The Weight of Living Read online

  “Look right here, Frank,” Maria Ramirez said, pausing the video of the shooting. “She moved, and that was what saved her life. Calista Knox was the target.”

  On the screen, Nagler watched as at first Calista stood to Leonard’s left, clutching her hands in front of her. Then she stepped over to Leonard as the podium exploded.

  For the next twenty seconds or so, the video was a rolling show of the sky, trees, people’s running feet, a glimpse of the videographer, the corner of the stage and finally, the ambulance pulling to a stop.

  “I’ll buy that,” Nagler said. “Tank told me Calista wanted her freedom, and that it would have a high cost. Death is a high cost for freedom.”

  He glanced at Ramirez, and then at the floor. No more sad faces. I can’t do this if everyone is wearing a sad face.

  Ramirez, softly: “Did you see Mulligan’s report? They all died protecting Leonard and one another. The wounds were in their sides, legs and backs. They all dove to cover one another. It was just the size of the weapons, Frank. Big guns.” She crossed to where Nagler was leaning on a table and patted his cheek twice, the last touch lingering. “I’m so sorry, Frank.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Then, “You okay?”

  She sighed. “Been better. We always say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ And it seems so empty and formal. And then it’s your own.”

  A silent room, airless.

  “So, public. Sarah Lawton with an audience,” he said. “Yet if he had McCann following Calista, he could have had her killed nearly anywhere outside of the public’s eye. That’s what he apparently did in Georgia. Isolated killings, remote disposal. So, sending a message? I’m in control? Guess so.”

  “Was thinking about that, too,” Ramirez said. “Like that smoke event at the theater. Why that, and why there?”

  “That did seem pointless,” Nagler said. “Do we have a traffic cam video of that?”

  Ramirez sat at her terminal. “That was what, three o’clock or so?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll go back an hour and fast forward. Um, okay, here they come.”

  The screen filled with dozens of people running from the theater, coughing holding their hands to their faces, hitting the sidewalks and street and then stumbling, running away.

  “That didn’t show anything,” she said.

  “Yeah. Can I play with it?”

  “Play with it? Just don’t break it. What are you thinking?” Ramirez asked.

  Nagler took a seat at the console. “Barry said he thought he saw a hat like McCann’s, so probably McCann, about an hour before the smoke erupted. What other angles do we have on this?”

  “Warren and Bassett, by city hall,” Ramirez said as she tapped a few keys. “Here.”

  After she left, Nagler fingered his way through screen after screen of vehicles stopping and starting, pedestrians crossing streets, jaywalking, tossing bags of stuff toward trash cans and leaving it on the sidewalk when they missed.

  “There he is,” Nagler said as McCann crossed Warren to Bassett.

  “He’s not carrying anything. What?” Nagler replayed the segment: McCann, head down, hurrying across the street, stopping behind the theater and taking out a... what? A cell phone.

  “Jesus, he didn’t plant the tear gas and smoke bombs. He was lured there.”

  Nagler viewed at high speed several hours of tape from earlier that day, but saw nothing unusual. The building’s not in use, so they could have been put there at any time, he thought.

  He brought up the video of the mass exit and viewed it slowly. He spotted a few familiar faces, including his own, then one that he hadn’t expected. He froze the tape, and called Ramirez.

  “What? Break it?” She asked as she entered the room.

  “No, actually. How do you enlarge the image?”

  “Man, we do need to get you to a third-grade computer class,” she said. “Of what?”

  “Alton Garrett.”

  Ramirez nudged Nagler’s shoulder so she could sit. “No.”

  The enlarged still image showed Garrett in a hoodie and sunglasses leaving the theater with the students, and, when put back in motion, showed him walking quickly off to the right.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That it was a trap for McCann that didn’t work. We’re not the only ones working down a list of Tank’s associates. Garrett was after McCann, and finally got him.”

  ****

  The interview room at the county jail was intimidating because it was so clean, white, and metallic, Nagler decided.

  Across the table were Rashad Jackson and Dennis Wilson, resplendent in orange prison wear and gray-faced from their isolation.

