Third Rail (16 page)

Before he gets to the battered door, a barefoot girl in jeans and a T-shirt walks outside.

“Uh . . . like, what're you doing here?” She squints at Harkness through oversized black-rimmed glasses.

Harkness scrambles for the right lie. Noise complaint. Lost dog. Escapee from the Concord prison.

But she talks first. “Right,
the rent,
” she says, drawing air quotes with her fingers. “Usually one of the guys brings it out to the car. Hang on.” She pads back into the house, then emerges and hands him a white drawstring bag with the Apple logo.

“Usually it's the first Thursday of the month,” she says.

“Well, I'm early, then.”

“How come you're not the sweaty guy with the Sox jacket?”

Harkness feels a gear click into place. “You mean Sergeant Dabilis. See him here a lot?”

She nods. “Him or the old cop, the Irish one.”

“I think you mean Scottish.”

“Maybe. Polite, tall, with an accent. Usually he just waits in the car.”

Another gear clicks.

She pivots and walks back into the house without another word. The rent is delivered, her work done.

Harkness walks back to the squad car and pulls open the drawstring to find dozens of neat stacks of hundreds. He shoves the bag under the seat and drives away.

H
ARKNESS JUMPS UP
the hospital steps
two at a time to the ICU. Candace is stomping around the waiting room in her engineer boots, ripped jeans, and a Ramones T-shirt. Tears stream down her face.

“You okay?”

“No,” Candace says.

The TV blares from the ceiling and the chairs are strewn with sweat-weathered copies of
People
. Nothing good can happen in a bright waiting room at four in the morning. That Candace called him here in the middle of the night, sobbing and hysterical, tells Harkness something important—she doesn't turn to Dex when she's in trouble.

“I need you to get them to let me know what's going on,” she says, voice quavering. “That Indian stoner won't tell me.”

“I'll talk to him.”

“Do more than talk to him.”

“You can't beat up nurses.”

“I can,” Candace says.

“Don't.”

When Andy Singh walks in, Candace grabs the front of his blue scrubs. “What's going on with my dad?”

“Ouch. Hey!”

“Tell me!”

“Doctor's coming. Just wait a few minutes.”

Candace lets go and paces around the room. She jumps up and turns off the television with a slap.

Harkness walks over and stares into the night nurse's bloodshot eyes. “Andy, what's the news?”

“Eddy, just wait for the doctor,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because that's the protocol. I can get fired if I do anything else.”

“You smell like weed.”

“Shut up, please, Eddy.”

Candace spins around. “If you don't tell us what the fuck's going on right now, I'm going to tell the doctors you put your hands all over these.” Candace pulls down the neck of her black T-shirt to show her full breasts.

Harkness looks away, after a moment.

“TMI.” Andy Singh waves his hand.

“Start talking,” Harkness says. “Just tell my friend what's going on. She needs to know, right now.”

“Okay, okay.” Andy Singh shakes his head, then stops and turns slowly to Candace. “Your father's dead,” he says softly, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “I'm really, really sorry. He died about half an hour ago. Went into cardiac arrest and we just couldn't get him going again. Whole unit was working on him. But the accident did too much internal damage.”

Andy Singh sits on a plastic chair, lowers his head, and starts to cry. “I hate this fucking job.”

Candace tilts her face up to the white tiles of the suspended ceiling, eyes pressed closed. She looks like she's praying for a moment, then slumps to the floor. Harkness catches her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, shaking with sobs. Her wailing brings the other nurses running.

***

Watt's pacing around on the slab when Harkness pulls in from emptying meters. He parks and walks over, carrying a bag from the Nagog Bakery.

“Want a scone? Like biting into a cinnamon-flavored rock.”

“Sounds great, but no thanks,” Watt says.

“What's wrong?”

“You see the final report?”

“Which one?”

“On that girl who died,” Watt says. “Kelly Pierce?”

“No.”

“They said it was an accident. That she got disoriented and ran into the woods.

“Seems pretty unlikely, doesn't it?”

