Finn hopscotched from black and white to black and white until he was at the end of the half circle. Each cop he passed gave him a look; one that said 'stay safe'. The rank and file knew about him, of course, but there were degrees of separation between him and the uniformed officers at his old division that made them more forgiving of his presence. Tonight it wouldn't have mattered if he had betrayed the whole force, they still would have wished him well because he was putting himself in harm's way for Shay.
"Here we go, boyo," Finn whispered.
He drew his gun, crouched down and ran toward the low rider. Once there, he threw himself against the back left wheel and put his butt on the concrete drive. His weapon was up, clutched in both hands. He counted to three and consciously relaxed them. Soft hands he remembered his father instructing when he was just a boy. That's how you catch a ball solid, son. Relax the hands and you'll be ready for the next thing that's thrown your way. Rigid hands are useless.
Soft hands, boy.
Soft hands.
Finn relaxed his grip, but quieting his heart and mind were another matter. If this situation came to a showdown, Finn wasn't at all sure he could shoot another human being again. Evil or not, could he look a man in the eye and pull that trigger?
Having no answer to that question, Finn had no choice but to move forward. He pushed off, stayed low and then threw himself across the ten feet between the front of the car and the side of the house. He fell badly, recovered, scrambled close to the structure and put his back up against the wall. Boots planted on the hard ground, he pushed himself up into a standing position. His vest scraped against the old wood as he slid across it and he could feel big splinters breaking off as he went. Though the early morning was cool, his shirt was soaked with sweat underneath the body armor. He crooked his arm and wiped the perspiration away from his eyes, raised his face and listened to the eerie quiet.
He knew this neighborhood. Not this one specifically, but ones like it all over Los Angeles. Every night the people who lived here drifted off to the sound of gunfire, children slept on mattresses on the floor to hedge their bet against being killed by stray bullets, drugs were bought and sold, good people were robbed, burglarized and brutalized. Tonight, though, this neighborhood was as quiet as a tomb. It was as if everybody on this block were holding their collective breaths, knowing something big was coming down and praying whatever it was it would not come down on them.
Finn raised his eyes to the second floor. There was only one small window on this side of the building. The kitchen window was on the first floor. There was a screened-in sun porch to his right but all of it was as dark as the rest of the house. Only the room where Marbles kept vigil was lit and that meant the man wasn't too swift. He might as well be on stage in the spotlight. Finn waited. Marbles had gone silent.
There could only be a few reasons why Marbles was not engaging the officers in the street. One: He had run out of ammunition. Two: He had taken himself out with the last shot. Three: He was focusing on whoever was in the house with him. There was also a fourth possibility. It was one Finn didn't like at all. Option four: Marbles had seen him coming and was lying in wait for him.
If that were the case, the gangbanger might have the advantage if he knew this house well. Then again, Finn knew something of houses like this too. His family had lived in one when they first came to this country. These old houses had steep stairs and rooms that jutted here and there – pantries and closets, nurseries and sunrooms. Not like the new houses, all sleek and open. Hopefully this call hadn't been domestic violence at all but something more manageable like home invasion. That would mean Marbles was unfamiliar with this particular floor plan and that might give Finn a slight advantage.
Glancing up once more to confirm no other lights had gone on, Finn found himself looking at an old black woman in the neighboring house. She was white haired and seemed neither curious nor alarmed. She was simply leaning on the sill of her upstairs window watching him.
"Do you know how many people live in this house, missus?" Finn spoke as loud as he dared as he pointed his gun upward. In answer, the old woman slammed the window and disappeared.
"I'll take that as a no," he muttered.
In the distance, two dogs went at each other with a viciousness that could only end badly. When they went suddenly silent, Finn assumed one of them had torn the other's throat out. It seemed to be a night for fighting to the death.
He looked at the apartment building behind the house. Lights were on in almost every unit and yet no one was looking out the window. There was a dilapidated detached garage on the back of the property. Part of the door had been eaten away and Finn could see through the hole. There was nothing but junk inside.
