Dead Harvest (9 page)

  I threw my mind at him with all I had. The Friedlander body convulsed around me as I struggled to pull away. Every muscle clenched as one. Tendons snapped like rubber bands. I shrieked in agony, but still I pressed on. My nose erupted in a torrent of blood, and for a fleeting moment everything went red as a vessel in my eye burst under the strain. Then, suddenly, the pain evaporated, and all went dark.

  Friedlander was gone.

  My mind slammed into the cop's like a freight train. He buckled, but kept his feet. His stomach clenched, threatened to purge. By force of will, I kept it down.

  I wheeled around. Just the three of them inside with me, armored up like they were heading off to war. A lot of effort for such a little girl. My earpiece crackled with static and shouted commands, but I ignored it. Instead I raised my firearm, a mean-looking fully automatic assault rifle that looked to weigh about a ton. This guy handled like a dream, his muscle memory doing all the work. He let out a panicked wail inside my head as I pulled the trigger, three quick bursts. Just like that, the advance team went down. My guy had decent aim – one of 'em took a stray bullet in the shoulder, but the rest hit them square in the breadbasket. If the vests had done their jobs, breathing was gonna hurt like hell for a while, but all three ought to live.

  I approached the open doorway to the hall. A thousand shouted questions in my ear. I considered yanking the earpiece, but then I thought better of it. The better to hear you with, my dear.

  A rustling to my right. One of my teammates was scrambling to get to his knees, his gas mask clouded with condensation from his labored breathing. His rifle lay useless halfway across the room. I watched him as he groped for the piece strapped to his ankle. Not on my watch. I cracked him hard in the face with the butt of my gun, and he fell limp to the floor.

  I took a moment to check the others. They were both out. Best not to disturb them, I thought – they look so peaceful when they're sleeping.

  The front door lay in the center of the floor, the hinges a splintered mess. I pressed my back tight to the wall beside what was left of the door frame and listened. If anyone was right outside, I didn't hear them. I rolled along the wall onto my belly, gun at the ready, and sprayed a few rounds into the darkened, fog-laden hall.

  Again, the radio squawked. "
Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on up there? Flynn! Jenkins! Skala! Fischer! Anybody – report!"

  "We've got shots fired, and three men down," I replied, injecting what I hoped was the appropriate amount of panic into my voice. "They got past us, sir. Send all units to the front entrance – suspects are armed, and I think they mean to shoot their way out!"

  I let off a few bursts into the hall to punctuate my point. From somewhere below me, I heard the
pop, pop
of return fire. The radio filled with chatter as cops were redeployed. I hoped that Kate and Anders were on the move – they were never going to get a better shot. I fought the urge to fall back and join them – for this to work, I was gonna have to keep the pressure on.

  I crawled into the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs. If anyone had seen me, they didn't let on, and anyway, they had no reason to shoot at me if they had – I looked like one of them. Still, bullets
hurt
, so you can never be too careful.

  The stairwell wound around a central shaft that cut clear down to the first floor. I rested the barrel of my gun between the wooden balusters and squeezed off a few shots toward ground-level. No response this time – they were either waiting me out, or they were already on the move. I slinked down the stairs to the next landing and tried again. Still no response.

  The second-floor hallway was bathed in eerie white light, streaming in through the transom above the front door from the spotlight they'd trained on it from their position on the street. I steered clear of the beams, hugging tight to the shadow-clad floorboards. From where I lay, I had a clear shot at the front door. Gritting my teeth against the possibility of actually
hitting
anyone, I took it. Shafts of white light poured through the holes I'd punched through the door and swirled ghost-like with the settling remains of the tear gas. It was oddly beautiful.

  I lay there a while, occasionally loosing a round or two on the poor innocent door to keep this standoff going. I wanted desperately to retreat and check on Kate and Anders, but they couldn't have been taken or I would've heard it over the radio. No, the best thing I could do for them was to stay put and give them time to run. When this was over all I had to do was find a quiet corner while they stormed the place and walk right out that front door. No one would be the wiser.

