Marked

SEVENTEEN

‘Jesus, Stan! What the hell happened to you?’

He’s not concerned, thinks Proust. Curious, yes. But Doyle doesn’t care about my welfare. Wouldn’t matter to him if I was dead.

‘I got on the wrong side of someone.’

There, Doyle. Make of that what you will. You wanna play games, let’s do it, you sonofabitch.

‘Who would that be, Stan?’

‘Why? You think they should be arrested? Think they should be locked up for doing this to me?’

He sees the confusion in Doyle’s eyes. The uncertainty. He’s on unfamiliar ground now, and he doesn’t like it. Well, fuck him. He started this.

‘What’s going on, Stan? You looking to jam me up for what happened to you? You really think you could pull that off?’

Doyle advances as he says this. He cuts a threatening figure, and although Proust has the counter between him and Doyle, he still feels nervous. He can feel himself starting to tremble.

No, he tells himself. You can do this. Stand up to him. He’s a bully, and there’s nothing a bully likes better than a willing victim. Show him what you’re made of. What’s the worst he can do? Inflict pain? Ha! I can do pain now, you bastard. Try me. Go ahead, you big fucking nobody, try me.

‘I’m not looking to do anything, Detective. Why would I? What would be the purpose? I’m just a plain ordinary citizen, wanting to get on with his plain ordinary life. There something wrong with that?’

When Doyle slams his palm down on the countertop, the bang echoes around the room and Proust flinches visibly.

Stay calm, he tells himself. Anyone would have jumped at that. Doesn’t mean you’re scared. Don’t let him get to you.

Doyle raises his voice. ‘No, Stan. You’re not a plain ordinary citizen. Ordinary citizens don’t torture and kill other citizens. You’re special in that way, Stan. That’s why you get my special attention.’

Proust can feel his eye twitching. Shit! He gets it sometimes. A nervous tic. He rubs his eye, trying to massage it back into its normal behavior. He doesn’t want Doyle thinking he’s intimidated by him, because he’s not. Damn straight, he’s not.

‘I ain’t nothing special. I just do tattoos. And you need to stop making all these accusations about me.’

Doyle leans forward over the counter, his expression menacing. ‘Or what, Stan? What will you do?’

Proust wants to maintain eye contact. He wants to look this bastard right back in his pupils and tell him what a sad, pathetic clown he is. He wants to punch him. Right in the mouth. Knock a few teeth out.

But he can’t do any of that. Can’t even endure the staring match. He has to look away. And it shames him to do so. Reminds him of all the times he backed down from the bullies at school. It makes him sick to the stomach, and he feels the self-loathing start to rise in his gullet.

And then, as if to make amends for all the times he has been put through situations like this, fate offers him a helping hand. If he hadn’t averted his gaze just when he did, he might never have detected the opportunity being presented to him.

In one of the wall mirrors he sees a movement on the street outside. A man, getting out of his car. It’s Doyle’s partner. The blond cop. LeBlanc, or whatever his name is. He’s looking at another car parked behind his own. Doyle’s car. And now he’s throwing his hands up in despair and shaking his head.

‘Are you listening to me, Stan? I asked you what you were going to do about it.’

Proust runs his hand through his hair. Pretends he’s considering Doyle’s question. Acts as though he’s about to collapse under this onslaught, which is exactly what Doyle wants him to do.

He sees LeBlanc move to the curb, a look of grim determination on his face. He’s getting ready to cross the street. Getting ready to barge straight in here.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but that’s when Proust gets his idea. The muse strikes. Oh, yes, that beautiful muse grabs him right by the crotch and whispers sweetly in his ear.

‘I ain’t doing this no more,’ he says to Doyle, and then he’s gone.

It takes Doyle by surprise, Proust walking off like that. It’s as if the man was suddenly seized by an impulse to get away. As if he knows that a bomb is about to go off in here.

Doyle knows he can’t leave it at that. He can’t just go back to his car. He has to find out what the hell is going on. Why is Proust acting so peculiarly? Why the sudden need to go into his living area? Has he finally snapped? Is he going to fetch a weapon of some kind, or to call the cops?

