Lethal Rage (22 page)

He fingered the gloves, rubbing the cheap, coarse fabric between his fingers. With the blaze scorching his skin, he held the gloves over the flames. He realized this was what he had intended to do when he had returned to his car for the gloves. It was where they belonged. Only fire could burn away this disease. He tossed the gloves into the heart of the inferno.

Somewhere at the back of the horde it began softly, mounting in strength as more voices picked it up, adding their fury to it, until it roared from scores of throats to batter at the heavens above.

“No more gloves! No more gloves! No more gloves!”

“No more gloves!”

Jack was struck again by the image of a pagan ceremony. Pure and heartfelt. Its emotional intensity unadulterated by civilized restraints.

War had been declared.

The fire was nothing but a heap of charred wooden bones and iridescent sparks flaring up on the heated air to blink out of their fragile existence. The embers still held more life and power than the distant sun that was just beginning to stir on the horizon.

The air had grown cold and damp as the night stretched toward day and the picnic table was all but straddling the remains of the bonfire so Jack could catch the last of the fleeting heat. He was sitting on its top, his feet on the seat. The wood was unyielding and sore to sit on for any length of time, but he had no desire to move, not even to rub his bare arms against the cold.

Jenny had passed out on the table about an hour earlier, too tired to drive home. She was wrapped in his jacket and using his lap for a pillow. He stared down at this woman he barely knew and wondered what the hell he was doing. He was married to an amazing woman but had, in a sense, just spent the night with another woman. If her head resting on his thigh as she slept was the extent of the physical interaction between them, then why did he feel guilty?

Jenny stirred, murmuring softly in her sleep, and Jack carefully brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Such incredible hair. He hadn't known until he viewed her from behind that those mesmerizing waves cascaded down to her waist. He allowed his fingers to linger, soaking up the feel of her skin like a thief making off with a priceless treasure.

There weren't many party survivors. Bodies, asleep or passed out, littered the beach like chunks of driftwood washed up by the morning tide. Jack was the last of his platoon; even Paul had succumbed to the late hour and alcohol, allowing Manny to bundle him shivering and damp — yes, the SS Townsend had sailed — into his car. That had been around four.

A car door slammed and one of Jenny's cohorts from the CRU strode onto the beach, remarkably wide awake. He had two take-out trays of Tim Hortons coffee balanced in one hand and a bulging Tim's bag in the other. He roamed the beach, squatting down whenever he found another casualty of the festivities. Jack was reminded of a medic searching a battlefield for survivors, administering aid in the form of caffeine and pastries.

The beach medic reached Jack and kept his voice down when he saw that Jenny was asleep. “I just grabbed a bunch of black coffees with sugar and milk on the side. That okay with you?”

“Okay? My God, man, you're a saint.” Jack recognized him as one of the younger officers in the foot patrol and figured his training officer had done a hell of a job. Getting coffee while working was one thing, bringing coffee to the beach was above and beyond.

The young officer blushed faintly at the praise and handed Jack a coffee. “Muffin? All I've got left —” he peered into the bag “— is carrot and raisin bran. What do you think your girlfriend would like?”

“She's not . . . picky. Why not leave one of each? How much do I owe you?”

The copper scrunched up his face as if Jack had spit in it. “My treat, Jacker, for everyone. Someone has to look after these bozos. Besides, I like Jenny and it's about time she found herself a good guy.” He set a second coffee next to the muffins and moved on, a morning angel come to earth to heal the afflicted.

“So, I'm your girlfriend, am I?”

“You heard that, did you?” Jack lifted his arm out of the way so she could sit up. “And if you were awake, how come you didn't correct him?”

“Because I'm not picky, remember?” She accepted the offered coffee. “Except when it comes to muffins. I'll take the carrot.” She took a healthy gulp of coffee. “Oh, that's good.” Another gulp. “And maybe I liked the sound of that — your girlfriend, I mean.”

