CHAPTER 43

 

Farrell sat in the damp sand, staring off into the water of the San Francisco Bay. San Francisco Bay was cold at night, just like Farrell had told Kearns it would be. Yet the chill in the old cop’s bones didn’t originate entirely from the night air.

He’d ended up back in Alameda, but not by design. He drove into Oakland and cruised aimlessly until the trembling in his hands impeded his steering. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over by a cop for an inadvertent traffic infraction.

Farrell was reasonably sure his identity was still unknown to the cops, but he dare not risk going home to San Francisco over the Bay Bridge in so thrashed a car. The CHP would pull him over in an instant.

He’d wandered through Oakland. His meandering route eventually took him over the Miller-Sweeney Bridge and back again into residential Alameda. He followed Broadway Street to Bayview Drive, where it ended at the beach. Soon he was on Shoreline Drive, watching the San Francisco skyline reflect off the choppy waters of the Bay.

He pulled over near Grand Street. His hands were shaking so badly the car was weaving in the lane. His eyes were tearing, partly from the chilly air blasting through the shattered windshield, and partly from the trauma of the past hour.

Farrell left the Alameda police shotgun in the car, along with his own, and put on his overcoat. He pocketed the two service revolvers he’d taken from the Alameda cops, and also the bottle of bourbon from the back seat. He peered into the cooler at the sandwiches, but the thought of ingesting them made him gag. Farrell wasn’t concerned about leaving the car. It was a rental, purchased under an assumed identity. His shotgun couldn’t be traced to him either; it too was purchased back in Iowa with a false ID. Farrell opened the trunk and took out a red gasoline can. He unscrewed the cap, and poured the gallon of gas liberally over both the interior and exterior of the Oldsmobile. He’d already grabbed the yellowed medical file on Slocum they’d stolen from the veterans’ hospital in Des Moines.

Though only a few weeks ago, Des Moines seemed a lifetime away.

Farrell tossed a road flare into the car’s interior and walked away as it lit up the night.

He walked across Shoreline Drive to the beach. He strode directly to the waterline, through sand moist and deep. There on the hard-packed sand Farrell walked westward, lumbering under the burden of his many guns and papers. San Francisco’s lights loomed large across the Bay. He heard sirens. He walked until he could walk no more. He plopped down at the water’s edge cross-legged and put his face in his hands. They were still shaking. He could see the lights of the police and fire vehicles in the distance, attending to the pyre that was once his car.

Things had gone terribly wrong. Kearns was dead. His body lay on the floor of a home belonging to people he’d died protecting; strangers he’d never even met. Farrell fumbled in his pockets for the bottle of bourbon.

He knew it was over. Kearns was dead and Slocum had escaped. He’d never be able to track the deranged killer again, even if he knew where to look. His chances of finding the murderer again were zero. He’d failed. Game over.

What consolation he took in rescuing the Ballantine girl faded quickly. Slocum would find another Kirsten Ballantine, or Tiffany Meade, or whoever. It was inevitable. It’s what Slocum did.

Farrell uncapped the Jim Beam and took a long pull from the bottle. The scorching rush of the bourbon took the shakes from his hands. He took another swig and stared out at the water. The bourbon lent some warmth to his body, and after another swig he felt his hands begin to steady even more.

Farrell lit a cigarette, sucking in the smoke. He thought about turning himself in. Give Scanlon and the FBI what information he possessed about Slocum and hope they could track him down, even if only for prosecution and not death. Farrell had his chance, and he’d fucked it up. Not only did he fail to bag Slocum, he cost a young deputy, a kid really, his life. A kid who Farrell tricked into becoming part of his scheme to hunt down Vernon Slocum.

Farrell drank some more bourbon. Normally, his tolerance to alcohol was quite high. But the day’s stark events had whittled him to near exhaustion, and the booze was sinking in.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

Despite the setback in Omaha, Farrell never felt he was not in control. He’d always believed he could handle the situation, whatever came up. But when he first saw Deputy Kevin Kearns, tortured by his guilt in the death of Tiffany Meade and under the grill by Scanlon and the FBI, he should have heeded the warning. He should have recognized the shadow of himself in Kearns’ face. And he should have realized he was projecting his own shroud of guilt on the young deputy.

