Authors: Michael Koryta
Not
this time. No, I've got a feeling about it.
My
anger rose with the dawn. As the shadows around me changed from shades of dark
to patterns of gray and then golden light, I noticed my jaw had begun to ache
from the force of my clenched, grinding teeth. I'd had thoughts of Ken earlier
in the night, but now he was gone, and Dominic Sanabria and Parker Harrison
filled my mind in his stead.
They
had done this. I didn't know who had put the bullets through Ken's heart and
forehead, didn't know whose hands had carried him from the trunk of a car and
released him at the top of this hill, but I knew who'd put it all in motion.
I'd seen them personally, looked into their faces and heard their words, and
now the intimacy of that filled me with anger that spread like steam. They had
left me alive. They had killed Ken Merriman and yet they had left me alive, and
in that action their regard for me was clear—they viewed me as impotent. Of
course I would accuse them, of course I would come at them with all the
resources I could muster. They knew this, and they did not care.
Harrison
had told me to step aside before harm was done. That had not been a wild
notion, clearly. He'd warned me, and then he'd reached for the phone and called
Dominic Sanabria, and a day later Ken—who had not gone home, who had not heeded
the warning—was dead.
Harrison
had answers.
It
was time to get them.
I was
close to Old Brooklyn, and that was important, because Harrison left early for
work. I didn't know what cemetery employed him, and I didn't want to take the
time to find out. The MetroParks Rangers who'd drawn Ken's homicide would
surely be looking for Harrison this morning, and I didn't want to follow in on
their heels. By then it would probably be too late. The good fortune I had was
that they'd been alarmed by all of the information I'd shared. The stories
about Sanabria and Harrison and Bertoli had overwhelmed them, and I knew when
they finally released me that they'd take a few hours to talk to Graham and
others, working to confirm my claims, before they moved in on people with mob
ties and murder convictions. I had a window this morning. It was going to be
small and closing fast, but I had a window.
By
the time I got to Harrison's apartment it was nearly six, and the soft predawn
light was giving way to a deep red sunrise, the sort of that age-old sailor's
caution. I'd cut it close—almost too close. I was pulling into the parking lot
when the door to Harrison's apartment opened and he stepped out. He was wearing
jeans and one of those tan work coats favored by farmers, with a thin knit cap
pulled over his head. He wouldn't need the jacket and the cap—the day was
dawning hot and humid—but he was probably used to chill early morning hours,
and he wouldn't yet know of the weather change. He hadn't spent the night
sitting in the woods above a body-dump scene.
Harrison
didn't look up at my truck as he shut the door and turned to lock it. I pulled
in at an angle a few doors down from him, leaving the truck across three
parking spaces as I threw it in park and stepped out without bothering to cut
the engine. Only then, as he put his key back in his pocket and turned from the
door, did he look toward the headlights of my truck. When he saw me his face
registered first surprise, then concern, and he said, "What
happened—" just as I reached him, grabbed fistfuls of his coat, and pushed
him against his own door.
When
I left the truck I'd intended to say something immediately, shout in his face,
but when I caught him and slammed him against the door I didn't speak at all,
wanting instead to just stare into his eyes and see what I saw there. It was
only a few seconds of silence as I held him pinned by his shoulders, but what I
saw added coal to those fires of anger. His face held secrets. I could no
longer tolerate the secrets.
"He's
dead, you piece of shit."
"Ken—"
he said, and the sound of the name leaving his lips, the way he wanted confirmation
of it, was too much for me. I lifted him off the door and then slammed him back
into it, maybe three times, maybe four, and when he finally made a move to
resist I stepped sideways and sent him spinning off the sidewalk and into the
hood of the closest car.
He
hit it hard, his ribs catching the bulk of the fall, and when he righted
himself and turned back to me I saw a new Parker Harrison. He stood with a wide
stance, balanced and ready to move in any direction, and took two steps toward
me with his hands raised and no hint of fear or uncertainty in his eyes. He was
coming to do harm, coming with violence and confidence, and as I stepped off
the sidewalk to meet him I wasn't at all sure that I could win this encounter,
knew in a flash of recognition that he had been places and seen things that I
had not, and that it was the sort of experience that might well make my
advantage in size irrelevant.
That
new Harrison lasted only those two steps, though. He brought himself up short
as I approached, and there was a moment of hesitation before he moved backward.
To a spectator it might have appeared he was giving way to me, but I knew it
wasn't that. He didn't fear me at all. Not physically. For a few seconds he'd
been sure he could take me and ready to do it. The latter aspect had passed.
The former had not.
"What
happened—" he said, circling away from me as I continued to pursue him,
back on the sidewalk now.
"Somebody
killed him, and you know who, you son of a bitch."
"I
don't."
"Harrison—"
"I
didn't want this," he said. "Lincoln, I did not want this. When I
told you to leave it alone, this is what I wanted to avoid."
"What
do you know—" I shouted it and was dimly aware of a light going on in the
apartment beside Harrison's.
He
didn't answer, moving backward in short, shuffling steps.
"This
is what you wanted to avoid— How did you know it would happen—
Stop lying
and say what you know!"
We
were beside his apartment now, and I punctuated the last shout by pounding my first
into his door.
