There was a hall. Proctor went along it with care.
He was pleasantly aware of the knife hanging in a holster under his shirt and against his back. He had paid dearly for it, and it was his prize possession. The blade was over twelve inches long and carried upon it the etching of a bird. Its five-inch handle was lacquered wood. Its pommel plate was thick and made of silver. It was a dagger, and it was weighted for throwing. It was not a hunting knife but a knife for closein fighting. It was designed for the purpose of combat and killing men. One could stab with it or slash with it, as with a sword. The deep gash marks it left, due to its weight, mystified forensics units. One look at it panicked opponents. This was no bullshit Rambo knife. It was called an Arkansas toothpick, and it was a murder tool.
Proctor passed an open bathroom door and saw nothing. He continued down the hall, came to a closed door at the end of it, tried the handle, and found it locked. He knocked on the door and heard that it was hollow, then he stepped back, put his shoulder down, and charged forward.
Charles Baker stood by the dresser, staring stupidly at a drawer holding boxer shorts and nothing else. Cody had got rid of his gun.
At least the white boy had tried to warn him by giving out the wrong code. Baker guessed that Cody had been murdered. Whoever had done the boy was now coming to kill him. Baker could hear footsteps in the hall.
He looked at the window. It was only a second-story drop to the alley. But the window had bars on it. No gun and no means of escape. A lifetime of fuckup and here he was. If Baker were the type to find humor in such things, he might have laughed.
There was a knock on the door. Baker turned to face it.
The door crashed open. A man stumbled into the room and stood straight. He was large and looked agile despite his weight. He held a gun loosely at his side.
“Who sent you?” said Baker.
The man said nothing.
“Say your name,” said Baker, but the man merely shook his head.
Baker reached into the pocket of his black slacks and pulled his switch knife with the imitation-pearl handle. He pushed the button, and the blade sprang out of the hilt.
“You gonna do that thing from there?” said Baker. “Or are you gonna be a motherfuckin man and come here? ”
Lex Proctor smiled. His teeth looked plastic and gray. He dropped the revolver back into his jacket pocket, reached behind him under his shirt, and pulled his long knife from its holster. Baker’s eyes went wide. Instinctively, he raised his forearm to cover his face.
Proctor crossed the room very quickly. He brought the knife down like a sword, and its blade cut deeply into Baker’s wrist. Baker dropped the switchblade, his arm useless, his hand swinging as if hinged. For a moment, Proctor studied his prey. He grunted as he swung the blade into Baker’s neck. It cleaved flesh, muscle, and artery, and Proctor stepped into a crimson spray as he hacked at Baker again. He turned the hilt in his hand to alter his grip for power, and as Baker slumped against the wall, Proctor hammered the knife into his chest and twisted it in his heart. He stabbed like a blind butcher, diligently and repeatedly, long after the light had left Baker’s eyes. Baker dropped to the wood floor.
Proctor stepped back to get his breath. The effort had tired him. He reholstered the knife and walked from the room. Leaving the apartment after checking the stairwell through the cracked-open door, he paused once more at the entranceway to ensure that he would not be seen.
He crossed the short yard fronting the apartment house and got into the passenger side of the idling Magnum. Proctor peeled off his gloves and tossed them on the floorboard of the hack.
Elijah Morgan examined his partner. Proctor’s shirt and jacket were slick with blood.
“Ain’t you a mess,” said Morgan.
“Man said to make it personal.”
They drove out of town, finding a radio station they liked halfway up 295.
Twenty-Eight
Three men sat in an alley under the light of a security lamp and a crudely painted sign reading “Gavin’s Garage.” Two of them, Alex Pappas and Raymond Monroe, were on upended crates. The third, James Monroe, sat in a foldout sports spectator chair that Alex had brought from the back of his Jeep. All of them were drinking beer. James had his resting in a holder cut into the sailcloth arm of the chair.
Raymond had told Alex about Kenji’s e-mail but was careful not to go on about it, mindful of the fate of Alex’s own son.
“Kenji’s got a long way to go before he comes home,” said Raymond. “They’ll be extending his tour, I expect.”
“God protect him,” said Alex, his usual comment when speaking of the young men and women serving overseas. Knowing, rationally, that God took no side in the human folly of war.
James took a pull of beer and wiped the excess from his chin. “This is nice and all that. Sitting out here in the fresh air, having a cold brew. But I’ve got to finish replacing the belts and hoses on that Courier.”
“You said this was important,” said Raymond to Alex, completing James’s thought.
“Yes,” said Alex.
“You got something you want to tell us?” said James.
“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “That’s the first thing I want to say. It occurred to me that I’ve never said those words to the two of you. I thought it was time.”
“Why?” said Raymond.
“Funny,” said Alex. “Miss Elaine asked me the same thing today. I wasn’t sure what the question was, but I can guess. Why did we do it? Why did we have to drive into your neighborhood that day?”
“Well?”
“The simple answer is, we were all dumb kids. High on beer and pot on a summer day with nothing to do but find trouble. We didn’t have anything against you guys. We didn’t know you. You were the ones on the other side of town. It was like throwing a rock at a hornets’ nest or something. We knew it was wrong and dangerous, but we didn’t think it was going to hurt anyone.”
“Not hurtful?” said James. “Your friend screamed nigger out the window of his car. It could have been directed at my mother or father. How is that not hurting anyone?”
“I know it. I know. Billy was…” Alex tried to find the word. “Billy was crippled, man. His father made him that way. It wasn’t even hate, because he didn’t have that kind of thing in him. He was a good friend. He was looking out for me, even at the end. I really believe that he would have turned out fine. If he had lived, if he had gotten out of that house and into the world, on his own, he would have been fine. He’d be sitting with us here today, having a beer. He would. If he had only lived through that day.”
“What about you?” said James. “What’s your story?”
“My brother’s sayin, why were you with them?” said Raymond. “Because we’ve talked about it. And both of us remember that you were just sitting in the backseat. You didn’t yell anything and you didn’t throw anything. So why were you there?”
“I wasn’t an active participant,” said Alex. “That’s true. But it doesn’t absolve me. I could have been stronger and told Billy to stop what he was about to do. I could have gotten out of the car at that stoplight, up at the entrance to your neighborhood. If I had just done that and walked home, I wouldn’t be carrying this goddamn scar. But I didn’t. The truth is, I’ve always been a passenger, riding in the backseat. That’s no excuse. I’m telling you, it’s who I am.”
James nodded, his eyes unreadable. Raymond stared down at the stones in the alley.
“What about you guys?” said Alex. “Anything you want to say?”
Raymond looked at James, imposing and implacable in his chair.
“Okay,” said Alex. “I’ll just keep going, then. You know the other night, when we were in the garage? The night I met you, James. You and your brother were revisiting your lifelong argument, the Earl Monroe versus Clyde Frazier thing. Raymond, you were talking about it, and I saw a shadow cross your face.”