Vigilante (2 page)

N
olan stirred to the sound of frantic crying.

Was he dead, and his friends and loved ones were weeping over his body? No, of course not, that couldn’t be it.

He didn’t have any friends or loved ones. Hadn’t for years.

His head pounded, the muscles beneath his skin flared and clenched. He could feel the bandages wrapped around most of his head, although the top of his scalp down to his eyes still seemed to be free. He felt the sting of an IV in his arm, slowly dripping needed medication into his veins, dulling the pain by a few degrees.

If things had gone as they’d expected, it had probably been two or three days since Branford had shot him. Days he’d been kept completely unconscious.

Finally he opened his eyes and found himself in an apartment he didn’t recognize.
Branford’s place
, his mind told him. He didn’t know this apartment, but it was the only place he could have been. It was dark outside, probably the middle of the night from what he could see through the window beside the bed.

The window was cracked, bringing sounds Nolan recognized from the ruined streets of New York City. Horns blaring under the fists of angry drivers. Police sirens screaming, the cars running this way and that through the streets and alleys. Raucous, high-pitched laughter from what sounded like a group of hookers, trolling the sidewalk below in a herd. Screams of the innocent. In the distance, he could even hear gunfire.

The sounds, these reviled disturbances of that which was good, made his pulse quicken. His fists clenched at his sides, involuntarily.

There was so much wrong on the other side of that window. So much pain and cruelty and wickedness. And so many others, simply standing by, watching, doing nothing. Coasting along in apathy.

He massaged his temples, pushing those thoughts aside, unable to bear following their trail any further. Very soon now, things were going to change. It would require an act of wonder, a marvel, to capture the attention of this city and change its beating heart. And a marvel was exactly what he was going to give them.

The sound of horrible moaning and weeping brought him back to the present, and Nolan sat up, his spine straight, his senses alert and focused as he listened. It was the same sound that had first roused him, and it wasn’t coming from the streets below. He glanced around, searching for the source, but he was alone. So where was the wailing coming from? It was getting louder and more desperate by the minute.

“No! Barry, please don’t!” someone screamed. A woman. It was a loud shout from somewhere nearby, but it was muffled, probably a few walls filtering the sound.

Adrenaline kicked in, and Nolan threw back the bed sheets and ripped the IV needle from his arm.

The woman let out another sob and this time he zeroed in on the sound. Judging by the distance, it was either next door or across the hall. Assuming there
was
a hall. He had no idea what kind of apartment building Branford lived in.

Nolan rose from the bed and threw on a T-shirt and pair of jeans that had been left for him, anything to avoid running out in nothing but boxers and blood-soaked facial bandages, looking like a crazed mummy. But then he caught a glimpse of himself in the window and realized the gauze would work to his advantage, giving him an element of surprise—and revulsion—from whoever spotted him.

Nolan’s barefoot steps were fast but light as he wound out of the bedroom he’d been resting in, through a small living room and to the apartment’s front door. Branford didn’t seem to be home. He didn’t see any weapons lying around—Branford kept a predictably spartan home—so he’d have to go without. He opened the front door and stepped out into the drab brown hall.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry
I’m-sorry-no-don’t
!” screamed the woman.

Nolan had it. It was the apartment immediately to his right. Branford’s next-door neighbor.

He bounded, and in a quick, coiled motion, kicked with one bare foot. The door exploded off its hinges.

Instantly, Nolan took in the scene before him. It was the living room of a black couple who looked to be in their late fifties. The woman was facing Nolan from across the room with her hands in the air, her eyes a mess and cheeks soaked, and her form covered only in a ripped midnight-blue nightgown. There were dark bruises on her bare arms and one eye looked swollen. Her teeth were outlined in thin trails of blood.

Across from the woman, directly between her and Nolan, stood a man—her husband, he assumed. He wore a white dress shirt that spilled out over a light-brown pair of slacks that were held up with black suspenders. He was covered in sweat that soaked through his clothes, and he was aiming a shotgun at the woman. Nolan couldn’t see the guy’s face, but the bitter buttery aroma of whiskey that all but rolled off of him was sharp. The guy was in some kind of alcohol-fueled rage, based on his tightly wound but wobbly posture.

But he didn’t seem to be very skilled with the shotgun, holding it awkwardly up high near his head, as if he were trying to stare down a scope that he didn’t realize wasn’t there.

What had the woman done to set her husband off this day? From what Nolan knew of human behavior, it had probably been something trivial and harmless.

