Sacrificial Ground

22

During the long ride back to Atlanta, Frank tried to bring all the details he had discovered into some kind of order. The portrait of Angelica Devereaux had now changed radically, but it was no less confused. The remote, private, obsessively solitary girl who slept in a room full of dolls had become something else entirely, a girl who dressed in different clothes, wandered through seedy art galleries, and, in her own way, tried to attract as much attention as she could.

But even this was too simple, Frank thought, as he continued to consider it. For this was the same girl who’d suddenly approached an old man with what appeared to be genuine affection, the same girl who, a few weeks later, had driven a boy she hardly knew to a littered alleyway and taken him angrily in the cramped space of a red BMW. It was as if she had lived many lives, or wanted to, and that none of them had ever satisfied her.

It was already past nine at night when Frank made it back to headquarters. Most of the detectives had cleared out long ago, with only the sullen graveyard shift to occupy the empty desks of the bullpen. They sat around, staring vacantly at newspapers and magazines or roaming idly from one desk to another as if still searching wearily for the final key to things.

Only Gibbons retained his energy, and as he sat down at his desk, Frank could see him scrambling through the last stack of memos from the FBI. It was a sad, despairing sight, but Frank could not figure out exactly why it struck him that way. It was as if something were missing in Gibbons, missing in the way he hunted down his prey with that relentless, deadly professionalism that had served him so well. His busts were always clean. He lived by the letter of the law, and left its spirit as shallow and untended as an abandoned grave.

“Hello, Frank,” Caleb said as he walked up to the desk. “Eyeing the competition?”

“What?”

“I saw Brickman talking to our friend Gibbons this afternoon,” Caleb said. “Thought they might have shifted the case over to him.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good,” Caleb said. He pulled a chair over to the desk and sat down. “Score one for our side. “ He leaned back leisurely and pulled out his pipe. “By the way, where you been? Alvin’s been worrying about you.”

“La Grange.”

“For the sights?”

“I got a lead, someone who’s seen Angelica in various places.”

“What places?”

“A few galleries,” Frank told him. “There’s a street of them near Grant Park.”

“Grant Park again,” Caleb said thoughtfully.

“Yeah.”

“You know, Frank, I’ve been thinking she was maybe a hooker.”

“Who was also a virgin?” Frank replied doubtfully.

“That kid might not know the difference, Frank,” Caleb said. “What I was thinking is, you’ve got a bored rich kid who has a taste for slumming. Things get stranger and stranger. She ends up taking a few bucks. The idea appeals to her. She does it a few more times, and then she picks up this john and before she can even think about it, she’s dead.”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t think so, Caleb.”

“It’s happened more than once.”

“Yeah, I know. Tell me, Caleb, how many cases of murdered prostitutes have you handled?”

“More than I can remember.”

“How’d they look after it was over?”

“Like hell.”

“Like Angelica?”

“Bummed up more.”

“Exactly,” Frank said. “If you want to kill a whore, you use a gun or a knife or a hammer.”

Caleb thought about it for a moment. “All right, I could be wrong. But how do you make it, Frank?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said. He stood up. “Want to go for a ride?”

“Where?”

“Around the park.”

Caleb pulled himself wearily to his feet. “You driving?”

They walked down to the garage together, then drove directly through midtown until they reached Cherokee Avenue and the northern end of Grant Park.

“According to the kid,” Frank said, “Angelica took him around the park a few times.” He pulled over to the curb and stared out into the park. The lights had been turned on, and they gave off a silvery haze.

“Like she was looking for somebody,” Caleb said.

“Right.”

“But not a connection.”

“Not if what you found out is true,” Frank said, “that she was off drugs.”

“But what about action, Frank?” Caleb said. “What if she was just out cruising for a little action?”

“With Stanford Doyle, Junior, sitting right next to her?” Frank asked.

“Maybe she wanted to shock him,” Caleb said. “Maybe that was part of the thrill.”

Frank shook his head.

“Why not?” Caleb asked. “The fact is, Frank, we don’t know what was going through that girl’s mind. She was young, real young, and you must remember what that was like.” He smiled knowingly. “Young blood, Frank. It craves action. For God’s sake, you know what I’m talking about.”

