Darkfall Part 19

It wasn't only the circ.u.mstances of this conversation-the dreamlike quality of the street around the pay phone, the feeling of floating, the fever haze-that made it all seem so unreal; the conversation itself was so bizarre that it would have defied belief regardless of the circ.u.mstances in which it had taken place. Jack shook himself, but the world wasn't jarred to life like a stubborn wrist.w.a.tch; reality didn't begin to tick again.

He said, "You actually think I could take such an offer seriously?"

"The evidence I plant will be irrefutable. It will stand up in any court. You needn't fear you'd lose the case."

"That's not what I mean," Jack said. "Do you really believe I'd conspire with you to frame innocent men?"

"They wouldn't be innocent. Hardly. I'm talking about framing other murderers, thieves, and pimps."

"But they'd be innocent of these these crimes." crimes."

"A technicality."

"Not in my book."

Lavelle was silent for a moment. Then: "You're an interesting man, Lieutenant. Naive. Foolish. But nevertheless interesting."

"Gennaro Carramazza tells us that you're motivated by revenge."

"Yes."

"For what?"

"He didn't tell you that?"

"No. What's the story?"

Silence.

Jack waited, almost asked the question again.

Then Lavelle spoke, at last, and there was a new edge to his voice, a hardness, a ferocity. "I had a younger brother. His name was Gregory. Half brother, really. Last name was Pontrain. He didn't embrace the ancient arts of witchcraft and sorcery. He shunned them. He wouldn't have anything to do with the old religions of Africa. He had no time for voodoo, no interest in it. His was a very modern soul, a machine-age sensibility. He believed in science, not magic; he put his faith in progress and technology, not in the power of ancient G.o.ds. He didn't approve of my vocation, but he didn't believe I could really do harm to anyone-or do good, either, for that matter. He thought of me as a harmless eccentric. Yet, for all this misunderstanding, I loved him, and he loved me. We were brothers. Brothers Brothers. I would have done anything for him."

"Gregory Pontrain*" Jack said thoughtfully. "There's something familiar about the name."

"Years ago, Gregory came here as a legal immigrant. He worked very hard, worked his way through college received a scholarship. He always had writing talent even as a boy, and he thought he knew what he ought to do with it. Here, he earned a degree in journalism from Columbia. He was first in his cla.s.s. Went to work for the New York Times New York Times. For a year or so he didn't even do any writing, just verified research in other reporters' pieces. Gradually, he promoted several writing a.s.signments for himself. Small things. Of no consequence. What you would call 'human interest' stories. And then-"

"Gregory Pontrain," Jack said. "Of course. The crime reporter."

"In time, my brother was a.s.signed a few crime stories. Robberies. Dope busts. He did a good job of covering them. Indeed, he started going after stories that hadn't been handed to him, bigger stories that he'd dug up all by himself. And eventually he became the Times' Times' resident expert on narcotics trafficking in the city. No one knew more about the subject, the involvement of the Carramazzas, the way the Carramazza organization had subverted so many vice squad detectives and city politicians; no one knew more than Gregory; no one. He published those articles- " resident expert on narcotics trafficking in the city. No one knew more about the subject, the involvement of the Carramazzas, the way the Carramazza organization had subverted so many vice squad detectives and city politicians; no one knew more than Gregory; no one. He published those articles- "

"I read them. Good work. Four pieces, I believe."

"Yes. He intended to do more, at least half a dozen more articles. There was talk of a Pulitzer, just based on what he'd written so far. Already, he had dug up enough evidence to interest the police and to generate three indictments by the grand jury. He had the sources, you see: insiders in the police and in the Carramazza family, insiders who trusted him. He was convinced he could bring down Dominick Carramazza himself before it was all over. Poor, n.o.ble, foolish, brave little Gregory. He thought it was his duty to fight evil wherever he found it. The crusading reporter. He thought he could make a difference, all by himself. He didn't understand that the only way to deal with the powers of darkness is to make peace with them, accommodate yourself to them, as I have done. One night last March, he and his wife, Ona, were on their way to dinner*"

"The car bomb," Jack said.

