Savage Rage (12 page)

1200 hours

“Do you really think I'm doing the right thing, Mom?”

“Of course you are, dear.” Evelyn stroked her daughter's arm comfortingly. “Now, drink your tea before it gets cold.”

Evelyn Hawthorn was a great believer in the therapeutic aspects of tea. Earl Grey in particular. No problem was so great that it could not be viewed rationally while drinking a hot cup of tea. The simple act of brewing and then pouring or serving the tea gave one time to organize one's thoughts in a calm, sensible manner. One could not panic when sipping tea. It was simply impossible.

So, when her daughter had called, frantic with worry, Evelyn had known just what was needed: a mother's knowledge and comfort served over a steaming cup of Earl Grey, the civilized world's tea. Served in China, mind you. None of those garishly large mugs men preferred.

Karen dutifully sipped her tea, as did Evelyn, who studied her daughter intently. Karen's eyes were troubled and unfocused. Perhaps Evelyn had allowed her husband too much of a hand in raising their only daughter. George was a wonderful husband and provider — not that she needed a provider, of course, but his financial success had allowed her to devote herself to her social causes and the plight of the less fortunate. But as a father, he was rather limited in his approach. He raised children the same way he lectured: he presented his theory, established the facts, drew his conclusions and expected everyone to agree. George Jr. had grown up that way. His father had told him which schools to attend, which topics to study, which degrees to obtain. George Sr. had also dictated his son's social life, hobbies, sports, friends, associates and romantic interests. And it had succeeded wonderfully. George Jr. had obtained twin PhDs and was gaining notoriety in the academic world. Evelyn had no doubt her son would one day teach at Harvard.

But that approach had completely failed with Karen. Backfired, in fact. Instead of accepting her father's guidance, she had rebelled, although subtly and never in direct defiance of her father. It had been a fencing match between father and daughter. He, always attacking, pressing his demands. She, always parrying, evading his thrusts neatly but never going on the offensive. He wanted her to go to university and she did, but to York, not U of T. He wanted her to teach at the university level; she taught, but in grade school. She dated the boys George selected for her but never seriously and never for long.

George Sr. never learned that he couldn't lead Karen as he had led George Jr. The more he insisted, the more she parried. No, Karen needed to be guided by suggestion and insinuation, “allowed” to come to the decisions that were best for her, seemingly on her own.

Then had come the Day of Open Defiance. Karen had brought home a young and handsome police officer. Evelyn willingly admitted her daughter had a fine eye when it came to men, but George had been devastated. His daughter had finally attacked and her lunge had scored a winning touch. A police officer! A public servant, no less. And not even a detective or an officer of substantial rank but a lowly uniformed patrolman. And uneducated, too. Jack had attended university but never finished his degree and to George that meant he was uneducated. Evelyn viewed Jack's education as incomplete, temporarily on hold.

Evelyn had agreed with her husband and together, he with his blunt attacks, she more subtly, they told Karen why Jack was wrong for her in every possible way. But the more they pressed, the greater she stood firm. No gentle parries this time. Karen had chosen the man she wanted as her husband and no amount of reason would make her see otherwise.

George continued to hammer away at the relationship. He had been gracious enough to pay for the wedding, but Evelyn knew he had done so to prove his point that Jack was not and never would be financially established. Evelyn had altered her tactics. Altered her whole view of Jack, in fact. Whereas George saw the negative, she saw the potential. George thought policing was a stagnant job. She considered it a temporary occupation, a boyhood whimsy to be satisfied and then discarded for more serious pursuits. Jack was not unintelligent or without a certain manly appeal and with their help he could use his policing background — some people actually viewed police officers favourably — to transition to a new career once he decided, with their help, that it was time to put away boyish dreams and take on the mantle and responsibilities of a man.

It was just taking Jack longer, much longer, to come to that obvious conclusion than Evelyn had anticipated. Which brought her to today.

“Of course it's the right thing to do,” she repeated, setting down her cup. “Jack, like most men, needs to be . . . guided, shall we say, to the right decisions. More tea?”

Evelyn refreshed both cups, adding honey to hers. Jack had started her on using honey in lieu of sugar. The boy had potential.