Jack nearly dumped his coffee in the lap Jenny had so recently vacated, and she broke out in peals of laughter, startling some curious seagulls into panicked flight. “Oh, my God, Jack. You should see your face.” More guffaws, then she continued. “Relax, I'm just joking. You are a good guy, but I'm not a home wrecker.”

He composed himself while checking for coffee stains. “That's good. You had me scared for a second there. I mean, just because we slept together tonight . . .” He let that one linger.

“Slept together? I know I slept. Did you?”

“No, not really.”

“Then we didn't sleep together. I'm not a slut, thank you.” She tossed her hair indignantly, and even uncombed, with grains of sand and a few fluffs of ash, it was beautiful.

“Ah, I see.
We
didn't sleep together, but
you
slept with
me
,” he pointed out.

“Oh, fuck. I
am
a slut.” She laughed.

He slipped an arm around her for a comforting hug. “I still respect you.”

She stretched but not enough to dislodge his arm. “Where are the kids?”

“Over there.”

Beneath a wind-warped pine, a cuddled mass of black and brown fur snored peacefully. Her Rottweiler, Hammer, and Mugsy the pug had crept off to bed after swimming with the SS Townsend.

A thin, golden light was peeking at them through the trees. “Don't tell me that's the sun.”

“I won't, but it is.”

“I'd better get going. I have to be up for court in a few hours.” She stretched again, a full-blown, arms-in-the-air stretch this time.

Jack reluctantly relinquished his hold on her. “Glad I'm not you, then.”

She shrugged out of his jacket. “Thanks for the loan. Are you going to be okay?”

“No problem. I'll grab some more coffee with breakfast somewhere before I do the drive home.”

“No, not like that.” Her voice was serious. “I mean with your wife. Sounds like you left on bad terms last night and I can't imagine you not coming home would make it any better. Did you call her?”

He shook his head. “I have my phone with me, but I never did. Guess I was still a little too mad to call.”
And I guess she wasn't concerned enough to call. Let's call it even, shall we?

Jenny turned to face him. “I know we don't really know each other, but I've seen enough cops spend the night away from home and it usually means there's trouble. Is everything okay?”

Jack paused. Was everything good with him and Karen? If it was, would he have spent the night on the beach? “I guess it isn't,” he admitted.

She sipped her coffee, waiting for him to expand on his answer, and when he didn't, she nudged his leg with her knee. “And?”

“And? Hell, where to begin?” He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a frustrated breath of air.

“The beginning's always a good spot.”

He eyed her speculatively. “You sure you want to hear about this? Don't you have court?”

Jenny shrugged. “Court can wait. C'mon, spill it.”

Jack told her what Karen and her parents had done.

“She wants you to go back to 32?” Jenny asked.

“32? Hell, she wants me to quit. Her and her parents.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“Trust me, it isn't. They ganged up on me last night, saying I'm being selfish staying in 51, that I should quit and get a nice, safe job where Karen wouldn't have to worry about me all the time.”

“What do you want to do?” Jenny asked.

“Stay in 51,” he said instantly. “I couldn't go back to 32.”

“And if she gives you an ultimatum, 51 or her, what then?”

“There's no question. It's her.”

She studied him for a moment, then surprised him by stepping in and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “A lot of guys would have chosen the job. You're a good man, Jacker.”

“Please, just Jack.” He smiled.

She smiled back, and it was brighter than the dawn. “Jack it is, then.”

The rain was pelting down, a falling flood the car wipers could barely keep up with. Jack was nauseous from another burgeoning migraine and Manny had surrendered the wheel after Jack explained that driving was easier on his head and stomach than being a passenger.

“Why not just go home sick if it's getting that bad?”

Jack grimaced. “Let's just say home isn't a very pleasant place these days. Besides, I popped some meds and they should be kicking in soon.”

“Things still not good with Karen?”

“Not even close. The latest fight started Friday when she got home from work and ended this morning when she left for work. And I'm afraid that was just the first round.”

