Steve returns inside and follows the crime again.
On the second pass, he sees it, a reflection within the reflection of the kitchen window, almost invisible except for the faint outline of the lens concealed in the leaves of a bush. He smiles and points his finger, his thumb up. As he pulls the trigger, he mouths the words, “Got you,” and hopes Dick is watching.
At that exact moment, his phone buzzes with a text. He pulls it out and, slightly stunned by the timing, reads Dick’s message:
Steve stares at the words, trying to decide whether or not to trust it. Constantly Dick has been two steps ahead, yet something about the veiled reference to Diego Ramirez along with the “you” convinces him. Irreverent of the law as Dick is, he has also proven to be honorable. So without a word to the detective, he leaves Cray’s house and drives to Pentco alone.
The bored night security guard tells him Dick is on the roof.
Steve climbs the three flights and pauses on the landing to catch his breath before pushing open the door.
Dick sits on the parapet, legs dangling over the edge and the tip of a cigarette glowing.
On hearing the door, he looks over his shoulder. “You got my message.”
“I did,” Steve says, stopping several yards from where Dick sits, his precarious perch concerning. “You left a bit of a mess at Cray’s place.”
“Not my best work.”
Dick flicks ash from his cigarette, and it flutters like snow toward the ground.
“I thought you quit?”
“I started again.”
“Can you get down from there so we can talk?”
“I prefer it up here.”
“Please.”
Dick swivels around with such recklessness Steve misinterprets it. “No—”
“Scare you?” Dick asks with a cockeyed grin.
Steve swallows, and Dick looks away. His feet are now on the tar roof, his back to the three-story drop. He takes another drag and holds it in his lungs before blowing a stream of smoke upward. The night is cool, but Dick wears only a dress shirt, and through the thin cotton, Steve is able to make out a strip of white around his forearm and assumes it’s a bandage over the cut he got at the scene, and he wonders who wrapped it. Janelle? Denise?
“Tonight wasn’t planned,” Dick says.
Steve nods. “If you turn yourself in, it will go better.”
Dick levels his eyes on Steve’s. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can. You turn yourself in. You’re hailed a hero. And if it goes to court, which is unlikely, it will be impossible to find a jury willing to convict, and that will be the end of it.”
“It won’t be the end of it, and you know it,” he says plainly. “Which is why, if I’m arrested, I’ll plead guilty. But we both know it’s better if that doesn’t happen.”
Steve’s nerves buzz with concern. Dick is looking at him so calmly, entirely serene and composed as he sits on the edge of a thirty-foot drop he openly intends to take. Over the years, Steve has seen his share of people teetering on the edge. He has felt their desperation along with their silent plea for help. This isn’t that. This Steve has never seen. Rationally and lucidly, Dick sits between the choice of turning himself in or leaving this world, and clearly, the latter is winning. An emotionless, thoughtful calculation has been made, and its conclusion, at least in Dick’s mind, logical and certain.
“The best scenario is that what happened tonight appears random,” he goes on, “a chance intervention by an accidental passerby who happened upon a crime, stopped it, then fled because he didn’t want to be involved.”
Desperately, Steve wishes that was the case, a little boy saved by a good person stopping a bad person from doing something bad.
“Otherwise,” Dick says, “as you said, I will be hailed a hero. My face will be plastered all over the news, and it will only be a matter of time before the connections are made to Otis and Hamilton.”
It was Steve’s exact thought when the ME mentioned Walking Tall.
“Which will lead back to you,” Dick continues. “And Dee. Possibly even Sheriff Barton. Things would spiral, and ultimately my actions would be revered. Which as you’ve pointed out, would be catastrophic. Rogue justice, if celebrated, or even tolerated, will lead to copycats and anarchy, and would undermine the foundation on which our justice system was built.”
Steve’s mind spirals wildly to come up with an argument to his own convictions, and he thinks it’s good most criminals’ IQs hover in the lower range. If they were all like Dick, cops wouldn’t stand a chance.
With a hard breath of frustration, he says, “Either way, the connection’s going to be made. You made the 9-1-1 call, and your blood was at the scene.”
“I don’t think so.”
Steve’s not sure but thinks he detects the twitch of a smile.
“You came here alone,” Dick says. “If you had shown up with a legion of cops, then yes, my fate would have been sealed.”
Checkmate, Steve thinks, the reason for the twitch. Steve came alone and played right into Dick’s hand.
“I was trying to do you a favor,” Steve says.
“No,” Dick says. “You came alone because you also recognized that it’s better if this doesn’t get out, so you chose to protect me.”
The shard of glass in Steve’s pocket grows warm.
He runs his hand hard through his hair. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going to let you kill yourself.”
Dick leans back slightly, his brows arching as he drives home the point that the choice isn’t up to him.
“Fine,” Steve says. “You win. It’s over. Tonight you were lucky, and that boy was lucky. Tell me this is where it ends, and I’ll see to it that the case goes cold.”
Dick takes a drag and blows the smoke out slowly before saying, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Are you kidding?” Steve spins and punches the air in frustration. “What part of ‘tonight you were lucky’ didn’t you understand?”
“I won’t make a promise I don’t intend to keep. As you said, tonight I was lucky and so was that boy. Which means, if I don’t die, there will be no choice but to continue to prevail.”
“That’s stupid. If you die, it’s over.”
“Yep.”
“That doesn’t make a goddamn bit of sense!” But even as he says it, he knows that it does. Dick doesn’t want to die, yet he will not compromise who he is to save himself.
His frustration at critical mass, Steve says, “You know I can’t just continue to let you keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
Dick nods. “Hence, our spectral gap.”
Steve has no idea what that is.
Dick helps him out. “A problem that is unsolvable.” He snuffs the cigarette on the parapet. “Steve, it’s okay. I’ve said my goodbyes and made my peace. All I want now are a few minutes alone to say my final prayers and smoke one last cigarette.”
Steve considers tackling him off the wall but knows there’s more chance of sending them both over the edge than saving him. He tries a Hail Mary pass.
“You know, you might not die. People have been known to survive greater falls.”
“Let’s hope I get lucky,” Dick answers, unconcerned, then with a sad smile, adds, “It’s a beautiful night.” He nods at the clear starlit sky. “And I’m as good as I’ll ever be. I have something worth giving up and something worth saving. How many can say that, then choose their final moment of destiny?”
The words pierce. Steve has seen it in war, brave soldiers, usually damaged, who have seen a lot of death and decide they’ve had enough. Looking at a future they don’t want, they decide instead to face their maker on their terms. Some choose to go out in a blaze of glory. Others opt for noble self-destruction with a purpose. Seppuku is what the Samurai call it, a death of honor.
A lump forms hard in his throat. While he doesn’t want Dick to die, he also doesn’t want to mess up his death.
Dick, perceiving the change, says, “Thank you,” and the tightness in the words belies the veneer of calm Dick has maintained throughout the exchange.
Steve holds Dick’s eyes for another second, the color the same remarkable green as Denise’s, then with the smallest nod, forces himself to turn and walk away.
When he reaches the door, he stops.
Turning back, he says, “I wish it could have been different. I love your sister, and she loves you. I want you to know, I intend to win her back and to take good care of them.”
He continues through the door and doesn’t see Dick nod or his shoulders heave.