Doyle steps around the counter. He pushes open the door through which Proust has just exited. It leads to a small, narrow room. Windowless, it is illuminated by only a single naked bulb of feeble wattage. The walls are mostly lined with dark wooden shelves holding tattoo equipment and books on art and design. At the far end of the claustrophobic space, in the left-hand wall, another door creaks as it slowly closes. Proust has just left through that door.

Doyle picks up his pace as he traverses the storage room. He doesn’t want to give Proust time to set a trap or locate a weapon. He gets there before the door can finish closing, and puts a hand out to stop it. The door consists almost entirely of a panel of translucent glass, enclosed in a narrow painted frame. The glass is an ugly pale yellow, like paper aged by sunlight, and through it Doyle can just make out the shape of Proust in the room beyond. He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The place hasn’t changed much since Doyle was last in here, all that time ago when he was looking into the Alyssa Palmer case. To Doyle’s right is a counter, beyond which is a kitchen area so small you could fetch food from the fridge, wash it, slice it and cook it without your feet even shifting position. Next to the kitchen is a tiny living area containing a lumpy sofa and chair huddled in front of a television. The TV sits on top of a hi-fi unit that leans to the left because one of its front wheels is missing. In stark contrast to the clinical cleanliness and modernity of the tattooing room they have just left, everything here seems shabby and faded and threadbare.

Directly in front of Doyle, Proust is standing with his back to an old dining table. There is an odd expression on his face. Doyle isn’t sure what to make of it. Terror? No, not that. What then? Expectation?

Behind Doyle, the door swings back and clicks home, the glass rattling slightly in its frame.

‘Stan? Is there something you need to tell me?’

‘N-no.’ Proust’s eyes dart from side to side. He rubs his palms up and down his pants. It’s about the most nervous Doyle has ever seen him. Why is that? What does he think I’m about to do to him?

Suddenly this all seems so wrong to Doyle. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something happening here of which he’s not aware.

A trap? Is this a trap of some kind? Would this little shit dare to attempt such a thing?

Doyle finds himself scanning the cramped living quarters. Can there be somebody else here?

‘Stan? What the hell is eating you?’

The buzzing noise startles them both. Proust in particular almost leaps up onto his dining table. On the wall to Doyle’s left, a red light starts flashing.

Says Doyle, ‘You got a customer?’

‘I don’t know.’

Doyle furrows his brow. ‘You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t-’

‘I don’t know, I tell you. I DON’T KNOW!’

Doyle’s eyes widen. Proust’s reaction is totally disproportionate. Why is he shouting like this?

‘All right, Stan. Take it easy. I was just-’

And then Stan is moving away from his table. Sidling around Doyle. There is a crazed, hunted look in his eyes.

‘I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! PLEASE! STOP THIS!’

There is deep pleading in his voice. He could almost be begging for his life. Doyle feels the situation has suddenly spun out of control. Any logic that was here before has abandoned ship. A crash is about to take place and he doesn’t know what he can do to stop it.

He starts to reach for his gun.

‘Stan! Stay where you are!’

‘PLEASE! NO! STOP!’

‘STAN!’

And then it happens. It happens so fast that all Doyle can do is stand there and watch. He watches as Proust starts running. Watches him run straight at the door. The door with the glass panel running all the way down it. Watches as Proust raises his arms and crashes right through it, the glass exploding into thousands of shards. Watches as he falls through into the storeroom on the other side and hits the floor, the fragments of glass still raining down on him.

‘Jesus!’

Doyle moves across to what remains of the door. Stares through it at the motionless figure of Proust lying on his bed of glinting needles. His mind struggles to make sense of what he has just witnessed. What the hell is going on here?

‘Stan! You okay?’

He steps through the hole in the door. Feels and hears the glass being crunched beneath his heel. He starts to bend toward Proust.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Cal! What have you done?’

Doyle looks to his right. Sees the silhouette of the figure standing in the other doorway, the one leading into the shop.

And then he understands. It all clicks into place.

The clever bastard. The clever, manipulative, devious, conniving bastard.