“That sucks, man.”

“That's an understatement. And it's the same fucking argument every day. She's worried the division will change me into some kind of asshole racist cop. She says it's already started, that I'm mad all the time.”

“Dude, your partner was murdered a few weeks ago. Of course you're mad. Anyone would be.”

“Try telling that to her.”

The leather glove fashion trend was virtually gone. Over the past week, the 51 cops had waged a war on anyone daring to support a cop killer. And it wasn't just 51. Officers from other divisional foot patrols plus the mounted unit and other Major Crime officers had swamped the division to reinforce the blue wall. Twenty-four hours a day, cops were smothering the streets, searching the halls and stairwells, smashing down the doors of crack houses. God help anyone found wearing black leather gloves.

The word had gone out: 51 wanted Charles, and the shit kickings, shakedowns and tune-ups would continue until he was found. The low-lifes were learning the price of aiding Anthony Charles. People were hauled off to the cells or commanded to carry the message that the division would remain in permanent lockdown until Charles was found. Preferably alive.

One veteran officer said he'd never seen the division so quiet for so long. “It's like the angel of death has passed through and laid waste all the criminals, first-born or not.” Except the angel of death would have had a gentler touch. But despite the pressure, Charles was still free and flaunting his fame as a cop killer. He had been spotted several times and chased twice, but he kept eluding capture, primarily because he was getting help from citizens.

“It's like he's Robin Hood or something.”

Jack looked at his partner. “Who's like Robin Hood?”

Manny had a habit of making abrupt topic changes and if Jack wasn't paying close attention, he got lost.

“Charles, man. He's like this hero to the villagers and whenever the sheriff gets close to him, they all help hide him away. It ain't right, man.”

“No, it isn't.” On parade they had learned that Charles was making a point of showing himself in the division, to both the public and the police. Mason had told them Charles's control of the downtown crack trade was nearly absolute, despite the extra police pressure. It was only a matter of time before he got his hands on all of it. The fuck was getting rich on Sy's blood.

Jack gripped the wheel hard enough to temporarily drown out the pain behind his eyes. “I know he'll get caught eventually. I want to be there when it happens. I pray to God I'm there.”

And sometimes God answered prayers.

“5105 in pursuit of male wanted for homicide!” A siren shrieked in the background. Jack held his breath, waiting for the words he needed to hear. “It's Anthony Charles! Northbound on Parliament from King, driving a black Honda SUV. . . .”

Jack didn't wait for the licence plate number. He stomped on the gas as Manny hit the lights and siren. They were just south of King on Jarvis, two major streets over. Jack headed north, paralleling the pursuit. If Charles cut west, they'd have him. If he went east, they were just a few seconds behind him. Units from across the division were responding to the pursuit and cars from 53 Division, which shared the radio band with 51, started blasting down from the north.

“5105, keep up your location and road conditions.”

“Still northbound Parliament, passing Queen. Single male occupant. Just blew through a red at Queen.”

“Is that Boris?” Jack asked incredulously.

“I think so. He's working with Paul tonight.”

“5105, what are the road and traffic conditions?”

Boris hesitated and Jack's opinion of him actually went up a bit. The rain was still pelting down and if traffic on Parliament was anything like it was on Jarvis, which was too fucking busy for a Thursday night. . . .

A new voice, a no-nonsense voice, got on the air.
“5105, this is Sergeant Bragado of Communications. You will advise of the road and weather conditions immediately, or this pursuit will be terminated.”

“Don't you dare, don't you dare, you cocksucking prick,” Jack muttered.