“I saw her parents crying their eyes out on the news,” Watt says. “I got a four-year-old daughter, Eddy. Something crazy like this ever happened to her, I'd find out the truth. Accident? I don't think so.”

“You want to know what really happened?”

“Sure. How do you know?”

“Asked around, the way cops are supposed to.”

Harkness leads Watt to the edge of the slab, where no one can see them from the station. “Kelly and her friends broke into the locker room and stole some track uniforms. Then they went out to the fields, tied blindfolds on, and took turns running into the woods.”

“Who came up with that?”

“It was from some metal band video they saw on YouTube. Most of the kids ended up missing the trees. A couple of guys scraped themselves up. But Kelly ran full tilt and took a direct hit.”

“That's crazy. What makes a bunch of smart kids do something that stupid?”

Harkness shrugs. “Easiest reason in the world. They were on drugs.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Third Rail. New stuff that really messes with your mind and won't let go.” Every day, Third Rail dares Harkness to take it again.

“The final report doesn't even mention that vial we found in the woods. I checked.”

Harkness puts his hand on Watt's shoulder. “Exactly. There's a lot going on behind the scenes, Watt. Not exactly the Nagog Police Department's finest moment.”

“Heard the captain yelling at Dabilis in his office this morning, Eddy.”

“Really?”

“Maybe he'll get fired.”

“Don't get your hopes up. Guys like Dabilis rise to the top.”

“Like turds,” Watt says.

“Like that.”

***

From where he stood at the front of the stage, Harkness could see the stranger across the crowded VFW hall, moving against the tide of sweaty bodies. It was the last set of the Saturday afternoon all-ages show in Watertown, a triple bill with Art Carnage, Lawless Order, and Temper Fi. Outside it was a gentle spring day with early flowers in bloom and families riding bikes along the banks of the upper Charles River. Inside the VFW hall about a hundred skinheads in leather shoved and danced, yelled at the band, and had as much fun as teenagers could without drugs or drinks. But the outsider had other plans.

Harkness and Skørge, the other unofficial bouncer, watched the big guy in a spiked leather vest and camouflage pants slamming around in the crowd. He seemed to be zeroing in on the girls and young kids in the crowd, slamming into them extra hard and grabbing at them. Maybe he was a kid with attitude up from New York with one of the bands or some North Cambridge joker, the kind who talked like his mouth was crammed with soft serve. But he wasn't one of their tribe.

“Fucka needs a thumpa,” mumbled George Perkins, a quiet electrician in a battered leather jacket who lived in a Worcester apartment lined with sagging record crates. During the shows, he transformed into Skørge.

“I'll get this one,” Harkness said, as if he'd just volunteered to take out the trash. As he slipped through the crowd, everyone stepped aside to let Straight Ed do his work. He rented the hall, made sure the bands got paid, sent out the e-mails, put up the posters, and kept the outsiders under control.

The welterweight punk's shaved head was marked with cuts and scars, and his eggy eyes shone from afternoon drinking. He thrashed around to the blistering music, the room so packed that no one could get out of the way. Harkness tapped his shoulder, and when the stranger turned, he clamped his right hand over his eyes. In that moment of confusion, Harkness stepped his right leg behind the stranger and shoved him backwards. Harkness slammed the back of the stranger's head twice—just hard enough to stun—against the linoleum floor. The thumper was no more painful than a hard hit during a football scrimmage. But it sent a message—
Get lost.

Harkness had a repertoire of proven moves, the kind that might look brutal but that stopped fights cold and reduced the danger and damage. The punishment always had to match the crime, no more, no less. He pulled the subdued stranger through the crowd, his unlaced boots dragging across the dusty floor.

Harkness shoved the stranger through the double doors at the front of the hall, and he rolled down the low, grassy hill toward Mt. Auburn Street. He spun around for a minute on the sidewalk, then stood up, shouted,
“Fuck you
,
”
and wandered toward the bus stop. Problem solved.

Someone always wanted to take the monthly all-ages show and claim it as his own. All it took was one sneering outsider to taint an afternoon. Harkness walked back inside toward the stage and nodded at Skørge. The show could keep going. Order was restored.