  It was a decent plan. A solid plan. And all it took was a creaky floorboard to let me know it was never gonna happen.

  The floorboard in question was about five feet to my right, just three steps up from my second-floor perch. By instinct, I rolled away from it, bringing around my gun – incessant yammering aside, this guy sure beat the last meat-suit for handling – but I was too late. It was the rookie, his face stripped of his gas mask, his eyes wide and frightened. He had his 9mm trained on me, the barrel bobbing between my head and chest in his shaky, unsure grip.

  "Drop it, Mike."

  I did what he said, setting the rifle on the floor beside me. I wasn't wild about my odds, lying flat on my back as I was, so I rose slowly to my knees, my hands raised in what I hoped was a placating gesture.

  The rookie said, "Stay put, Mike – I don't want to have to use this."

  "And I don't want to make you. Why don't we talk about this?"

  I stepped toward him. He retreated.

  I reached for the rookie's name. It wasn't hard to find – old Mike here was shouting to him at the top of his imaginary lungs. I said, "C'mon, Owen, it's
me
– why don't you put that thing down, and we'll walk out of this together."

  "But you – you
attacked
us!"

  "I'm sorry. I wigged. I thought they were behind us. This is all just a big misunderstanding."

  Owen looked incredulous. "You
wigged?
"

  "That's right."

  "You wigged and took out your
team?
"

  "Look, it was an accident. I said I was sorry." Again I stepped closer. This time, he didn't back away. "Just put down the gun. I mean, you're not really going to
shoot
me…"

  I took another step, made a play for the gun. Owen screamed and backed away.

  The last thing I remembered was a flash of white light, and the thunder of gunfire.

  And then falling.

  And then nothing.

 
 

"All right, Mike. Why don't you walk me through this again?"

  I was sitting chained to a table in a Tenth Precinct interrogation room. The fluorescent light overhead was making my head throb, and my chest was fucking killing me. Of course, it could've been worse – the way that rookie's hands were shaking, I'm lucky he didn't put a bullet in my head instead of my vest.

  "I've been through this all a dozen times, lieu," I said, affecting a tone of weary resignation. "When we took the door, the room was quiet. I entered first. The gas was so thick, I couldn't see a goddamn thing. Something musta gone weird with my earpiece, 'cause I swore I heard movement behind me. I thought we'd been outflanked, and I panicked."

  "You panicked."

  "That's right."

  The lieutenant gave me a look like I was something unpleasant he'd just stepped in. We'd been going around like this for hours, he and I. At first, I figured I could wait him out – after all, this particular meatsuit was a cop in good standing; they had no reason to suspect he was involved. But as the night wore on, it seemed less and less like they were just gonna cut me loose. Of course, I could've just pulled a little body-swap and left poor Mike sitting here while I walked right out the front door, but that plan came with a big fucking catch. See, a demon takes a body for a ride, all the vessel's left with is a blur of disconnected fragments and images; the demon's thoughts remain occluded. Me? I don't have that kind of power. Just one more reason I prefer the dead: I jump ship now and Mike starts singing. They'd mostly think he'd gone off his nut, I'm sure, but they'd probably send a couple cruisers to the park regardless. My guess is they'd have Kate in custody before I could get within ten blocks of her. So for now, at least, there was nothing I could do but wait.

  "Listen, Flynn, I want to believe you, but honestly, I don't know what the fuck to think. I got a kid out there who swears up and down you turned around and popped your team just as cool as can be. I got a body on the scene that matches the description of the perp who marched the MacNeil girl out of the hospital two days ago, and I got a coroner who tells me he collected the same body damn near a week ago from the same goddamn apartment. I got a little girl who butchered her goddamn family slipping past the best-trained unit in the country. And in the middle of it all, I've got you, telling me it was all just a big fucking misunderstanding."

  "So where does that leave us?" I said.

