0658 hours
Staff Sergeant Greene sat stiffly in his chair, but his thoughts were not on the parade sheet before him. He had arrived at work by ten to five and by five — half an hour early, as usual — he had been sitting in the staff sergeants’ office, the memo books of his officers stacked neatly on the desk before him. Every day, regardless of the shift, Greene was at the station and behind the front desk thirty minutes early. The staff sergeants he relieved were overjoyed at first, thinking they could head home early, but they quickly learned otherwise; Greene was there in order to review his officers’ work from the previous day.
He examined each book to ensure they were completed in accordance with the service’s rules and regulations. The date had to be underlined, the twenty-four-hour clock had to be used, the daily activity stamp — he determined that the ink pad must be running dry as most of the stamps were faint and made a mental note to have it replaced — had to be properly and fully completed and, of course, every entry had to be in black ink.
Each day he selected one memo book at random and read through it entirely, from the day’s date and “Commence Duty” line to “Report off Duty” and the officer’s signature. Greene assured himself he was showing no bias in the selection, but surprisingly, his hand frequently landed on Constable Armsman’s book. He was appalled at the sloppy note-taking skills some of the officers displayed and had offered numerous suggestions on how those skills could and should be improved.
Once the memo books had been inspected, he checked the Morning Report to learn what had occurred in his division since he had reported off duty the previous day. On the first day of each shift, he allotted himself extra time for this task as he went through the reports for each day he had been off duty. Finally, he spoke with the staff sergeant he was relieving in order to be up to date on what was happening inside the station and out on the roads. It was disgusting how lax some of the staff sergeants were, letting the sergeants handle the running of the platoons and station, but these supervisors had learned early on that Greene would only receive his briefing from the senior supervisor and not an underling.
Once he was fully informed and prepared to assume command of the station, Staff Sergeant Greene sat at the sergeant’s desk to await the arrival of his inside people. Their haphazard approach to the shift’s start time had ceased soon enough. It irked him somewhat that he could not seat himself at his desk to observe them, but the cramped, windowless office allocated for the staff sergeants had no view of the front desk area. The office’s size and placement — tucked off to the side, it was used predominantly for passage from behind the front desk to the hallway leading to the lunchroom and he had put an abrupt end to that habit — had been one of many items he’d raised at his first management meeting. To date, there were no plans to relocate the office or install windows.
In his forty-two years on the job, Greene had never seen such shoddy discipline, on both station and personal levels. No wonder he had been transferred from his position at the Duty Desk at Headquarters to 51 Division. He knew, well in advance of his arrival, the reputation this division held: to those outside its boundaries, 51 was seen as a penalty box, a place where problem officers were sent for punishment. To the officers patrolling its streets, 51 was a testing ground where only the strong survived and to be able to “get the job done” with its limited resources and manpower was a badge of pride.
Both versions were true to an extent, but neither of them excused the slack discipline Greene had seen from the moment he had set foot in the station’s cramped quarters but, in fact, was reason enough for tighter control. Both on an individual level and on a platoon level.
What had happened to the Service or, more correctly, the Force? When Greene had proudly joined the ranks of the Toronto Police, it had been a Force, not a Service, and there, he firmly believed, lay the root of the problem. Once the name and image had been changed to Toronto Police Service, the public’s perception had changed as well. Wherever you went in the world, policing was about enforcing the laws and maintaining order, not “getting to know the community” or “establishing communication and understanding” between the police and those deviant, fringe sectors of society.
Back in his street-patrolling days, on foot, not by car, although he did admit the need for the faster response the cars allowed, the law was the law, regardless of your background, religion or whom you had sex with. As a male of average height, had he screamed for special treatment and consideration when the much larger officers who made up the majority of the rank and file back then shoved him about or teased him about his shortness? Hell, no. The greater the torment they threw at him, the greater his determination to succeed. He had carried himself with unyielding resolve and had triumphed over his adversaries, winning their respect if not their friendship.
“Slack, slack, slack,” Greene muttered to himself as he collected the sergeant’s clipboard in preparation for parading the late half of the day shift. Sergeant Johanson would normally join him as it was the sergeant’s duty and not the staff sergeant’s, to read out the day’s assignments, but he was occupied releasing a prisoner from custody in order to cut down on the amount of overtime the arresting officers from the night shift would be claiming. Greene was amazed at how infrequently the staff sergeants of the other platoons actually attended the parades. No discipline whatsoever.
He trotted down the stairs to the basement, his polished shoes flashing brightly in the fluorescent lights. He paused at the base of the stairs to quickly study his reflection in the door’s glass. His grey hair — iron grey, he liked to call it — was cut precisely to regulation, as it had been for more than the last four decades, his moustache was trimmed, waxed and symmetrically curled and his white shirt — he had praised the initiative to change the shirts of senior officers, staff sergeants and above to white from the black of the lower ranks — was pressed to within an inch of its life.
Every day Greene set a prime example for his platoon of how an officer should present himself. Or herself, he amended with reluctance. Allowing female officers was one of the initiatives he had not embraced wholeheartedly. Or at all.