Keeping low, Finn crab-stepped the length of the house, paused at the corner and looked into the backyard. It was small and overgrown. There was a child's tricycle and an old bar-b-que. A vine grew up from the bottom and into the hood of the grill. The child's toy, while well worn, was newer and that worried Finn. The last thing he needed was a wee one getting in the way or being used as a shield.
He skirted around the back, went past the screened in porch and took the three steps up to the back door, leading with his weapon, eyes sharp. The door was barred. He let go of his gun with one hand, took the handle and tugged. It didn't give. He stepped back and looked up. The upstairs windows weren't barred but there was no way to access them. From the street he heard someone with a megaphone hailing the house. He blessed Sergeant Van for the diversion and hurried back down the stairs. Given the age of the house, he was hoping to find the one thing that wouldn't be found in any house built after 1950: a cellar.
And there it was, padlocked. Finn found his phone and turned on the flashlight. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have laughed at what he saw. The padlock hung onto a slat of wood but the wood above and below it was rotted. He flipped off the light, raised his heavy boot and with one swift kick the problem was solved and he was on his way.
Dawn was creeping upon the night slowly and there was just enough light to brighten the stairs that led into the cellar. Finn took them carefully until he was standing on dirt, surrounded by footings that secured the lumber that held up the house above him. This was more a glorified crawl space than a cellar, but there was enough height for him to move around with only a slight stoop. With his phone lighting the way, Finn crossed to a flight of wooden stairs that would take him inside the house. This place was dark and damp and home to something that scurried along the far wall. He would be happy to be out of it but, just as his hand reached to open the door at the top of the stairs, he heard the sound of a shotgun blast as if from a great distance. Then he heard someone on a bullhorn.
Finally, when the only thing Finn heard was his own breathing, he tried the door that would let him get inside. It wasn't locked and moved smoothly as he inched it open and slipped through. That was the first small favor granted him. The second was that he could hear the man upstairs pacing on an uncarpeted floor. From the rhythm of his steps Finn knew that Marbles was thinking, planning and worrying. He went back and forth and then forward quickly in the direction of the front window where he paused. Finn counted those quiet seconds and then listened as the pattern was repeated.
This was the walk of a nervous man, one who was desperately trying to reason himself out of an unreasonable situation. But even Marbles knew there were only two ways out: through a hail of bullets from the LAPD who had surrounded the place or walk out with his hands up. Marbles, he was sure, was not the kind of man to give up easily, so Finn would help him make that decision.
He stepped into the house and found himself in the kitchen. It was neat enough even though the cabinets had been rifled through. He could smell onions and rice. Finn took a look into the adjacent room. It had once been an elegant dining room with its leaded windows and wainscoting, but now it was filled with mattresses. Each had a pillow and thin blanket. Clothes and shoes were tossed about. There were a few satchels, a backpack or two.
From upstairs came a burst of gunfire and the sound of Marbles screaming in Spanish. The man on the bullhorn spoke back in English, but Finn couldn't make out any of what was being said. Not that it mattered. He knew the drill: keep Marbles talking, take him alive, don't screw up so that the next thing their captain saw was a headline screaming police brutality, decrying the murder of a person of color even if the crazy man upstairs had shot a police officer.
Such was the way of the world these days, but the politics of this situation were not his concern. Finn walked across the mattresses, stepping carefully when he got into the entry hall. There he laid up against the wall, faced the staircase, and kept his eyes on the front door. He had put his phone away because he had no trouble seeing now. Between the headlights coming through the thin sheets and towels covering the windows and the bright light from the middle room upstairs, there was enough light. Directly across from him was an empty sitting room. He was within reach of the front door. He could see the bathroom down the hall and a side entrance to the kitchen.
Confirming no one was about, Finn inched to the door and tried to throw the lock. It was old and would have made too much noise if he tried to open it, so he let it be. The risers on the staircase were steep and worn and were a straight shot to the second floor. Finn hoped that whatever was happening out front was keeping Marbles so busy he wouldn't hear his approach – an approach he suddenly couldn't begin.
