Running of the bulls

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In Heaven, Maggie Cain’s scarred profile, caught in the ceiling’s spinning lights, flashed across the blackened walls in a million jigsaw shadows that would never fit if pieced together.

She was sick from being here. Revolted.

She looked up at the woman hanging above her from the black trapeze and wanted to snap the damn cords. But why bother? This woman would feel nothing if she fell. Her eyes were wide open yet unseeing, windows that looked into empty rooms. The things she’d seen, the secrets she knew, were stamped within the lines of her face.

Fool.

Maggie looked at her watch and again around the club. He wasn’t coming, even though he’d sent his driver to pick her up and bring her here. She was disappointed but not surprised. When they spoke, she’d warned him what was going on, but didn’t answer his questions. She wanted to see him in person to tell him the rest of it, if only so she could try to reach him with the gravity of the situation before it was too late. Although he told her he came here every Saturday at this time, he’d obviously backed out.

Something soft and fleshy brushed against her leg.

Startled, she looked down and saw an enormously fat woman walk past her on all fours. She stopped to rest beside a man with a glass slipper perched atop his head. Maggie watched him reach down to pat the woman’s head, then she turned and looked in the direction from which the woman came.

She saw him almost immediately-the man from the street. He was leaving Ross’ cage, closing the door behind him, now sliding along the walls as he moved in her direction. He passed through ribbons of red light and Maggie saw with a start that he was looking at her. His mouth tightened, their glances crashed, hers fell away.

He was following her.

She’d seen him at the bookstore, the post office, her agent’s office on 13th Street. She’d dismissed him as a curious fan.

She stepped back into shadow. He wasn’t FBI, didn’t have the look. Who, then? And why had he been in Alan Ross’ cage?

Two hundred feet and a wall of bodies separated them. She moved away from the bar and in the direction of the exit, where a tall black transvestite with a teased platinum wig turned to look at her with interest.

The queen’s lips parted in what could only be a look of recognition and now real fear burned in Maggie’s throat. He’d blocked the only exit with a sidewalk whore, who straightened and looked briefly behind Maggie before coming down the last step and staring her hard in the face.

Heaven’s lights dimmed to blackness.

The crowd surged to the right in a tidal wave of flesh and Maggie felt hands on her body, hips and shoulders slamming into hers. She started to rush back when one of the hands reached out and snagged her arm, hooked it in a death grip, pulled her forward and held her firm. Maggie twisted back, struggled against the man, and was about to scream when his deep voice hissed in her ear: “Shut up, fool.” It was the transvestite. “You wanna live, then you better move your ass outta here now. Right now. Hear me? There’s a crazy fuck in here that wants to kill you.”

Spocatti knew the moment Divine leaned toward Maggie Cain’s ear that she was telling her to run. And so he ran through the crowd, leaping over the fat woman pretending to be a dog and a dozen other people behaving like dogs as he sprinted toward the exit.

But in the wild maze of flashing lights and twirling bodies, he couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t seem to move forward without someone getting in his way and slowing him down. With mounting frustration, he saw Cain look over her shoulder, spot him and then, with fear on her face, she rushed up the stairs, which led to open air and freedom.

Spocatti ran toward the white light wavering at the exit, saw the cool glare that was Divine’s face as it slid into shadow and disappeared, but he had no time to seek out that face and bash it in. He hit the stairs as Maggie Cain shot past Frankie the doorman and burst through the door. He caught a glimpse of her dark hair in the sudden blast of sunlight and knew that she was his.

But Frankie, foolish in the bravado of his high, stood in front of the door, pulled off his leather mask and folded his arms around his muscular chest in an effort to create some kind of intimidation.

Spocatti raced toward him, the gun in his hand exploding along with the back of Frankie’s head. Frankie collapsed in front of him but Spocatti didn’t lose momentum. He was through the door, up the stairs and on the street. Heart hammering, eyes blinded by the white-hot sunlight, he saw only shiny trucks rumbling by and the three whistling whores walking alongside them.

He whirled in a complete circle.

Maggie Cain was gone.

Wolfhagen stood at the top of the staircase, listening.

