The Sandman (21 page)

He heard the sound of the motorboat coming closer, and he swam toward the rocks and the logs, surfacing between them, and watched as the boat-light passed just over his head. Then he scrambled toward the shore. When he reached the land he fell down on his knees and gasped for air. He was trembling, shaking, and he felt a terrible, sickening sorrow. Before he could think about it, even before he could feel the hollow space fill up, as it always did (but would it, even if it was the woman he loved?), he smelled smoke, and he saw that on the hill the house was burning. He could hear the wood crackling, see the bright orange flames coming from the woods like the yellow locks of a woman’s hair.

“Good-bye, Debby,” he said softly.

Then he hurried up the hill, toward the car.

He parked his car in front of the East Side brownstone, and checked his face in the mirror. He had stopped at a Howard Johnson’s on the road and was all cleaned up except for the scratch across his forehead. She was a strong bitch—no question. For a moment he was sad, but it turned quickly to rage.

He squinted out into the morning sunlight with a vast hatred at the neatly tended flowerboxes with the season’s first tulips coming through the soil, at the fine oaken doors with the big brass knocker, at the Edwardian curtains, the wide, handsome latticed windows.

It was all here, everything he had never had, everything he had stood against. The incredible plush softness of it all, the cozy creature comfort, the polite hello, the gentle good-bye, see you later, darling … The cozy old sow of a housemaid, the perfectly divine wife, with her illusion of depth, her facile, banal chatter … all of it only chatter, for her bottom line was the material world, the things she could own. And one must not forget the darling daughter, so wise for her age, so full of herself and her vast ego. Soon she would be hopping off to Vassar or Sarah Lawrence to take her place among other little rich boys and girls.

Yes, soon, soon. But before she left, he was going to pay them all a visit, one they wouldn’t soon forget. He would leave his mark on them, on each of them, and they would know that they owned nothing, they would know, as he did, that each and every one of us were men from the dark side of the moon.

He clutched the needles in his hand and took from his bag two bottles of potassium and a Demerol-Valium solution. A little appetizer before dinner, dear?

Now the problem was how to get in the place, how best to get to Beauregard. He checked his watch. Yes, it was only seven thirty. Beauregard would be out soon. Should he just attack him on the street? That was dangerous, for Beauregard was strong. Perhaps if he followed him to the hospital … Yes, somewhere along the way …

Suddenly the door opened. He ducked down, then told himself to relax. They don’t suspect you. He straightened up and saw Mrs. O’Shea pat Sarah on the head. She handed Sarah her bookbag, and then kissed her on the nose, and shut the door. Sarah went down the steps, stopped to admire the tulips, and started down the street.

Cross started the engine and drove the car slowly behind her. When she came to the traffic light, he pulled up beside her and honked the horn.

“Hey,” he said cheerfully, “want a ride?”

At first she wouldn’t look at him, and he started to panic. But he tried again.

“Sarah … it’s me … Peter Cross. How you doing?”

This time she turned toward him, her face still frozen, on guard.

“Peter,” she said, breaking into a smile. “What on earth happened to your face?”

He checked himself in the mirror. Christ, he should have thought of that.

“Actually, that’s why I came by,” he said. “To see your dad. We had a terrible time at the hospital last night … A patient went nuts and tried to kill me … Drug reaction … Whew … I’m lucky it isn’t worse.”

She came closer to the car door.

“Dad’s not home just now,” Sarah said. “He’s at the hospital on some kind of emergency, I think.”

“You’re kidding?” Peter said. “And I was just there and never thought to page him. Oh, well, I’ll have to go back. Meanwhile, can I give you a lift to school?”

She smiled at him, and he felt the Space opening.

“I’m never supposed to accept rides from strangers,” she said.

He smiled at her and opened the door.

“But since you’ve already had such a rough night,” she said, “maybe I can make an exception.”

He pushed the door open for her, and she scrambled inside.

Down the block Mrs. O’Shea opened the door of the house and looked down the street. Sarah had forgotten her notes for her science project … That child … She looked down the block and saw Sarah get into the Mercedes, and she started to cry out after her, but then the door was closed and Sarah was gone.

