The Poet

42

Carrying four containers of black coffee in a small cardboard box, I stepped through the door of the Data Imaging Answers store to see Thorson's shocked face. Before he could say anything the phone on his desk started ringing. He picked it up and said, "I know."

He held the phone out for me.

"For you, sport."

It was Backus.

"Jack, get the hell out of there right now!"

"I will. I just wanted to drop off some coffee to these guys. You saw Gordo, he's falling asleep, it's so boring in here."

"Very funny, Jack, but get out. Our agreement was that you would do things my way and I would protect the story. Now, please, do as-you've got a customer. Tell Thorson. It's a woman."

I held the phone against my chest and looked at Thorson.

"Customer on the way. But it's a woman."

I held the receiver back up.

"Okay, I'm out of here," I said to Backus.

I hung the phone up and took one of the coffee containers out of the box and put it on Thorson's desk. I heard the door open behind me, the sound of traffic going by on Pico getting momentarily louder and then buffered again by the closed glass. Without turning around to look at the customer I went over to the desk where Coombs was sitting.

"Coffee?"

"Thank you very much."

I put another cup down and reached into the box for packets of sugar and powdered cream and a stirring straw. When I turned around I saw the woman standing in front of Thorson's desk, digging through a big black purse. She had fluffy blond hair in a Dolly Parton cascade. An obvious wig. She wore a white blouse over a short skirt and black stockings. She was tall, even without the high heels. I noticed that when she had opened the door to the shop a strong odor of perfume entered with her.

"Ah," she said, finding what she was looking for. "I'm here to pick this up for my boss."

She placed a folded yellow sheet on the desk in front of Thorson. He looked over at Coombs, an attempt to signal that Coombs should take over this transaction.

"Take it easy, Gordo," I said.

As I started for the door I looked over at Thorson, expecting him to reply to my repeated use of the nickname Backus had used for him. I saw Thorson looking at the now unfolded sheet she had given him and his eyes fixed on something. I saw his eyes glance at the west wall of the store. I knew he was looking at the camera. At Backus. He then looked up at the woman. I was behind her at this point and could only see Thorson's eyes just over her shoulder. He was rising and I saw his mouth coming open in a silent O. His right arm was coming up and he was reaching inside his jacket. Then I saw her right arm coming up from the bag. When it cleared her torso I saw the knife grasped in her hand.

She brought the knife down well before Thorson had his arm out of his jacket. I heard his strangled cry as the knife plunged into his throat. He started falling back, a spray of arterial blood going up, hitting her in the shoulder as she leaned all the way over the desk reaching for something.

She straightened up and spun around, Thorson's gun in hand.

"Nobody fuckin' move!"

The woman's voice was gone, replaced by the near hysterical and taut voice of the cornered male animal. He aimed the gun at Coombs and then swung it around at me.

"Get away from that door. Get in here!"

I dropped the box with the two coffee containers, raised my hands and moved away from the door, further into the showroom. The man in the dress then wheeled again on Coombs, who shrieked.

"No! Please, they're watching, no!"

"Who's watching? Who?"

"They're watching on the camera!"

"Who?"

"The FBI, Gladden," I said in as calm a tone as I could muster, which probably wasn't too far removed from the same shriek that Coombs had emitted.

"Can they hear?"

"Yes, they can hear."

"FBI!" Gladden yelled. "FBI, you got one dead already. You come in here and you'll get two more."

He then turned to the display table and aimed Thorson's gun at the video camera with the red light on. He fired three times until he hit it and it flew backward off the table, breaking apart.

"Get over here," he yelled at me. "Where are the keys?"

"Keys to what?"

"The goddamn store."

"Take it easy. I don't work here."

"Then who does?"

He turned the gun on Coombs.

"In my pocket. The keys are in my pocket."

"Go lock that front door. You try to run through and I'll shoot you down like the camera."

"Yes, sir."

Coombs did as he was told and then Gladden ordered both of us to the back of the showroom and told us to sit on the floor against the door to the rear storage room, blocking anybody from charging through. He then turned over both desks so they would act as blinds and maybe even barriers against bullets from outside the front windows. He crouched down behind the desk where Thorson had been.

I could see Thorson's body from my position. Most of his previously white shirt was soaked in blood. There was no movement and his eyes were half closed and fixed. The handle of a knife still protruded from his throat. I shuddered at the sight, realizing that a moment ago the man was alive and that whether I liked him or not, I knew him. Now he was dead.