Observing all of this in a fraction of a second, Nolan acted before either the man or his wife realized what was happening.

He sprang forward and slammed the flat of his hand against the left side of the shotgun’s butt. The man instantly lost his clumsy hold on the weapon, which flew back into and across his face, hard, before he dropped it entirely.

Nolan used this moment of confusion to drop to the ground and sweep his leg, knocking the man’s feet out from under him and sending him down onto his rear. Standing tall again, Nolan loomed over the other man, and having already grabbed the shotgun, leveled the weapon at the furious man on the ground, who was writhing, wiping blood from his forehead, and uttering obscenities.

Nolan considered his options. He couldn’t have been the only person in this building to have heard the argument between these two, and the sound he made kicking the door in was even louder. For all he knew, someone may have already dialed 9-1-1.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Acting with your heart instead of your head!

He hadn’t thought, hadn’t taken the time to get his bearings. He’d merely acted. And now everything he’d worked for, for years, could be jeopardized. At least his identity was well concealed thanks to the bandages.

Okay, okay. Need to control the situation, but the woman has to be the priority. She’s hurt and still in danger. . . .

“You should call the police,” Nolan whispered to her, never moving his eyes or the gun away from her husband.

“No, I can’t, no,” she replied, her voice shaking. “He’s a cop. Fourteenth precinct.”

Nolan felt his shoulders droop slightly.
Perfect.

He snapped the pump under the shotgun and stared furiously into the abusive husband’s face, tempted for a moment to forgo the law and finish this neat and clean, now.

“I can get you to someplace safe,” Nolan said. “But what about him?”

“Just . . . don’t kill him,” whimpered the woman, unsteady hands up around her face. “Please don’t.”

Nolan thought fast. Calling the police was indeed out of the question, for the woman’s sake and his own. He’d just attacked an officer of the law, a wife-beating scumbag, sure, but the police department was notoriously defensive of their own. Besides that, Nolan was officially a dead man, and couldn’t afford to have any connection to this mess.

But this man was no better than a rabid dog. And solutions for dealing with rabid dogs numbered very, very few.

He saw a wood rack right by the broken front door with a trench coat hanging from it. He grabbed the coat with one hand—his other still training the gun on the man on the floor—and tossed it to the woman. She caught it and robotically put her arms into it.

Nolan looked down and felt the bile rising in his throat at this nauseating, depraved excuse for a man. There should be no such thing as abuse. No abusive husbands, no wives living in fear for months or years without end. It was wrong and he could right it.

With a snarling, upturned nostril, he flipped the shotgun around and knocked the man out with the butt of it. The action brought on a brief gasp from the man’s wife, but she quickly fell silent, making no further protests.

Nolan extended his hand without looking her way. Wordlessly, blank-faced, she took it and allowed him to lead her out of her world of darkness.

Into the light.

A
fter hurriedly grabbing his things from next door—most importantly his car keys—Nolan threw on some socks and shoes while the woman waited at the apartment’s front door, her head bowed so far over he could see nothing but the top of her skull. Every now and then, he heard her muffled weeping. He threw on a hooded sweatshirt and wrapped a spare jacket around the shotgun to keep it out of view.

Less than two minutes later, he was leading the woman down the two flights of stairs to ground level with the hood of his jacket up around his face to conceal his bandages from the outside world. Out they walked onto the grimy street that reflected the city lights because of the steam pouring out of manholes.

This was the New York City neighborhood called Clinton. Or as it was more colorfully known thanks to its reputation as a longtime haven for organized crime, Hell’s Kitchen.

Thousands of good, decent people lived in Clinton. But just as many of the wicked prowled here too, pushing drugs, recruiting gang members, pimping hookers, and worse. Much worse. An unending turf war was being waged between the good and the bad, and though their numbers were lesser, the immoral were louder, more aggressive, better armed, and ruthless. Hardly a street corner in the neighborhood didn’t house some kind of corrupt, degenerate behavior.

“Disgusting . . .” he mumbled.

He noticed that the woman at his side was looking down now, with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, no—not you,” he whispered to her, grimacing and scolding himself internally. “I didn’t mean you. I was just . . . looking . . . at everything. . . .”

He shook his head, angry at himself. Words were not his thing.

Never turning loose his companion’s hand, he raised his car keys and pushed a button until he heard the familiar
bip-boop
sound of his gray sedan. The as-nondescript-as-possible vehicle waited just across the street, and he helped the woman into the passenger seat before covertly stowing the hidden shotgun from the jacket.