  The lieutenant rubbed absently at the back of his neck, a pained look playing across his face. "I don't have a fucking clue. And I hope to God this shakes out your way, Mike, but until I get some answers, I'm afraid you ain't going anywhere."

 

  
I found Johnnie Morhaim on the corner of Franklin Avenue and Van Buren Street, shooting craps out on the
sidewalk with a pack of drunks and kids. Every town's got
a guy like Johnnie Morhaim: quick to smile with a temper
to match, Johnnie had a hand in every bum racket and
crooked deal from Edgewater to Rockaway Beach. I'd met
him a few months before, when Elizabeth and I had just
moved to New Brighton; he'd been putting a crew together
for some job or another, and he'd heard I needed work. It
didn't take me too much poking around to find I didn't
want the kind of work he was offering, but he never seemed
to get the message – every week or so he'd happen by and
ask me how the hunt was going. Maybe I should've caught
the twinkle in his eye, the swagger in his step when he
stopped by. Maybe I should've realized the guy had juice,
and if he wanted to keep me desperate, all he had to do was
put out the word and not a soul in town would hire me.
Maybe I should've seen the setup for what it was, but I
swear to God I didn't. Nope, instead I cursed my lousy luck
and hobbled my way right back to Johnnie, just like he
knew I would.

  
Johnnie scooped the dice up off the sidewalk amidst a chorus of shouts and jeers, pausing just long enough to take a
swig from the bottle of rye that sat brown-bagged between
his knees. If anybody else saw him swap the dice for a pair
within the bag, they sure as hell didn't let on.

  
"Johnnie," I called, "you got a minute?"

  
He never even looked at me. "Can it wait?"

  
"Not long."

  
He tossed the dice across the sun-bleached sidewalk. The
crowd erupted. "Elevens again, boys! Guess today's my lucky
day!" Johnnie snatched up the loaded dice and pocketed
them in one swift motion. Another pull off the bottle and the
straight dice came back out to play. He handed them to a kid
on his right and rose stiffly to his feet. "Your roll, sport – me
and Sammy got some business to discuss. And don't think I
won't be back for my money, hear?"

  
We strolled down the street a ways, Johnnie strutting along
like he owned the whole damn town, me limping just a couple
steps behind. He fetched a cigarette from behind his ear and struck
a match; I tapped a fresh one from my pack and lit it as well.
"So, Sammy," he said, smiling, "any luck on the job front?"

  
"That's kind of why I'm here."

  
"Yeah? You reconsider my proposition?"

  
"I'm coming around."

  
"That girl of yours – how's she feelin'?"

  
There was no point lying – the answer was written all
over my face. "Not good. Something's gotta give, and quick.
You said you know a guy could use a little help?"

  
"That's right," Johnnie said. "He's gonna hafta meet you
first, of course. A nice, upstanding fella like you is just the
kind a guy he's lookin' for, though, so you don't got nothin'
to worry about. Your old lady's gonna be just fine – you wait
and see."

  
"Set up the meeting – I'll be there. Just tell me where
and when."

  
For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of black fire dancing in his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.
"All right, Sammy," he said, extending his hand to me. It
hung in the air between us for a moment, and then I took it.
His grip was cold and hard as stone. Johnnie shook my hand
like we'd just concluded some high-powered business meeting, no trace of humor or irony in his eyes. "Looks like you
got yourself a deal."

  
It turns out
when
was 3pm Tuesday.
Where
was
Mulgheney's
, a tacky little gin joint on the Upper East Side, just a block north of Midtown.
Mulgheney's
was the kind of place that sprung up three to a block across the whole city in the years after Repeal, all chrome and neon and drunken good cheer. Problem was, at
Mulgheney's
, the chrome was just a touch too gaudy, and the neon lights a hair too bright, their harsh glare revealing that what appeared to be drunken good cheer was a perhaps a little desperate, painted-on. The cumulative effect was a place too classy for the guys who worked the loading docks across the street, and too coarse for the moneyed set that populated the surrounding blocks. All of which sounded just about right for a cohort of Johnnie's.