The thought occurred to me then that Backus must be panicked. With the video out, he might not know Thorson's status. If he believed Thorson was alive and there was a chance he could be saved, I could expect the critical response team to start coming through with stun grenades and everything else at any moment. If they believed Thorson to be dead, I might as well settle in for what could be a long night.

"You don't work here," Gladden said to me. "Who are you? Do I know you?"

I hesitated. Who was I? Did I tell this man the truth?

"You're FBI."

"No. I'm not FBI. I'm a reporter."

"A reporter? You came for my story, is that it?"

"If you want to give it. If you want to talk to the FBI, put that phone over there on the floor back on its hook. They'll call on that line."

He looked over at the phone that had come apart on the floor when he had overturned the desk. Just then it began emitting the sharp tone signaling it was off the hook. He could reach the line without moving out of cover. He dragged the phone over and hung it up. He looked at me.

"I recognize you," he said. "You-"

The phone rang and he picked it up.

"Talk," he commanded.

There was a long silence until he finally responded to whatever had been said.

"Well, well, Agent Backus, good to make your acquaintance again. I have learned a lot about you since we last met in Florida. And Dad, of course. Read his book, I always hoped we would talk again… You and I… No, you see, that would be impossible because I have these two hostages here. You fuck with me, Bob, and I fuck with them in ways you won't believe when you come in here. You remember Attica? Think about that, Agent Backus. Think about how Dad would handle this. I gotta go."

He hung up and looked at me. He pulled the wig off and threw it angrily across the showroom.

"How the hell did you get in here, reporter? The FBI doesn't let-"

"You killed my brother. That's what got me in."

Gladden looked at me a long moment.

"I didn't kill anyone."

"They've got you cold. No matter what you do to us, they've got you, Gladden. And they're not going to let you out of here. They-"

"All right, shut the fuck up! I don't have to listen to that."

Gladden picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Let me talk to Krasner, it's an emergency… William Gladden… Yeah, that one."

We looked at each other while he waited for the lawyer to pick up. I tried to show a calm exterior but inside my brain was racing. I didn't see any way out of this without somebody else dying. Gladden didn't seem like the type who could be talked into raising his hands and giving up so he could be strapped into the electric chair or the gas chamber in a few years, depending on which state got the first shot at him.

Krasner apparently came on the line and for the next ten minutes Gladden heatedly reviewed the situation for him, getting angry at whatever course of action Krasner suggested he take. Finally, he slammed the phone down.

"Fuck that."

I kept quiet. I figured that every minute that went by was in my favor. The FBI had to be formulating something out there. The sharpshooters, the surgical entry team.

The light was dimming outside. I looked through the front plate-glass window and to the plaza shopping center across the street. My eyes followed the roofline but I saw no figures, not even the telltale barrel of a sniper's rife. Not yet.

I looked away and then quickly back. I realized there was no traffic going by on Pico. They had closed the road. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. I looked over at Coombs, wondering if there was some way of letting him know to brace himself.

Coombs had sweated through his shirt. The knot of his tie, the recipient of all the sweat sliding down his cheeks and neck, was soaked. He looked like someone who had just spent the better part of an hour throwing up. He was sick.

"Gladden, show ' em something. Let Mr. Coombs go. He doesn't have anything to do with this."

"No, I don't think so."

The phone rang, and he picked it up and listened without saying anything. Then he softly placed the receiver down on the hook. The phone rang again in a few moments and he answered and quickly pushed the hold button. He punched the key for picking up the other line and put that on hold as well. Now no one could call in.

"You're fucking up," I said. "Let them talk to you, they'll figure something out."

"Listen, when I want your advice I'll beat it out of you. Now, shut the fuck up!"

"Okay."

"I said shut up!"

I raised my hands in an I-give-up gesture.

"You fucking media assholes never know what you're talking about anyway. You-what's your name, anyway?"

"Jack McEvoy."

"You got ID?"

"In my pocket."

"Throw it over here."

I slowly pulled my wallet out and slid it across the rug to him. He opened it and looked through the press passes.

"I thought you-Denver? What the fuck you doing in L.A.?"

"I told you. My brother."

"Yeah, and I told you. I didn't kill anybody."

"What about him?"

I nodded toward Thorson's still insert body. Gladden looked at the body and then back at me.