A slight pause and then, “Still northbound Parliament passing Dundas, suspect's speed is —” Jack could picture Boris leaning across the seat to get a look at the speedometer, which meant a few more seconds for the pursuit to last “— approximately seventy kilometres an hour. Not bad for road and traffic conditions.” Just the blaring of the siren for a few seconds, anything to delay an answer. Damn, Boris was acting like a real cop. “Approaching Gerrard. It's raining, traffic is . . . light. Now eastbound on Gerrard app —”

Sergeant Bragado, monitoring the pursuit from a detached, uninvolved position, issued his verdict:
“5105 and all units. This pursuit is terminated due to unsafe road and weather conditions. I repeat, this pursuit is terminated. All units abandon the pursuit.”

“Fuck you.” Jack braked hard, then swung hard onto Gerrard, the Crown Vic's ass end sliding wildly on the flooded road. Once the car was righted, he bore down on the gas, urging the worn car to even greater speed, its abused engine screaming with effort.

“5105, suspect just crashed at Gerrard and Sackville! Suspect has bailed and is running northbound. My escort is in foot pursuit.”

“Get him, Paul. Get the little fucker.”

Jack hit a green light at Sherbourne and added a bit more speed. Manny looked at him as if he was wondering when Jack was going to start driving fast. Red light coming up at Parliament. So close now!

Boris's huffing, strained voice kept up the pursuit. “Still northbound. . . . Suspect wearing black Tor . . . ah, God . . . black Toronto Raptors jacket.” The last was spit out as Boris's brief involvement in the foot pursuit ended in pained gasps.

Jack swung into the oncoming lanes to dodge the stopped cars on Gerrard. “Clear!” Manny shouted and Jack goosed it, forcing a southbound driver to hammer on the brakes as he peeled through the intersection. An angry horn was batted away by the siren's urgent scream.

Paul's voice, strong but hurting, took over the pursuit. “Eastbound Spruce! Eastbound Spruce!”

Gerrard and Sackville was a clogged mess. A white sedan, its front end a crumpled ruin, lay across the eastbound lanes of Gerrard; a black SUV had a telephone pole buried halfway up its engine block on the southeast corner. 5105, its emergency lights still flashing red and white in the rain, was just south of the SUV.

“Looks like Paul expected him to run into the Park,” Manny commented as Jack mashed the brakes.

The tires burned away the water to find a grip on the pavement; when he had dumped enough speed, Jack was off the brake and steering into the turn. As the car came out of the corner onto Sackville, Jack was back on the gas and they were flying up Sackville in a matter of heartbeats.

“Nice turn, dude.”

“I've lost him!” Paul yelled over the air. “Suspect last seen northbound through the Spucecourt schoolyard. Damn it!”

Sergeant Rose was on the radio instantly and — God fucking love her for a man-hating, fuck-you-over-in-a-second bull dyke — took the situation by the balls and made it dance to her tune.

“51S1, I want a perimeter thrown up now! This is the last time that puke runs from us. Townsend! Where are you?”

“On Spruce by the school. He hasn't cut back south.”

“Everybody listen up!” Rose barked. “I want units on Spruce, Sackville, Sumach and Wellesley. Keep your roof lights on and get out of your cars. I don't want to hear anyone bitching about the rain. I want him to know he's caught. Let's force him to go to ground. Dispatch, do we have enough units for the perimeter?”

There was the slightest of pauses as the dispatcher consulted her screen.
“10-4, Sergeant. I have units from 51, 52 and 53. 54 and 55 are offering if we need them.”

“Good. Get as many over here as possible. I want a fence of uniforms and cars around this area. I'll be using the school on Spruce as the command post. Townsend, I'll meet you there.”

“10-4, 51S1, command post at Sprucecourt school. K94 advises he is on the way, ETA, fifteen minutes. ETF is also responding.”

Units began advising radio of their locations and Manny grabbed the mike. “5108, we're at Sackville and Carlton.”

“10-4, '08. Sackville and Carlton.”

Jack parked just north of Carlton. “Manny, you go to the intersection, I'll take north up Sackville.”

The rain was still pummelling the ground and Jack watched as bands of heavier rain swept across the street. He had his radio on, hearing but not paying much attention, waiting for shouts of discovery or another foot pursuit.

