Reliquary

= 55 =

WITHIN AN HOUR of its spontaneous flare-up, the riot along Central Park South had begun to sputter fitfully. Well before 11:00 P.M., most of the initial rioters had spent their anger along with their energy. Those who had been hurt were helped to the sidelines. Shouting, insults, and threats began to replace fists, clubs, and stones. However, a hard central core of violence continued. As people left the scene, bruised or exhausted, others arrived: some curious, some angry, some drunk and spoiling for a fight. Television reports waxed lurid and hysterical. Word traveled like an electric spark through the island: up First and Second Avenues, where young Republicans gathered in singles bars to jeer and hoot at the liberal President; along St. Mark’s Place and into the Marxist corners of the East Village; over fax lines and telephone lines. As word spread, so did the rumors. Some said that the homeless and those that tried to help them were being massacred in a police-instigated genocide. Others said that leftist radicals and criminal mobs were burning banks, shooting citizens, and looting businesses uptown. Those that answered this call to action ran into—sometimes brutally—the last pockets of homeless that were still streaming to the surface, emerging here and there around Central Park, fleeing the trapped and spreading tear gas.

The original vanguard of Take Back Our City—the Brahmins of New York wealth and influence—had quickly retreated from the scene. Most had returned to their townhouses and duplexes in dismay. Others had massed toward the Great Lawn, assuming the police would quickly quell the rioting and hoping that the final vigil would go on as planned. But as the police shored up their line and began to hem in the rioters, the fighting itself also retreated deeper into the Park, moving ever closer to the Lawn and the Reservoir that lay beyond. The darkness of the Park, the thick woods, the tangle of undergrowth, and the maze of paths all made efforts at riot control difficult and slow.

The police moved against the rioters with caution. Already spread too thin by the massive rousting operation, much of the force was late on the scene of the riot. The police brass was all too keenly aware that influential people might still be among the milling throng, and the idea of gassing or clubbing a member of the New York elite was not something the politically conscious mayor would allow. In addition, a large body of officers had to be dispatched to patrol the adjoining areas of the city, where sporadic looting and vandalism was now being reported. And in the backs of everyone’s minds lay the unspoken, but dreaded, spectacle of the Crown Heights riot of a few years before, which had gone on for three days before finally drawing to an uneasy close.

Hayward watched as the emergency medical crew rolled Beal into the waiting ambulance. The back legs of the stretcher folded up as the officer was slid inside. Beal groaned, then raised a hand toward his bandaged head.

“Careful,” Hayward snapped to the paramedic. She put a hand on one of the rear doors and leaned inside. “How you doing?” she asked.

“Been better,” Beal said with a weak smile.

Hayward nodded. “You’ll be fine.” She turned to go.

“Sergeant?” Beal said. Hayward paused. “That bastard Miller would have left me there to find my own way out. Or to drown, maybe. I think I owe you guys my life.”

“Forget it,” Hayward said. “It’s part of the job. Right?”

“Maybe,” Beal said. “But anyway, I won’t forget. Thanks.”

Hayward left Beal with the paramedic and walked around to the driver’s seat. “What’s the news?” she asked.

“What do you want to hear?” the driver asked, scribbling on a log sheet. “Gold futures? The international situation?”

“Take your act to the Poconos,” she replied. “I’m talking about this.” And she waved her hand along Central Park West.

A surreal quiet lay over the dark scene. Except for emergency vehicles and the police cars stationed at every other cross street, there was no traffic on the immediate blocks. Pools of darkness dotted the avenue; a mere handful of streetlights remained unbroken, sizzling and sputtering. The broad avenue was dotted with chunks of concrete, broken glass, and trash. Farther to the south, Hayward noticed, the flashing lights grew much more numerous.

“Where you been?” the driver asked. “Unless you spent the last hour at the center of the earth, it was pretty hard to miss the action around here.”

“You’re not that far wrong,” she said. “We’ve been clearing out the homeless underneath the Park. There was resistance. This guy got wounded, and it took us a long time to extract him. We were pretty deep underground, and we didn’t want to jostle him too much. Okay? We came up five minutes ago at the Seventy-second Street station, only to find a ghost town around here.”

“Clearing out the homeless?” the driver asked. “So you’re the ones responsible.”

Hayward frowned. “For what?”

The ambulance driver tapped his ear, then pointed eastward, as if that was the only answer necessary.

Hayward stopped to listen. Over the squawk of the ambulance scanner and the distant pulse of the city, she could make out sounds floating from the dark interior of Central Park: the angry buzz of bullhorns, shouts, screams, the whine of sirens.

“You know that Take Back Our City march?” the driver asked. “The unannounced one that was going along Central Park South?”

“Heard something about it,” Hayward said.

“Yeah. Well, suddenly all these homeless started pouring up from underground. Kinda hostile, too. Apparently, you cops had been using them for baton practice. Started squabbling with the marchers. Before you know it, there was a full-blown confrontation. People just went nuts, I heard. Screaming, yelling, stomping on other people. Then the looting started up along the fringes. Took the cops an hour to get the situation under control. It still isn’t under control, actually. But they’ve managed to confine everything to the Park.”