Long after she had heard him call her name, she had floated in the water, though its coldness was like a scalpel on her arms, legs, hands. Now, certain that he was gone, she raised up her head and ran her freezing fingers around her raw and aching throat. Above her, on the hill, she could hear the sound of fire engines and the screams of men. “Bring a hose around here … Too late … Forget it …”

She thought of the summers she had spent in the house, and she suddenly started to cry. The house had burned down, nothing left of it … nothing left of her, either. Oh, God, it was so awful. Then she got hold of herself and started moving toward the shore.

“A hundred yards to go,” she said, “just a hundred yards.”

She lost her balance for a moment, then slowly she regained her footing and went forward … step by step, gaining on the shore. Then she was there, somehow at the bottom of the steps, and she realized the tide had washed her down to them. The fire was brighter now, and hotter; she started up the stairs, but her feet were asleep, filled with needles—needles like the ones he had used—and she started to spin madly, tried to hold onto the rail, but fell down the white wooden steps, while above her a huge figure with a bright red face looked down.

“My God,” said Beauregard. “Where could he have taken her?”

He sat at a long table in the conference room. Lombardi sat across from him and squinted through watery eyes.

“We’ve got his place staked,” he said. “We’ve got two hundred men on the streets. All the main bridges have been cordoned off. There’s no way he can get out of town.”

“Which only leaves him about a million other places in town,” Beauregard said. He had begun to feel sick … terribly sick … Sarah … My God, he had no conception … None at all … Yet he might have been able to stop it.

“We’ve got to try and figure where he would go,” said Jimmy Myers, draining a Tab.

“He’s got no friends,” Beauregard said. “And we still haven’t heard from Debby. He may have …”

Beauregard shook his head. He was a man of action; there was no greater pain than to sit helplessly by.

Behind him the door opened, and Heather came in.

“Beau,” she said. “He took her right out of the house.”

Beauregard got up and went to her. He held her tightly, feeling at once the urge to comfort and to hide his head. He had to be a smart guy … work it out on his own.

“Oh, Beau …”

“Now take it easy, Heather.”

“Take it easy?” she said. “Take it easy? I’ll tell you about taking it easy. If that sick bastard does one thing to Sarah …”

The phone lit up on Lombardi’s desk. Quickly he picked it up.

“Hello … On fire? See if you can find the nurse.”

Beauregard and Heather turned anxiously toward Lombardi.

“No … it wasn’t your daughter. They think they have a lead to Debby Hunter. Seems Beefy was able to follow them to a place on the Hudson. It’s now up in flames—totalled.”

The room was absolutely silent.

“We’ve got to do something,” Beauregard said. “We’ve got to.”

Heather began to cry softly, and Beauregard held her against his shoulder.

“Oh, God,” she said. “And I went off and left you both. Oh, God, Beau …”

“Don’t say that,” Beauregard said. “You did what was right. This has nothing to do with that. No matter how this thing turns out … you did the right thing.”

Two police officers came through the door. They were both breathless.

“Captain,” the tall blond one said, “I think we’ve got something. The suspect’s car was just spotted.”

“Where?” said Beauregard.

“That’s the weird part,” said the shorter man. “Not two blocks away from here.”

“Jesus,” said Lynne Carter. “What the hell? …”

“Sixty-first and York,” said the other cop. “We’ve got men in every building …”

“Yeah,” said Lombardi. “Good.” But his voice was distant, preoccupied.

He looked up at Beauregard.

“You know what I think,” he said.

“He’s coming here,” Beauregard said. “He’s coming here.”

Beefy Sloan reached down and picked her up, gently carrying her out in front of him. He moved up the steps gingerly, and she opened her eyes in a second, saw his huge swollen face, and started to cry.

“Who are you?” she said.

“The guy that ran into the oil tanker,” he said. “Only I’m still alive. My car needs a little work, though.”

“You’re a cop?” she said.

“Maybe,” Beefy said back. “Maybe I’m a cop.”

They walked by the house, and she heard the shouts of the firemen, felt the flames’ warmth, and then she asked him to put her down.

“We’ve got to get to Dr. Beauregard,” she said.

“I know, lady,” he said. “We got to.”

He walked over to his car, the window of which looked like it belonged in church. There were a million cracks, the left tire was nearly flat, and the right headlight was smashed. She leaned on him and shook her head.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” she said.