For all Finn's resolve, he found himself paralyzed. He hands shook and he fell back against the entry hall wall, twirling into the dining room. His heart pounded and raced, his soft hands went slack and he lost his grip on his weapon. His own sweat chilled him while the vest weighed him down. Finn let go of his gun with one hand and wiped his palm against his jeans. He did the same with the other hand.
He had not fired his weapon since he had drawn it in that alley in self-defense and killed a fellow officer. That rogue officer would have beaten both him and a homeless man to death had he not been stopped. Finn had never meant to kill him; he only meant to warn him. Yet kill the officer he had. Now another cop lay wounded – possibly dead – in the front yard of a dilapidated house, face down on the scruff of lawn, watched over by a hellish animal and Finn, the man who could save her, was choking. In Finn's mind the two officers were one and the same in that the fault for their deaths would always be his. He put his head back against the wall, closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He prayed for Officer Shay and then he vowed that his indecision would not be the difference between Shay living or dying.
Weapon firmly in hand, his heart slowing to match his steps, Finn took the stairs one step at a time. Through the front windows the pink light of dawn was creeping slowly behind him and shading the upstairs a pretty shade of gray. He could see that the risers were worn, the middle of each one sagged and the wood was dull with wear. Finn walked the edges, his back to the far wall, straining for his first look at the second floor. When got to it, his gut wrenched.
Three men and a woman, bound and gagged, were propped up against the wall between two doorways. Each had been beaten. Two had perfect pistol shots in the middle of their foreheads and two had their heads nearly taken off with the blast of a shotgun. Another man lay on his stomach at the entrance to the room where Marbles kept his murderous watch. That man's feet stuck out into the hallway.
Finn clicked down a step when he heard Marbles walking, following the pattern, angry words bursting out of his mouth only to be swallowed back. Finn eased down a bit as the man came toward the hall, pivoted sideways, changed course and returned to the window. Marbles would stay there for a good forty-five seconds if the pattern held. Finn raised his head and took the next stair. He took the next one and the next one, breathing easier as he put his foot on the landing. That was a mistake. He had not tested it to see what weight it would bear and as the boards groaned everything went to hell.
Marbles rushed to the hall, screaming profanities and God knew what else as he jumped over the body sprawled in the doorway. He went up on the balls of his feet, raised his shotgun and swung wide; pointing it at the dead as if he assumed one of them still lived. Finn dropped to one knee, trying to commit to memory the important things he saw, but only the sawed off shotgun and the pistol in the man's belt were relevant. Finn raised his gun hoping to get a drop on the man but Marbles had a sixth sense. He swung toward Finn, landing with his feet wide and his shotgun steadied against his hip with both hands. The minute their eyes met, Finn froze. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.
The man was lean like a wolf and fearless of the person who had come into his den. Finn's eyes bore into his, looking for a clue as to his intentions, but there was nothing to see and that put the detective at a deadly disadvantage. Corner-to-corner, top to bottom, those orbs were inky black, as if Marbles had shuttered himself away from the world. Finn dropped down a step, fell to his stomach, spread his legs and anchored his feet to the riser below for leverage. He called:
"Police! Drop your weapon."
The shotgun did not drop. Seconds of silence ticked by until suddenly Marbles laughed. He laughed despite the dead man sprawled at his feet and the people lined up like broken, discarded dolls against the wall. The sound of that laughter enraged Finn. He pushed against the stair just enough to lift his shoulders. The barrel of his gun went through the spindled railing and was steadied by the lip of the floor above. He aimed at the man's chest intending to kill him because this was not an alley on a dark night. There was no moral dilemma here. This was about justice for innocents and Finn O'Brien was going to dispense it. He pulled the trigger but his aim was off and the bullet tore into the man's shoulder, shattering the bone, ripping through the muscle.
In that split second the world was filled with noise: the blast of Finn's gun, the thud of the bullet hitting flesh, the screams of the wounded man as he fell, the frantic calls from outside as the officer in charge directed his people.