Doyle reaches down, slaps his palms onto Proust’s shoulders. Grabs hold of his shirt and flips him over.

‘Oh you fucking sonofabitch!’ he yells. ‘You twisted fuck!’

‘Cal!’ LeBlanc shouts.

Proust’s eyes are closed. His face is streaming with blood. He lets out a low moan.

Doyle drops to his knees, arrows of pain shooting into them as the glass penetrates. He grasps hold of Proust’s shirt collar and begins to shake him violently.

‘It won’t work, Stan. You think you can get away with this? Well, think again. It ain’t gonna work. I am gonna nail you, you sick bastard.’

‘Cal, get the fuck off him, man. What the fuck are you doing?’

Doyle feels the arm snake around his neck. When he doesn’t let go of Proust, the pressure increases and starts to choke him. Doyle allows himself to be dragged upward, away from Proust. When he gets his feet under him again, he launches himself backwards, propelling LeBlanc into the shelves behind him. LeBlanc grunts but doesn’t relax his grip, so Doyle drives his right elbow hard into LeBlanc’s solar plexus. Doyle feels an explosion of breath on his neck, and when LeBlanc drops his arms, Doyle spins around and grabs him by the throat. He draws back his free hand, ready to drive it into LeBlanc’s face.

‘Cal!’ LeBlanc squawks. ‘Cal! Look at yourself. Look at what you’re doing.’

Doyle freezes. He is glad there are no mirrors in here. He can imagine what he must look like. He can picture the crazed fury written on his face and in his eyes. He can feel the tautness in the muscles and tendons of the arm that is about to pulverize his own partner’s features.

Christ, he thinks. He’s right. What am I doing? Can this really be me?

He relaxes the fingers wrapped around LeBlanc’s throat. Starts to lower his clenched fist. LeBlanc slaps Doyle’s arm aside and pushes himself away from the shelving. He moves toward Proust, still lying on the floor, groaning.

‘He jumped,’ Doyle says.

LeBlanc whirls on him.

‘What? What did you say?’

‘He jumped through the door.’

LeBlanc’s laugh is without humor. ‘What, not even a trip? A stumble? A fainting spell? Come on, Cal. Even you can do better than that.’

Doyle feels his anger building again, and he has to fight to push it back inside. ‘He jumped, Tommy. It’s a set-up. He’s trying to put me in a jam to save his own ass.’

LeBlanc just shakes his head and kneels down to examine Proust.

‘What,’ says Doyle, ‘you don’t believe me? You think I’d make up something as ridiculous as that?’

LeBlanc glares at him. ‘I don’t know what to believe. All I know is what I heard and what I saw. What do you think a jury would make of that, Cal? Especially given your history with this guy?’

LeBlanc stands again. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cellphone.

‘You giving me up, Tommy?’

‘You must know, I’m calling in EMS.’

‘He doesn’t need an ambulance.’

‘Oh, so you’re now a medical expert too, Cal? The man has just gone through a sheet of glass. Maybe there’s a piece of glass in an artery and he’s bleeding to death here. Maybe he’s fractured his skull. Maybe he’s broken his freaking neck.’

‘He doesn’t need an ambulance,’ Doyle repeats. Then, to Proust, he says, ‘Get the fuck up, Stan. Cut the act.’

LeBlanc suddenly forgets about his phone call. He steps toward Doyle. Reaches under his jacket. Whips out his Glock.

Doyle’s pulse races. What the hell has gotten into LeBlanc?

‘Here,’ says LeBlanc. He offers his gun to Doyle. ‘Go ahead, take it. You wanna finish this, go ahead. Put a bullet in his brain. You really hate this guy so much, then take him out.’

Doyle stares at the younger man. He wonders how things got to be so twisted around. How it is that he, Doyle, is acting like a rookie who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, while LeBlanc is being the true professional. How did that happen? When did the world get turned upside down?

He has no answers. And he has no words for LeBlanc. Instead, he starts walking away. He’s done here. He doesn’t care anymore, and maybe that’s because he cared too much. Let LeBlanc make his call. Let him report Doyle to the bosses. Let them take him off the case, off the squad, off the job.

Who gives a fuck?