Read The Animal Hour Online

Authors: Andrew Klavan

The Animal Hour (10 page)

BOOK: The Animal Hour
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“Maybe he went to breakfast,” Brown said. And now, as Zach watched, as he prayed, the little round white man was kneeling down painfully. He was bowing his head down so he could look under the bed.

He's going to find it. He's going to find the red bag.
Zach's mouth contorted. One tear ran down his cheek. He blinked it away so he could see out the peephole. With the blackness so close around him, his whole being was concentrated on the other room, on what he saw.

“Maybe he went to work,” said Burke. “I mean, he may not even be the guy.”

That's right! That's right!
thought Zachary desperately.
I may not even be the guy, for Christ's sake.

He saw Brown straighten. He heard him groan. Brown looked at Mulligan. Mulligan, blinking mildly, turned his head to survey the room.

“Some kind of red overnight bag under there,” Brown said. “We oughta toss this whole place.”

Mulligan nodded again, as if he hadn't heard. “He might've gone for a bagel. That's true. Southerland can watch half an hour, rope him if he comes back. Burke can go to the magazine, ask around there. That way we don't scare him away. And half an hour, forty-five minutes, we can come back with a warrant too. That way we'll be legal guys. Happy legal guys for all to see.” He said this tonelessly, softly, as if to himself.

“Listen …” Burke, the big black man, tugged his own earlobe. “Listen, the feds are gonna go nuts. They're
going
nuts now. Aren't we gonna bring 'em in at all here?”

Detective Mulligan just kept nodding, kept looking around. Then he said: “Fuck the fucking feds.” Only he said it very mildly. It sounded strange coming out of his blinking, baby face.

With one last nod, he started walking to the door. The other two exchanged a glance and followed him.

Zachary stood amazed. They were leaving! Just leaving!
Yes!
he thought. His whole body was taut and eager as he leaned toward the keyhole, as he watched them go. Detective Mulligan paused at the door, his hand on the knob. Zach peered at him, protected by the dark; feeling well hidden now and powerful—and a little guilty, too, about that sense of secret power. Staring out at Mulligan like that, he thought the detective looked like a pretty decent guy actually. A sweet guy. Zach would have liked to come out and talk to him directly. Explain things to him, person to person.

But he didn't; he didn't move. He stood still, his head jutting forward, his bloody clothes smearing his chest. He held his breath as Mulligan took one last look around. Then the detective pulled the door open. Zach watched as he went out, as the others followed after.

The door shut. Zach started to breathe again. He pulled away from the peephole. Leaned his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes and let all the breath come out of him. For a second, he felt his innards unclutch themselves. Relief washed over him.

But it was only for a second. Then he was thinking:
They'll be coming back.
Half an hour, they'd said. They would search the place and then they'd be sure to find him. He shook his head. He opened his eyes and gazed up at the dim ceiling. Jesus God, he thought. Jesus God. Overslept. The perfect plan, the one way out, and he had overslept. He had blown everything. Now he was trapped. The cops were after him. There was a guard on the street outside so he couldn't escape. And once they had him in custody, once they had the red bag … it was over. There would be no way they would ever believe that he was not the guilty guy.

Christ, Christ, Christ, he thought. He hadn't even meant to lie down. He remembered everything now. He had come home and stripped off his bloody clothes. He had just been about to clean up. He hadn't even meant to lie down, and then …

The drug. Yes. He remembered that too. He had injected the drug again. That's what had overcome him in the end. He had injected Aquarius. Even though he had sworn to himself he wouldn't. Even though he had promised Ollie; and Nana. Even though he had promised God.

Sorry
, he thought up at the ceiling.
Sorry, sorry.
He had never broken a promise to God before. Never once. It was a pretty shitty feeling. Like he'd swallowed a rat and it was trying to gnaw its way out of him. The Giant Rat of Remorse.
Sorry. Sorry.

For one more moment, he stayed where he was, the wet clothes in his arms, his head tilted back. For one more moment, he appealed to the ceiling with his eyes.
Please, Jesus. Please.

It was not that terrible a sin, after all. It was not like cutting down the rain forests or spilling oil all over the ocean or anything. He had tried to stay off the stuff. He
had
stayed off it for a long time. Surely God would not let him get arrested now. God would not let the police believe that he was guilty for what had happened in the mews.

No. With a breath of resolution, he straightened up. There had to be a way out. God closes a door, but opens a window. Somehow, Zach had to push on. Even with the guard on the street, even with the search party on the way. Somehow, he had to continue with the original plan. Get cleaned up, get rid of the bloody clothes, get the red bag … and get the hell over to the only person who could save him. The one person on earth who had always saved him before.

He smiled a little at that, a goofy, lopsided smile. In a way, it was just like the old days, wasn't it. It was just like after Mom died, after Dad deserted them and went to California. In those days, there was no one in the world who could help or comfort him—no one, except for his older brother. And now it was the same.

Now again—somehow—he had to get to Ollie.

T
he day exploded. The revolver bucked in Nancy's hand. Startled pigeons fluttered up from the park path, up from the squares of grass and out of the trees' branches. They rose in a gray mass and tacked off in a body to soar toward the dome of the Hall.

Nancy stood immobile. Her mouth was open. The pistol's handgrip was hot against her palm.
Uh-oh
, she thought. The explosion seemed to go on and on forever.

She stared horrified at the beggar. He stared back, amazed. His slack jowls wobbled. His strings of gray-yellow hair trembled on his brow. She expected him to fall in the next second. To clutch his stomach and drop to his knees on the path. But he just stood there. He just stared at her.

“Jesus, lady,” he burst out finally. “All I wanted was a quarter.”