For a moment, Frank remembered his own young blood, how it too had craved action, how it still leaped toward something raw and immediate, how, even now, so much of life seemed like a lazy doze compared to what his blood desired.

“I remember it,” Caleb said quietly. “I remember it real well. And you know what? When I saw that girl all laid out in that goddamn lot, I thought to myself, ‘I know your story, darling.’”

“What do you think her story is, Caleb?” Frank asked very seriously.

Caleb considered it for a moment, as if trying to find the right words. “That she bit down too hard on life. She wouldn’t be the first, you know.” His eyes seemed to withdraw into their sockets. “Sometimes you pay a price, when you want too much, too fast. That’s what I figure happened to Angelica Devereaux. She wanted what we all want in our hearts, Frank, something interesting, something that’s got a fever to it.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah.”

Caleb’s eyes drifted over to the park. The silvery light appeared to thicken as the night deepened around them, turning into a summer fog.

“It always was a shithole, Grant Park,” he said, in a tone that struck Frank as oddly sad and even a little bitter. “Used to be whiskey more than dope. Used to be fucking more than killing. But it was always rough. And it was always interesting.” He looked over at Frank. “Know why? Because it was always full of life.” He scratched the side of his face with a huge hand. “Maybe that’s what she came for. Just life. The real thing.” He smiled knowingly. “And if that’s true, then busting dopers and pimps won’t get us anywhere.”

“Maybe not,” Frank said.

“You came over here to roust the park, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it upside down, screw it around, see what drops. Am I right?”

Frank nodded. “The only thing I’ve been able to figure out about Angelica is that she hung around this area, that she knew something about it.” He looked out into the distance. The haze seemed to tumble in the heated summer air. “This is where she brought the kid that night. And she was spotted in a few of the galleries around here.”

“And the galleries are closed for the night,” Caleb said.

“That’s right.”

“So that just leaves the park.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Caleb said reluctantly, “but you’d better watch yourself. “ He nodded gloomily toward the park. “There’s nothing out there this time of night that don’t already have a problem.” He pulled on the door latch and swung open the door. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go then.”

The thick haze seemed to hold greedily to the day’s exhausted heat, and by the time Frank had walked only a few yards into the park, he could feel his shirt becoming soaked in the armpits and down the back. Great droplets of sweat poured down Caleb’s face as he walked beside him, and in the odd, diffused light of the street-lamps, they appeared to glisten like flecks of ice.

“Keep an eye to what’s behind you,” Caleb said softly as they continued through the stifling haze, “and an ear to what’s on either side.”

Within a few minutes, they were deep into the park. Far away they could hear the low moan of creatures in the zoo, lost and plaintive, bewailing their odd imprisonment. The light faded more and more around them until, after a while, it simply died away and they were covered in the deep summer darkness.

“Hear that?” Caleb said after a moment.

Frank listened. He could hear faint groans at a great distance.

“You got to want it real bad to do it here, “ Caleb said with a sad smile. “We could go over and throw a few questions, but I don’t think they’d be able to help us much right now. “ He nodded straight ahead. “Let’s just let them be. What do you say, Frank?”

They continued to move deeper into the park. The brush thickened slowly around them, wrapping them in warm, leafy arms. To the right, they passed a derelict sleeping soundly, his naked arms wrapped lovingly around a bottle of cheap wine, and to the left, a wiry young woman in a flowered dress who was muttering madly to a stone.

“After a while,” Caleb said, almost to himself, “it’s what you see that kills you.”

They were almost halfway through the park before they heard the first coherent voices. Two voices. A man and a woman. The woman’s voice was high, thready, the man’s was low, gruff, threatening.

“You gone tell the kids ‘bout it?” the woman demanded. “You gone tell them how you back in the joint again?”

“Just shut the fuck up, nigger,” the man said angrily.

Caleb stopped and patted the pistol beneath his coat. “Careful, Frank. You know how it is. Nothing worse than a domestic.”

They continued to walk forward together, and as the fog parted around them, Frank could see a man and woman as they faced each other beside an enormous oak tree. They were arguing frantically, their voices echoing lowly, despite the enveloping fog. They were entirely oblivious to everything but the fury of their struggle.

“Evening, folks,” Caleb said gently.

The man whirled around instantly, his hand reaching for his belt.