"They were both blown to bits. Ona was pregnant. It would have been their first child. So I owe Gennaro Carramazza for three lives-Gregory, Ona, and the baby."

"The case was never solved," Jack reminded him. "There was no proof that Carramazza was behind it."

"He was."

"You can't be sure."

"Yes, I can. I have my sources, too. Better even than Gregory's. I have the eyes and ears of the Underworld working for me." He laughed. He had a musical, appealing laugh that Jack found unsettling. A madman should have a madman's laugh, not the warm chuckle of a favorite uncle. "The Underworld Lieutenant. But I don't mean the criminal underworld, the miserable cosa nostra cosa nostra with its Sicilian pride and empty code of honor. The Underworld of which I speak is a place much deeper than that which the mafia inhabits, deeper and darker. I have the eyes and ears of the ancient ones, the reports of demons and dark angels, the testimony of those ent.i.ties who see all and know all." with its Sicilian pride and empty code of honor. The Underworld of which I speak is a place much deeper than that which the mafia inhabits, deeper and darker. I have the eyes and ears of the ancient ones, the reports of demons and dark angels, the testimony of those ent.i.ties who see all and know all."

Madness, Jack thought. The man belongs in an inst.i.tution.

But in addition to the madness, there was something else in Lavelle's voice that nudged and poked the cop's instincts in Jack. When Lavelle spoke of the supernatural, he did so with genuine awe and conviction; however, when he spoke of his brother, his voice became oily with phony sentiment and unconvincing grief. Jack sensed that revenge was not Lavelle's primary motivation and that, in fact, he might even have hated his straight-arrow brother, might even be glad (or at least relieved) that he was dead.

"Your brother wouldn't approve of this revenge you're taking," Jack said.

"Perhaps he would. You didn't know him."

"But I know enough about him to say with some confidence that he wasn't at all like you. He was a decent man. He wouldn't want all this slaughter. He would be repelled by it."

Lavelle said nothing, but there was somehow a pouting quality to his silence, a smoldering anger.

Jack said, "He wouldn't approve of the murder of anyone's grandchildren, revenge unto the third generation. He wasn't sick, like you. He wasn't crazy."

"It doesn't matter whether he would approve," Lavelle said impatiently.

"I suspect that's because it isn't really revenge that motivates you. Not deep down."

Again, Lavelle was silent.

Pushing, probing for the truth, Jack said, "So if your brother wouldn't approve of murder being done in his name, then why are you-"

"I'm not exterminating these vermin in my brother's name," Lavelle said sharply, furiously. "I'm doing it in my own name. Mine and no one else's. That must be understood. I never claimed otherwise. These deaths accrue to my credit, not to my brother's."

"Credit? Since when is murder a credit, a character reference, a matter of pride? That's insane."

"It isn't insane," Lavelle said heatedly. The madness boiled up in him. "It is the reasoning of the ancient ones, the G.o.ds of Petr Petro and Congo Congo. No one can take the life of a Bocor Bocor's brother and go unpunished. The murder of my brother is an insult to me. It diminishes me. It mocks me. I cannot tolerate that. I will not! My power as a Bocor Bocor would be weakened forever if I were to forego revenge. The ancient ones would lose respect for me, turn away from me, withdraw their support and power." He was ranting now, losing his cool. "Blood must flow. The floodgates of death must be opened. Oceans of pain must sweep them away, all who mocked me by touching my brother. Even if I despised Gregory, he was of my family; no one can spill the blood of a would be weakened forever if I were to forego revenge. The ancient ones would lose respect for me, turn away from me, withdraw their support and power." He was ranting now, losing his cool. "Blood must flow. The floodgates of death must be opened. Oceans of pain must sweep them away, all who mocked me by touching my brother. Even if I despised Gregory, he was of my family; no one can spill the blood of a Bocor Bocor's family and go unpunished. If I fail to take adequate revenge, the ancient ones will never permit me to call upon them again; they will not enforce my curses and spells any more. I must repay the murder of my brother with at least a score of murders of my own if I am to keep the respect and patronage of the G.o.ds of Petro Petro and and Congo Congo."