“We’re gonna make it,” he said. “Count on Beefy. He won’t let you down.”

Above them they heard a noise, and Beefy Sloan watched as a helicopter landed in the clearing just a hundred yards away from them.

“Here we go, lady,” he said.

He dragged her away from the shouting firemen, but she managed to turn once more to stare at her uncle’s house, her retreat … Now it, too, was gone. He was like a disease, a plague. Anything he touched was dead.

“Come on, lady,” Beefy said. “We gotta get you to the hospital.”

She heard the last word and began to shudder, and then she felt she would buckle. But she thought of Cross, and Beauregard, and she sucked in her pain and went with him.

“How you doing, baby?”

Beefy looked up at the helicopter pilot. A jigg … They was everywhere … buncha assholes.

“Hey, man,” the black man said, “you know that is one fine car you got there … I’ll give you all my old back copies of
Ebony
magazine for that.”

Beefy picked her up and helped her on board. He looked back at his car and felt his face redden. Shit, if he had had a Pontiac, everything would have been all right.

Cross moved down the halls, his OR greens on, his surgical mask pulled up over his face. In front of him he pushed the stretcher, with the white blanket over Sarah’s drugged body. He stared at the cops who walked by him in the hall, at the nurses … and he thought as he went around the corner that if he took a left instead of a right, he would be able to walk right by Beauregard’s station. They would all be in there, torturing themselves—wondering about him. But there would be no catching him now. He had them. He turned, opened the door to the Litt Building, and wheeled her in.

He turned and pulled out his keys. The room in front of him was dark, but he saw what he wanted inside. An operating table surrounded by tanks of cyclopropane, the most explosive gas in existence. OR Room 18 … seldom used anymore, due to a crack in the ceiling. They were going to fix it someday … but now it was fine for his purposes. Just fine. He wondered if they had found his car. He took her inside and cleared away some of the debris—an old anesthesia machine and a couple of tanks of oxygen. Then he locked the door behind him and pulled the shade down on the glass. Quickly he scooped her off the stretcher and placed her on the operating table. He smiled and prepared himself.

Operating Room 18 flashed into Beau’s mind—of course—it was the only place possible.

“Shit—I know where he is,” Beauregard said, as he and Lombardi began to trot down the corridor. Jimmy, Yvonne, and ten patrolmen hurried along behind them.

“It’s been out of use for a while … the oldest one in the whole damned building.”

“I think you’re right, Doc,” Lombardi said. “I’m beginning to think I know this guy. He wants an audience. This place … it’s got an amphitheater?”

“Yes, it does … old-fashioned style. The place is like …”

“A theater,” Lombardi said. “Do you see it? Everybody who kills nowadays thinks he is on a stage. Television, Doc. It’s television. And worse, the newsboys will probably be here soon. Playing right up to him.”

Beauregard looked over at Lombardi and shook his head.

“We’ve got to hurry,” he said. “Come on … step it up.”

They began to run, down the halls past open-mouthed patients, interrupted in the midst of dinner. Beauregard could feel his heart pounding inside him, and something else, which sounded very much like a child’s scream.

He hooked up the cyclopropane tank, leaving the popoff valve open. Then he looked at the spare tank and smiled. The gas was his ally. The gas and the Space, and it suddenly occurred to him that they were the same thing. They always had been … exactly the same. He picked up the other tank and placed it on the floor next to the operating table. Yes, the perfect place for it … Now if they tried any of that sharpshooter SWAT team bullshit, he would simply take her with him. One hit on that tank and it would crash to the floor, causing such an explosion that the entire room would be engulfed. And she would be a charred princess. He made ready with his potassium syringe, checked his paper slippers, the ones used to ground the static electricity … all set … yes, he was ready. Ready. Above him, the light went on.

Outside in the dawn, over a hundred New York City policemen surrounded Eastern Medical. In their hands were rifles, tear gas guns, and billy clubs. On their faces was a look of studied indifference. Enrico Estrada, a star newsman from “Hello America,” ran from his mobile TV truck. On his way up the steps, he combed his hair and admired himself in a pocket mirror. Inside the lobby he ran into Jack Jacobs, of “NewsTeam Five.”