Chain of Evidence

CHAPTER 39

Dart pulled himself up into the clothes dryer, drew his legs in, and curled into the all-too-familiar position. Thrown into a storm of memory, he all but lost track of where one life left off and the other began: suddenly ten years old again, the footsteps avidly pursuing him. He was a driver who had lost hold of the wheel, a pilot who had lost track of the horizon. Bitter fear seared his throat.

The latch mechanism on the commercial machine was far more serious than what he had faced as a child. His fingers studied it quickly, attempting to decipher its secrets. Whereas his family machine had had a friction catch, this behemoth, used for carrying a hundred pounds of wet laundry, closed via a locking tongue operated solely from the outside. To get out, Dart needed to block the tongue from catching. Removing his wallet from his back pocket required an act of gymnastics. A credit card was too thick; a photo, too thin. His fingers located his laminated driver’s license, held it firmly against the metal jamb, and drew the door slowly closed so that the springed latch was held out of its hole by the card. Dart snugged the door into place, firmly shut.

He was swallowed in a darkness and smell whose familiarity overpowered him. Rationally he knew where he was-who he was. But somehow the past won out. In the darkness of the dryer, a film played before his eyes and he saw his drunken mother stumbling toward him. For Dart, there suddenly was no Walter Zeller, only memories of terror. It felt as if his lungs were burning. His throat tickled. He was hiding from the Beast. Nothing, but nothing, would make him give himself away.

Her footsteps grew louder. His heart swelled painfully, choking him, beating as fast as the clanging wheels of a runaway train. His body steamed with sweat. She’ll kill you! a voice inside him warned. This time she’ll kill you.

He’ll kill you! a deeper voice echoed. He has nothing to lose.

White sparks filled his vision like fireflies. The smell of his own fear overpowered the tangy lint-flavored metal that had meant sanctuary. The back of his shirt was damp with his blood and his ankle throbbed. The sound of shoes approaching-dragging on the cement floor-grew closer.

The Beast was upon him.

The person out there was so close Dart could hear the breathing. He felt a fool for sitting awaiting his fate-a passive acceptance, a relinquishing of control. He wanted to do something, not just sit by and await the hell that might come.

“Bad choice, Ivy,” Zeller shouted, bringing him back.

A nearby dryer kicked into action. Then another switched on, closer this time.

“Round and round we go,” Zeller said. One by one, he was turning on all the machines. He intended to bake Dart out.

Yet another dryer roared into action.

Incredibly close! he realized, imagining the horror of being trapped inside a machine capable of that kind of severe heat. He began a slow but even count: one thousand one, one thousand two … The heat generated was enough to turn water to steam-he would burn in minutes.

But if he timed it right …

One thousand five, one thousand six …

He racked his brain trying to dredge up an image of the front of the machine. Were the controls to the right or left of the door? First he thought left; then he saw a totally different image that had the controls to the right. Which to trust?

“You won’t like it,” Zeller warned, shouting above the din. He was exceptionally close.

One thousand nine …

The wall behind Dart shook and rumbled as this, the next machine over, was switched on. Nine seconds between machines.

He began the count all over again: One thousand one …

The ensuing noise was deafening, too loud to overhear Zeller’s footsteps. Nearly too loud to maintain the rhythmic count in his head. It would come down to timing.

One thousand six …

He cocked his leg back, tucking it up into his chest. With his right hand he needed to make a choice: his weapon, or a firm grip on the rim of the drum so that he could get out quickly? He wanted out.

Above all, he wanted out.

One thousand eight …

He kicked the door open with all his strength and knew immediately that he had connected with Zeller. He heard the big man cough out “Umph” as he went down hard and lost his grip on the shotgun. It slid a few feet away.

Dart leapt out forgetting about his bad ankle, and collapsed to the cement floor as his ankle gave out.

Zeller’s head was bleeding. It left a smeared trail as he wiggled and stretched for the shotgun.