“Easy now,” Caleb said sternly. “Police. Don’t move.”

The man’s hand continued to linger at his belt.

Frank stepped to the left and pulled out his revolver. “Put your hands up,” he shouted. “Now!”

The man’s hands leaped into the air.

“Turn around, and put your hands on that tree,” Frank commanded.

The man did as he was told, standing motionlessly while Caleb frisked him.

“This a toy?” he asked with a laugh, and he pulled a twenty-two pistol from his belt.

“I knew they’d ketch you,” the woman said mournfully. “You too dumb, Charlie. That’s yo’ problem.”

Caleb shoved the pistol into his jacket pocket. “Turn around, Charlie,” he said.

Frank put his pistol back in its holster.

Caleb eyed the woman’s purse. “Got anything in there, ma’am?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

He eased the purse from her fingers. “Don’t mind if I take a look, then.” He opened the purse, searched it, then returned it to the woman. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“I just knowed they’d ketch you,” the woman repeated sorrowfully. “Now it’s me and the kids by ourselves again.”

“He’s not caught yet,” Caleb told her.

She looked at him wide-eyed. “Whut?”

“We’re just here to ask a few questions,” Frank explained.

The man looked at him suspiciously. “Whut kind of questions, man?”

“Well, how’s this?” Caleb asked as he dangled the pistol in the air. “You got a permit for this?”

“Nah.”

“How about a record, Charlie, got one of those?”

The man turned away and grunted under his breath.

“Long as my arm, I bet,” Caleb said. “Guy like you probably shouldn’t have a piece.” He looked at Frank. “What do you bet our friend here is out on parole?”

The man stared lethally at Caleb. “Fuck you, man.”

Suddenly, with furious speed, Caleb slapped him hard across the face. The man stumbled backward, his back slamming against the tree. Caleb leaped forward, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up into his own face.

“The woman said something about kids, you asshole,” he shouted. “You got kids?”

The man nodded slowly.

“You ought to take care of them,” Caleb said. “You hear me?”

“Caleb, “ Frank said gently, “back off.”

Caleb drew in a long, deep breath to calm himself. He released the man’s collar, then stepped back.

“Go ahead, Frank,” he said.

Frank moved closer to the man and woman. “You folks live around here?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the woman said.

“Where?”

“Over on Cherokee.”

“So you’re in the park a lot?”

“Sometimes,” the woman said.

“With kids, you must be out here quite a bit.”

“I’m out here some,” the woman said cautiously.

Caleb stared at the man. “You do a little business in the park?” he asked coldly.

“I don’t do nothing,” the man said. He massaged his cheek. “You didn’t have no right to hit me, man.”

“Disarm a felon,” Caleb said, “I didn’t have a right to do that?”

“Wanted to sell me,” the woman hissed angrily. “Wanted to sell my ass around here. “ She thumped her chest bitterly. “His ownself’s wife, the motherfucker!” She shot him a withering look. “My mama didn’t raise me to be no ho!” she screamed.

“So you decided to pimp for your wife?” Caleb asked, his eyes fixed on the man.

Frank quickly took the picture of Angelica from his pocket and handed it to the woman. “Have you ever seen this girl?”

The woman glanced at it halfheartedly. “She on the street?”

“Just tell me if you’ve seen her around,” Frank said.

“Naw, I ain’t seen her,” the woman said.

Frank took the picture and handed it to the man. “How about you?”

The man glanced contemptuously at the photograph. “I don’t deal with no white ass,” he sneered.

Frank stepped over to him. “What did you say?”

The man’s eyes narrowed into tiny, snakelike slits. “Like I done told you, I ain’t seen that piece. I don’t deal with no white ass.”

Frank could see Angelica’s body as it lay sprawled across the vacant lot. White ass. He could feel a terrible rage build slowly within him, and he knew that he wanted to take his pistol from his belt, press its cold black barrel into the man’s face, and pull the trigger again and again until all his strength was gone.

“Dead white ass,” the man said, as he leered at the photograph. “That’s all you got there.”

Frank could feel the nails of his fingers as they bit into his palms. “You’d better shut your fucking mouth,” he said thinly.

The man smiled confidently. “You stop the fatman. The fatman stop you. That’s the way it works.”