The paramedic in the rear gave a signal, and the driver put the ambulance in gear and pulled away, flashing lights striping the limestone facades. Farther up Central Park West, Hayward could see curious people looking out from their windows, pointing into the Park. A few braver souls were standing on the pavement outside of lobbies, staying close to the protective presence of uniformed doormen. She gazed up at the huge Gothic shape of the Dakota, unharmed and seemingly aloof from the chaos, almost as if its narrow, stylized moat had repulsed an angry throng. She found her eyes traveling up the corner tower toward what must be Pendergast’s windows. She wondered if he’d made it back from the Devil’s Attic in one piece.

“Get Beal off okay?” she heard Carlin call out. His massive form emerged out of the distant shadows.

“Just now,” she replied, turning toward him. “How about the other one?”

“Refused medical treatment,” Carlin said. “Any sign of Miller?”

Hayward scowled. “He’s probably in some Atlantic Avenue bar by now, sucking down beer and bragging about his exploits. That’s how it works, right? He’ll get a promotion, and we’ll get letters of caution for insubordination.”

“Maybe other times it works that way,” Carlin said with a knowing smile. “But not this time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hayward asked, then continued without giving Carlin time to answer: “No way to tell what Miller did or didn’t do. Guess we’d better report in.” She grabbed at her radio, snapping it on. But torrents of noise, static, and panic came pouring from every band.

... Moving toward the Great Lawn, we need more manpower to… Got eight of them but I can’t hold them much longer, if that wagon doesn’t come soon they’ll just melt away into the dark… I called for a medevac thirty goddamn minutes ago; we got people hurt up here… Christ, they’ve gotta seal that southern quadrant; more keep coming in all the time…

Hayward snapped the radio off and snugged it back into her belt, then motioned Carlin to follow her down to the squad car at the next corner. A police officer in riot gear stood beside it, vigilantly scanning the street, shotgun in hand.

“Where’s command for this operation?” Hayward asked.

The policeman tipped up his face shield and looked at her. “There’s a forward command post in the Castle,” he said. “That’s what dispatch says, anyway. Things are kinda disorganized right now, as if you couldn’t tell.”

“Belvedere Castle.” Hayward turned toward Carlin. “We’d better head for it.”

As they ran down Central Park West, Hayward was strangely reminded of her visit to a Hollywood back lot two years before. She remembered walking down the ersatz Manhattan street on which countless musicals and gangster films had been shot. She’d seen phony street lamps, shop fronts, fire hydrants… everything but people. At the time, common sense had told her that a mere hundred yards away were bustling, vibrant California streets. Yet the still emptiness of the lot had seemed almost spectral.

Tonight, Central Park West felt the same way. Though she could hear the distant honking of car horns and the whistle of sirens—and though she knew that, within the Park itself, police were massing to stop the rioting and confusion—this darkened avenue seemed ghostly and unreal. Only the occasional vigilant doorman, curious resident, or police checkpoint broke the atmosphere of a ghost street.

“Holy shit,” Carlin muttered at her side. “Would you look at that.” Hayward glanced up, and her reverie instantly dissolved.

It was like crossing a demilitarized zone from order into chaos. To the south, across 65th Street, they saw a sea of ruin. Lobby windows were smashed, awnings over elegant entrances were torn to shreds and flapping idly in the breeze. The police presence here was stronger, the blue-painted barricades omnipresent. Cars along the curbs were missing windows and windshields. A few blocks down, a police tow truck with flashing yellow lights was removing the smoking skeleton of a taxi.

“Looks like some pretty pissed off mole people came through here,” Hayward murmured.

They cut across the street, angling toward the drive and heading into the Park. After the destruction they’d just passed, the narrow asphalt paths seemed quiet and deserted. But the smashed benches, overturned trash cans, and smoldering garbage bore mute testimony to what had taken place here not long before. And the noise that drifted toward them from the interior of the Park gave promise of even greater pandemonium to come.

Suddenly Hayward stopped short, motioning Carlin to do the same. Ahead in the dark she could make out a group of people—how many she could not be certain—swaggering in the direction of the Great Lawn. Can’t be cops, she thought. They’re not wearing riot helmets, or even hats. A noisy burst of hooting and cursing from the group confirmed her suspicion.

She moved forward quickly, running on the balls of her feet to minimize noise. At ten yards back she stopped. “Halt!” she said, hand on her service piece. “Police officers!”

The group came to a ragged stop, then turned back to look at her. Four, no, five men, youngish, dressed in sports jackets and polo shirts. Her eyes took in the visible weapons: two aluminum bats and what looked like a kitchen carving knife.

They stared at her, faces flushed, grins still on their youthful faces.

“Yeah?” one of them said, taking a step forward.

“Stop right there,” Hayward said. The man stopped. “Now, why don’t you boys tell me exactly where you’re headed?”

The man in front scoffed at the stupidity of the question, indicating the interior of the Park with the merest jerk of his head.

“We’re here to take care of business,” came a voice from the group.

