Pariah

Rocca opens his car door, climbs behind the wheel, closes the door.

Shit, he’s gonna get away! The only man who can help me now is about to take off, probably never to be seen again.

He starts moving again with renewed vigor. I have to get down there, he thinks. I have to stop him.

The drainpipe creaks more loudly now. Doyle is certain he feels it give slightly, but he can’t slow down now.

Below, Rocca starts up his engine.

Doyle puts everything into one last desperate push. The fire escape is just feet away.

Rocca backs the Lexus up, just enough to give him clearance to pull out.

Come on, Doyle tells himself. Get the fuck down there!

And then, as if granting his wish, the drainpipe gives out a loud crack and breaks away from the wall.

There is no time for thought, no time for any reasoning along the lines of Okay, I’m plummeting to my death, here’s what I should do. . All that Doyle can do is live the experience of his body twisting in free space, register the unusual sight of a car’s roof hurtling toward him at God knows how many miles per hour.

He lands on his side, smashing into the roof of the Lexus. He feels it crumple below him, absorbing his impact. There is an explosive sound as the metal collapses and the windows blow out, showering fragments of glass in all directions.

Doyle lies there for a second, appreciating the fact that he’s still alive. He feels pain in his ribs and in his leg, and wonders if any bones are broken. He looks around him, realizes that he’s landed on the driver’s side, and that the roof on that side is now almost level with the car’s hood.

Rocca! Jesus Christ, have I just killed him?

He drags himself forward and peers upside down through the shattered windshield. At first he’s not sure what he’s looking at, but then he sees motion. The face of Rocca looks straight at him, rivulets of blood streaming down past his eyes and mouth. There is more movement. Rocca’s arm comes up, his gloved hand comes into view, and. .

Shit!

Doyle rolls sideways off the car just milliseconds before Rocca starts shooting upwards through the roof. He lands heavily on the cobblestones, agonizing jolts of pain firing through his bones.

He keeps rolling, putting distance between himself and the car. When the shots cease, he stops too. He gets up on one knee and fumbles for his Glock. Ahead of him, Rocca has begun squeezing himself through the passenger-side window, forcing himself up the narrow gap between the crushed Lexus and the wall of the nightclub. He looks on the edge of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings.

Doyle takes up a two-handed stance and steadies his aim.

‘Sonny! Drop the gun, man!’

Rocca pauses in his struggle. Shakes his head as if to clear his blood-filled eyes and his addled brain. His gun waves lazily in Doyle’s direction.

‘Don’t do it, man!’

As if working by echo location, Rocca homes his gun in on Doyle’s voice, leaving Doyle with no option.

It’s not like it was with Lomax. It could be just a matter of physical distance, Rocca not being right on top of him like Lomax was, or the fact that Rocca doesn’t appear able to shoot straight. Maybe it’s because he quite likes Sonny Rocca, whereas Lomax was just a worthless piece of shit. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want Rocca dead, because he is so much more valuable alive. Or perhaps it’s because Doyle has already killed once, and now finds it easier to tell when to pull on the reins.

Whatever the reason, he stops firing after four rapid shots. He sees Rocca loll back against the brick wall, the gun dropping from his hand. Doyle gets to his feet. Fights the pain racking his body as he limps across to the car. He climbs onto the hood, feeling fragments of glass crunching beneath his feet, then gets onto the roof. He cups a hand under Rocca’s blood-soaked chin and turns his face toward him. The man’s alive, but only by a thread.

‘Sonny. Who got to you? Who put you up to this?’

Sonny opens his mouth and releases a dribble of scarlet. ‘I was gonna go someplace nice,’ he croaks. ‘I was thinking of Europe. Maybe even Ireland. I hear it’s nice there, right, Mr Doyle?’

‘The name, Sonny. What was Bartok about to tell me?’

‘Bartok? Bartok was scum. Shoulda. . shoulda whacked him a long time ago. He gave me money, you know that? A lot of money.’

‘Who? Who gave you money?’

‘I made him an offer. He. . he made me a better one. And you know what? Now I know how it feels, I’da done it for free.’

Doyle grabs him by the lapels and shakes him. ‘He give you enough to die for? You ready to go out of this world for that garbage? Give him up, Sonny. Make it right.’

A twisted smile crosses Rocca’s lips. ‘I like you, Mr Doyle. You’re a funny guy.’

Doyle feels the life leave Rocca’s body. It floats from his form, leaving him sagging and heavy in Doyle’s grasp. Doyle takes his hands away. Looks at Rocca’s blood staining them. He stays there longer than he should, just staring at his hands.

Red-letter day.

When he finally comes to his senses he climbs down from the car and, like a deformed criminal from an old B-movie, limps away into the night.

He doesn’t know how long he’s got, but he can’t stay here.

He races around his room, yanking open drawers and closets and tossing the contents into the case yawning open on his bed. Rocca and Bartok knew where he was staying. That means there may be others in the Bartok organization who know where he’s staying. And if that set of people now includes Lucas Bartok, it won’t be long before hell descends on this place.

He thinks it was bad enough when he was being isolated, but now that he’s got people actively trying to kill him too. .

Shit.

He locks up his bag, performs one last check of the room, then gets the hell out of there.

The door still has yellow crime-scene tape stuck across it. Doyle tears some of it away; then, after a quick look up and down the hallway, he kicks the door open. Somewhere in the building a dog barks, but at least the big black woman in the neighboring apartment seems to be a sound sleeper.

Doyle steps inside and feels for a light switch. He flicks it on, and a bare bulb shows him his new home. Not exactly the Ritz, he thinks, but then Spinner led a pretty spartan existence.

He closes the door again and puts a couple of Spinner’s locks into place. He looks around. There is an unpleasant odor in the air which Doyle decides it might be better not to identify, and the bleak apartment looks as though it has been devoid of occupants for months rather than days. Much of the clutter that used to be here has gone. All of the boxes of electronic equipment have disappeared. Impounded as evidence, presumably, although Doyle can’t help thinking that there may be one or two cops or technicians who are giving nice DVD players for Christmas this year.

Also gone are the chair, table and tape recorder that formed the centerpiece of the living room the last time Doyle was here. For that he is grateful, although there are other reminders. The vast dark bloodstain on the carpet, for example.

He is not a believer in the supernatural, but knowing what happened here colors his normally skeptical view. There is a feeling of unearthly presence here. A sharp coldness like a razor blade scraping the hairs from the nape of his neck. A sensation of things left unfinished.

He doesn’t want to be here. He can still picture Spinner, still hear his screams. The emptiness of the room and the lateness of the hour serve only to amplify these mental sounds and images.

‘It’s me, man,’ he whispers to the ceiling. ‘Doyle. I got nowhere else to go, man. Look after me, okay?’

He knows he must appear crazy saying these things. When dawn arrives and its light chases away the shadows and shows him the truth, he knows he will rebuke himself for acting like an idiot. But right now talking to walls doesn’t seem so absurd.

He walks over to the bathroom, switches on another naked bulb. In the corner, something small and black