Down below, in the library, Carra was straightening chairs, moving about, wanting to be heard. The only rugs in this house were threadbare antiques worth a fortune and her shoes clicked across them without apology.

He imagined her stopping in front of mirrors and glimpsing the rage on her face. He imagined her damning him and his presence in her home.

He imagined her dead.

Now she was in the hallway, now the living room. Click, click, click. Wolfhagen leaned over the railing and looked down at the bright entryway, remodeled with his money while he was in prison. The central air conditioning hummed but it couldn’t deaden the sounds of those heels. Would she never leave?

Finally, her heels in the hallway, her shadow stretching, Wolfhagen stepping back, floorboards creaking, door swinging open, banging shut.

He hurried into her bedroom and crossed to the window overlooking 68th Street. He parted the heavy damask curtain and peered out. On the sidewalk, Carra was approaching the black limousine waiting for her curbside. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed her face and a tailored red suit that showed off her legs. The driver opened her door and she stepped inside. Wolfhagen had no idea where she was going or how long she would be, but he had threatened her and so she’d left. If he was going to look at this DVD, he’d have to do so now, before she returned.

His suitcase was across the room on the wide iron chair.

Wolfhagen unzipped the bag and removed the disc from beneath the stack of neatly folded clothes. He turned to the cabinet behind him, opened the pale wooden doors, and switched on the television and the DVD player. He inserted the DVD, grabbed the remote, walked backward to the bed, sat down and pushed PLAY. As the screen faded to black, he stared at it.

Time passed. The disc spun. He sat completely still and watched Gerald Hayes tumble through the air and strike the sidewalk. He was shocked by the violence of the act, but not repelled by it. He viewed the scene again and again, marveling at the woman’s cool as she smashed in one side of Hayes’ head and then led him to the open window and shoved him through.

And of course the woman’s words, over and over the woman’s words: “Wolfhagen was your closest friend and you betrayed him. You told all his secrets in court, you sent him to prison for three years, and you’ve never regretted it. Did you really think he’d let you get away with it forever?”

Wolfhagen rewound the DVD, watched it a fifth time. Hayes had just been shoved through his office window when the bedroom door snapped shut.

Startled, Wolfhagen turned.

Carra was at the rear of the room, looking at the television screen, her decorated lips twisted back, her body rigid. He’d been so intent on Hayes’ murder, he didn’t hear her come in.

Immediately, he stood and shut off the television. How much had she seen? Why had she come back? His mind raced. “It was sent to me,” he blurted. “It came in the box with Wood’s head. There was a note-it told me to take it. Someone’s trying to frame me.”

But Carra, whose hat was now in her hand, took a step back.

“It’s the truth,” he said.

Carra’s eyes said it wasn’t and she shook her head firmly. She was a woman known for her composure and she didn’t lose it now.

She reached out a hand and gripped the doorknob. “I was standing right here,” she said. “I heard what that woman said. You killed Gerald. You killed Wood. You’ve killed every one of them.”

Carmen’s face glowed in the light of the computer.

She was in the safe house on Avenue A, reading the information she’d downloaded from Maggie Cain’s computer. Her eyes skimmed the information Cain had been compiling since the death of her lover, Mark Andrews.

When she was finished, she sat back in her chair. In all her years in this business, she’d seen some sick shit, usually created by her own hands, but this was a new low. This would be enough for Wolfhagen. Cain and her private investigator were as good as dead.

Carmen picked up her cell and hit Spocatti’s number. The line rang, but he didn’t answer. She hung up the phone and opened another file, this one marked “Marty Spellman.” She read quickly and then stopped at one paragraph. She read it again-and again.

Could this be true?

Again, she tried Spocatti and this time he answered. She told him what she knew and Spocatti told her where to meet him. “His name is Marty Spellman?”

“That’s right.”

“And he’s working with Cain?”

“They’re investigating Wolfhagen. They’ve already involved the police.”

“Run a check on him. Find out where he lives.”

“I already know.”

“That’s resourceful, Carmen, good for you. What do you recommend?”

“It’s no longer just Cain. We take both out. Now.”

“Agreed. Let me call Wolfhagen and tell him our priorities have shifted.”