Dart, still down himself, reached for his weapon.

Zeller managed to snag the stock of the shotgun with his right hand. He sucked it toward him. The barrel moved like a huge rotating gun turret until Dart was looking directly into the sole dark eye of the end of the barrel. Dart’s sidearm was aimed at Zeller’s face. No more than a yard apart, both men motionless, lying on the cold cement floor.

“Long time, no see,” Zeller said loudly, above the roar of the dryers. The side of his face was bleeding badly, though all head wounds were bleeders. Dart intended to say something, but the words caught in his throat. “Let me explain something,” the man continued, “because you always needed to hear things straight. You never could get things right the first time around.”

“Bullshit,” Dart managed to cough out. He felt on the verge of tears. Zeller was going to pull the trigger-he felt certain of it. His life had come down to this one fragile moment-the one man he had come to respect in life intended to kill him. He felt his own finger grip more firmly on the trigger. Another fractional pressure and the back of Zeller’s head would explode against the brick wall.

“You ain’t bringing me in,” Zeller announced proudly. “Fuck that look, Ivy. Save it for the Jordons out on Seymour Street. What I’m telling you is that you ain’t gonna do it. Not because you can’t, but because I’m not going to let you. You failed, you see-”

Dart felt his heart jump. Zeller knew all the right buttons to push …

“You are not gonna bring me in for this. That ain’t gonna happen. So you have to do it, big fella. No aiming that thing as some kind of threat, because it ain’t no threat to me, it’s the solution. You got it?” He waited for Dart to respond, but his patience ran out. “You got it?” he repeated, shouting. “Pull the fucking trigger, Ivy.” He said more loudly, “Pull the fucking trigger before I dust you, asshole.” The end of the shotgun rotated an inch, trained on Dart’s throat. “From here I can take your head clean off your body. You thought about that?”

“It crossed my mind,” Dart hollered.

“So pull the fucking trigger.” Again he waited. “I’ve been inside the system, Ivy. I’m not going through that.” He added, “Not even for something I believe in.”

Dart’s eyes stung. He felt so angry at the man.

Zeller bellowed, “There was a time I wanted to recruit you. Can you imagine that? I convinced myself that you could-that you would-help. But then I feared that Boy Scout attitude of yours. You live in a fucking bubble, Ivy: righteous ignorance. You’re your own morality play. You want to know why Ginny left you? Because you’re too good. You protect this image of yourself. Fuck the image, Ivy.”

Dart felt absolutely still all of a sudden. He could hear the traffic through the wall and, far in the distance, something dripping. The air felt hot and incredibly thin. His finger begged him to squeeze the trigger. It was as if, for a moment, he had connected with God. He had never been in this place before.

“Nice try,” Dart said, realizing that Zeller was attempting to trick him into firing.

“You don’t get it, do you? You still don’t fucking get it! You think you’re so fucking smart, Mr. Detective? Let me tell you something: I avoided your shift because I didn’t want you becoming lead-not on any of them. Give me a Kowalski or a Thompson, but keep me away from Joe Dartelli. Not because you’re such hot shit-but because you’re so well trained,” said the man who had trained him. Zeller smirked, pleased with himself.

Dart glanced toward the wall, wondering if he could roll fast enough….

“You so much as twitch,” Zeller declared, “and Doc Ray is going to need a sponge mop to bring you home.”

“They’re trying to help,” Dart said. If he was going to be accused of being overly righteous, then he was going to speak his mind.

“Martinson?” Zeller asked. He smiled. Dart knew that smile-it was Zeller’s unforgiving smile, the one that gave way to the anger and fury. “You’re going to tell me about Arielle Martinson? You were always so fucking naive. I thought we broke you of that.” He blinked rapidly. Maybe he had lost enough blood to pass out. “Righteous and naive. You shoulda been a fucking minister, you know that?” Moving the weapon back toward Dart’s eyes, he said dryly, “And no fucking sense of humor either.”