But regardless of his example, in spite of his recommendations and assistance, the officers on his platoon failed to improve. They continued to perform as individuals, shunning the cohesive unity he desired them to adopt. In unity lay strength. If they worked the same, performed the same, then errors would diminish and, in time, disappear altogether. And unity began with appearance, hence the stand-up parades. And from those inspections came discipline and from discipline came cohesiveness.
But to this date, they had rebuked his efforts.
Don’t they understand? he asked himself. If they all wrote their notes and prepared their reports the same, handled calls and situations in similar fashion, then they would work as a team and a well-functioning team was always stronger than a group of individuals.
Greene watched very little television, did not own one himself; he was of the firm opinion that television rotted the mind and stunted intelligence. Prior to his assumption of command of B platoon, a television had broadcasted its mind-numbing trash constantly behind the front desk. It sat dark and unwatched now. But on occasion he had observed some of the “entertainment” it had to offer and had once viewed an entire episode of what was referred to as a situational comedy. In this case, M*A*S*H.
The show had initially appealed to him, or at least had failed to immediately disgust him, as it was based in a military setting. One of the characters had spoken a line intended as a joke, but Greene believed it to be an absolute truth: individuality is fine as long as we all do it together.
There was a reason the military and police wore uniforms. When were the fools under his command going to realize they could achieve more working together? Greene had entertained hope when Constable Warren had returned to the platoon. He was senior — in Greene’s younger days, seven years on the job meant you had just lost your rookie status — and seen as somewhat of a hero and Greene had hoped the platoon would cement under Warren’s leadership, but so far there had been no improvement, especially in Constable Armsman. Greene smiled in anticipation of taking down that know-it-all pup a few pegs. Imagine, having the audacity to tell his staff sergeant that his approach to leadership was outdated.
Greene smiled as he mentally worded the documentation that would rid the division of the cancer that was William Armsman.
At precisely seven o’clock, Staff Sergeant Greene entered the parade room.
Jack and the other officers were lined up to the left of the parade room door. Morris and Goldman were there; even Boris was present, although not looking too happy. Manny, Jenny and Paul filled out the ranks.
If Greene wants unity, he’s about to get an eyeful.
As if Jack’s thought had summoned him, Greene strode into the room as the arms on the old clock above the door clunked to seven o’clock. If nothing else, the prick was punctual.
Greene strode to the podium, not sparing a glance for the officers lined up for inspection and completely oblivious to the hushed, expectant silence that hung in the air. Jack felt everyone in the line stiffen to attention as Greene slapped the clipboard on the podium, turned to face his officers . . . and froze.
The seven officers stood rigidly before him, hat brims and boots freshly polished, shirts crisp from the dry cleaners, socks pulled up, gun belts loaded up with the tools of the trade. And not much else. They all stood proudly at attention in their underwear. Boris’s boxers hung almost to his knees, hiding his flabby thighs. Paul’s muscular legs were on full display below a pair of tiny scarlet briefs. He had tucked his shirt up under his gun belt so his shirttails wouldn’t obscure his undies. Not to be outdone, Jenny’s panties were so high cut they disappeared under her belt and damn, her legs were amazing. Jenny had also tucked her shirt out of the way. Jack was wearing briefs that Karen had bought for him as a gag. They were decorated with crossed pistols and sheriff stars. Manny’s snug boxer briefs were all Spider-Man.
Greene stared at them, dumbfounded.
You wanted unity, prick. Well, have an eyeful. “B platoon,” Jack barked. “About-face!”
As one, the officers turned smartly — they had diligently practised the about-face before parade as none of them had marched since the college — and gave Greene their backsides.
Jack paused for a count of five then ordered another about-face. He hoped the underwear parade would shock or enrage Greene. When he faced the man, he was not disappointed.
Greene’s eyes were wide in shock and his lips were pressed into a thin white line. The rest of his face was red and deepening to purple. Greene looked as if he was about to erupt. Or have a heart attack. While Jack didn’t wish any ill luck on Greene, if he had a heart attack . . . Well, they’d cross that bridge if it happened.
Greene didn’t have the big one, but it took him a full minute to regain a semblance of composure. “Wh . . . who’s idea was this?” he sputtered.
As one, the seven officers stepped forward, even Boris.
Jack couldn’t help it: he grinned. Score one for the good guys.
“I will see all of you on charges for this,” Greene blustered, seeking safety in threats.
Do one of us, do us all and I’m sure the inspector will be interested in hearing why we felt we had to resort to such drastic measures.
The purple was not fading from Greene’s face. He stormed out of the room, shoving past Johanson as the sergeant was stepping in.
Johanson stared after the fleeing staff sergeant, then turned to the platoon. “What hap — He broke into a huge grin. “Don’t move. I’m getting my camera.”
“Hey, Jack. Did you arrest a guy yesterday? Something about a gun in an apartment?” The station operator was holding the phone with her hand over the mouthpiece.
“Yeah, Manny and I did.” Jack, fully clothed, was at the front desk grabbing car keys.
“Someone wants to talk to you.”
Probably his lawyer bragging his client got bail again. “You sure they want me?”