Within minutes they had the residential area cut off from the rest of Cabbagetown. The trees were old and mature, the houses well taken care of and cherished. Renovations had not spoiled the community by bringing anything too modern to its family-friendly streets. Within the chaos of 51, Cabbagetown was an oasis of small-town life.

The roads were laid out with grid-like precision, though there was a confusing blend of two-way and one-way avenues. But within the grid, precision gave way to a labyrinth of emaciated streets, choked lanes and elongated driveways. A thousand places to hide, a thousand places for someone to miss Charles.

Jack stood on Sackville Street, a one-way southbound artery through the neighbourhood. Parked cars lined the west side; the remaining lane was almost too narrow for trucks. Bulls in china shops had nothing on moving trucks in Cabbagetown. The homes on the street had postage stamp–sized front yards but also enough trees and well-manicured bushes to offer a fleeing felon a choice of hiding spots.

Jack stood at the end of Sackville Place, a narrow one-lane alley that ended at its heftier namesake. He kept his eyes moving north and south, determined that Charles would not slip past him. The scout car, sitting between him and Manny, painted the houses and falling rain with strobes of red and white.

Sergeant Rose's human fence was in place. In a few minutes, they would send in a dog and the ETF and Charles would be taken into custody. Nice and civilized.

Better than the asshole deserves.

The rain fell. The radio quieted as units settled in for the siege. There was no fear of anyone giving up on the perimeter. The city could go to hell right then, and none of the officers would budge. This was Charles's last stand.

“K94, exiting the 401 to southbound Parkway. I should be there in about ten minutes.”

“10-4, K9,” Rose acknowledged. “ETF is already here. They're suiting up and will be ready for you when you get here.”

Jack listened to the exchange with mixed feelings. Until Charles was arrested, the officers on the perimeter would remain wet sentinels. This was Robin Hood's last chase. But Jack wanted to be there when he went down. Preferably in a hail of bullets.

Minutes passed, marked by the oscillating car lights. Partial seconds ticked away in flashes of red and white.

The rain continued to fall. Jack shifted his feet, feeling the water squish in his boots. A raincoat would have been nice, but his was in his locker; he rarely brought it out with him. Hell, he would even appreciate his hat, just to keep the rain out of his eyes. He was contemplating going back to the car to get it when movement down Sackville Place caught his eye.

A shadow stepped onto the slender street, a street light shining on its rain-slick surface. The shadow, man-sized, paused, looking back the way it had come. The shadow's jacket was hooded, but rain and poor light made further details impossible.

Jack's hand fell to his gun. Another shadow joined the first, a small, four-legged one. Jack grinned at his nerves, but his hand felt comfortable on the gun and he left it there.

Hide in plain sight. I wouldn't put it past the bastard.
Ambush some poor schmuck out walking his dog, take his raincoat and dog and walk casually past the line of police officers. Hell, even give them a wave and thumbs-up as he passed them.

The shadow walked toward Jack, his shoulders and head hunched. Against the rain or to hide his face? Jack snapped open his holster.

The man stopped not twenty feet from Jack. Had he finally noticed the flashing lights? Had he heard the faint warning snap of Jack's holster? The dog, a little fur mop with its own raincoat, stopped as well for a sniff and a piss.

Jack drew his gun and held it down by his leg. He wiped his eyes free of rain. He announced his presence with a firm “Evening, sir.”

The man jumped and the little fur mop was forced to hop with him. “Oh, officer. You scared me.” The man held one hand, a white hand, Jack noted, theatrically against his chest.

While the man composed himself, Jack slipped his gun back into its holster.

“Is there something I should be worried about?” the man inquired, shooting puzzled glances up and down the street.

“We're just looking for someone, sir. That's all.”

“Not a black fellow in a Raptors jacket, is it?”

Jack's stomach clenched. “You saw him? Whereabouts?”