“The suicides were meant to make them scrub the testing,” Dart said, trying to buy himself some time, to find some way out of this. He was not going to shoot Zeller; he was determined to bring him up on charges.

“Gold fucking star, Ivy.” He blinked rapidly again. “And why the fuck would I want to do that?”

If Zeller blinked repeatedly like that again, Dart thought he might manage to knock the shotgun barrel toward the wall. But far enough? he wondered. The spray pattern of a shotgun was far wider than its small barrel opening.

“I know what you’re thinking, because I know you, Ivy. You’re so fucking predictable. That’s your problem. You’re thinking I flipped out; you’re thinking it’s for Lucky-God rest her sweet soul.” This last bit was said in the true voice of Walter Zeller-the Zeller who Dart knew and respected. “But you don’t know shit.” He offered Dart a look of disappointment and said, “Martinson was raped while at the university. Cut up bad.”

Dart recalled the ugly scar behind her ear. Victims everywhere-and he knew by the man’s tone of voice where Zeller was going with it. Dart didn’t want to hear this.

“It took her over a year to recover. After that, she made it her life’s work to do something about sex offense. It became a passion, and from there, an obsession. She became consumed by it. She made mistakes-bad business decisions-based on the conviction that gene therapy was the answer. An unproven technology, mind you! She devoted funds that she shouldn’t have-got herself into trouble. She had to make it work-that’s the hole she dug for herself.” He blinked repeatedly like a man about to lose consciousness. “They’ve conducted three different trials in five years-all to shitty results. Nesbit-the Ice Man-was in the first group. They paroled him early to be part of that trial. That was the only reason he was out and able to kill Lucky-”

The fire door at the top of the stairs cried out over the top of the roar-the door by which they had entered. Dart felt paralyzed by what Zeller had told him-his mind swimming. The cop in both of them knew from the distinct, prolonged sound that it was not a squeak caused by wind. It was not the door settling all of its own.

Someone had come through that door, had entered.

They both lifted their heads at once to listen more clearly, the threats of only seconds before gone.

Footsteps coming down the first set of stairs that lead to the balcony.

Dart wanted the rest of Zeller’s explanation.

Staring up into the darkness, Zeller hissed, “You stupid shit, Dartelli. You led him here.” He whispered incredulously, “You let yourself be followed? Jesus Christ!”

Dart felt himself shrink. He had not checked for someone following him, too preoccupied with the dangers of Park Street.

Zeller’s hand came off the weapon, drew a zipper across his lips, and signaled first to Dart and then to himself-he wanted Dart to follow him. Adversaries, they were suddenly partners.

Again.

The transition felt natural. Dart didn’t question it. Zeller rocked up onto his knees, grabbed the shotgun, checked over his shoulder for Dart, and stood in a crouch, moving along the line of groaning dryers, keeping close to the machines. He lifted his hand and stopped Dart short of the very end. He pointed to a depression in the corner of the floor where a large mesh grate covered a manhole. He signaled that Dart should cover with his weapon as he would go first and lift the grate for Dart who was to follow and enter the hole ahead of Zeller. Dart signaled back that he would hold the grate for Zeller instead, but the Sergeant flashed his middle finger at his former protege. Then he raised his index finger as if to say, Ready?

Dart nodded. He pushed past Zeller, for the first time offering him his back. He edged slowly toward the corner of this last dryer and sneaked his face out just far enough to see around the corner so that he could defend their position.

Zeller’s breath was hot on Dart’s neck. The detective jumped, not expecting it. Zeller placed a hand firmly on Dart’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. “His name is Alverez. You met him at the fire. He was the one in the car. The reason we don’t kill the bastard is that they’ll only replace him. And we don’t want that. Got it?”

Dart nodded.

Zeller glanced around the corner of the roaring machine and gently eased himself away. He went back to hand signals-he had seen someone-and then hurried into the corner with the grate.