"He made the play. I finished it. Rules of the game."

"The guy's dead. It's no fucking game."

Gladden raised the gun and pointed it at my face.

"If I say it's a game, then it's a game."

I said nothing in response.

"Please," Coombs said. "Please…"

"Please what? Just shut the fuck up. You… uh, paperboy, what are you going to write when this is over? Assuming you can still write."

I thought for at least a minute and he let me.

"I'll tell why if you want me to," I said finally. "It's always the most interesting question. Why did you do it? I'd tell that. Is it because of that guy in Florida? Beltran?"

He snorted in derision, more in displeasure that I had mentioned the name, not that I knew it.

"This isn't an interview. And if it is, no fucking comment."

Gladden looked down at the gun in his hands for what seemed like a long time. I think at that point he felt the futility of the situation pressing down on him. He knew he wasn't going anywhere and I got the sense that he'd known his trail would eventually end in a scene like this. It seemed he was at a weak point and I tried again.

"You should pick up that phone and tell them you want to speak to Rachel Walling," I said. "Tell 'em you'll talk to her. She's an agent. You remember her? She came to you at Raiford. She knows all about you, Gladden, and she'd help."

He shook his head no.

"I had to kill your brother," he said softly, without looking at me. "I had to do it."

I waited and that was all he said.

"Why?"

"The only way to save him."

"Save him from what?"

"Don't you see?" He looked up at me now, deep pain and anger in his eyes. "From becoming like me. Look at me! From becoming like me!"

I was about to ask another question when there was the sudden sound of shattering glass. I looked toward the front and saw a dark object about the size of a baseball bounce across the room toward the overturned desk near Gladden. I registered what it was and began to roll and bring my arms up to cradle my head and shield my eyes just as there was a tremendous detonation in the showroom, a blast of light that burned through my closed eyes and a following concussion so strong it sent a pounding energy wave through me like a punch to my whole body.

The rest of the windows shattered and as I completed my roll I opened my eyes enough to get a bead on Gladden. He was squirming on the floor, his eyes wide but not focused and his hands held to his ears. But I could tell he had been too late in recognizing what was happening. I had been able to block at least some of the impact of the concussion grenade. He looked as if he had taken the full brunt of it. I saw the gun lying loose on the floor next to his legs. Without pausing to consider my chances, I quickly crawled to it.

Gladden sat up as I got to him and we both lunged for the gun, our hands reaching it at the same time. We fought for control and rolled over each other. My thought was to get to the trigger and just start firing. It didn't matter if I hit him, as long as I didn't hit myself. I knew the concussion grenade would be followed by the charge of the agents. If I could empty the gun, it wouldn't matter who had it. It would be over.

I managed to squeeze my left thumb in behind the trigger guard but the only place my right hand could grasp was the end of the barrel. The gun was between our chests, pointing toward our chins. At the moment I judged-hoped-I was out of the line of fire, I squeezed with my left hand while opening my right hand. The gun discharged and I felt a sharp pain as the bullet clipped the webbing between my thumb and palm and the escaping gases scorched my hand. At the same moment I heard Gladden howl. I looked up to his face and saw blood spreading from his nose. What was left of it. The bullet had ripped off the rim of his left nostril and cut a slashing crease up his forehead.

I felt his grip momentarily weaken and in one burst of strength-possibly my last-I wrenched away control of the gun. I was pulling myself away from him, registering the sound of footsteps in glass and unintelligible yells when Gladden made another lunge for the gun in my hands. My thumb was still caught in the trigger guard, all the way past the joint. It was pressed against the trigger guard and there was no room left for movement. Gladden tried to wrench the gun back and in doing so it discharged once again. Our eyes met at that moment and there was something telling in his. They told me that he had wanted the bullet.

Immediately his grip on the gun relaxed and he fell back away from me. I saw the gaping wound in his chest. His eyes stared at me with the same look of resolve I had seen moments before. Like he knew what was going to happen. He reached to his chest and looked down at the blood pumping into his hand.

Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and pulled away from him. A hand firmly gripped my arm and another carefully removed the gun from my hand. I looked up and saw a man wearing a black helmet and matching black jumpsuit with a large armored vest on the outside. He held some kind of assault weapon and wore a radio headset, a thin black bar curving in front of his mouth. He looked down at me and touched the transmit button at his ear.

"We're all secure here," he said. "We've got two down and two walking. Come on in."