Jack had probed to the roots of the man's true motivation, but he had gained nothing for his efforts. The true motivation made no sense to him; it seemed just one more aspect of Lavelle's madness.

"You really believe this, don't you?" Jack asked.

"It's the truth."

"It's crazy."

"Eventually, you will learn otherwise."

"Crazy," Jack repeated.

"One more piece of advice," Lavelle said.

"You're the only suspect I've ever known to be so br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with advice. A regular Ann Landers."

Ignoring him, Lavelle said, "Remove yourself from this case."

"You can't be serious."

"Get out of it."

"Impossible."

"Ask to be relieved."

"No."

"You'll do it if you know what's good for you."

"You're an arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"I know."

"I'm a cop, for G.o.d's sake! You can't make me back down by threatening me. Threats just make me all the more interested in finding you. Cops in Haiti must be the same. It can't be that that much different. Besides, what good would it do you if I did ask to be relieved? Someone else would replace me. They'd still continue to look for you." much different. Besides, what good would it do you if I did ask to be relieved? Someone else would replace me. They'd still continue to look for you."

"Yes, but whoever replaced you wouldn't be broadminded enough to explore the possibility of voodoo's effectiveness. He'd stick to the usual police procedure, and I have no fear of that."

Jack was startled. "You mean my open-mindedness alone is a threat to you?"

Lavelle didn't answer the question. He said, "All right. If you won't step out of the picture, then at least stop your research into voodoo. Handle this as Rebecca Chandler wants to handle it-as if it were an ordinary homicide investigation."

"I don't believe your gall gall," Jack said.

"Your mind is open, if only a narrow crack, to the possibility of a supernatural explanation. Don't pursue that line of inquiry. That's all I ask."

"Oh, that's all, is it?"

"Satisfy yourself with fingerprint kits, lab technicians, your usual experts, the standard tools. Question all the witnesses you wish to question-"

"Thanks so much for the permission."

"-I don't care about those things," Lavelle continued, as if Jack hadn't interrupted. "You'll never find me that way. I'll be finished with Carramazza and on my way back to the islands before you've got a single lead. Just forget about the voodoo angle."

Astonished by the man's chutzpa, Jack said, "And if I don't forget about it?"

The open telephone line hissed, and Jack was reminded of the black serpent of which Carver Hampton had spoken, and he wondered if Lavelle could somehow send a serpent over the telephone line, out of the earpiece, to bite him on the ear and head, or out of the mouthpiece, to bite him on the lips and on the nose and in the eyes* He held the receiver away from himself, looked at it warily, then felt foolish, and brought it back to his face.

Lavelle said, "If you insist on learning more about voodoo, if you continue to pursue that avenue of investigation* then I will have your son and daughter torn to pieces."

Finally, one of Lavelle's threats affected Jack. His stomach twisted, knotted.

Lavelle said, "Do you remember what Dominick Carramazza and his bodyguards looked like-"

And then they were both talking at once, Jack shouting, Lavelle maintaining his cool and measured tone of voice: "Listen, you creepy son of a b.i.t.c.h-"

"-back there in the hotel, old Dominick, all ripped up- "

"-you stay away from-"

"-eyes torn out, all b.l.o.o.d.y?"

"-my kids, or I'll-"

"When I'm finished with Davey and Penny-"

"-blow your f.u.c.kin' head off!"

"-they'll be nothing but dead meat-"

"I'm warning you-"

"-dog meat, garbage-"

"-I'll find you-"

"-and maybe I'll even rape the girl-"

"-you stinking sc.u.mbag!"