Cup on saucer on her lap, Evelyn faced her daughter. George knew of the visit, but he could
not
learn the reason behind it. Nor could Jack, who was occupied at court this morning. Evelyn was at Karen's home; she and her daughter were seated in the wing chairs in the living room. The chairs had been a Christmas present to Karen and Jack one year. That Karen could sit in this room, let alone stay in the house after what had happened in this very room, testified to her strength. Evelyn was pleased that the new-carpet smell was finally gone.

“But now that Jack is going back to 51 he'll never leave the police!” Karen's voice was strained, almost a whine.

Evelyn had an urge to slap the annoying sound from her daughter's mouth. She kept her hands clasped delicately on cup and saucer. “Nonsense,” Evelyn scoffed. “Jack, in many ways, is still rather immature.” She held up a forestalling hand. “I'm not belittling him by saying that, it's just that this desire, this need of his to work in such a disreputable area, is a childish way of proving himself.”

“Proving himself? To whom?”

Evelyn smiled. The whine was gone. “To himself, to you,” she suggested. “To anyone whom he feels may be looking down on him for leaving in the first place.”

“That's insane. Jack nearly died because he was in that division. Leaving was the responsible action, the adult thing to do.
Staying
would have been childish.”

Evelyn leaned forward to lay a comforting hand on Karen's knee. “
We
know that, dear, but
Jack
doesn't. It's a man thing. What do they call it? Machismo?”

Karen laughed without much humour. “That fits. Did I tell you Jack is getting a tattoo?” She nodded to her mother's raised eyebrow. “Tomorrow, before he goes back to work on Friday. He's had someone working on the design for weeks. He says it's a tribute to Simon.”

“How utterly . . . manly of him.” Evelyn sipped her tea. “And you're quite right. It does fit with the whole masculine psyche that I'm sure is much more prevalent with the downtown police officers. I'm sure Jack believes that other police officers see his leaving the division as a form of cowardice. That's why he used the first excuse he could to say that it's dangerous everywhere. So he could go back.”

“That's not exactly what he said.”

Evelyn shooed the words away with a flutter of her fingers. “What you have to convince him of — what we both have been trying to get him to see — is that staying down there and, ultimately, remaining a police officer is utterly selfish of him.”

“But if he won't leave for me . . .”

Another dismissive flutter. “He believes you'll stand by him no matter what he does, but I'm sure he'll come to the right conclusion when you tell him.”

“Does Dad know?” Karen asked hesitantly.

“Heavens, no!” Evelyn laughed. “And he mustn't find out.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Since Jack's outburst at the book party, your father is convinced Jack is dangerous and that by staying with him you're endangering your life.”

“That's ridiculous! Jack would never hurt me.”

“I know, dear, I know. But your father doesn't. To be quite frank, he intends to see the two of you divorced.”

“That will never happen.” Karen crossed her arms and scowled as if her father were in the room with them.

This was better. Evelyn hated it when Karen whined or acted less than she was. Stubbornness, although trying at times, was preferable to whining or self-pity. Her blonde hair and sensual figure she got from her mother, but Evelyn knew that stubborn set to the blue eyes and jaw were all George Hawthorn.

“I'm sure it never will, dear. But until you're positive you're pregnant, Jack and your father are not to know. I would wait until you're well into the first trimester. And once you are, both of them will come to their senses. Jack will surrender his boyhood daydreams for something more suitable for an expectant father and your father will be so enraptured with the notion of being a grandfather he'll forget all about a divorce.”

“But will he and Jack ever get along?”

Evelyn sipped her tea, then smiled craftily. “Would you like to know a secret about your father, dear?”

“A secret?”

“Jack and your father aren't all that different.” Evelyn set her cup down. “Your father will never admit this, not even to himself, but he was once very much like Jack.”

“Like Jack?” Karen asked in disbelief. “How?”

“When we met, all those years ago,” Evelyn reminisced wistfully, “your father wanted to save the world. He was so handsome back then, so full of life and determination. He even considered joining the police force,” she admitted with a devilish smile.

“No!” Karen was shocked. Her father, a cop?

“He did,” her mother confirmed. “He often talked about ‘working in the trenches' and ‘making a difference one life at a time.' I think all men, at one point in life, yearn for excitement and action. I seriously believe that's why sports are so popular.”

“But what happened to Daddy?” Karen was still trying to picture her father with a gun and a badge.

Evelyn sighed. “I suppose you could say he grew up,” she said, a touch of regret tingeing her words. “He realized you could never save people unless they wanted to be saved, could never achieve any lasting results down in the trenches.”