Years later, when he first started out as a cop in Boston, Harkness realized that he wasn't enforcing laws. He was stopping the outsiders who turned up on the streets with bad plans and enough muscle and charisma to make them happen.

Now Harkness is still hunting down outsiders, the ones who sold the drugs that killed Kelly Pierce, Robert Hammond, whoever might be next—and the cops who let it happen.

But first, he has to find his gun.

O
UT OF UNIFORM
,
HARKNESS
can walk unnoticed around the waiting area of the storefront campaign headquarters on Dorchester Avenue. He leafs through the brochures about creating a new Boston. Posters of John Fitzgerald, smiling mayoral candidate, line every wall. Volunteers hover over their laptops at glass-topped desks.

“Can we help you?” The front desk girl looks young and earnest, with blond hair and a tentative smile.

“Sure.” Harkness takes out his cell phone, scrolls to Pauley Fitzgerald's number, and presses
REDIAL
. Music blares from one of the glassed-in offices along the side. A red-haired man in a white shirt and dark tie emerges from one of the offices. He looks familiar—green eyes set wide, tight skin, neck soft and doughy. Harkness remembers seeing him on television.

Harkness points. “I'm here to see him.”

The name tag taped to the office door says
, MARK SARRIS, CAMPAIGN DIRECTOR.
Harkness backs Sarris into his office with distracting banter. “. . . Just had a couple of quick questions about the campaign, thought I'd stop in . . .”

The door clicks closed behind him.

“What the hell do you want?”

Harkness twists the white plastic rod that closes the blinds. The rest of headquarters fades and disappears.

Sarris gives a fake smile. “My lucky day,” he says. “I finally get to meet the legendary Harvard Cop.”

“And I get to meet Mark Sarris, talking head. And the guy who's pretending to be Pauley Fitzgerald.”

Sarris sits down at his desk. “Very clever. You tracked down a cell phone. You must be a really smart cop.”

“How'd you get that phone?”

“Guy gave it to me.” Sarris turns toward his computer. “Is this going to take long?” he says. “I'm running a campaign here.”

Harkness pulls Sarris out of his chair and shoves him down on the gray carpet.

“Shit!” Sarris's eyes open wide.

Harkness steps in the center of his chest and pulls back on his tie, a noose waiting to happen.

Sarris wheezes like a dog choking on a chicken wing and Harkness lets up a little. “Give it to me.”

Sarris reaches in his pocket and pulls out a bright red cell phone.

Harkness takes it. “Now tell me where you got it.”

Sarris says nothing for a moment, just rises up on all fours and rubs his throat with his fingertips. “You Boston assholes. You're fucking insane. This shit never happens in LA.”

“We're not in LA. And we're not on TV.” Harkness grabs Sarris by the shoulders and throws him back in his chair. His face is splotched and his tie stretched New Wave narrow.

“Where'd you get the phone?”

“Your friend in Narco-Intel. Patrick.”

“No way.”

“Maybe you need better friends.”

There's a knock on the door and it inches open.

“Everything okay?” A tall man in a suit peers in, his right eye green circled and swollen shut.

“Fine, Johnny,” Sarris says. “This guy's about to leave.”

The suit gives Harkness a confused scan with his good eye.

“Ever find those Frye boots?” Harkness says.

“Ever find your gun?”

“I'm about to.”

Harkness pulls the door closed and locks it.

Sarris points at Harkness. “What do you want?”

“My gun.”

Sarris shakes his head. “I don't have your gun. Get out of here before I call the cops.”

“That's rich,” Harkness says.

“You're trespassing,” Sarris says. “And you're not exactly popular around here. You killed the councilman's favorite nephew. And you fucked up my deputy communication manager.”

“Cyclops in a suit?”

“Johnny almost lost that eye thanks to you. He's an actor back in LA.”

“You sent actors to beat us up?”

“Figured looking tough was enough.”

“Not around here,” Harkness says. “The gun, Sarris. Now.”

“I don't have your gun.”