Nancy looked down, at the pistol: a squat black monster in her small white hand. The muzzle was pointed off in some wild way, up into the trees. She glanced up there and saw a squirrel crouched in terror on the stout branch of a sycamore. She had missed—missed the beggar at point-blank range. She lowered her eyes to him again with a green, sickly feeling …

And she saw the police coming after her.

The two patrolmen who had been chatting together in front of City Hall had leapt into action. They'd jumped the park railing and were jogging across the grass toward her. Their hands were at their holsters, gripping the handles of their guns.

Instinctively, she swung around, looking for a way to escape. Two more cops had entered the park from the far end. A man and a woman. They were running toward her on the paths, one on each side of the grass. The fountain sent a silver plume into the air between them.

Nancy swallowed hard. She turned north to the cops from the Hall, south to the cops from the street, then north again as all four cops closed in on her. She started to prepare her explanation in her mind:
It's all right officers I'm Nancy Kincaid even though everyone says I'm not and I couldn't remember where I went to elementary school so when all these beggars started staring at me I took out this pistol which just appeared out of nowhere in my purse and I …

“I better get out of here,” she whispered aloud.

“Crazy bitch,” the beggar muttered.

Wildly, she turned her back on him. She took a big step up onto one of the green benches.

“Hey, lady, hold it!”

“Hold it right there!”

“Stop! Police!”

“Drop the gun, drop the gun!”

The cops' shouts were small under the thrum of the city. But she heard them. They were already close.

“Don't move, lady!”

“Police! Freeze!”

She jumped. Leapt over the back of the bench. Down over the metal railing onto the grass. Her flats sank into the soft earth and she stumbled. Then she was steady—running—across the littered grass—her purse over her shoulder—her pistol in her hand.

“Stop!”

“Freeze!”

“Oh my God!” a woman shouted somewhere. “Watch out! She's got a gun!”

There were other screams all around her:

“Jesus!”

“Watch out!”

Nancy ran. The peaceful trees shook their leaves above her, their yellow leaves against the so-blue sky. The Hall stood behind them, stately, shaded, to her left. To her right, the traffic groaned and whooshed along.
This isn't happening
, she thought.
This isn't real.
She ran clumsily, her bare knees breaking from her trench coat.
If this were really happening, it would be seriously bad …
Her hoarse breath filled her head. And her fear—she couldn't believe the fear. She couldn't believe she was still moving with so much fear inside her. It was like a vast dark that had yawned in her belly, that would suck her in. Her tam blew off and fell behind her.

“Lady! Lady! Stop! Stop or I'll shoot! Police!”

Another railing loomed ahead. She grabbed the top bar, vaulted over. She was on a path again. She was past City Hall. If she cut to her left, she could duck through the parking lot, duck around the building. She skidded to a stop. Cast a look back over her shoulder.

And, good God, there they came. Four uniforms, four silver badges. Closer now. Two on the grass, climbing over railings, crushing soda cups under heavy black shoes as they thudded toward her. One on the path, one through the parking lot; churning like engines. Pedestrians dodged them, crouched down in terror, swiveled to spot her. Pointed. Screamed.

Me?
she thought. It was a high, thin note in her mind, crazy fear.
The police after me? The cutest little thing?
The neighborhood ladies used to call her that when she was little. It came back to her now. And how Daddy used to catch her up in his arms. Hoist her into the air, her legs kicking. “How's my little button?” She stared at the onrushing coppers.
They're going to gun down Daddy's little button?

There was no doubt about it. Those four stolid faces, their frightened eyes. Each clawed the air with one hand to keep balance. The other hand was at the holster, elbow pistoning. Guns the size of bazookas were circling up into the air. Pointing toward her.

And when she stopped, when she turned to see, one cop braked on his heels. Leveled his .38 right at her, gripping it in both hands.

“Drop it, sister! Drop the rod!”

She bolted. Dashed behind a tree. Broke out, running for the edge of City Hall. With every step, she expected to hear the gunshot. To feel the bullet hit her temple like a mallet blow, knocking her down.
I'm not doing this. This isn't happening.
She was into the lot, around the building. Pressing her purse to her side with her elbow, waving her gun, gasping for air.

She was too exhausted now to jump the railings. She took the short path between plots of grass. She half ran, half stumbled on it. Her flats scraped the pavement. With her hat gone, her curls tumbled down around her face.

She reached the elms that bordered the park. She tumbled through onto the broad sidewalk. She pulled up with a gasp at the edge of the breathless city. The wide highway. The distant towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. The huge winged Municipal Building, hanging over her. Pedestrians clacked past her oblivious. She turned. And there, to her left, against the backdrop of a Parisian courthouse, against its mansard roof, its columned facade: an opening into the ground. A vanishing stairway. An unobtrusive black sign.

A subway station.

The cops rounded the Hall behind her. She glanced back and saw them converge. Four uniforms, shoulder to shoulder. Four pairs of eyes—they surveyed the scene. Got her.

“All right, lady …”

She was already staggering away. Reaching for the banister to the subway stairs like a thirsty woman reaching for water. The Beaux-Arts courthouse tilted this way and that as she came near it. The pit into the subway grew bigger.

And now, she heard the running footsteps behind her. Thap thap thap. Getting louder. Closer.

Oh, turn around
, she thought.
For God's sake, Nancy. Turn around and surrender. Explain it to them. “My name is Nancy Kincaid …”

“Drop the gun, lady!”

She pushed herself faster. Threaded through the people walking past the entranceway. She grabbed the banister. Pulled herself into the hole. Rapped down the stairs. Faster. Forcing herself to go faster, down into the tunnel. The darkness came up at her from below.

BOOK: The Animal Hour
11.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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