The operator, a young woman who had been hit on by practically every cop in the station, both male and female, gave him a sour look. “Well, she didn’t ask for you by name, but you’re the only one I know with a scar through your eyebrow. Now, do you want to take the call or not?”
Building management, maybe? “Sure. Put it through to the report room, please.”
In the report room, Jack propped his hip on the counter and snagged the phone on the first ring. “Warren, can I help you?”
There was a moment’s pause and Jack was tempted to hang up. Then he heard a female voice. “Is this . . . is this the officer who was at Oak Street yesterday?” She sounded young. Young and nervous.
Definitely not management. “I was one of the officers, yes,” he replied vaguely, not wanting to commit himself to anything until he knew who he was talking to.
Another pause. “Are you the one with the scar?”
Okay, enough of this. “Yes, I’m the one with the scar. Now, what do you want?” Not exactly the nicest phone etiquette, but Jack felt this call was nothing but trouble and he didn’t need trouble. After Operation Underwear, Greene had retreated to his office and hadn’t stuck his nose out since.
Now all we have to do is sit back and wait for his response. I wonder how long it will take.
The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I . . . I was in the apartment.”
“And?” he asked, sounding unimpressed.
“I mean . . . I was there when you arrested him.”
That caught Jack’s attention. “You’re the one with the green hair?” She had bolted from the apartment before they could stop her. But they had been a little busy at the time. Why would she be calling?
“That’s me.”
“And what can I do for you?” They had Dwyer dead on a slew of weapons and drugs charges and a statement from this woman saying she had been there to buy crack would be the final knot in the noose around his neck.
“I have information for you,” she whispered and Jack could almost picture her checking over her shoulder as she spoke into the phone.
“That’s great.” Jack tucked the phone between ear and shoulder and pulled out his memo book. “What can you tell me?”
“No.” She was quiet for a moment. “Not on the phone. I want to meet you somewhere.”
Jack’s enthusiasm dwindled. You mean you want money. “Okay, where do you want to meet? Where are you now?”
Again a brief pause. “I’m at the Sherbourne subway. Do you know where that is?”
“I think I can find it,” he replied sarcastically, but she didn’t react to his tone.
“Good, that’s good.” Not an overly bright one. But then what crackhead was? “Meet me at . . .”
Jack thought he heard her talking to someone else. If she didn’t get back on the phone soon, he was going to hang up.
“Are you still there?” she asked, sounding worried.
“Yup, waiting with bated breath.”
“What? Oh, I see. Um, meet me at the Glen exit. By the foot bridge? No one will see me talking to you there. And don’t bring anyone else.”
This was starting to sound like grade-A crap or a really bad cop movie. “And why should I come alone?”
“Because . . . because you helped me once,” she said quickly.
“I did?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I used to work at Street City. You came once when someone threw bleach on someone.”
That’s why the green hair had seemed familiar. She had been the complainant at the first call he had gone to with Sy. Guess she ain’t working there anymore.
“Okay, I’ll meet you. Say, ten minutes?”
“Yeah, that’s good. Come alone.” She hung up.
Jack sat looking at the buzzing receiver for a few moments, debating whether to go or not. Chances were it was a pile of crap; no crackhead offered anything for free. He hung up the phone just at Manny breezed into the report room looking absolutely ecstatic. He didn’t care if there was documentation down the road; they had finally won a battle in the war with Greene.
Manny plunked himself down at a computer and fired up the outdated machine. Despite the stack of Crown briefs for accident court he had in front of him, he was whistling happily.
“You going to be a while with those?” Jack asked, nodding at the paperwork.
“About an hour. That okay?”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ve got something to do anyway.” Meeting up with a money-begging crackhead was better than sitting around waiting while Manny typed. Besides, he could do a coffee run on the way back. He gave his partner a condensed version of the phone conversation.
“Sure you don’t want me to tag along? Sounds kind of hinky.”
“I’ll be careful, Dad. And it won’t take long; as soon as she asks for money, I’m outta there.”
“Cool, dude. Have fun.”
“Buckets of it, I’m sure.”
In the car, Jack signed on as a solo unit, letting the dispatcher know he would be picking up his escort later.
“10-4, 5103, escort at the station for paperwork.”
“And could you mark me going to the Sherbourne subway station for a quick follow-up?”
“10-4, Sherbourne station.”
Jack could hear her keyboard clacking as she entered the information.
“Any idea how long you’ll be?”
“Can’t see it taking too long, dispatch.”
“Sounds good.” There was a pause, then, “Nice undies, by the way, 5103.”
Ten minutes later Jack pulled onto Howard Street, the little westbound-only road that marked St. Jamestown’s northern border. He passed the high-rises to his left without really seeing them. Was it just two weeks ago he and Brett had come down here in answer to Manny’s foot pursuit?
So much can happen in such a short time. He scratched the scar that was his memento from 53 Division. In two weeks, he had almost lost an eye, changed divisions, been promoted, so to speak, to platoon leader, seen a guy with his head crushed and held towels to a woman’s chest after she gave herself a double mastectomy. And paraded in front of his staff sergeant in his underwear.