His heart aching, Dart edged his left eye around the dryer. The man pursuing them was looking lost, standing motionless in the center of the aisle. He was carrying what looked like an Uzi.

Zeller managed to open the grate without being heard over the rumbling of the dryers. He signaled Dart, and Dart limped over to him, pocketed his sidearm, and slipped quietly down the steel tube, using hand and foot grips welded into its wall, his ankle screaming. Zeller passed him the shotgun and followed, easing the grate down into place above him. Flashing sparks indicated that Alverez had seen them. A spray of bullets skimmed off the grate throwing fireworks overhead.

Zeller winced and buckled on his way down the ladder, and though Dart did not see the man’s blood spilling from his shoulder, when Zeller reached out and accepted the shotgun, Dart knew that he’d been hit. Zeller switched on a small penlight as he came off the last rung and pointed down the storm sewer-a cement pipe perhaps four feet high. He signaled for Dart to defend their backside, then crouched and lead the way into the claustrophobic tunnel. The bottom of the pipe was dry. After only a few feet, when a spray of bullets echoed back at the base of entrance tube, Zeller switched off the light. Alverez had fired a volley down through the grate in defense.

The grate banged on the cement floor, above and far behind them.

Alverez was inside.

Zeller allowed Dart to run fully into him, stopping him. He grabbed for the detective’s hand and pulled it down to a cold metal grip. Dart tested his toe forward and felt it slip out into nothingness. This pipe ended here. He crouched and began to descend, using the ladder of grips that Zeller had indicated. At the last rung, he stepped off into water so cold that it caught his breath. The sergeant flashed his penlight only once, aiming it down a large, arching stone ceiling that was dripping water and coated in a green slime. The water in which they stood was pitch black. Dart heard the distinct sound of scurrying rats but ignored it-he didn’t want to think about being in a storm sewer with a few hundred irritated rats at his feet. Zeller pulled on Dart, and led the way.

From behind them came the unmistakable sound of shoes scraping on cement.

With his left hand held out against the tunnel’s wall as a guide, Dart followed the sound of Zeller’s splashing. The sergeant had clearly practiced this escape, for he moved knowingly in the darkness. Dart’s ankle, chilled by the water, felt a little better.

When they were a good twenty yards down this tunnel, Dart heard Alverez spit out the single word “Shit!” followed by the sound of a falling man landing hard-he had gone off the end of the pipe into the larger tunnel. The man fired off a stream of semiautomatic weapon fire in anger, made apparent to Dart only by a terrifying whistling in the air around him.

Alverez was coming after them with a vengeance. Dart’s hope that he might be too injured to follow were dashed.

Dart’s left hand went into space as the wall ran out.

“Sssst!” Zeller said, to his immediate left.

Dart blindly negotiated the turn into a similar tunnel, and they started off again. He realized that the intersection was yet another of Zeller’s ploys. Alverez would be forced to make a choice-hopefully the wrong one.

He and Zeller stayed in this connecting tunnel for several minutes before taking a right; they were following the layout of the city blocks overhead. By all indications, they had lost Alverez-ten minutes later, Zeller stopped them, and they listened intently. There were no sounds from behind. Only rats. Dart’s feet were numb, and he could feel the chill spreading up his legs and into his bones. Zeller led on.

They took one more right and walked through shallower water for another fifteen minutes, at which point Dart heard a small waterfall ahead of them. Zeller allowed the detective to bump into him once again. As he stopped, he heard a deeper sound beyond the small waterfall, and for the first time his eyes sensed a distant circle of gray at the center of the black in which he had lived for the past eternal forty minutes.

They then reached the source of this gray. The water that held them spilled from the end of the storm sewer falling to a mass of ice below. The river spread out before them, etched with the bare branches of dormant trees, reaching into a canopy of low clouds that reflected back the dull amber glare of the sleeping city.