“No, pull his hand,” Bosch yelled.
Chu worked one of Pell’s hands while Bosch worked the other and they soon overpowered the smaller man. Bosch pulled the chain off Hardy’s neck and he collapsed forward, his face hitting the back of the seat in front of him before his body fell into the aisle at Chu’s feet.
“Let him die!” Pell yelled. “Let that fucker die!”
Bosch shoved Pell back into his seat and then leaned his whole weight on top of him.
“You stupid fool, Clayton,” Bosch said. “You’ll go back in for this.”
“I don’t care. I got nothing outside, anyway.”
His body shuddered and he seemed to give up strength. He started moaning and crying, repeating, “I want him dead, I want him dead.”
Bosch turned to look into the aisle. Chu and the deputy were tending to Hardy. He was either unconscious or dead and the deputy was checking his neck for a pulse. Chu had his head down and his ear turned toward Hardy’s mouth.
“We need paramedics,” the deputy yelled to the driver. “Fast! I’m not finding a pulse.”
“On the way,” the driver yelled back.
The report regarding the lack of a pulse brought cheering and renewed energy from the other prisoners on the bus. They shook their chains and stomped their feet on the floor. It was unclear to Bosch whether they knew who Hardy was or if it was simply blood lust that had them calling for murder.
Through it all Bosch heard coughing and looked down to see Hardy coming to. His face was still a deep shade of red and his eyes were glassy. But they focused for a moment on Bosch until the deputy’s shoulder moved between them.
“Okay, we got him back,” the deputy reported. “He’s breathing.”
This report was greeted with a chorus of boos from the men on the bus. Pell let out a high-pitched keening sound. His whole body shook beneath Bosch. The sound seemed to sum up a lifetime of anguish and despair.
42
That night, Bosch stood on the back deck, looking down at the ribbon of lights on the freeway. He was still wearing his best suit, though the left shoulder had been scuffed with dirt during the struggle with Pell on the bus. He wanted a drink but wasn’t drinking. He’d left the sliding door open so he could hear the music. He’d gone back to the music he always went to in the solemn moments. Frank Morgan on the tenor sax. Nothing better to sculpt the mood.
He had canceled his date with Hannah Stone. The events of the day eliminated any desire to celebrate, any desire to even talk.
Chilton Hardy had survived the attack on the sheriff’s bus largely unscathed. He was transported to the jail ward at County-USC Medical Center and would remain there until doctors discharged him. His arraignment would be postponed until then.
Clayton Pell was rearrested and additional charges stemming from the attack were added. A parole violation was also added and it was clear that Pell was heading back to prison.
Normally, Bosch would be pleased to learn that a serial sex offender was going back into lockup. But he couldn’t help but be wistful about Pell’s situation and to feel somewhat responsible. And guilty.
Guilty about intervening.
When Bosch had put it all together while standing on First Street, he could have let things run their course, and the world would now be rid of a monster, a man as depraved as any Bosch had ever encountered. But Bosch had intervened. He had acted to save the monster and now his thoughts were clouded with regret. Hardy deserved death but would likely never get it, or would get it only when it was so far distant in time from his crimes as to be almost meaningless. Until then he would hold forth in court and in prison and would enter the halls of the criminal zeitgeist, where men like him were talked about, written about and in some dark corners even revered.
Bosch could have stopped all of that but didn’t. Adhering to a code of
Bosch had spent most of the day writing reports and being interviewed by fellow investigators about the events on the sheriff’s bus. It was determined that Pell knew how to get to Hardy because he knew the system. He knew the methods and routines. He knew that whites were segregated and transported separately and that he had a good chance of getting on the bus with the man he wanted to kill. He knew that he would be shackled at the hands and feet and that his hands would be locked to a waist chain. He knew that he could slip that waist chain down over his small hips and beneath his feet and that it would become his murder weapon.
It had been a grand plan and Bosch had ruined it. The incident was being investigated by the sheriff’s department because it had taken place on their jail bus. The deputy who interviewed Bosch had asked him point blank why he had intervened. Bosch simply said he didn’t know. He had acted on instinct and impulse, without thinking that the world would be a better place without Hardy in it.
As Bosch stared down at the unending river of metal and glass, Pell’s anguish clawed at him. He had robbed Pell of his one chance at redemption, the moment when he would make up for all the damage inflicted on him and, to his way of thinking, the damage he had inflicted on others. Bosch didn’t necessarily agree with it but he understood it. Everybody is looking for redemption. For something.
Bosch had snatched it all away from Pell and that was why he listened to Frank Morgan’s mournful music and wanted to drown himself in drink. He felt sorry for the predator.
The doorbell sounded above the tone of the saxophone. Bosch went in but as he moved through the living room, his daughter bolted out from the bedroom hallway and beat him to the door. She put her hand on the knob and then her eye against the peephole before opening up, just as he had taught her. She paused and then pushed off the door, taking little robot steps backwards and right past Harry.
“It’s Kiz,” she whispered.
She turned and went into the hallway so she would have cover.
“Okay, well, no need to panic,” Bosch said. “I think we can handle Kiz.”
Bosch opened the door.
“Hello, Harry. How are you?”
“I’m good, Kiz. What brings you out?”
“Oh, I guess I was hoping to maybe sit out on the deck with you for a little bit.”
Bosch didn’t respond at first. He just looked at her until the moment became embarrassingly long.
“Harry? Knock, knock. Anyone home?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. I was just—uh, come on in.”
He opened the door wide and let her in. She knew her way to the deck.
“Um, I don’t have anything alcoholic in the house. I’ve got water and some sodas.”
“Water’s fine. I’m going back downtown after.”
As she passed by the bedroom hallway Maddie was still standing there.
“Hi, Kiz.”
“Oh, hey there, Maddie. How’re you doing, girl?”
“I’m good.”
“Glad to hear it. You let me know if you ever need anything, okay?”
“Thank you.”
Bosch turned into the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of water out of the refrigerator. He was only a few seconds behind Rider but she was already at the rail, taking in the view and the sounds. He slid the door closed behind him so Maddie wouldn’t hear whatever it was Kiz had come to say.
“Always amazes me how no matter where you go in this city, you can’t get away from the traffic,” she said. “Even up here.”
Bosch handed her a bottle.
“So if you’re going back downtown and working tonight, this must be an official visit. Let me guess, I’m getting written up for stealing one of the chief’s motorcade cars.”
Rider waved that away like it was a fly.