And let’s not forget catching my wife trying to get pregnant behind my back, shall we?
Jack thought about that for a minute. Would it be so bad if Karen got pregnant? They wanted kids, were hoping and planning for kids. So what if it happened earlier than they expected? Would it really be that bad?
“Fucking right it would be,” he told himself.
A child was one thing. If Karen was pregnant now, it wouldn’t be a baby, it would be a lever. And Karen and her mom would use it to pry him out of 51, out of a job he loved, away from his friends and, eventually, away from policing altogether.
“You don’t do that to someone you love,” he muttered.
He and Karen had hardly spoken since he’d found the pregnancy test Sunday morning. The atmosphere at home was tense, to say the least, but what was there to say? She wanted a family and a husband who wasn’t a cop. He couldn’t think of doing anything else, anywhere else. He was a 51 copper to the core.
“Get your head in the game, Jack; you’re here,” he admonished himself.
Glen Road was a little stump that jutted off the north side of Howard. It sloped gently down and was lined with old houses and a squat apartment building on the east side. It was a dead end for cars but not pedestrians: there was an entry to the Sherbourne subway station and a concrete tunnel passing under Bloor Street and leading to a pedestrian bridge that spanned Rosedale Valley. Residents of Rosedale had an almost direct connection to the subway system. Would the people living in the affluent neighbourhood ride public transit? Jack doubted it.
He eased the car to a stop at the end of the street and saw his green-haired would-be snitch step out of the tunnel. A cold wind swirled the air around her and made her huddle deeper into her leather coat. Jack zipped up his coat as he walked toward her. She watched him approach with frightened eyes.
What’s she so spooked about? Dwyer’s in jail and shouldn’t get out this time. Jack figured he knew exactly where this was headed. I’m in no mood for a crackhead drama queen expecting to be paid for information.
“You called?” he asked, stopping in front of her.
She nodded, then glanced around, sharp nervous twitches. “I don’t want to talk out here. People might see.”
Definitely a drama queen. “Well,” Jack sighed, “why don’t we head down there and you can tell me what you have.” He gestured to the pedestrian tunnel. He could see that the bridge was boarded up but between the mouth of the tunnel and the temporary barricade was a platform, something like an observation deck. They could stand there and have what Jack expected to be a very brief conversation.
“Really?” She seemed surprised by the suggestion but quickly agreed and led the way down the tunnel. “I’m Lisa.”
“When did you stop working at Street City?” he inquired, making conversation.
“What? Oh. Um, in the winter. They fired me for no reason.” She glanced over her shoulder.
Jack was sure she wanted to see if he believed her. He didn’t. “That sucks,” he offered.
“Yeah, it does.” Lisa nodded, her head hunched between her shoulders. Jack saw only a patch of spiky green hair sitting on top of her coat. She looked like a Chia Pet.
They reached the deck and Jack squinted as he stepped into the light. Before his eyes could adjust, there was a flash of movement to his right and he was knocked off his feet. He crashed into a metal railing that outlined the deck; Jack clung to it to keep from going down.
There were two men in front of him. One of them — a crackhead by the look of his gaunt face, crooked nose and the way his army coat hung off his wasted body — was keeping his distance and massaging his wrist. Jack figured he was the one who had knocked him down. That one, cringing in the background like some hunchbacked sidekick, wasn’t the problem. The problem was front and centre and in Jack’s face.
Where the sidekick cringed, this man quivered with intensity. He had one muscular arm wrapped around Lisa’s chest and the other held something small and dark against her throat. The hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt was up and the morning sun behind him cast his face in shadows.
“Easy, man. Let’s not do anything hasty.” Jack cautiously rose to his feet, his left hand out beseechingly as his right slowly stole toward his gun.
“Uh-uh, copper. Hand away from the gun or I kill the bitch.” The man holding Lisa pressed his hand against her throat and she squealed as a thin trickle of blood slipped out.
Jack still couldn’t see what was in his hand.
Not again. Not again!
Suddenly, it was Sy held hostage in front of him. Gone was the morning sun and the sprawling valley. He was back in that laneway, that damned laneway, and Sy’s blood was fountaining through the air, vivid red across a sea of black.
No, no, NO!
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I thought you said he was some kind of badass motherfucker. He looks like shit to me.”
Voices. Voices in the dark. And just as suddenly Jack was back in the light and it was Lisa, a crackhead named Lisa, who was in danger, not Sy. Sy was dead. Dead and gone. Lisa was not.
“Hey, copper. You fucking pig, wake up.”
Jack banished the memories, the guilt and focused on the man in front of him. Sy’s ghost faded away once again.
“If you don’t want this bitch bleeding out, you’d better do the fuck as I say.”
“Whatever you want, man. Let’s just take it easy.” Jack was in deep shit and sinking fast. He’d walked right into a trap that was hidden from sight. He hadn’t told the dispatcher exactly where he would be. If he called for help, the subway station would instantly be swarming with cops, but how long would it take them to find him?
“Easy, my ass.” The man in the hoodie whipped his head back and the hood fell free.