“So he decided to teach?”

Evelyn nodded, then sipped her tea. “What better way to change the world than by educating those going out into it?”

“Daddy a policeman,” Karen whispered. She looked amazed and thoughtful. “Is Daddy jealous of Jack?”

Evelyn shrugged delicately. “Perhaps, but he'd never admit it or even entertain the possibility. Like I said, he grew up and one day so will Jack.”

“I hope so.” Karen sighed. “I just feel a little guilty going behind his back like this. We'd decided to wait to have children until we at least paid off the Honda and were able to put some money away.”

“But Jack wants children, right? And who's to say he ever has to learn the pregnancy was anything but a wonderful accident?” Evelyn patted Karen's knee again. “It will all work out for the best, you'll see. More tea?”

0317 hours

Jack bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, his heart hammering in his chest. He thought he had screamed himself awake, but Karen was still asleep beside him, undisturbed. Her blonde hair, tousled on the pillow, glowed softly in the scant illumination coming through the shutters from the street lights. He drew his knees up, resting his forearms on them as he waited for his heart to quiet and the remnants of the nightmare to fade into darkness.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, wiping sweat from his face, wincing as his fingers grazed the still tender scar. Maybe having the stitches removed yesterday had triggered the horrible dream. Jack had thought he was finally done with the nightmares, with seeing Sy's blood night after night. Blood he could never stop from running between his fingers, stealing his friend's life away.

“That's enough, for fuck's sake,” he quietly scolded himself. “Just fucking knock it off.”

3:17. In the waning aftermath of the nightmare, the clock's red numbers looked like blood. Morning and his first day back at 51 were still a couple of hours away.

Knowing sleep was beyond him, Jack slipped quietly from the bed. The sweat on his chest and back cooled as he padded to the bathroom, then shut the door gently before turning on the light. He leaned on the counter, staring into the mirror. A troubled Jack stared back at him. He checked the scar running through his right eyebrow. It tugged down the corner of the eye, giving him a permanent squinty look. Manny had been right; it was one hell of a scar.

Jack was developing quite the collection. On his right shoulder, in the meat of the trapezius muscle, was a tiny puckered scar. He knew if he checked the back of his shoulder in the mirror, he would see the much larger scar left by the bullet's exit.

Lucky. Twice. If the bullet had been lower or more to the left, it could have killed him. And he knew he was damned lucky not to have lost his eye.

“Yeah, lucky me.”

Jack turned on the tap, then leaned down to rinse his face. The cold water felt good on his skin. Refreshing. He straightened up without towelling off, head back, eyes shut. Just enjoying the feel of the water as it dribbled onto his chest. When the drops reached the top of his pyjama bottoms, he reached blindly for a towel. He dried his stomach and chest, then patted his face.

Better. Much better.

Jack opened his eyes and Sy was staring at him from the mirror, blood spurting from his opened throat, splashing against the glass surface. Jack screamed. Or tried to. The scream that wanted to rip from his lips drowned in his throat, in the blood spewing from
his
slashed throat, splattering the mirror in perfect harmony with Sy's blood.

Jack staggered back, slamming into the bathroom door and clutching at his throat, but the blood wouldn't stop. He was going to bleed to death forever.

“No,” he gurgled. “No, no —”

Jack bolted upright in bed. Again. Again he gasped for air as his heart hammered.

“Jack?” Karen reached for him and at her touch he screamed once more. “Jack! Jack, it's okay. It was just a dream. Just a dream.”

Slowly, gently, Karen laid her fingers on his arm, the muscles trembling beneath her fingertips. When he didn't pull away, she folded him into her arms and rocked him as she would a child. She smoothed his hair, her fingers tracing the fresh scar.

“It's okay, Jack. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay.”

In the darkness, she rocked him. In the darkness, they held each other.

“I told you you'd have a kick-ass scar.”

“Nice to see you, too, Manny.”

“Dude, it's good to have you back.” Manny pumped Jack's hand, then pulled Jack in tight, pinning their clasped hands between their chests as he thumped Jack one-handed on the back. “Damn good to have you back. This is where you belong, man.”

“It feels like coming home.” Jack freed himself from Manny's enthusiastic embrace and headed to his locker. The change room in 51's basement was, like every other room and office in the old building, too small for its purpose. A long but not long enough rectangle, its walls and centre were lined with ancient lockers, the metal doors proudly bearing dents, gouges and, in the odd spot, bullet holes.

