So there it was. Garrett was murdered by a man he thought was his friend as he sat in his car in the rain and looked out at a bridge that was his past and his future. It had gone down pretty much as we had reconstructed it, though the shooter was not who we expected. A shudder broke over me like a towering, cold wave.
“Why the earring, John?”
“Why not? I knew you’d find out about Squeaky Clean when you looked into Garrett. Jordan dropped it at a party. I picked it up to give it back to her but I thought I might use it for something someday. Speculation again. Then, when I imagined what would happen down there by the bridge, I thought I’d throw the earring into the brew.”
“The backing had fallen off so you got a different one.”
“I bought a cheapie thrift-store earring with the same kind. I figured if you got far enough to compare backings, you’d wasted plenty of valuable time.”
“Yes,” I said. “Some.”
“But the call to Cramer is what sank me, Brownlaw. Why did you do that? Why not check the log to see who signed in at the Property Annex that day and just leave it at that? I mean, years had gone by. Anything could have happened to that gun.”
“I’m stubborn,” I said.
“You sure that partner of yours isn’t on her way up here?”
“I talked to her just an hour ago. She’s in Wyoming with Hollis Harris. Scout’s honor.”
“I never planned to hurt Stella. But she’s mine now, and I’ll kill her if I have to. Don’t make me do that.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Nobody has to kill anybody. But SWAT’s going to be here any minute. They’ll surround you with sharpshooters and wait you out. You’ll get hungry and cold while they eat and drink coffee. That’s news-at-eleven stuff, John — cameras and everything? That’s for losers. You’re better than that. Come on down. I’ll drive you out before the cameras even get here.”
Van Flyke’s face disappeared for a moment. I tried to see McKenzie through the burned forest. I saw nothing alive but a bright blue jay peering down at me like a prosecutor. Then Van Flyke was back. “I thought we could make the Arizona border before it got too hot,” he said. “Figured there was just enough air in the trunk.”
“The chopper got you,” I said.
“Then all the way back to Florida. I’d have kept driving.”
“You’re kind of stuck now, John.”
He was quiet for a minute but his face remained in the tall window, low and right.
“You really see her for what she is, don’t you?” asked Van Flyke. “I could tell when you came to the restaurant that day. How you looked at her.”
“She’s got something rare,” I said.
“She sure does.”
“My wife has it, too,” I said.
“So, Brownlaw — I’ll leave her here if you let me get to my car. I’d rather die in a high-speed chase than from a sniper.”
“Deal,” I said. “But you have to show me she’s alive. I’m not trading for a corpse, John.”
His face vanished again.
A few seconds later, Stella was in the window. Van Flyke was behind her, his wrists jammed under each of her armpits, either holding her up or holding her steady — it was hard to say which. He had a big automatic in his hand. Stella’s head lolled to one side, then seemed to find upright balance for a moment, then swung heavily to the other. In that brief attempt at balance, I could tell that she was alive.
I realized that if McKenzie were to come through the door to that room right now, she’d be unable to shoot Van Flyke without shooting Stella too, unless she was good enough to get him in the head.
“She can’t stand up,” said Van Flyke. “I overdid it.”
“She looks fine to me,” I called out. “Put her down, John. You’re free to get back to your car. Put her down!”
Suddenly the ABLE helicopter appeared in the middle distance, hovering low over the crosses of the vineyard and raising a black cloud. Van Flyke couldn’t see it from his window, but he could hear it. I looked through the trees to the road behind me and saw the flash of metal and paint as the SWAT trucks piled to a stop behind my car.
I could tell by the angle of Van Flyke’s head that he had seen them, too. He dropped Stella. I brought up my Colt and aimed at him. He turned quickly away and I heard the four quick pops beneath the roar of the advancing helicopter. Van Flyke backed up and sat on the sill, arms out as if for balance. Two more pops and he slumped out of the window and cascaded three floors down, landing in a fatally shapeless heap.
McKenzie appeared in the window, gun in hand, looking down at Van Flyke, then to me.
29
I sat with Stella for a while in the hospital that evening. I had the feeling she wanted me to stay and was talking to keep me there.
Her right eye socket was purple, her eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a three-stitch cut on her brow. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but she did remember trying to drive a fingernail file into Van Flyke’s back and being hit in the face for her trouble. She had clear memories of the first part of her abduction, followed by hazy recollections, courtesy of the Valium-morphine cocktail he had injected into her. She had attacked him two or three times. He had struck her. He had choked her unconscious at least once. He had kissed her forcefully and seemed to be preparing to rape her, then stopped and apologized. He had cursed and talked to himself a lot. He had not seemed sure what he was trying to accomplish.
McKenzie came by around seven. She looked just as drained and suspicious as she had looked after the officer-involved-shooting interviews we gave to Captain Sutherland and his Professional Standards team. She brought a yellow rose in a slender vase and set it next to the plastic water pitcher on Stella’s rolling tray. Stella offered her a very small nod and that was all.
After the hospital I got drive-through food and took it home. I called McKenzie and we talked for quite a while.
The aftermath of a fatal shooting is a tricky thing. You think you’re okay with what you did, and then you feel tremendous doubt that you did the right thing. You tell yourself there was nothing else you could have done. But you wonder. You think about all of the life you’ve taken away — the weeks and months and years that you’ve denied someone. You feel guilty for being alive, then angry about the guilt. You build yourself back up, one thought at a time, until you believe again that you did the right thing, and you remind yourself that you agreed to take this responsibility when you were sworn to serve and that you were the tool in what happened, not the cause. This is what you have to believe in order to go on. I shot and killed a man in the line of duty when I was very young. He had a knife, out and ready. He was three steps away from me and coming fairly fast. He had threatened to kill his girlfriend, then himself, and then he came at me. He had a long history of mental illness. They called it suicide by cop. It happened down in Logan Heights when I was on patrol. I was twenty-two, and he was twenty-five. He was baby-faced, blond-haired, and blue-eyed. His name was Duane Randolph. I thought about him on the way down from the Las Palmas.
On the phone that night, McKenzie covered her pain with bravado. She was eager to put the shooting behind her but I knew it would keep coming back. The counseling that the department gives us really helps, though it takes time. McKenzie talked awhile about Hollis Harris and how his world was bytes and gigs and jets and toys, and hers was crooks and guns and take-out food, and what sense was there in mixing the two?