And Jack’s gut sank. In shit? Fuck that, he was drowning in it. The man staring at him over Lisa’s shoulder was Randall Kayne. What had Mason said about him? Don’t try to arrest him on your own. He’s a badass and will hurt you. The eyes beneath the Mohawk burned with an insane bloodlust and Jack remembered Mason saying Kayne might want to cement his reputation by carving up a cop.
I’m fucked.
“You’re gonna follow me, pig. If you don’t, she dies. If you try anything, she fucking dies. You get the fucking picture?”
“Loud and clear.”
Kayne snapped at his sidekick. “Move the fucking board. Now.”
The sidekick hurried to the barricade and shoved aside a loose board, opening the way onto the pedestrian bridge. He ducked through and out of sight.
Oh, no. Fuck, no.
“C’mon, piggy.” Kayne carefully backed up to the wood fencing.
Sunlight fell on his hand and Jack could see that Kayne held a piece of slate to Lisa’s throat. Some might doubt the effectiveness of a stone blade, but there were people out there who had run into Kayne and would bear testimony to the stone’s edge for the rest of their lives.
Kayne stepped backward through the gap in the barricade and pulled Lisa in after him.
Jack knew going onto the bridge was wrong, and every nerve in his body screamed it. If he had his gun out, he could have chanced a shot; Kayne was close enough and his whole head was exposed. But to draw, sight and fire before he slashed open Lisa’s throat? Jack was good with the Glock but not that good. He had no choice. He had to play along and hope Kayne made a mistake. Either that or let a crackhead die.
Jack knew he couldn’t do that; his hands were already stained with Sy’s blood.
He stepped through the barricade.
Kayne walked backward along the bridge until they were over Rosedale Valley Road. Would a driver look up and see them? Unlikely. A section of the railing on the east side of the bridge was boarded up, hiding them from westbound drivers and the rising sun would be in the eyes of those driving the other way. Had Kayne planned it that way? Did it matter?
When Jack had got out of the patrol car, the wind had carried a chill with it. On the bridge, with nothing around them, the wind’s icy teeth tore at him.
“Now, copper, it’s just you and me.” Kayne flung Lisa away.
She slammed into the boards and screamed as they bent with her weight.
“Get lost, bitch,” Kayne snarled.
Lisa leapt to her feet. As she ran past Jack, she uttered a pitiful “I’m sorry” and fled from the bridge.
“Fuck me,” Jack whispered angrily. The whole fucking thing had been a set-up. If he hadn’t been so fucking obsessed with the shit at home, he might have seen it coming. Anger boiled inside him.
“You gonna shoot me, copper?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Jack admitted, his hand resting on his Glock.
Kayne tucked his stone knife inside his belly pocket and spread his empty hands wide. “You gonna shoot an unarmed man?” He spat and the wind whipped his spit away. “Hey, Jesse,” he called over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off Jack. “I thought you said he was some fucking badass motherfucker. Toughest fucking guy on the streets.”
Jesse, the sidekick, hadn’t fled with Lisa. Jack realized he was waiting for the showdown. He reminded Jack of a hyena, waiting on the fringe for the larger predators to make the kill. Waiting for his chance to feast.
“I tell you, Kayne,” Jesse the hyena called from a safe distance, “he’s the one who iced that dealer. You do him, kill him and your rep is set. Forever.”
“Is that what this is about?” Jack asked in disbelief. “Your reputation?” He pointed at Jesse. “And what the fuck is your problem? What have I ever done to you?”
“What have you —” Jesse sputtered, spittle flying from his lips. “You fucking asshole!”
Eyes blazing a maniacal fury, Jesse threw himself at Jack. Jack met the attack with a stiff left jab and Jesse’s nose, broken once before and never set properly, shattered again. Jesse fell to his knees and Jack shoved him away with a foot to the chest.
Kayne attacked.
Caught with one foot raised, Jack went flying and landed heavily on the wood planking. He rolled to his knees as Kayne rushed in. Jack blocked a knee to his face with his forearms, then wrapped his arms around Kayne’s legs. Jack twisted, heaved and Kayne toppled. Jack scrambled to get on top of the man in the hoodie, but Kayne was too fast. Both men rose to their feet.
Training screamed at Jack the cop to pull his baton or pepper spray, but Jack the cop was gone, buried beneath a primal rage that wanted to do nothing but hurt. All the shit, all the guilt and fear that he had fought and suppressed for the past six months, tore free of their chains and raged forward.
Jack lunged for Kayne and they grappled standing up. Kayne drove a knee into Jack’s stomach, then aimed another at his groin. Jack twisted and the knee slammed into his thigh. Pain, dulled by adrenalin, exploded in his thigh, but he ignored it and slammed his forehead into Kayne’s face. The head butt caught Kayne on the cheekbone and Jack followed up with a short elbow to the mouth.
Kayne fought back, hitting Jack repeatedly in the body and head, but Jack shrugged off the blows, never really feeling any of them. The rage inside him was too powerful to be stopped.
Jack slammed Kayne against the metal railing. Had the railing been only waist high, Kayne might have gone right over. But it was a good seven feet high and his head clanged off a metal post. He sagged in Jack’s grip, but the rage inside Jack wanted more. More pain, more blood.