Nolan quickly took his place at the wheel and started the engine, yet still the woman said not a single word to him.

She probably figured he was taking her to some kind of battered women’s shelter, he decided, and was too ashamed of her situation to say anything just now. It was either that or the hospital, because she needed medical attention, but a shelter would ask fewer questions of her.

As they drove, his eyes scanned the sidewalks, alleys, and storefronts they passed. It was the middle of the night, but still there were hundreds of people out and about. They drove in silence for several minutes before Nolan noticed his new friend staring at his hands with eyes that had grown big. He followed her gaze.

“Right, yeah . . .” he said quietly, grasping for a way to explain why there were no fingernails on any of his ten fingers in a way that wouldn’t give away his identity. “Uh, they were removed. A long time ago, for a . . . medical condition.”

His heart sank; even he knew how ridiculous that sounded. The notion that he could have had his own fingernails removed on purpose made him seem crazy, but he couldn’t risk telling her the truth.

He glanced at his fingers and had a terrible thought.

I wasn’t wearing gloves!
If this woman’s husband—Barry, was it?—were to call his friends on the force, they would dust for prints, and . . .

And they’ll find that a dead man was at that apartment tonight. You stupid idiot!!

He may not have had nails anymore, but he still had fingerprints like everyone else.

It occurred to him then that the woman had stopped crying. He could see in the corner of his eye, just beyond the edge of his hoodie, that every few seconds she would steal a glance in his direction but then quickly pretend she hadn’t. Her face remained a puffy mess, but she had calmed significantly since getting in the car.

What must this woman think of him? A man whose head was covered in bloody bandages, who had no fingernails, who burst into her home uninvited and stole her away in the middle of the night. Maybe, during her years of abuse, she’d had dreams or fantasies of something exactly like this happening—a knight coming to her rescue, saving her from that hateful man she called a husband, and carting her off to somewhere she’d never have to live in fear again.

Or maybe she was wondering if she’d been kidnapped. At the very least, she had to be considering whom she could trust.

His ponderings came to a halt when she spoke, her voice registering just above a whisper.

“Thank you,” she said, and he almost didn’t catch it.

He glanced at her, his sharp green eyes taking her in. She was hugging her own torso, clutching the trench coat tightly around her body. Her eyes were still thick with tears, yet she stared at him without judgment or reservation. Only gratitude, and a measure of gentility.

He turned back to watch the road. “You’re welcome,” he answered, almost as quiet as her.

Now that she’d broken the ice, she was finding it easier to watch him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but ultimately decided it was beside the point. He had to drop her off somewhere. His mind ran down a list of possible destinations and settled on a home for battered women about twelve blocks away.

“Alice,” the woman said, and he glanced at her again. He hadn’t really expected her to say anything else. “Alice Regan.”

Alice. Nice name.

From her expression, she was hoping he would reciprocate. But that wasn’t possible.

She could never know. Not only for his safety, but hers as well.

Several moments passed in silence, and she must have concluded he wasn’t going to speak, so she began again. Nolan wanted to be irritated that Alice kept talking to him instead of letting him strategize in silence, but there was something about her voice and her uncanny calm that he found hard to dislike.

A light ahead turned red, and he stopped the car, waiting.

“I don’t know who you are, or why you . . . look like that,” she said, sizing up his bandages. “But I
do
know you’re a good person. And honey . . . that’s everything I need to know.”

He swiveled his head to look her way when he felt a cold hand on his own. She gave a weak squeeze, a very small gesture, like a mother who was proud of her son. She was smiling at him, though it was a pained smile, colored by wrinkles and blood and broken teeth. Her years of misery.

“Thank you, young man,” she said quietly.

Nolan abruptly felt self-conscious. He wished that the light would hurry and change so maybe she would stop staring at him.

A bloodcurdling yell to his left took care of that. Both of them turned.

A small boy, no more than thirteen years old, was bolting down a long alley to their left. Behind him ran three huge teenagers—which Nolan could only think of as thugs, as no other term suitably described them—chasing the boy. They were laughing and pointing and shouting taunts; in their arms, one carried a Louisville Slugger baseball bat, another held a knife, and the third held a glass bottle upside down, by its neck.

Nolan shifted into Park, turned the keys, and stopped the car.

I’m being so reckless tonight. . . .
He sighed.

But I won’t do nothing.

He was out of his seat in a flash, with only four words for Alice: “Stay in the car.”