Heavy-metal music, cranked to a distorted volume, pounded from the attached weight room. The night shift coppers, getting dressed to go home, bragged and boasted about the night's arrests and shit storms. The day shift coppers, donning the black uniform of Toronto's finest, bitched about the long day ahead of them, the first of seven.

Jack dumped his gym bag onto one of the wood benches that ran the length of the room between the rows of lockers. Some of the benches had been supplied by the station, others had been built in some coppers' garages. All of them were in the same condition as the lockers and splinters were a continual danger.

Jack thought back to the huge change room at 53. The pristine lockers, the ample room, the smooth benches, the peaceful atmosphere. Coppers chatting about family and kids, the tickets they'd given out. So pleasant, so civilized.

God, he was happy to be back.

“This your doing, Manny?” Jack pointed at his locker, only half a dozen down from Manny's.

“We're partners, man. Gotta stay close.”

“Next he'll want to shower with you.”

“Hey, Paul, good to see you.”

Paul standing up was more of a giant than Paul sitting in a scout car. At six-five, he was almost the tallest cop in the station — Marcus Rull topped out at six-eight but was so skinny he looked like a mutant heron when he walked — and easily one of the biggest. His dark skin, midnight black, as he called it, was stretched tight over massive muscles, yet he moved like a man half his size. Paul was known to break up fights simply by getting out of the police car.

“Nice addition, Jack.” Paul tapped his right eyebrow. “Gives you a piratey look.”

“A souvenir from 53.” Jack touched the still tender scar. “And a permanent reminder to keep my eyes open.”

Jack hung up his leather jacket and was reaching for a uniform shirt when Manny stepped close and pointed at Jack's left shoulder. “What's that?”

“Had it done yesterday.” Jack lifted his T-shirt sleeve to reveal the tattoo.

Paul joined Manny, then whistled appreciatively.

Less than twenty-four hours old, the lines were sharp and somewhat raised, giving the tattoo a three-dimensional look. The ink was a deep, lustrous black. In a week or so, the tattoo would heal and settle into the skin, but until then the harsh rawness gave it that much more life and vitality.

“That is one pissed-off-looking angel.”

Jack grinned. Paul had nailed the essence of the tattoo. Capping his left shoulder, the angel glared out from beneath a furrowed brow, powerful wings arced aggressively over his naked and heavily muscled torso. The angel's hands clasped the hilt of a mighty sword held point down and the blade faded into a banner unfurled beneath the heavenly warrior. Writ upon the banner in cursive script was
Simon, Never Forgotten
.

“That's nice, man. Really nice.”

“Thanks. Sy said there was a line in the Bible about how, in order to fight evil, sometimes even angels have to do evil.”

A respectful hush fell as each man remembered a fallen brother.

But time stood still for no one, not even 51 coppers.

“Better hustle, man,” Manny warned, “or the new staff'll do you for being late to parade.”

“The new staff? What happened to Rourke?”

“Quit, man. Went to work for a bank. Fraud investigations.” Manny sighed, sounding utterly disheartened.

Jack was shrugging into his shirt. “C'mon, Manny. Rourke was a good staff, but he wasn't that good.”

“It's not how good Rourke was, it's how bad the new one is,” Paul informed Jack and there was muttered agreement from the cops within earshot.

“Staff
Sergeant
Greene,” Paul said stiffly. “Never just staff.”

“Oh, no. Never just staff,” Manny grumbled under his breath.

Jack looked questioningly at Paul.

Paul explained. “He's old school, Jack. I mean
old
school.”

“He and Moses went to the same kindergarten,” another copper declared as he headed for the washroom.

“Hey, Jarjad,” Jack said. “How old school?” he asked Paul.

“How about stand-up parades? Old enough for you?”

“You're kidding.” Jack was amazed. “I haven't done a stand-up parade since the college.”

“Neither had we until a few weeks ago. And not just standing up when he enters the room, oh no.” Paul wagged his finger disapprovingly, then gruffed up his voice in imitation. “‘The platoon shall be in formation and at attention when I enter the room. Every officer will be thoroughly inspected.'”

“Wonderful.” A thought occurred to Jack. “What about permanent partners?”