He drew his elbow back and drove it powerfully, unforgivingly, into Kayne’s mouth. Skin split, teeth broke, Kayne became a dead weight in Jack’s arms. Jack let him drop to the planks.
Chest heaving, Jack fought to slow his breathing. He looked to his right and there was Jesse, cowering, no doubt wanting to flee, but Jack was between him and the exit. No longer was Jesse a hyena: he was a little cowardly shit.
Jack pointed a finger at him. “Stay put.”
He pulled out his handcuffs and bent to flip Kayne onto his stomach. Kayne’s hand lashed out fast and Jack was too slow. The slate’s razor edge slashed his neck and he felt a sudden burning across his throat. He staggered, his hands to his throat.
And in that instant, when he was positive he was dying, that little voice from the back of his head spoke again. Calmly. Condemningly.
You couldn’t save Sy. Now it’s your turn to die. Karen was right all along.
Jack pulled his hands away from his neck, forced himself to look at them, to look and see only a small smear of blood.
“Almost got you, copper.” Kayne laughed as he used the railing to pull himself up. He swung his stone knife in lazy arcs. “C’mon, pig. Let’s finish it.”
Jack glanced at the blood on his hands, the blood that told him how close he had come to dying and the rage flared anew. He threw himself at Kayne, who smiled in triumph and drove the piece of slate at Jack’s stomach. Against flesh the slate was deadly, but it was practically useless against Kevlar. The stone hit Jack’s vest, tore through the nylon carrier and jammed against the ballistic weave. The stone bit Kayne’s hand, ripping open his palm’s tender flesh.
Kayne screamed and dropped his weapon. Jack didn’t notice. He grabbed Kayne’s shirt, spun and flung him away. Kayne hit the wood that closed the gap in the railing and the flimsy barrier broke. He clutched madly at the wood still attached to the railing, but it could not bear his weight and tore free. His scream was cut short when he slammed into the street far below.
I hope he didn’t land on anyone’s car.
Jack’s adrenalin was fading and his thigh was knotting up like a son of a bitch. He limped over to the gap, gripped the railing firmly and leaned over. Kayne was a crumpled mass on the asphalt.
Jack wiped his throat, then licked the blood from his fingers. He spat the blood at Kayne’s corpse. He doubted he would hit the body, not with this wind, but he could always hope.
There was the sudden sound of running feet behind Jack and he realized he had turned his back on Jesse. Now he was leaning out into space with only one hand holding him safe.
You idiot, you fucking idiot.
But Jesse wasn’t running at Jack. Jack watched as Jesse threw himself through the barricade and disappeared into the tunnel. Jack knew he should chase him, but he was just too tired. Fuck it. I’ll get him another day.
He pulled his mitre out and keyed it. “5103 with a priority.”
Karen is going to fucking love this.
Crap. Going home in the dark. Fucking lovely.
Jack pulled his old leather jacket around him as he plodded to his car. Old jacket, old car. Old but familiar and right now he could use some simple comforts; it had been one hell of a long day.
First there was the on-scene investigation of Kayne’s death. Both Sergeant Rose and the detectives tore strips off Jack for getting suckered into such an obvious trap. Then a lengthy wait at North York General Hospital only to find out what he already knew: he was beaten and bruised, but nothing was broken. The cut on his throat wasn’t severe enough to require stitching. Then off to the station to be isolated in an empty office and just when he was about to go nuts from boredom the Association-appointed lawyer showed up and Jack got to repeat the whole messy story.
Right now all he wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. With his head pulled down into his collar for warmth and his thoughts far from the parking lot, he didn’t see Sergeant Rose until he almost walked into her. He stopped just short of plowing into her, but the way he felt he probably would have been the one to go sprawling.
“Sorry, Sarge. Didn’t see you.”
“No harm, Warren,” she told him with a tight smile. “I’ve been hit by bigger guys than you.” The sergeant was wearing her own beat-up jacket and had her car keys in hand.
“You’re still not here ’cause of me, are you?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” she reassured him again. “Someone had to run interference with the brass and SIU for you.”
“Thanks, Sarge, I appreciate that.” Jack grimaced. “Another SIU investigation. Lucky me.”
“Yeah, you’ve had one hell of a week, haven’t you?” Rose looked quickly about, but they were the only people in the poorly lit parking lot. “Listen, Jack. I’m really not supposed to be talking to you about this, but I think you should know: no one on our end is looking at you as the bad guy in this. We’ll leave that up to the pricks in the SIU.”
“Thanks. That’s good to hear.”
No doubt the civilian investigators would work the evidence and statements any way they could to bring criminal charges against Jack. But that was shit to be dealt with on a later day.
“Listen, Sarge. I’m bagged and just want to get home; if I’m lucky, I can put off the fight with my wife until tomorrow.”
“You’re a good man, Warren,” the big sergeant said, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “If your wife doesn’t appreciate that, call me and I’ll fucking tell her.”
Jack smiled, picturing Karen and Sergeant Rose having a heart-to-heart. “Thanks, Sarge. I may just take you up on that. Good night.”
