Broken Angels

52

The traffic on Eighteenth Street was snarled. Cars were slipping and sliding. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the sleet was relentless.

A million thoughts raced through Kevin Byrne's mind. He thought about the other times in his career when he had faced a gun. He wasn't getting any better at it. His stomach was tied in steel knots.

"You don't want to do this, Mr. Clarke," Byrne said again. "There's still time to call this off."

Clarke remained silent. Byrne glanced into the rearview mirror. Clarke had the thousand-yard stare in place.

"You don't get it," Clarke finally said.

"I do get it."

"No, you don't. How could you? Have you ever lost someone you love to violence?"

Byrne had not. But he had come close once. He had almost lost everything once when his daughter had been in the hands of a killer. He had nearly crossed the threshold of sanity himself that dark day.

"Pull over," Clarke said.

Byrne eased the car to the curb. He put it in park, kept it running. The only sound was the click and clack of the windshield wipers keeping time with Byrne's hammering heart.

"What now?" Byrne asked.

"We're going to go into the diner, and we are going to end this. For you and me."

Byrne glanced at the diner. Through the mist of freezing rain, the lights sparkled and shimmered. The front window had been replaced already. The floor had been bleached clean. It was as if nothing had occurred in there. Except it had. And that was the reason they were back.

"It doesn't have to end this way," Byrne said. "If you put down the weapon, there's still a chance of getting your life back."

"You mean I can just walk away like this never happened?"

"No," Byrne said. "I'm not going to insult you by telling you that. But you can get help."

Byrne glanced again in the rearview. And saw it.

There were now two small red dots of light on Clarke's chest.

Byrne closed his eyes for the moment. This was the best of news, the worst of news. He had kept the phone open the whole time, ever since Clarke had confronted him at the pump house. Obviously, Nick Pal- ladino had called SWAT, and they had deployed at the diner. For the second time in about a week. Byrne glanced up the street. He spotted SWAT officers positioned at the mouth of the alley next to the diner.

This could all end suddenly, violently. Byrne wanted the former, but not the latter. He was fair at negotiation tactics, but far from an expert. Rule number one. Remain calm. No one has to die. "I'm going to tell you something," Byrne said. "And I want you to listen carefully. Do you understand?"

Silence. The man was about to blow.

"Mr. Clarke?"

"What?"

"I need to tell you something. But first you must do exactly as I say. You must sit absolutely still."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you noticed that there is no traffic?"

Clarke looked out the window. A block away, a pair of sector cars had blocked Eighteenth Street.

"Why are they doing that?" Clarke asked.

"I'll tell you all about it in a second. But first I want you to look down, very slowly. Just tilt your head. No sudden moves. Look down at your chest, Mr. Clarke."

Clarke did as Byrne suggested. "What is this?" he asked.

"This is the end of things, Mr. Clarke. Those are laser sights. They are coming from the rifles of two SWAT officers."

"Why are they on me?"

Oh God, Byrne thought. This was far worse than he imagined. Matthew Clarke was beyond recall.

"Again, do not move your body," Byrne said. "Just your eyes. I want you to look at my hands now, Mr. Clarke." Byrne had both hands on the steering wheel, at the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions. "Can you see my hands?"

"Your hands? What about them?"

"See how they're gripping the wheel?" Byrne asked.

"Yes."

"If I so much as lift the index finger on my right hand, they will pull the trigger. They will take the shot," Byrne said, hoping it rang true. "Remember what happened to Anton Krotz in the diner?"

Byrne could hear Matthew Clarke begin to sob. "Yes."

"That was one shooter. This is two."

"I… I don't care. I'll shoot you first."

"You'll never get the shot off. If I move, it's over. One single millimeter. It's over."

Byrne watched Clarke in the rearview. He was about to unhinge any second.

"You've got children, Mr. Clarke," Byrne said. "Think of them. You don't want to leave them this legacy."

Clarke shook his head, rapidly, side to side. "They're not going to let me go today, are they?"

"No," Byrne said. "But from the moment you lower the gun, your life will begin to get better. You're not like Anton Krotz, Matt. You're not like him."

Clarke's shoulders began to shake. "Laura."

Byrne let it play for a few moments. "Matt?"

Clarke looked up, his face streaked with tears. Byrne had never seen a man so close to the edge.

"They're not going to wait much longer," Byrne said. "Help me help you."

Then, in Clarke's reddened eyes, Byrne saw it. The crack in the man's resolve. Clarke lowered his weapon. Instantly a shadow crossed the left side of the car, obscured by the pall of freezing rain that streaked the windows. Byrne glanced over. It was Nick Palladino. He had a shotgun leveled at Matthew Clarke's head.

"Put the weapon on the floor, and your hands above your head!" Nick shouted. "Do it now!"

Clarke didn't move. Nick racked the shotgun.

"Now!"

After an agonizingly long second, Matthew Clarke complied. In the next second the door was thrown open and Clarke was pulled from the car, thrown roughly to the street, instantly surrounded by police officers.

A few moments later, as Matthew Clarke lay face down in the middle of Eighteenth Street in the winter rain, his arms out to his sides, a SWAT officer aimed his rifle at the man's head. A uniformed officer approached, put a knee to Clarke's back, roughly pulled his wrists together and handcuffed him.

Byrne thought about the overwhelming power of grief, the unyielding grip of madness that must have led Matthew Clarke to this moment.

The officers yanked Clarke to his feet. Before they stuffed him into the back of a nearby sector car, he looked at Byrne.

Whoever Clarke had been a few weeks earlier, the person who had presented himself to the world in the guise of Matthew Clarke- husband, father, citizen-no longer existed. When Byrne stared into the man's eyes, he did not detect even a flicker of life. Instead, he saw a man disintegrated, and where a soul should have been there now burned the cold blue flame of madness.