Frank felt his hands release, felt one of them as it made a slow crawl toward his pistol. He knew what it would look like. The man’s eyes would widen in one moment of frozen terror. For an instant he would believe that it was all an act: and then, for a single, shattering instant, as the sound swept over him and the bullet struck his skull, he would know that it was not, that a wild, passionate justice had finally overtaken him, and there would be no appeal.

“Not yet,” Caleb said, and suddenly Frank could feel Caleb’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Get on out of here,” Caleb said harshly to the man and woman.

Frank stood motionlessly and listened to the couple’s footsteps as they rushed away from him. He could feel an immense exhaustion in his arms and legs, a heaviness in each cell of his body, as if he were being pulled downward by millions of tiny weights.

Caleb tugged gently at Frank’s arm, urging him out of the park. “You know, when I was a kid … still in uniform, I mean. Well, I had a partner. His name was Ollie Quinn. He had come right out of the country, just like me. Atlanta was like the big time for him. “ He shook his head as he and Frank continued to move steadily out of the park. “He should never have left the farm. He should have spent his little life fishing in the river and picking muscadines. But no, Ollie came to the big city, got a job on the force, and ended up walking a beat with me, night after night, listening to my bullshit.”

He glanced to the left, out into the park. “This was our beat, mine and Ollie’s. And one night we got a call. It was a domestic. Neighbors had heard a woman screaming, kids, too. From what they could tell a guy was beating up on them.” He turned to Frank. “Well, we headed over there, Ollie and me, and, sure enough, it was a domestic, all right. From way outside, we could hear that bastard tearing through the house, throwing people around. It scared the shit out of Ollie, and made him mad, too.” He took out his pipe and began to fill the bowl. “Anyway, we busted in, and dear God, Frank, what we saw. A couple of little boys beat to shit, lying unconscious in one corner. And just a few feet from them, the wife, slumped against the window with an extension cord wrapped around her neck. The man was all on her, strangling her with that cord when we broke through the door.”

He lit the pipe and the blue smoke sailed behind him as he walked. He looked like a locomotive cutting through the fog. “Well, we jumped this guy. Actually, I jumped him. I pulled him off the woman and threw him over to the other side of the room. Ollie went to the woman and started trying to untie the cord. That’s when she bit him. She sunk her teeth into his hand and wouldn’t let go. Ollie kept trying to get loose from her, but she kept bearing down on his hand, so he finally hit her.” He pulled the pipe from his mouth. “That’s when the man got loose from me. He just bolted right over me and slammed into Ollie full force. He started pounding on Ollie, and the woman started scratching at his face. I pulled the man off, but the woman kept at it, screaming at the top of her voice. Ollie finally got up, but the woman kept at him, screaming like you can’t imagine, Frank, like a wild animal, and clawing at Ollie’s face while he backed away from her. But she kept coming at him, with this scream, and clawing at him until his face was covered with blood, and he kept stepping back, trying to get away, but she wouldn’t let him. Ollie pulled out his pistol and waved it in the air, but she just kept on him, clawing and screaming, until he leaped away from her, Frank, and lifted that goddamn pistol, and shot her right between the eyes.”

He stopped dead and simply stared out toward the end of the park to where their car could be seen in the ghostly distance. Then he looked at Frank, his eyes glistening in the streetlight. “They sentenced Ollie Quinn to life for that, Frank,” he said slowly. “There was a lot of politics and a shithead D.A., and Ollie Quinn got life.” He glanced away, his eyes rolling upward to the phantom trees. “But he didn’t serve much of it. He hanged himself two days after the trial.” His eyes shot back to Frank. “And that husband? His name is Towers, Harry Towers. He still lives in that same fucking house. He’s had a wife or two since then, and he’s beat up on all of them, new wives and new kids. We still get domestics on him.” He smiled coldly. “He lives at Two Sixty-five Boulevard, Frank, and one day, after I’m retired, one day, Frank, when it feels just right, I’m going to go over to Two Sixty-five Boulevard, and I’m going to blow Harry Towers’ head off.” He looked at Frank pointedly. “But not yet, my friend, not yet.”

A few minutes later they were in the car together. For a moment Caleb sat motionlessly behind the wheel. Then, suddenly, he hit the ignition and pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, pumping the engine wildly until it filled the air with an angry roar.