Jack had taken only a few steps when Rose called out to him. He waited, shivering inside his jacket — as much from exhaustion as the cold — as she plodded over to him.
“Fuck, sorry, Jack. I almost forgot to tell you.” She frowned as if she were having second thoughts; then she shook her head and plunged in. “You know Brett Douglas up in 53, right?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. We worked together at times. He’s a good guy. What about him?” Judging from Sergeant Rose’s grim face, whatever had happened wasn’t good. “Don’t tell me he got involved in something, too. The last thing he needs is to have the SIU raking him over the coals.”
“He’s dead, Jack.”
The blunt words hit him like a sledgehammer. His knees suddenly buckled and he would have hit the pavement if Rose hadn’t grabbed him and leaned him against his car.
“What happened?” Brett dead? Jack had talked to him just the other day.
“He took his Glock home with him after work today and shot himself.” Again Rose was brutally blunt, as she should be; there was only one way to deliver shit news and that was quickly and directly. Explanations and answers could be given later.
Shot himself? “An accident?” Jack asked hopefully, but he knew the answer.
Rose shook her head. “No, it wasn’t an accident.”
“Shit,” Jack muttered. “I knew he wasn’t feeling good, was going through some trouble, but not this. Fuck.”
“I’m sorry to tell you after the day you’ve had, but I figured you’d want to hear it sooner than later and from someone you know.”
“Yeah,” Jack mumbled, nodding absently. “It sucks, but thanks again, Sarge.”
“You okay to drive?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “I can have a scout car take you home.”
Jack laughed bitterly. “No, thanks. I think I’ve had enough of the Toronto police for one day.”
Rose understood. “Go home, Jack, and get some sleep. You don’t have to come in tomorrow, so take advantage of it.”
Another sour laugh. “Yeah, I guess I’m off until the SIU decide how they’re going to fuck me.”
“They may want to, but they can’t,” she assured him.
Jack wanted to believe her, but he wouldn’t consider himself safe until there was an official ruling. Preferably etched in steel.
He settled into his old Taurus and cranked the engine. Like Jack, the engine just wanted to sleep and it refused to wake up. “Ah, c’mon, please,” he beseeched the old beast and it finally coughed to life. He offered silent thanks to the car gods.
The dashboard clock told him it was 9:15. Well past his day shift bedtime. But then again he was officially off duty during the investigation. Right now he was Injured on Duty; if the SIU had their way, he’d probably end up suspended, pending charges.
“Like I give a fuck right now,” he told the tired cop in the rear-view mirror and the cop agreed with him. Fuck it.
He raised a hand and gave Rose a tired wave as she drove past. Her tail lights flashed before she turned onto Regent Street and as soon as her car was out of sight, Jack broke down.
“Damn it, Brett!” he cried. “Why didn’t you call me? Why did you have to . . .”
He slumped in the seat and grief washed over him, a drowning tide of pain for a friend gone forever. For minutes he sat crying and in time the rawness searing his soul faded as he buried it beneath his cop mask.
“Sorry, Brett,” he said, his voice thick and sore from crying. “I just can’t handle this right now.”
He palmed his tears away, the heel of one hand grazing the bandage on his throat. Jack angled the mirror to check his throat. The slash had scabbed, but the scab was ugly; the doctor had slapped a bandage on it. There was so much gauze wrapped around his neck it looked like he was wearing an ascot, for fuck’s sake.
To take the bandage off or leave it on? What would freak Karen out the least? Or did it really matter? She was going to use his day as fuel for her argument to leave 51, to leave policing. Never mind that he had stopped a brutal, sadistic criminal. Or — here’s a thought! — maybe Jack wasn’t in the mood for a fight because he had killed someone today. Did anybody think about that?
Manny had. He had made it his personal mission to see that Jack didn’t go hungry or thirsty all day and when he wasn’t fetching food he was Jack’s doorman and bouncer, screening anybody who wanted to speak to Jack. Jenny had stopped in as well, at both the hospital and the station. The support of those two got Jack through the day. He only hoped Karen would be as sensitive.
Yeah, right.
Jack sat in his car, reluctant to head home. It wasn’t right. Sy had been right all those months ago when he told Jack that a supportive, understanding spouse was a copper’s greatest strength. So why was Jack thinking about taking Jenny up on her offer to crash on her couch if he needed a sympathetic ear?
“Fuck it, Jack, just head home and get the fight over with.” He yawned, then scrubbed his face to wake up. “But first some caffeine.”
He paused at the parking lot’s exit, considering where to get his hit of caffeine. “I think I deserve some of the good stuff and maybe a cookie to go with it.”
Jack turned south on Regent and west on Shuter, heading for the Second Cup at Church and Wellesley. An Earl Grey with honey and one of the oversized oatmeal cookies sounded just about perfect.
The sky was that oppressive grey-black only a late-winter night could fashion. Even the streetlights along Shuter seemed tired and dull. At least it wasn’t snowing. God, he couldn’t wait for summer.
Even though he was off duty, he scanned the streets as he drove. It was a habit he had developed when he transferred to 51 and it drove Karen nuts when she was in the car. He glanced at the Moss Park baseball field and hammered the brakes.
