Hornet's Nest - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 8

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West answered nothing more for an hour and twenty-five minutes, as she and Brazil inched their way along the street, collecting police gear that had jumped out of the trunk. The bubble light was shattered blue plastic.

Flares were crushed paper cases leaking a dangerous composition. A Polaroid crime-scene camera would capture nothing any more. The raincoat was miles away, snagged on the undercarriage of a station wagon, touching the exhaust pipe and soon to catch on fire.

"West and Brazil drove and stopped, picked up, and drove again. This went on without conversation. West was so angry she did not dare speak. So far, two patrol units had cruised past. There was no doubt in the deputy chief's mind that the entire four-to-midnight shift knew exactly what had happened and probably thought it was West who had hit the switch because she hadn't been in a pursuit in this life. Before tonight she had been respected. She had been admired by the troops.

She stole a hateful glance at Brazil, who had recovered a jumper cable and was neatly coiling and tucking it beside the spare tire,

which was the only thing that hadn't flown out, because it was bolted down.

"Look," Brazil suddenly spoke, staring at her beneath a street light.

"I didn't do it on purpose. What more do you want me to say?"

West got back in the car. Brazil halfway wondered if she might drive off without him, and just leave him out here to be murdered by drug dealers or hookers who were really men. Maybe the consequences were occurring to West, too. She waited for him to climb in. He shut the door and pulled the seatbelt across his chest. The scanner hadn't stopped, and he was hoping they'd go on something else quick so he could redeem himself.

"I have no reason to have a detailed knowledge of your car," Brazil said in a quiet, reasonable tone.

"The Crown Vie I got to drive during the academy was older than this. The trunk opened from the outside.

And we don't get to use sirens. "

She shoved the car in gear and drove.

"I know all that. I'm not blaming you. You didn't do it on purpose. Enough already," she said.

She decided to try another part of town, off Remus Road near the Dog Pound. Nothing would be going on there. Her assumption would have been accurate, were it not for an old drunk woman who decided to start screaming on the lawn of the Mount Moriah Primitive Baptist Church, near the Greyhound bus station and the Presto Grill. West heard the call over the scanner and had no choice but to back up the responding unit. She and Brazil were maybe four blocks away.

"This shouldn't be anything and we're going to make sure we keep it that way," West pointedly told Brazil as she sped up and took a right on Lancaster.

The one-story church was yellow brick with gaudy colored glass windows all lit up and nobody home, the patchy lawn littered with beer bottles near the JESUS CALLS sign in front. An old woman was screaming and crying hysterically, and trying to pull away from two uniformed cops. Brazil and West got out of their car, heading to the problem. When the patrolmen saw the deputy chief in all her brass, they didn't know what to make of it and got exceedingly nervous.

"What we got?" West asked when she got to them.

The woman screamed and had no teeth. Brazil could not understand a note she was wailing.

"Drunk and disorderly," said a cop whose nameplate read Smith.

"We've picked her up before."

The woman was in her sixties, at least, and Brazil could not take his eyes off her. She was drunk and writhing in the harsh glare of a street light near the sign of a church she probably did not attend.

She was dressed in a faded green Hornets sweatshirt and dirty jeans, her belly swollen, her breasts wind socks on a flat day, arms and legs sticks with spider webs of long dark hair.

Brazil's mother used to make scenes outside the house, but not any more. He remembered a night long ago when he drove home from the Harris-Teeter grocery to find his mother out in front of the house.

She was yelling and chopping down the picket fence as a patrol car pulled up. Brazil tried to stop her and stay out of the way of the axe. The Davidson policeman knew everyone in town, and didn't lock up Brazil's mother for disturbing the peace or being drunk in public, even though he had justification.

West was checking the old woman's cuffed wrists in back as blue and red lights strobed and her wailing went on, pierced by pain. West shot the officers a hot, angry look.

"Where's the key?" she demanded.

"These are way too tight."

Smith had been around since primitive times and reminded West of jaded, unhappy old cops who ended up working private security for corporations. West held out her hand, and he gave her the tiny metal key. West worked it into the cuffs, springing them open. The woman instantly calmed down as cruel steel disappeared. She tenderly rubbed deep angry red impressions on her wrists, and West admonished the troops.

"You can't do that," she continued to shame them.

"You're hurting her."

West asked the woman to hold up drooping arms so West could pat her down, and it entered West's mind that she ought to grab a pair of gloves. But she didn't have a box in her car because she wasn't suppose to need things like that anymore, and, in truth, the woman had been put through enough indignity. West did not like searching people, never had, and she remembered in the old days finding unfortunate surprises like bird claw fetishes, feces, used condoms, and erections.