  “Gentlemen, you have one shot here,” Nagler said. “Let me catch you up. Calista Knox burned down the compound. She told me she has one more item on her list. Jerrold McCann was apparently killed by Alton Garrett, shot it the back of head, very nasty, after McCann killed three of my friends trying to kill Calista. They are both still out there. And I’m here and I’m pissed.”

  “Can you get me out of solitary?” Wilson asked, glancing at Jackson.

  “Is that smart?” Nagler asked. “Especially you, Wilson. A child molester who sold his daughter? Jail is a dangerous place for people like you. Besides, Garrett is an ex-cop, with friends, and you both know how Tank can buy off anyone for a price. So, you’re better off out of the general population.”

  The pair silently stared at the table.

  “Don’t wait for an offer, guys,” Nagler said loudly. “Keeping you alive is the best I can do. I mean, look, Mr. Mayor. We found all the deals you and McCann were cooking up. And the feds are looking into RICO charges. Not pretty. And you, Mr. Wilson, the school district is going to sue you into the next century, after the school board gets sued by parents for exposing their children to, well, you.”

  Nagler slammed his elbows on the metal table and linked his fingers.

  “Where’s Tank?”

  Jackson coughed. “You chased him out of pretty much all the places I knew,” he said. “He moves a lot, because...”

  “Because two of his family members are trying to kill him, we get that,” Nagler said. “You got anything, Wilson?”

  A big sigh. “Last place I met with him was at the half-finished subdivision off 80. The company left construction trailers there. That was two months ago.”

  “How does he get around?”

  Wilson sucked on his lower lip. “He has my vehicles, Dodge sedan and an SUV.”

  Of course he does. Nagler nodded slowly. “Okay, if you were Garrett and Calista, where would you be?”

  “Stoveworks,” Jackson said. “There’s some hidden, dry places. No one goes there anymore since the fire and the company that owns it left town. No one wants it for development. So it sits there and rots. I couldn’t even give it away.”

  ****

  Nagler settled in as the bedroom darkened. Patrols of the stoveworks and the empty subdivision had not produced leads on Tank’s whereabouts, as both Jackson and Wilson knew they would. The loyalty is amazing, he thought, but it might soon be shaken.

  Guidrey from Atlanta had sent copies of arrest warrants for Garrettson on three counts of murder and a copy of an announcement from that state’s attorney general that fraud charges had been filed against Garrettson and a dozen of his companies, citing thousands of victims over a decade. That would shake up Jackson and Wilson, Nagler knew. They could be charged as accessories in either case.

  “They’re going to hope we don’t find him,” he muttered.

  Lauren stepped out of the bathroom and slipped under the sheets. “Find who?”

  “Tank. Georgia just filed murder and fraud charges against him.”

  “Well, that’s good. The other states will follow suit, and maybe the feds will take the fraud case as an interstate crime. He’s done.”

  “But I need to find him, Lauren.” He kissed her hair. “I need to find him.”
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  She wrapped her arms around him. “I saw Leonard today. Doctors said he might not walk again because of the wound to his spine. They induced a coma. They said it’s going to be a long haul. What if he...?”

  Nagler squeezed her and closed his eyes against the sight of his friend helpless in that bed.

  “I saw him yesterday. Sister Katherine has a nun there praying daily, and she is taking care of the details for the funerals. Del will be buried with Martha.” He laughed softly. “Shows how optimistic we were. We bought six plots. For us and our four kids.” A soft whimper escaped. “The Sister found Bobby’s family in Ohio and they are coming for him, and Dom’s family is raising the money. A funeral home will donate services, but they need to pay for the casket. Barry has a mayonnaise jar on the counter that fills up by the hour. Then we have to figure out what to do with the store to keep it running ...”

  “Hey,” Lauren said as she reached up and kissed him. “The city’s going to help cover the funeral costs, and I’m already dealing with the store and all the property issues. You worry about catching Tank. Oh, and later, when this is all over, there will still be two plots in the cemetery. You and I are going to have to make a couple more people to use them, I guess.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I’m all used up

  Lauren had just settled to sleep when Nagler’s phone rang.