Farrell told himself he was doing the right thing, going after Slocum alone, and in convincing Kearns to accompany him, affirmed that belief. He’d told Kearns it was a simple thing, really; a matter of good versus evil. And he implied that they were on an epic quest. Doing what nobody else could do.

Saint George versus the dragon.

But the dragon won.

Farrell pulled Kearns’ wallet out of his pocket. Other than a bit of cash and his Iowa driver’s license, it contained nothing but a folded scrap of paper. He stared at Kearns’ photo, and at the face of the young cop. A kid he had used, betrayed, and left dead on the floor of a stranger’s house far from his home, for reasons which now seemed inconsequential.

With half the bottle gone, the biting cold of the San Francisco Bay seemed to diminish a bit. Farrell helped himself to another large swig, and lit another cigarette. He unfolded the piece of paper. He instantly recognized the feminine script. It was his daughter’s phone number, written in her own hand. She’d obviously given it to Kevin herself.

Farrell felt hollow and drained. He spat out his cigarette and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. He’d have to tell Jennifer, and soon. He couldn’t let her find out any other way. It wouldn’t take the Alameda cops long to identify the John Doe in Ballantine’s house as Story County Sheriff’s Deputy Kevin Andrew Kearns.

Why had Kearns gone into the house alone? Why hadn’t he come back to the park? Did he hear something inside? Did Cole or Slocum draw him in?

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t Kearns’ fault. It was Farrell’s fault. It was Farrell who indirectly let Kevin die on Cole Ballantine’s floor. Because it was Farrell who brought him into the mix in the first place. It was Farrell who exploited the young deputy’s pain, and guilt, and coaxed him into partaking in the lethal hunt for a murderous madman, knowing full well the deputy wasn’t up to the task. And it was Farrell who introduced Kearns to Jennifer. Using his own daughter like he used everybody else. He drained the bottle in a series of continuous gulps.

Farrell stood shakily up. The energy vacuum he experienced in the aftermath of the earlier adrenaline rush was intensified by the bourbon. He felt he could close his eyes and sleep on the beach forever. He had to find a place to sort things out. His mind was reeling. He would deal with this in the morning.

He staggered from the beach to the sidewalk and began to walk towards the distant lights of the South Shore Shopping Center. The stores were still open in the run up to Christmas.

Farrell hadn’t gone a block when a taxicab pulled up. Its driver was apparently trolling the beach in search of patrons. Farrell raised a wobbly arm and mumbled, “Taxi!” in a slurred belch.

The cab pulled over, and a middle-aged African-American got out.

“Take it easy dude,” the cabbie said. “You got to be cool. This here’s a navy town. Alameda cops cruisin’ the beach day and night for fucked-up motherfuckers like you. Where you goin’?”

“Need to find a hotel,” Kearns slurred.

“You want fancy or economy?”

Farrell patted the thick wad of bills in the envelope in his pocket.

“I want fancy. Not in Alameda. You know a place?”

“I’ll take you to the Hyatt, near the Oakland Airport. That cool?”

“Sounds cool as hell,” Farrell slurred. The cabbie opened the door and he climbed in. Farrell closed his eyes.

An instant later the cabbie was shaking his shoulder. “We here. Wake up now, we here.”

Farrell sat heavily up. He allowed the cabbie to lead him to the lobby, where he leaned heavily on the registration desk. He fumbled in his pocket for some bills and gave the cabbie three twenties. The cabbie grinned and walked off, muttering something about “drunk-assed fools.”

The registration clerk frowned first at Farrell’s breath, his bloody face, and then at his lack of luggage, but relaxed when he saw the cash. The clerk gave him a key to a room on the second floor after relieving him of several bills. Farrell staggered off to the elevator.

By the time Farrell got out of the elevator on the second floor and put his key in the lock, the walls of the hotel were spinning wildly. He entered the room, closed the door, and locked the chain. He turned on the lights to find a tastefully decorated room with a king-sized bed.

He shrugged out of his coat and jacket. The fact that his pockets contained five revolvers made this task all the more difficult. He withdrew the thick medical file from his waistband and tossed it on a table. He struggled to remove his trousers and kicked off his shoes. Then he collapsed on the bed.

Farrell fell asleep immediately, and slept fitfully for the next fifteen hours. He dreamed of a dragon which slaughtered a medieval village.