“What the fuck?”
Horns blared behind him and he swung to the curb, then slammed the car into park. He couldn’t believe it, just could not believe it. Jack got out of the car and headed for the baseball diamond.
The diamond sported bleachers and in front of the metal stands some asshole was tormenting a dog. The dog, a young German shepherd by the looks of it, was tied to the stands. The asshole was standing just out of reach, jumping in and out, teasing the dog. At least that’s what Jack hoped he was doing. If the owner was doing anything worse, someone was headed for the hospital.
As Jack reached the curb, his worst thoughts were confirmed. The owner, a red-headed shrimp, darted in and landed a heavy kick to the dog’s ribs. The dog yelped, then snapped back, barely missing the owner. Cackling with laughter, the owner feinted a kick, then slapped the dog on the head. The dog screamed — Jack didn’t know dogs could scream — and flopped to its side. It was up in an instant, snarling teeth flashing, but the rope snapped tight and its lunge was jerked short.
“Hey!” Jack roared as he got nearer. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The man stopped his scampering and turned to face Jack. The dog strained at the rope, snarling in defiance.
“None of your fucking business, asshole,” the man growled. Or tried to. His voice was as intimidating as his five-foot-nothing frame. His clown-curly red hair and disfigured nose didn’t help.
It was the hair that clicked in Jack’s memory. “Horner. You’re the fucking asshole we’ve been looking for all week.” Jack headed straight for the dog. There was no way he was going to let this piece of shit keep the poor dog.
“Yeah? Tough shit.” The little twerp leaped at Jack, his left hand — the one he had slapped the dog with — swinging wildly at Jack’s head.
Jack got his arm up to block the blow and pain lanced through his forearm. He grabbed Horner by the jacket and pulled him into a crushing head butt. The little man crumpled to the ground, blood from his newly broken nose gushing over his mouth and chin. He was on his knees and Jack knocked him onto his back with a nudge of his knee. Then he stomped on the guy’s left arm, pinning it to the ground. Horner had been palming a metal pipe tucked up his coat sleeve. Jack grabbed the pipe and tossed it away. He left the tough guy curled up on the ground, crying over his shattered nose.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” Jack spoke softly, crouching as he neared the dog. It was a German shepherd and young, no more than six months old. Its ribs were painfully visible. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, slowly inching closer to the dog.
The dog backed up, growling softly in its throat, but Jack kept on talking quietly and calmly. The real test would be when he moved inside the reach of the rope.
The dog’s fur was matted with dirt and blood clotted the fur around the right ear. He — Jack could tell it was a male when the dog began pacing in front of him, uncertain of this new human — was in rough shape and in need of some loving care.
“C’mere, buddy. I won’t hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.” Slowly, patiently, Jack coaxed the dog closer.
After a few minutes, the pup reached out to sniff his hand. Jack held perfectly still and let the dog come to him.
The dog growled and lunged. Jack threw himself out of the way, but he wasn’t the dog’s target. Horner had been sneaking up on Jack, his retrieved metal pipe held high over his head for a skull-bashing blow. The dog smashed into his chest. Horner fell backward, just out of reach of the dog’s claws.
Jack’s anger, on a tight leash most of the day, exploded again. Sanity was washed away in a sea of red and all that was left was a rage, primal and pure and it wanted nothing more than to beat this little piece of shit to death.
Jack threw himself at Horner and drove a knee into his ribs as he landed on him. Horner howled in pain, and Jack grabbed him by the throat with one hand and squeezed. He cocked his other arm, ready to smash Horner’s face into bloody pulp. A small part of his brain screamed at him to stop; the last thing he needed was to be arrested for assault.
Jack froze, his body quivering with the desire, the need, to pummel Horner into the ground. The red haze clouding his vision slowly receded and Jack dragged Horner by the throat over to the dog and dumped him just out of fang reach. With the dog’s bared muzzle inches from Horner’s face, Jack eased off on his throat, then crushed a knee on his chest.
Jack lowered his face so he was as close to Horner as the dog was. “If I ever see you with a dog again, I’ll fucking feed your balls to him, got that?” Horner didn’t answer. “Got that?” Jack yelled.
The dog barked and Horner flinched, then nodded frantically.
“This dog is leaving with me and if you’re smart — which I doubt — you’ll stay down until we’re gone.” Jack stood.
“Who are you?” Horner asked as Jack untied the dog’s rope.
Jack glared at him. “You don’t want to know who I am or what I am capable of.”
Horner cringed back as the growl in Jack’s eyes was echoed by the dog. “But . . . but what about my nose?” he cried.
“Consider it street justice.”
Jack headed for his car, walking slowly as the dog limped along beside him, favouring his right front leg.
“I hate to take you to the Humane Society, buddy, but anywhere is better than with that asshole.”
They reached the curb and the dog sat down as they waited for traffic. The dog nuzzled Jack’s thigh and looked up with big brown eyes. And that’s when Jack fell in love.
“Well, my friend, if Karen can have a baby behind my back, then I can bring home a dog. What do you say?”
Jack’s new friend thumped his tail in agreement.