  “Who...?” she asked drowsily.

  “Shit, Calista.”

  “What?” Lauren sat up and then rolled to her knees.

  “Hello, Calista?” Nagler said into the phone. Nothing but grumbling background noise.

  “Frank. I...” and her voice faded as what sounded like a large truck seemed to pass by.

  “Where are you?” Nagler demanded. “I can’t...”

  “Frank! Just a second.” He heard some shouting, then Calista say, “Don’t do anything.” Then no words, just a clash of sounds.

  “Where are you?” Nagler asked again.

  Lauren pulled a sheet around her bare shoulders. “What?!”

  Nagler covered the phone with one hand and mouthed, “Calista.” Then softly, “She seems to be in trouble.”

  Lauren sank into the bed. “Oh, God. It’s Garrett. It has to be.”

  “What? Wait, Calista, you there?” He mouthed to Lauren: What?

  “Frank. We’re at the truck pull off on Route 80. Me and Alton. You gotta come.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He just ran away from his uncle again. He’s in a bad way. I can’t... I need your help.”

  “On my way.”

  “I’m coming,” Lauren said and jumped naked from the bed and reached for her jeans.

  Nagler took the pants from her hands and sat her on the bed and pulled a sheet over her waist. “No, kid. I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t sound good or safe.”

  “Calista’s going to need me.”

  Nagler kissed her forehead and then her mouth, deeply. “Leonard might need you more.”

  ****

  The truck pull-off on Interstate 80 was an informal truck rest area where a few dozen big rigs squeezed onto a cut out alongside the highway. It was what passed for services for long haul drivers in New Jersey. As he drove there, he called the State Police barracks in Netcong and asked them to send patrols but not use lights and sirens or approach the site until he asked for their immediate help.

  Idling rigs lined the breakdown lane approaching the cutout and Nagler slowed his car looking for Calista. He parked at the end of the lot and entered on foot.

  He spotted her on the grassy hillside above the inner line of trucks. He approached slowly, weapon drawn, but concealed. He motioned for a trucker who had opened his door to step out. “Do me a favor,” he said as he showed his badge. “There is a situation here. Get on your radio and tell all westbound trucks on 80 to slow down or pull off the road for a while. Don’t want them to get accidentally involved or hurt. Appreciate it.”

  Nagler slipped behind the truck and headed up the grassy hill, his left foot yelling in pain with each step.

  She saw him, and after a glance to the right, walked and crawled down the hill. “Frank, I’m sorr—”

  “Apologize later. What’s going on?”

  “It’s Alton. He wants to end everything.”

  “What?” Nagler asked as he tried to spot Garrett among the parked trucks.

  “The family. For failing.”

  “What the hell does that mean? You do know that Alton is wanted for the murder of Jerrold McCann? I’m going to try to arrest him, Calista.”

  Calista wiped her eyes and twisted up her mouth. “He was protecting me. We were going to end all this.”

  “By killing McCann and Garrettson?”

  A cold voice from a face of stone. “If we had to.”

  Shit. “That’s not the way, Calista. Why didn’t you let me help you? Where is Garrett?”

  Calista’s face collapsed; she was helpless. “He’s a mess right now. He wants to leave, but he wants to stay. He fights against his uncle’s domination, then he fights for his attention.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The little girl in the trash was a test, Frank,” she whispered. “Alton was supposed to get her back for Garrettson. But he couldn’t do it. I think he’s going to kill himself.”

  Nagler limped quickly down the hill, looking back at Calista, trying to get away. That was the damnedest...no longer was there pity, just revulsion... he stopped the thought. He spotted Garrett two trucks ahead. He was swigging from a bottle and yelling words Nagler couldn’t understand. He called the State Police. “Subject is Alton Garrett, wanted for murder in Ironton. May be armed. Approach with caution. Could be suicidal. I want him alive.”

  Nagler pushed his way through a ring of drivers and told them to move away.

