Making it to the car, Rink drove. He used a service alley to edge out on to the next street up from where all the activity was. Immediately he looked for another, and he turned into it to take us further across Potrero Hill and out of the cordon of response vehicles. I was thankful that Jones and Tyler were unaware of Parnell’s status as a future victim in their homicide investigation; otherwise the cops would have descended on Hayes Tower en masse. The report would have been of shots fired, of a commotion in an apartment, but when they found no evidence of either the police activity would be scaled down. There was still that damned sprinkle of blood that might cause alarm, but with no assailants, victims or complainants in evidence, I expected the matter would be filed and that was all. There was always the possibility that Markus was still in the vicinity and that the cops would locate him, but I didn’t give it much credence. He was a dangerous and capable adversary, as I’d just concluded, and it wasn’t likely that he had hung around after such a lucky escape.
Hayes Tower would be out of bounds to him for the rest of the night, and in all likelihood the police would be present the following day as officers conducted door-to-door enquiries. My regret was that it was also a no-go area for us and we’d lost the advantage for trapping the killer. I trusted Harvey Lucas would come through for us though, and if our suspicions were correct, in that the killer was Charles Peterson’s firstborn son, then he would find him. Next time we would take Markus in a frontal attack that wouldn’t be messed up by outside interference.
‘What do you propose we do about Sean Chaney?’ I asked.
Rink had directed the car back towards downtown now that we were well away from Hayes Tower. He had tucked in behind a FedEx delivery vehicle on an evening run. Behind us was a taxicab with two female passengers. There wasn’t a cop car in sight. ‘Nothing yet. I think we let his dimwit heavies report back and see if he takes up your advice to leave town. If not, we’ll show him the error of his ways… once Markus Colby is squared away.’
‘I can’t help feeling we brought this on ourselves. We went after Chaney first. It’s no wonder he sent his boys after us in revenge.’
‘Cause and effect,’ Rink said. ‘Chaney shouldn’t have muscled Jed Newmark in the first place. It’s his fault. He started this, we’ll finish it.’
I didn’t reply. There was an answer for everything if you looked deep enough, and then twisted it to suit purpose. It made me consider who was to blame for the larger picture we were involved in now. We saw ourselves as the good guys, but I guessed that Markus also fancied himself as the great avenger, doling out justice to a group of murderers. Was he acting any differently than Rink, in that each was a son who wanted revenge for their slain father? What Andrew and the others did to Charles Peterson was horrendous, and if the shoe was on the other foot we could have been hunting them down. But the saving grace in all this was that Peterson had kicked everything off when he’d preyed on those innocent girls. Following Rink’s line of logic there was only one person to blame and that was Charles Peterson. His son was his emissary in the here and now, still intent on causing pain to his victims and their families, and — as a result — definitely the bad guy.
There are always circles within circles, some overlapping and converging, that serve to bring lives into conflict. That, I understood, was what had happened here in San Francisco. But it was also the way of the world. There was nothing I could do about it other than try to end the Rington versus Peterson loop before it continued through further generations. I knew that Rink had no children, but what if Markus Colby had a son? If so, we could find this war raging into eternity. I rejected that idea as not even worthy of a joke.
Chapter 30
Markus’s pain had gone through the entire spectrum of intensity, ranging from agonising to numb shock and all the way back again. Now it was somewhere in the middle, with an occasional flare towards the uppermost level, particularly if he attempted to move too sharply. Sweat beaded his brow and his flesh felt clammy to the touch, but otherwise he was clear-headed enough that he didn’t expect impending death. That didn’t stop him cursing his injury, or thanking his luck.
When he was shot the impact had spun him, and he’d gone over the edge of the balcony. Without doubt it had saved him from the second fatal shot that was on the cards. Even as he fell, some primal instinct for survival had made him release his pistol and grab for support. His right hand had clawed at the wall, then fixed around a metal protrusion, possibly a bracket at the base of the balcony rail. Whatever it was, he’d clung to it though the weight of his falling body had almost wrenched his arm out of its socket, then hung precariously for a few seconds while his feet scrambled for purchase. His fall had taken him into the open space of the second level down. It had been agonising building up the momentum to swing on to the next landing, but preferable to the pain he’d suffer if he fell the remaining five floors to the hard dirt below. Enduring the torture in his muscles he’d managed the swing and had collapsed on the cold tiles, breathing heavily. Above him the sound of a struggle was dull to his ears, and he would have liked to lie there for some time in order to recover. The pain shooting through his side galvanised him though and he struggled up to his knees, clamping his left palm over the wound to halt the blood flow. Every muscle fibre in his right arm throbbed, but he used it to hook over the balustrade and help himself to stand. Then he staggered towards the stairs and went down them as fast as his feet would carry him. Each step sent a new stab of pain through his frame, but there was nothing for it. He had to get away because the racket upstairs was sure to bring a police response. He couldn’t leave by the front door. His gun was out the back where it had fallen from his fingers.
He discovered the gun and slipped it inside his pocket, the shape cumbersome and awkward and pulling down on the fabric. If the cops saw him the weight in his pocket would be as much a giveaway as the blood streaming from between his fingers. At a loping run, he traced his way to the main street via the access passage he’d noticed pedestrians using earlier, and then hurried for his car at the far side of the tower. He drove away just as the first wail of sirens cut the air.
He had shed his jacket on arriving home at the crooked house. In his bathroom, he lifted his shirt to inspect the wound. The stranger’s bullet had struck him in the ribs on his left side. Only the fact that he’d been moving as the bullet hit, his body torqueing to one side, had saved his life. There was a deep groove in the flesh, a bloody set of lips in which the teeth were the exposed bones of his ribcage. The pinkish bones were scoured, one he was pretty certain was cracked. Luckily the bullet had struck and rebounded off the curve of the bones, otherwise his injury would be more telling. Really he should seek medical assistance, but he’d no way of covering up the fact that he’d been shot: any surgeon worth his salt would immediately recognise a gunshot wound, and was duty bound to report it to the police. So soon after the reports of gunfire at Hayes Tower he’d be hauled in for questioning, and it would only be a matter of time before a determined investigator began probing him for answers concerning the other shootings in town. He could point the finger of accusation back at the surviving conspirators, but it wouldn’t help. Vigilante justice was never tolerated, however well meaning. He’d go to prison. Unlike his earlier contingency where — should they be arrested — he could have them murdered in their cells, he’d have no way to get at the others then. Not while he was on the same side of the bars as they were. In all probability they would be sent to a different prison than him: if he was caught he’d end up in a Super Max, while they would do easier time at another less secure facility.