fury. 'He just saw Ferguson and exploded out of the car. It was like he needed to face him down. I don't know what he was going to do after that.'
'Did you hear anything. See anything?'
'No. It was like one minute they were there, Wilcox maybe fifty yards or less behind Ferguson, the next, no sign of anything.'
'What did you do?'
'I got out, walked the streets, questioned people. Nothing.'
'Well,' Tanny Brown asked, with irritation, 'what do you think happened?'
Shaeffer looked over at the big detective and shrugged. 'I don't know. I thought he'd be back here. Or at least have called in.'
Brown looked over at Cowart briefly. 'Any phone messages?'
'No.'
'Did you try calling whatever the hell precinct house is in that district?'
'No,' Shaeffer said. 'I just got here a couple of minutes ago.'
'All right,' Brown said. 'Let's do that, at least. Use the phone in your own room, so, in case he calls, this line won't be tied up.'
'I need to change,' Shaeffer said. 'Let me just…'
'Make the calls,' Brown said coldly.
She hesitated, then nodded. She extricated her room key from a pocket, nodded once toward the two men, started to say something to Tanny Brown, obviously thought better of it, and left.
The two men watched her exit.
'What do you think?' Cowart asked.
Brown turned and snapped at him, I don't think anything. Don't you think anything either.'
Cowart opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. He merely nodded, recognizing that the detective's demand was impossible. The absence of information was inflammatory. They both sat, eating cold sandwiches, wordlessly waiting for the phone to ring.
It was nearly half an hour before Shaeffer returned.
'I got through to the desk sergeants at precincts twelve, seventeen, and twenty,' she said. 'No sign of him. At least, he hasn't checked in there. None of them had any unusual calls, either, they said. One had a team working a shooting, but that was gang-related. They all said the weather was keeping things quiet. I called a couple of emergency rooms, as well, just on the off chance, you know. And the central dispatch for fire, rescue. Nothing.'
Brown looked at the two of them. 'We're wasting time,' he said abruptly. 'Let's go. We're going to go find him. Now.'
Cowart looked down at his notebook. 'You know, Ferguson has a late class tonight. Forensic procedures. Eight to ten thirty. Maybe he tailed him all the way out to New Brunswick.'
Brown nodded and then shook his head. That's possible. But we can't wait.'
'What good will it do to race out of here? Suppose he's on his way back?'
'Suppose he isn't?'
'Well, he's your partner. What do you think he's doing?'
Shaeffer breathed out slowly. That's it, she thought to herself. Got to be. He probably chased the bastard right onto some connecting bus and then to a train and hasn't had the chance to call in. And now he's tailing him back and it'll be midnight before he gets in. A small wave of relief washed over her. It was warm, comforting. It distanced her from the steel feelings of helplessness that had trapped her when she'd lost sight of Wilcox. She became aware, suddenly, of the lights in the room, the plastic, uniform decorations and furnishings, the quiet familiarity of the setting. It was, in that instant, as if she'd returned to the brightly lit surface from a mine shaft sunk deep into the earth's core.
The safety of this reverie was smashed by the harsh sound of Brown's voice. 'No. I'm going out now.' He pointed at Shaeffer. 'I want you to show me where everything happened. Let's go.'
Cowart reached for his coat, and the three headed back out into the night.
As Shaeffer drove, Tanny Brown hunched in his seat in the car, in agony.
He would have called, Brown knew.
There was no doubt in his mind that Wilcox was impetuous, sometimes to the point of danger. He was ruled too much by impulse and arrogant confidence in his abilities. These were the qualities that Tanny Brown secretly enjoyed the most in his partner; he felt sometimes that his own life had been so rigid, so clearly defined. Every moment of his entire being had been dedicated to some carefully constructed responsibility: as a child sitting at Sunday dinner after church, listening to his father say, 'We will rise up!' and taking those words as a command; carrying the ball for the football team; bringing help to the wounded in war; becoming the highest-ranking black on the Escambia force. He thought, There is no spontaneity in my life. Hasn't been for years. He realized that his choice of partners had been made with that in mind; that Bruce Wilcox, who saw the world in terms of simple rights and wrongs, goods and evils, and who never thought hard about any decision, was the perfect balance for him.
I'm almost jealous, Brown thought.
Memory made him feel worse.
He knew, instinctively, that something had happened, yet was incapable of reacting to this phantom disaster. When he searched the inventory of his partnership, he could find dozens of times that Wilcox had gone off slightly half-cocked, only to return to the fold contrite and chastened, red-faced and ready to listen to the coal-raking he would receive from Tanny
Brown. The problem was, all these instances had taken place back within the secure confines of their home county, where they had both grown up and where they felt a safety and security, not to speak of power.
Tanny Brown found himself staring out the window at the rigid black night.
Not here, he thought. We should never have come here.
He turned away angrily toward Cowart.
I should have let the bastard sink alone, he thought.
Cowart, too, stared out at the night. The streets still glistened with rain, reflecting weak lights from streetlamps and the occasional neon sign from a bar window. Mist rose above the pavement, mingling with an occasional shaft of steam that burst from grates, as if some subterranean deities were angry with the course of the night.
As Shaeffer drove, Tanny Brown's eyes swept up and down the area, probing, searching. Cowart watched the two of them.
He did not know when he had come to the realization that this search would be futile. Perhaps it was when they had dropped down off the expressway and started winding their way through the middle of the city, that the heartlessness of the situation had struck him. He was careful not to speak his feelings; he could see, with each passing second, that Brown was moving closer to some kind of edge. He could see as well, in the erratic manner that Shaeffer steered the car, that she, too, was staggered by Wilcox's disappearance. Of the three, he thought, he was the least affected. He did not like Wilcox, did not trust him, but still felt a coldness inside at the thought that he might have been swallowed up by the darkness.