The Master of Rain Part 65

"Who was it?" Lewis asked, but both Geoffrey and Granger were concentrating on Field, so the question went unanswered.

"Geoffrey, call an ambulance, will you?"

Granger stood. He moved around behind Field, put his hands beneath his arms, and pulled him to his feet. Charlie Lewis was waiting on the steps, shirtless, next to Penelope. Caroline came through the door, holding a bandage, which she could see her husband no longer needed. The body of the gunman lay in front of them, the back of his head blown across the edge of the sidewalk, his hand resting against one of the wheels of Granger's car.

There was a screech of tires, and, as if in slow motion, they all watched the black sedan tearing back down the street toward them. A fraction of a second before he heard the sound of the bullets, Field felt the force of Granger's push. Caught off balance, he careered to the ground once more, smashing against Granger's car. He fell back against the sidewalk, the pain in his head intense as he hit the body of the dead gunman and rolled across him.

The car roared away and then there was an ear-piercing scream.

Field raised his head. Patrick Granger was lying behind him, spread-eagle across the sidewalk, his head resting against the bottom step. Caroline was upon him, whispering, "Patrick, Patrick," but Field could hear only a low groan.

Charlie Lewis moved her aside roughly, dragged Granger flat, and tried to take his pulse. Geoffrey hobbled down the steps and bent over him on the other side, his ear to Granger's mouth, listening for the sound of breathing.

Field pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He stood unsteadily. He could see that Patrick had been shot six or seven times in the chest, b.l.o.o.d.y holes in the whiteness of his shirt.

Geoffrey straightened, and put his hand on Caroline's shoulder to indicate that it was no use, but she did not let go. She clutched his head to her chest, sobbing, whispering his name, her mouth quivering and her eyes shut. And then she convulsed, emitting a single howl of anguish more tortured than any Field had ever heard.

He closed his eyes. Caroline sobbed quietly and slowly, each breath deep and wrenching. She mumbled her husband's name, over and over again, until Field could not bear to listen to it anymore. He opened his eyes, tried to step forward, and was vaguely aware of pavement rushing up to meet him.

When he came to, he was inside, on a sofa in the front room, Geoffrey's concerned face above him.

"How long?" he asked.

Geoffrey looked puzzled.

"How long have I been out?"

"You fainted. About two minutes, three . . . I don't know."

Field tried to sit up.

"Steady on. You must take it easy."

"No." Field pushed away his uncle's hand and sat up. He swung his legs onto the floor. "Where is the telephone?"

"You need rest."

"I need a telephone."

Field stood, feeling immediately unsteady. He forced himself to overcome it as he crossed the hall. His arm and shoulder burned with pain. He pa.s.sed Penelope, who sat clenched in a ball on the floor, close to the door. Caroline was still clutching her husband on the sidewalk outside, Charlie Lewis above her, trying to get her to stand.

Field found the phone and had to struggle for a moment to recall the number of the Central Police Station.

The operator took a long time to answer. "It's Field here. I need to have the telephone number for Detective Caprisi, from C.1."

The man on the other end of the line hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're unable-"

"It's Richard Field from S.1. I'm at the house of Patrick Granger, head of S.1. He's just been a.s.sa.s.sinated, and I urgently need the number and address of Detective Caprisi from C.1."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not empowered-"

"For Christ's sake!"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Listen." Field tried to calm himself. "Listen to me. Let me repeat. This is Richard Field, S.1, at the house of Patrick Granger, who has just been shot seven times in the chest. I urgently need a number for Detective Caprisi."

There was another hesitation. "Do you have Detective Caprisi's Christian name, sir?"

Field tried to think. "No, I don't, but just look it up." He waited. "Come on," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm looking."

Field turned to see the number one boy emerging from the kitchen area.

"All right, sir, I have it. Detective Caprisi, Lane 1522, 6 Bubbling Well Road. Telephone number, Central 36278."

Field cut the connection and dialed Caprisi's number. It was busy. He tried again but got the same signal. "Come on, Caprisi," he muttered, but every time he dialed, he got the same response.

The number one boy was looking at the scene in the doorway and turned with a start as he sensed Field behind him. "Car," Field said. "Keys."

The man looked confused and frightened.

Field tried to imitate the action of someone putting a key in an ignition and starting a car. The man eventually understood and reached up to the shelf above him on which his master's hats were stored.

Geoffrey came out of the living room as the servant handed Field the keys. "Christ, man, you're wounded." He tried for a moment to prevent him from leaving, but Field pushed roughly past, catching his uncle off balance.

"For G.o.d's sake," he heard Lewis say, but he shut the door and reached over to set the spark and throttle levers, then turned the self-starter. He switched the levers again, released the emergency hand brake, and shoved his left foot against the low speed pedal. He eased it off and slipped into high gear as the car gathered speed.

He was going too fast as he came to the end of the street and almost crashed into another dark sedan as he pulled out onto Peking Road.

A few spots of rain splattered against the windshield and he leaned forward, nursing his bad arm, swinging left into Yu Ya Ching Road and then right into Bubbling Well Road.

There was a small crowd outside Caprisi's apartment. Field sprinted up the iron steps outside the building to the first floor.

He stopped.

For a moment he could not move.

"No," he whispered.

Field took a step closer.

He fell to the floor, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He touched Caprisi's cold neck, fumbling for a pulse. The gla.s.s in the door had shattered and Caprisi was lying flat on his back in the corridor, his revolver in one hand. He was wearing white shorts and T-shirt and, like Granger, he'd been hit repeatedly in the chest.