"-'cause she's really a tender, juicy little piece. I like them tender sometimes, very young and tender, innocent. The thrill is in the corruption, you see."

"You threaten my kids, you a.s.shole, you just threw away whatever chance you had. Who do you think you are? are? My G.o.d, My G.o.d, where where do you think you are? This is America, you dumb s.h.i.t. You can't get away with that kind of stuff here, threatening my kids." do you think you are? This is America, you dumb s.h.i.t. You can't get away with that kind of stuff here, threatening my kids."

"I'll give you the rest of the day to think it over. Then, if you don't back off, I'll take Davey and Penny. And I'll make it very painful for them."

Lavelle hung up.

"Wait!" Jack shouted.

He rattled the disconnect lever, trying to reestablish contact, trying to bring Lavelle back. Of course, it didn't work.

He was gripping the receiver so hard that his hand ached and his muscles were bunched up all the way to the shoulder. He slammed the receiver down almost hard enough to crack the earpiece.

He was breathing like a bull that, for some time, had been taunted by the movement of a red cape. He was aware of his own pulse throbbing in his temples, and he could feel the heat in his flushed face. The knots in his stomach had drawn painfully tight.

After a moment, he turned away from the phone. He was shaking with rage. He stood in the falling snow, gradually getting a grip on himself.

Everything would be all right. Nothing to worry about. Penny and Davey were safe at school, where there were plenty of people to watch over them. It was a good, reliable school, with first-rate security. And Faye would pick them up at three o'clock and take them to her place; Lavelle couldn't know about that. If he did decide to hurt the kids this evening, he'd expect to find them at the apartment; when he discovered they weren't at home, he wouldn't know where to look for them. In spite of what Carver Hampton had said, Lavelle couldn't know all and see all. Could he? Of course not. He wasn't G.o.d. He might be a Bocor Bocor, a priest with real power, a genuine sorcerer. But he wasn't G.o.d. So the kids would be safe with Faye and Keith. In fact, maybe it would be a good idea for them to stay at the Jamison apartment overnight. Or even for the next few days, until Lavelle was apprehended. Faye and Keith wouldn't mind; they'd welcome the visit, the opportunity to spoil their only niece and nephew. Might even be wise to keep Penny and Davey out of school until this was all over. And he'd talk to Captain Gresham about getting some protection for them, a uniformed officer to stay in the Jamison apartment when Jack wasn't able to be there. Not much chance Lavelle would track the kids down. Highly unlikely. But just in case* And if Gresham didn't take the threat seriously, if he thought an around-the-clock guard was an unjustified use of manpower, then something could be arranged with the guys, the other detectives; they'd help him, just as he'd help them if anything like this ever fell in their direction; each of them would give up a few hours of off-duty time, take a shift at the Jamisons'; anything for a buddy whose family was marked; it was part of the code. Okay. Fine. Everything would be all right.

The world, which had strangely receded when the telephone had begun to ring, now rushed back. Jack was aware of sound, first: a bleating automobile horn, laughter farther along the street, the clatter-clank of tire chains on the snowy pavement, the howling wind. The buildings crowded in around him. A pedestrian scurried past, bent into the wind; and here came three black teenagers, laughing, throwing s...o...b..a.l.l.s at one another as they ran. The mist was gone, and he didn't feel dizzy or disoriented any longer. He wondered if there actually had been any mist in the first place, and he decided the eerie fog had existed only in his mind, a figment of his imagination. What must have happened was* he must have had an attack of some kind; yeah, sure, nothing more than that.

But exactly what kind of attack? And why had he been stricken by it? What had brought it on? He wasn't an epileptic. He didn't have low blood pressure. No other physical maladies, as far as he was aware. He had never experienced a fainting spell in his life; nothing remotely like that. He was in perfect health. So why? why?