"You
called Sanabria," I said. "You told me to quit, and then you called
him. Didn't even wait until I was out of the parking lot. Why—"
"How
do you know that—"
"Answer
the question!"
"You'll
have to ask him."
I almost
went for him again. Almost gave up the questions and came at him swinging. It
was close for a second, but I held back. My hands were trembling at my sides.
"Did
Sanabria have you kill him, or did somebody else do it this time—"
"I
haven't killed anyone."
"Did
fifteen years in prison for shoplifting—"
"That's
got nothing to do—"
"It
doesn't— You're a
murderer."
The
muscles in his jaw flexed, his eyes going flat.
"You
killed Joshua Cantrell," I said. "Didn't you—"
"No."
"Bullshit.
Somebody else gave him a Shawnee burial—"
"I
didn't kill-"
"Bullshit!"
As I moved toward him, the door to the apartment next door opened and a young
woman in a pink robe stepped out and pointed a gun at me.
"Stop
it," she said. The voice was weak, but the gun was strong. A compact Kahr
9 mm, and though her voice shook, the gun didn't do much bouncing, just stayed
trained on my chest.
"I
called the police," she said. "You can wait for them, or you can
leave."
Parker
Harrison said, "Kelly, go inside. I'm sorry."
She
didn't move. Behind her, the door was open, and somewhere in the apartment a
child was crying. This woman, who looked maybe twenty-five, was wearing a pink
robe and standing barefoot on the sidewalk and was pointing a gun at me while
her child cried in their home.
I
said, "There's going to be a lot of police here in the next few days,
ma'am. They're coming for him, not me."
Neither
she nor Harrison responded.
"Do
you know he's a murderer—" I said. "Do you know that he killed a man
with a knife—"
She
said, "Please leave," and now the gun had started to tremble.
I
nodded. "I'm going to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.,. but
he…" The words left me then, and my strength seemed to go with them, and
suddenly standing seemed difficult.
"I'll
burn your lies down," I said to Harrison. "All of them. Every lie
you've told and every secret you have. Understand that. Tell Sanabria." I
could hear the sirens when I drove out of the parking lot.
I
went to the office, walked upstairs, and logged on to the computer. For a
moment I stared at the phone, thinking of calling Amy. The last time I'd talked
to her had been after the police released me and before I'd gone to Mill Stream
Run to see the place where Ken's body had been found. She'd been awake then,
and I had a feeling she'd be awake now.
I
also knew what she'd tell me. She'd tell me to go home, tell me to wait on the
police, tell me to do anything but drive out to see Dominic Sanabria. I left
the phone untouched while I ran a database search for his address.
A few
minutes later, back in my truck with a printed-out map of Sanabria's
neighborhood in Shaker Heights beside me, I reached over to the glove
compartment, opened it, and took out my gun. It felt good in my hand. Too good.
I sat there for a while, caressing the stock with my thumb, and pleasure spread
through me and filled my brain and circled around my heart. When I put the gun
back, I made sure I locked the glove compartment. Wouldn't want the wrong person
getting in there. The sort of person who would use a weapon without need, who'd
pull the trigger for reasons of rage and vengeance rather than self defense.
No, I didn't want anybody like that getting ahold of my gun.
It
was a slow drive out to Shaker Heights, fighting the build of rush-hour
traffic. The house turned out to be in a gated community, which gave me a few
seconds of pause, sitting just outside the main drive with my truck idling
while I wondered how to get through. I decided it was always a better bet to
try the straightforward approach first, so I pulled up to the gate and put my
window down and told the kid in the security uniform that I was here to see
Dominic Sanabria. I doubted Sanabria had many house calls at eight in the
morning, but you never know.
The
kid nodded at my request, asked for my name, and then waved me ahead, but he
was looking at me strangely as he put the gate up. I kept my eyes in the mirror
as I pulled forward and saw that he reached for the phone even before the gate
was down. Standard procedure, or was this something he'd worked out with
Sanabria, always to call if somebody showed up— Most of the gated communities
I'd been through wouldn't let you pass until it had been cleared by the
resident. I'd expected him to call before he let me through, not after.
That
curiosity stayed with me as I followed the curving road to the right, past
dozens of ostentatious homes that all looked generally alike. A few people were
out on the sidewalks, walking small dogs that yipped hysterically at my truck.
Sprinklers hissed here and there in the perfect lawns, and every car I saw was
high-end, lots of Lexus and Mercedes SUVs, one Jaguar sedan. It was a place
where most people went off to work each day in law firms or brokerage houses,
maybe showing commercial real estate. Sanabria was probably their favorite
neighbor. Nothing made better conversation at a cocktail party than saying you
had a mob player living in your gated community.
According
to my map, Sanabria's house was four right turns—or right curves, really—from
the gatehouse, and I made it through all of them before I finally understood
why the kid had waved me in and then picked up the phone. The police were
waiting.
There
was a single cruiser parked on the street across from Sanabria's house, and
even before I slowed my truck they hit the lights without turning the siren on.
Yeah, they had a description of my vehicle.
I
brought my truck to a stop facing the cruiser, and both doors opened and two
police in uniform got out. The one behind the wheel was a woman, tall, close to
six feet, and her partner was a young guy with a ruddy, freckled face. He hung
back while she approached, and when I started to put the window down she shook
her head and motioned with her hand.