She thought of rookie days, of fishing cold slimy Spam out of Chicken Wing's pocket right before he socked her with his one arm. This old lady had nothing but a black comb, and a key on a shoelace around her neck.

if7 W Her name was Ella Joneston, and she was very quiet as the police lady cuffed her again. The steel was cold but didn't have the teeth it did a minute ago when the sons-a-bitches snaked her. She knew exactly what it was they wrapped around her wrists in back where she couldn't see, and it bit and bit without relief, venom spreading through her, making her shake as she screamed.

Her heart swelled up big, beating against her ribs, and would have broke had that blue car with the nice lady not pulled up.

Ella Joneston had always known that death was when your heart broke.

Hers had come close many times, going back to when she was twelve and boys in the projects knocked her down right after she'd washed her hair. They did things she never would speak of, and she'd gone home and picked dirt and bits of leaves out of braids and washed off while nobody asked. The police lady was sweet, and there was someone in plain clothes there to help her, a clean-looking boy with a kind face.

A detective, Ella reckoned. They took each of her arms, like she was going to Easter Sunday and dressed in something fine.

"Why you out here drinking like this?" The lady in uniform meant business but she wasn't harmful.

Ella wasn't sure where out here was. She didn't have a way to get places. So she couldn't be far from her apartment in Earle Village, where she had been sitting in front of the TV when the phone had rung earlier this evening. It was her daughter with the awful news about Efrim, Ella's fourteen-year-old grandson, who was in the hospital.

Efrim had been shot several times this morning. Everyone supposed the white doctors tried all they could, but Efrim had always been stubborn. The memory brought fresh hot tears to Ella's eyes.

Ella told the lady cop and the detective all about it as they situated her into the back of a police car with a partition to make sure Ella couldn't hurt anyone. Ella mapped out Efrim's entire short life, going back to when Ella held him in her arms right after Eorna birthed him.

He was always trouble, like his father. Efrim started dancing when he was two. He used to act big beneath the streetlight out front, with those other boys and all their money.

"I'm going to get your seatbelt on," the blond detective said, snapping her in and smelling like apples and spices.

The old woman reeked of stale bad hygiene and booze, triggering more images for Brazil. His hands were shaking slightly and not as facile as usual. He didn't understand what the woman was muttering and gumming and crying about, and every breath smelled like the inside of a Dumpster in the heat. West wasn't helping a bit now, standing back and watching, making Brazil do the dirty work. His fingers brushed the old woman's neck and he was startled by how smooth and warm it was.

"You're going to be all right." Brazil kept saying what couldn't possibly be true.

West was not naive. She knew patrol was a problem. How could it not be with Deputy Chief Goode heading it? That beat cops might be a little too rough or simply unprofessional in general wasn't a shock, but West couldn't stomach it. She approached the two patrolmen, both older and miserable in their jobs. She got in Smith's face and remembered being a sergeant and putting up with dead wood like him. As far as she was concerned, he was so low on the food chain, she wouldn't slop hogs with him.

"Don't let me ever see or hear of anything like this again," West said in that low tone that Brazil found scary.

West was close enough to see stubble that looked like sand, and a firestorm of broken blood vessels caused by what Smith did when he wasn't in a patrol car. His eyes were lifeless on hers, for his building had been vacant for years.

"We're out here to help, not hurt," West whispered.

"Remember? That goes for you, too," she added to his partner.

V9 Neither cop had any idea about the boy riding with the deputy chief this night, and they sat inside the cruiser with its hornet's nests on the doors, watching the midnight-blue Crown Victoria leave. Their prisoner in back was quietly snoring.

"Maybe Deputy Chief Virgin finally found a boyfriend," said Smith as he peeled open two sticks of Big Red gum.

"Yeah," said the other cop, 'when she gets tired of Romper Room, I'll show her what she's missing with the big dogs. "

They laughed, pulling out. Moments later, the scanner announced more bad news.

"Thirteen-hundred block Beatties Ford Road," it said.

"Report of an ambulance held hostage by a subject with a knife."

"Glad we're tied up on a call," Smith said, smacking a mouthful of cinnamon.

W) It was West's bad luck that Jerome Swan had not experienced a pleasant evening. It had begun at a fuzzy hour before the sun had gone down in this rundown part of the city. West had no reason to be aware of the nip joint in the area known as the Basin, off Tryon Street, very close to the Dog Pound, where she had been heading for quite some time now. So when the call went out, she was trapped, really. Two marked units got there first, and then Captain Jennings arrived with his ride-along, City Councilman Hugh Bledsoe.

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