  He watched as Garrett drank and stared at the trucks and then scanned up and down the road.

  “Alton. It’s me, Frank Nagler.”

  Garrett squinted into the banks of headlights shining from the parked trucks.

  “Nagler? What the hell are you doing here? You want some of this?” and he held up the bottle. “Or some of this?” and he grabbed his crotch.

  “Put the bottle down and sit over here. Let’s talk.”

  Garrett laughed. “Nothing to talk about, Detective Nagler. I know how you hate being called that, so I’ll call you that all the time from now on. You can join the list of people who hate me.”

  “No one hates you,” Nagler said, taking a couple of small steps toward Garrett, who was about twenty feet away.

  The highway seemed suddenly quieter, Nagler thought. Maybe that trucker’s call had worked. Still, a few rigs rumbled by. In the dim light, he saw several officers take positions in the median.

  “Oh, he hates me. He hates me more than he hated any of his kids, even the ones he killed. Isn’t that funny? He killed his own kids. He learned from his father and grandfather, that’s what he said.”

  Nagler took a couple more steps. What do I say to that?

  “That’s just wrong, Alton. No one has that power. Come here and sit. We need to talk.”

  Garrett emptied the bottle and tossed it onto the highway with a crash.

  “So you can tell me I’m a good boy? I am a good boy, Detective Nagler, but not in the way you mean. He told me I was a good boy. I did everything he asked. I was a good boy.” Garrett shook his head and stared at Nagler. “He has that power, Detective Nagler. He has that power and used it. I did everything he asked, except for getting back the little girl. The little girl. It’s funny. We didn’t even give them names. Just numbers. Like they weren’t human. Like me. I’m not human. I’m just a thing, a thing to be used. And now I’m all used up.”

  “No,” Nagler yelled. “No. People love you. Sister Katherine loves you, she told me. You were one of her favorites. You are her family.”

  Garrett howled as he stumbled around the driveway. “Old Sister Katherine?” he mocked. �
��Sure she loved me. She is supposed to love her family. But there is nothing to love, Detective Nagler, just a collection of fuck-ups. It was what God told her to do. Her duty. Her penance. Save my soul! Save my ass! Save me from the wickedness of this world! Ain’t enough nuns to save me, Detective Nagler. You have no idea of the terrible things I’ve done just to please him. Not enough prayer beads, not enough holy water. Not enough saints. Can’t save the unloved.”

  “I love you, Alton,” Calista cried out, suddenly at Nagler’s side. “I love you.”

  Garrett stopped twirling and stared at Calista. Then he laughed, hooted.

  “Eh, you’re just a thing like me, sweetie. Unloved and unlovable. Wait ’til he uses you up. We’ll both be shells. Empty shells.”

  The highway was nearly empty; a few newly arrived rigs slowed to the curb. Maybe, Nagler thought. In the distance, the grunting of gears grew louder as one more truck made the grade.

  “I had a brother, you know that Detective Nagler? He got used up, too. Drove himself out to Nebraska on Interstate 80, just like here. Symbolic, ain’t it? All the way out to Nebraska. Found himself a big rig and drove his truck into the side and burned himself up. Only the flames will purify you. You need to feel the flames there, Calista. You shoulda run into the compound after you fire-bombed it. Let the flames lick away your sins. Oh, the sins we have committed, sweet Calista. They would light the night.”

  He spied the truck cresting the rise, picking up speed and smiled. Then he turned, laughing, and ran.

  “No,” Nagler yelled. “He’s running. Get that driver to stop.” He tried to run after Garrett, but his aching left foot cramped up, and he stopped running, hands on his knees. Calista sprinted past him, yelling for Garrett to come back. Then she, too, stopped running. The officers in the median were too far away.

  But Garrett didn’t stop, and the truck couldn’t stop, even as the driver locked the brakes and tried to jack-knife the rig. The dark air filled with gray smoke from burning rubber; air so thick with acid and blood, it stuck to your skin.

  Calista had run a few yards away and collapsed in the middle of the cutout as a couple of drivers reached to help her. Nagler pulled her to her feet.