Hayward shook her head. “What’s going on there is none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t,” the one in front snapped. “We’ve got friends there, getting the shit beat out of them by a bunch of goddamn bums. There’s no way we’re going to let that go on.” He took another step forward.

“This is a police matter,” Hayward said.

“The police haven’t done jack shit,” the man replied. “Look around. You’ve let this scum trash our city.”

“We heard they killed twenty, thirty people already!” came the slurred voice of a man holding up a cellular phone. “Including Mrs. Wisher. They’re trashing the city. They got bastards from the East Village and Soho to help them out. Goddamn NYU activists. Our friends need help.”

“Got that?” said the one in front. “So get out of the way, lady.” He took another step forward.

“You take another step and I’ll part your hair with this;” Hayward said, slipping her hand from her gun to her baton and sliding it smoothly from the belt ring. She felt Carlin tense beside her.

“Pretty easy for you to talk tough,” the man said scornfully. “With a gun on your belt and a goddamn human refrigerator at your side.”

“Think you can take all five of us?” said someone in the group.

“Maybe she thinks she can smother us all to death with those jugs of hers,” said another. Several grins broke out.

Hayward took a deep breath, then replaced her baton. “Officer Carlin,” she said, “please take twenty steps back.”

Carlin remained motionless.

“Do it!” she snapped.

Carlin stared at her for a moment. Then, without turning or taking his eyes from the group, he began walking backward down the path they had come.

Hayward stepped deliberately up to the lead youth. “Now listen up,” she said evenly, without taking her eyes off his. “I could take off my badge and my piece, and still kick all your sorry white-bread asses back to Scarsdale, or Greenwich, or wherever it is your mothers tuck you in at night. But I don’t need to do that. See, if you refuse to follow my instructions to the letter, then your mothers won’t be tucking you in this evening. They’ll be waiting in line at Police Plaza tomorrow morning to make your bails. And all the money, or power, or influence in the world won’t be able to remove the words intent to commit felonious assault from your police record. In this state, a person convicted of a felony can never practice law. They can never hold public office. And they can never get a license to trade securities. And your daddies aren’t going to like that. Not one bit.”

She paused a moment. “So drop your weapons,” she said coolly.

There was a brief instant in which nobody moved.

“I said, drop your weapons!” she yelled at the top of her voice.

In the silence that followed, she heard the clink of an aluminum bat hitting asphalt. Then another. Then came a quieter sound: a steel blade dropping to the earth. She waited a long moment, then took a deliberate step backward.

“Officer Carlin,” Hayward said quietly. In a moment, he was at her side.

“Shall I frisk them?” he asked.

Hayward shook her head. “Driver’s licenses,” she said to the group. “I want those, too. Drop them on the ground right there.”

There was a brief pause. Then the youth in front dug a hand into his jacket pocket, removed his wallet, and let the plastic card flutter to the ground. The rest followed suit.

“You can pick them up tomorrow afternoon at One Police Plaza,” she continued. “Ask for Sergeant Hayward. Now, I want you all to walk straight past me until you reach Central Park West. Then I want you to go your separate ways. Do not pass Go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Head straight home, and go to bed. Understand?”

There was another silence.

“I can’t hear you!” Carlin’s voice roared out, and the men jumped.

“We understand,” came the chorused response.

“Then move out,” Hayward said. The youths stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot.

“Shake it!” she barked. The group started up, silently, heads straight ahead, walking slowly at first, then faster, toward the west. Soon they had vanished into the darkness.

“Bunch of pricks,” said Carlin. “You think twenty or thirty were really killed?”

Hayward snorted as she bent to pick up the weapons and licenses. “Hell, no. But if the rumors keep spreading, people like that are going to keep coming. And this situation will never get resolved.” She handed him the bats with a sigh. “Come on. We might as well report in and see if we can help out tonight. Because tomorrow, you know we’re going to get our butts reprimanded for what happened down in those tunnels.”

“Not this time,” Carlin replied, grinning slightly.

“You said that before.” Hayward turned toward him. “Just what are you telling me, Carlin?”

“I’m telling you that this time, the righteous shall be rewarded. And it’s the Millers of the world who will get hung out to dry.”

“And just when did you acquire this gift of prophecy?”

“When I learned that our friend Beal, who you helped into the ambulance back there, is the son of one Steven X. Beal.”

“Steven Beal, the state senator?” Hayward asked, eyes widening.

Carlin nodded. “He doesn’t like people to know,” he said. “Afraid people will think he’s pulling influence to get an easy ride or something. But that crack on his head must have loosened his tongue a bit.”

Hayward stood motionless a moment. Then, shaking her head, she turned back in the direction of the Great Lawn.

“Sergeant?” Carlin asked.

“Yes?”

“Why did you ask me to step away from those punks like that?”

Hayward paused. “I wanted to show them that I wasn’t afraid. And that I meant business.”

“Would you have?”

“Would I have what?”

“You know,” Carlin gestured. “Kicked their asses back to Scarsdale, and all that.”

Hayward looked at him, raising her chin slightly. “What do you think?”

“I think—” Carlin hesitated a moment. “I think you’re one scary lady, Ms. Hayward.”