Finn was up the stairs, kicking away the rifle, planting his boot on the man's chest as he holstered his own weapon. He tore the handgun out of Marbles' waistband and threw it aside. When he went to search Marbles' pockets, the bastard dared to grab Finn's leg and try to fight. Finn yanked away and put his boot to the man's palm. He heard the crack of bones. He saw the blood gushing from the man's shoulder, staining the old wood floor. He saw Marbles writhing and the man's mouth open to scream. Finn saw everything as if it were a nightmare and Marbles the monster. The man was tatted head to toe: cheeks, lips, eyelids, ears, neck, arms. Every inch of exposed skin was covered with angry words and demon images. The man's shaved head was not spared. There were piercings in his ears. Two of them were threaded with gold rings and one studded with a diamond.
It was only when Finn realized that the hand under his foot was beginning to feel like jelly, that he snapped out of it and went to work. He searched every inch of the bastard, his hands going up and down Marble's legs and into the pockets of his jeans. He flipped Marbles onto his stomach and yanked his arms behind him, taking great pleasure in the man's howls when the cuffs were ratcheted a click tighter than necessary. He raised his voice and read the vile thing his rights. Then the detective left him lying in his own blood on the floor and stepped back intending to go to the window to give Sergeant Van a sign that it was secure in the house. He never made it to the window. Through all the noise inside and out, Finn heard a sound coming from the next room down. Drawing his gun once again, he went around Marbles:
"Who's in that room? Who, you bastard?" Finn hissed.
But Marbles only cursed and wailed and demanded that he call a doctor, so Finn left him and crept down the hall to the closed door without knowing what he would find. He put his hand on the knob and determined that it wasn't locked. Listing to the right, he was barely breathing as he turned that knob in full and threw the door open. It swung wide, banging against the wall as he fell back, out of the line of fire. When nothing happened, Finn split-stepped in the doorway, arms locked as he went into the room, keeping his back to the wall. He flipped the light switch and an overhead glowed lemony yellow, not bright enough to blind him but bright enough to see the room was bare of furniture. He targeted twelve o'clock. He snapped to three o'clock. He had his sights on nine o'clock. Finn covered every corner of the room and in the last one he saw what had made the noise that caught his ear.
Two children, bound, gagged and beaten, were lying on the floor. Their dark eyes were frantic and bright with fear. Their little bodies were bound in such a way that, had they not moved, he would have mistaken them for trash.
Had anyone asked Finn what happened next, he would not tell the truth because what he did was wrong. He did not go for the children, gather them up and comfort them. He did not loosen their bonds. He did not check their wounds. He did not call out to Sergeant Van. Instead Finn strode back to Marbles, stepped over him and grabbed up the shotgun he had kicked away when the man went down. Finn took a knee and grabbed Marbles' face. He pressed his fingers hard into the man's cheeks until his lips opened. Marbles tried to snap his head back and shake Finn off, but the detective's fingers were like a vice, holding the skin tight against the sharp teeth beneath it. Marble's drooled and bled and made guttural sounds of terror as Finn shoved the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun into his mouth.
"Look at me," Finn growled as the fingers of his right hand tightened on the trigger and the left ones pinched Marbles' ink stained face harder.
He could do it and no one would be the wiser. He could say Marbles took his own life and everyone would believe it because of who Finn was and because of who Marbles was. There would be no contest.
"Look at me!" Finn shouted, knowing God would thank him for sending this man to hell. "Look at me because I'll be the last boyo you see before you stand for judgment."
But when the man did as he was told, when those black eyes met Finn O'Brien's ice blue ones, the detective went limp. With a groan, he fell away. The barrel of the shotgun slid out of the man's mouth. Finn sat upon the floor, the gun in his lap, cradled in his arms like a baby as his heart drained of hatred.
Marbles would live because the one thing Finn wanted – to see fear in this man's eyes before he left the world – was the one thing he could not have. There was nothing to see in those ink-stained orbs.
Nothing.