“As long as both of you maintain your workload. If either of you drops below what he considers acceptable, you're split up.” Paul grinned humourlessly. “Can you say ‘quota'?”

“Workload also affects time off.” Manny slammed his locker closed. “Those with higher numbers get first dibs on T.O. If Greene thinks you don't deserve the T.O., you don't get it.”

“Hang on, he can't do that,” Jack complained. “If you have the hours in the book and there's enough bodies on the road, then you should get the time off.”

Paul pointed a finger at him. “You know that. We know that. Try explaining that to him.”

“Wonderful,” Jack repeated as he settled his gun belt around his waist. “What else?”

“Hm, let's see.” Paul ticked off the points. “Stand-up parades, no T.O., if you call in sick you're weak and should be ashamed of yourself, if you put anything ahead of the job, like family, friends, your health, you aren't a real cop. Anything else, Manny?”

“Don't forget beards.”

“Right,” Paul said, nodding. “Facial hair, other than moustaches, is severely frowned upon, but since we're allowed to have beards now he can't do much about it. Legally, that is.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you have a better chance of getting T.O. if you're cleanshaven.” Manny looked as unhappy about it as he sounded.

Jack was beginning to understand Manny's impassioned greeting. “He must hate you, then,” he said to Manny.

“He does,” Manny confirmed, stroking the pencil-thin line of hair along his jaw line that made his goatee a beard. Technically, at least. “He told me to shave it off and I said I wouldn't.”

Jack groaned. He could just imagine how unpolitically correct Manny had been as he refused. Manny was a great guy, but he didn't think before he spoke. Even when he was speaking to someone who could royally fuck him over.

“He said the only reason he wasn't documenting me for it is that he's seen guys on other shifts with similar beards. He's going to bring it up at the next management meeting and push for all the staff sergeants to document anyone who doesn't have a full beard.”

Jack was perplexed. “And his reasoning for all this?”

“I told you, man. He's old school.” Paul, suited up, closed his locker. “If they did it that way when he was on the road, then that's how we'll do it.”

“How long does he have on the job, anyway?”

“Over forty,” Manny said. He was leaning against a locker, arms crossed, shoulders slumped. Jack had never seen Manny, the guy he once described as the world's biggest puppy, so apathetic about the job. “He was in headquarters somewhere. We think he was transferred here as a hint to retire.”

“What about Johanson and Rose? I can't see this sitting well with them.” The platoon's two sergeants came from the same school of policing that many of the division's senior guys belonged to. To them, old school meant you got the job done, didn't take shit from anyone and at the end of the shift everyone went home safe and healthy.

“They don't like it either,” Paul confirmed, “but in the end they're the sergeants and Greene's the boss. And Johanson has less than a year till he pulls the plug. Rose is in line for a spot in the CIB. She doesn't want to fuck that up.”

“One day when Greene was coming in late —”

“Coming in late?” Jack interrupted Manny. “So he's not perfect?”

“I wish,” Manny sighed. “He was coming from a funeral or something. He saw two of our guys checking out some dealers at Oak and River and when he got to the station he had Rose do them up for not wearing their hats.”

“Oh, fuck, he's not one of those idiots, is he?”

“He is,” Paul confirmed. “The only reason for not wearing your hat is if it got knocked off in a fight. And as soon as the fight's over, you'd better be putting it back on. He even wanted us to wear them in the parking lot to and from the scout cars and while parading prisoners.”

“And you didn't think to mention any of this to me when I said I wanted to come back?” Jack accused Manny.

Manny shrugged. “Sorry, dude. We need you.”

“What about the senior guys on the shift?” Jack felt as if he was grasping at straws.

It was worse than straws. “There are no senior guys, Jack.” Manny looked morose. “Sy's gone and we lost Trozzo, Woolcott and Emberley while you were in 53. Trozzo went upstairs to the Youth Bureau and Woolcott and Emberley both transferred.”

“How much time do you have on, Jack?” Paul asked.

“July will be seven years.” He had a very sudden, very unpleasant feeling in his gut.

Paul stood up and clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Congratula-tions, man. You're senior man on the road.”

“Welcome fucking home,” Jack muttered.

“Officers Warren and Armsman? 5106, 1100 for lunch. Good to have you back on the platoon, Jack.” Sergeant Johanson looked up from his parade sheet and gave Jack a brief smile. For the grey-haired, stoic supervisor, it was a gushing display of emotion.