"No," Field said again.

He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. He pushed his fingers into the skin and tried to locate some sign of life. He gripped the American's wrist.

Field put his head on Caprisi's chest, his hands on his shoulders.

He touched Caprisi's cheeks and stared into his eyes. He shook him. "Come on," he said. "Come on." He shook him harder. He took hold of the American's shoulders and moved him roughly from side to side. "Come on, for pity's sake."

Field ran his hands through Caprisi's hair. He took some between his fingers and pulled. "Come on."

He waited for a response.

"Come on!"

Caprisi's mouth was tightly shut, his eyes staring at a fixed point in the ceiling, his slicked-back hair ruffled where Field had held it. His head was tilted to one side, his left hand open, stretching toward the door.

Field sat back against the wall.

He did not move.

Field reached out and touched Caprisi's cheek with shaking fingers. "Sleep well, my friend," he said. In his eyes, silent tears were forming. A drop fell on his hand as he withdrew it from Caprisi's face.

He stood unsteadily. "f.u.c.k it," he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He took a step back.

He picked up a chair, lifted it, with difficulty, above his head, and hurled it through the broken window.

He took another step back.

Field took a thin yellow raincoat from one of the pegs above him and placed it over Caprisi's chest.

He leaned back against the wall and breathed in as deeply as his lungs would allow, his eyes shut in an attempt to close his mind to the guilt that threatened to engulf him.

Footsteps clattered up the iron stairs. Field did not move, no longer caring if they were coming for him.

The footsteps stopped. There was no sound. He opened his eyes and straightened slowly, turning to see Chen standing in the doorway, his arm in a sling, his face white from the exertion of the climb. He stepped in, leaned against the far wall, and slid down it, too, so that they faced each other across Caprisi's body.

Field sat back. "I never even got to thank him," he said.

Chen looked at him steadily.

"Why Caprisi?"

Chen sighed. "Caprisi did not fit into their world."

"Why tonight?"

"Your investigation. And the drugs. The Saratoga Saratoga sails tomorrow. The shipment must go ahead." sails tomorrow. The shipment must go ahead."

"Lewis."

Chen did not answer.

Field straightened once more. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped into the tiny kitchen. Postcards were taped to the fridge, most from Chicago but some from other cities in America: Miami, Boston, New York, Los Angeles. Field took them all off carefully and turned them over. They were nearly all from "Mom and Dad," though the one with the Hollywood banner on the front was from "Carol" and gleefully announced that Caprisi's little sister was going to make it big in the movies.

Field walked down the corridor to the bedroom-which was completely bare-and the living room.

There were two photographs on the mantelpiece: one of Caprisi with what looked like his sister and his parents, a handsome white-haired man and a large dark-haired woman, and one of the girl and the baby that Field had seen in the American's wallet. Field picked it up to take a closer look. Beneath it was a small, leather-bound alb.u.m. He opened it and stared at the picture on the first page. It was of a boy of about three or four, wearing a baseball outfit and gripping a bat, a huge smile on his face. On the other side of the page was a more formal picture, and Field could see the family resemblance. The boy had straight, short, dark hair and solemn eyes, just like his father.

There was a shot of Caprisi standing next to his son, an arm on his shoulder, and another of all three of them in a studio. Caprisi and the boy wore serious expressions, but the woman had a warm, easy smile. She was pretty, with a small nose, dark hair, and a steady gaze.

The rest of the photographs had been taken in a backyard. There was one of Caprisi kneeling with his arm around his son, both of them again in baseball attire. There was another of the boy as a baby, in his mother's arms.

The last picture in the alb.u.m was of the boy sitting on his mother's lap. She had the same serene smile.

Field stared at the photograph until the tears in his eyes made the figures blur. "Well, you're with them now," Field said. "Maybe what you wanted."

He closed the alb.u.m, put it carefully back on the mantelpiece. Chen was still sitting on the floor close to the door, head bent.

For the first time in his life, Field wanted to believe in a G.o.d. He groped for something good beyond this, but found only icy despair.

He felt paralyzed, powerless to save himself.

The woman in the photograph seemed to be watching him.

He forced himself to walk back down the corridor. He knelt by Caprisi's body and after a moment's hesitation, ran his hand over Caprisi's hair, the way he'd done with Edith when they were children. Chen did not move.

Field leaned back. "Granger is dead, Chen."

Chen stood. "The cabal has guarded its secrets well. You must go, Field, before it is too late." He took out a piece of paper and wrote down a number. "If you need help . . ."

For a moment Field didn't respond.

Chen glanced down at Caprisi's body. "You can show your grat.i.tude to him by staying alive."

Forty-eight.

An hour later Field walked into the deserted lobby of the Central Police Station. He nodded to the doorman, Albert, and headed for the lift. He pressed the b.u.t.ton and watched the dial as it descended. He looked about him, then stepped in and pulled the cage across with his good arm.

He hit the b.u.t.ton for the fourth floor and it cranked into action. It stopped with a jolt when it reached its destination. Field pulled back the door and hesitated before stepping out into the darkness of the S.1 office.

He walked through the patchwork of streetlight and shadow, realizing that he should have asked Albert if anyone was in.

Field reached Granger's office. The gla.s.s door was ajar and he hesitated again, then pushed it open.

He rounded the desk and sat in Granger's leather chair, in the darkness.