Small Town
Page 76

He had his right thigh over it, screening it as much as possible, but it was impossible to be sure it wasn’t partially visible. And what was unquestionably visible was its absence from its place on top of the chest of drawers. So far the Carpenter hadn’t glanced over there, and might not notice anything if he did, as transported as he appeared to be by the night’s events.
“The ship’s burning,” he announced.
“This one?”
“Of course not. And this is a boat, not a ship. Though it, too, will be burning soon enough.” He smiled, and it changed his mien curiously from exaltation to resigned sadness. “Soon it will all be over.”
“You said the ship was burning. What ship?”
“The Circle Line,” the Carpenter said. “They have different ships with different names. I didn’t notice the name of this one.
Have you ever taken their cruise around Manhattan?” He had, years ago. Someone had booked the ship on a weekday evening for a private party to which he’d been invited. He hadn’t had a chance to see much, had been stuck in one conversation after another, barely got out on deck.
He didn’t say any of this, though, because the Carpenter hadn’t waited for an answer. Instead he’d gone on to recount something of the history of the Circle Line, and some of the more impressive sights to be seen on that voyage. If the Carpenter had seemed sad a moment ago, now he spoke with the enthusiasm of a teacher lecturing on a favorite topic.
Buckram said, “You don’t hate the city, do you?”
“Hate it?”
“That’s what everyone thinks. That you blamed New York for the loss of your family, that everything you’re doing is an act of revenge. But when you talk about New York you sound like a lover.”
“Of course,” the Carpenter said. “I love New York.”
“There were all these books in your storage locker . . .”
“My library. I’ve missed my books.”
“You know a great deal about the city.”
“One always wants to know more.”
“Then why the hell are you trying to destroy it?”
“To destroy it?”
“With killing and burnings and explosions and . . .” He stopped. The Carpenter was shaking his head. “Sacrifice,” he said.
“Sacrifice?”
“Trying to destroy the city. As if I would want to do that. Don’t you understand? I’m trying to save it.”
And he began to explain, spinning a complicated story full of local history, with the Draft Riots and the Police Riots and gang warfare and a maritime disaster, all the horrible things that had happened in the last couple of centuries, wrapped up in a theory of death and rebirth, suffering and renewal. Sacrifice.
“I wanted to die,” he was saying now. “I wanted to share in their sacrifice, to be a part of it. My wife took pills. I found her dead in our bed. Do you know what I did?”
Again the question was rhetorical, and the Carpenter didn’t wait for an answer. “I took pills,” he said, “and lay down beside her, intending to go where she had gone. And do you know what happened? I woke up, with nothing worse than a bad headache, and the deepest sorrow I have ever known. I thought of Cain, making an offering to God and having the smoke go off to the side.
And then I came to realize that my sacrifice had not been rejected.
It had been postponed, because I had work to do. I had to sacrifice others to the greater glory of the city.”
There was more, and Buckram listened, took it all in. The Carpenter was insane, which was hardly news, but insane in a surprising way. He’d killed all those people—and God only knew how many he’d added to the total tonight, at the Boat Basin and wher-ever else his bombs had landed. All those deaths, and he didn’t have anything against any of them, didn’t have the slightest wish to do them harm. Didn’t think he was harming them, thought he was ennobling them.
And what was he doing now? Walking over to the can of gas, twisting the top off . . .
“Chelsea Piers,” the Carpenter was saying. “It’s this great project at the water’s edge, with restaurants and sports facilities, even a driving range. Can you imagine that? A driving range in Manhattan?” He shook his head, awed by the wonder of it all. “We’ll be there soon. And this little boat of ours will be a bomb, filled with combustible fumes, and I’ll run it into the pier, and that will be the last sacrifice.” He beamed at Buckram. “And you’ll be a part of it.”
Buckram couldn’t wait any longer. Once the lunatic started sloshing the gas around, the cabin would be a bomb, and a gun-shot would set it off. He said, “I don’t think so,” and wrenched his right hand free of the cuff, grabbing up the gun, hurling his body to the side and firing the gun as he moved.
The recoil wasn’t that massive, not from a .22, but it was enough to dislodge the grip of Buckram’s weakened right hand.
But the shot was right on target. It took the Carpenter squarely in the center of the chest. His jaw dropped and he stared and took a step back, but he didn’t clutch his chest and his knees didn’t buckle and he didn’t fall down, the way a person generally does when you shoot him in the heart.
Oh, Jesus. The fucking Kevlar vest. It saved a life, but not the one it was supposed to.
And the Carpenter had his own gun drawn now, Buckram’s .38, and he pulled the trigger, and the sound was much louder in the little cabin. The bullet missed, and Buckram groped for the .22, grabbed it finally with his left hand. He raised it, and the Carpenter, his hand trembling, fired a second shot, and this one didn’t miss. Pain seared Buckram’s belly, pain almost too much to bear, and he remembered something Susan had said, something about pain being nothing but a sensation you make wrong, and he dismissed the pain and brought the gun to bear and made the Carpenter wrong instead, made him wrong forever, squeezing the trigger three times and hitting him three times in the face and throat.
And watched him fall, and lie still.
W H E N T H E F I R S T B U L L E T struck, smack in the center of his chest, the Carpenter felt a rush of joy. He was going to die. His sacrifice was complete, he could let go now, and in a moment he would be with Carole.
But he hadn’t died, he wasn’t even hurt. He’d felt the impact of the bullet but it didn’t seem to have injured him. So he’d been right after all, he thought sadly. He had to kill this man, and then he had to complete the sacrifice.
He fired and missed, fired again and hit the man. Not in the chest, where he’d aimed, but much lower. But he’d hit him, and now the man would die, and then—
Then three shots, and in a mere instant the Carpenter was hovering above the scene, looking down, seeing two bodies on the cabin deck. One was Buckram, the man whom he’d shot and by whom he’d been shot in return. And the other, of course, was his own.
And, seeing himself lying there, the Carpenter felt a veil lift, and knew for the first time, knew with perfect certainty, that everything he’d done in the past months had been completely and overwhelm-ingly wrong. The realization was crushing, blinding, devastating.
And then, just as quickly, it ceased to matter. Because he was drawn into the vortex now, whirled into the long tunnel, and Carole would be waiting for him at the end of it.
He let go, and sailed away.
O H , J E S U S . A R E D -hot poker in your bowels, and you could tell yourself it was just a sensation, but it was more than that. It was bad news, because you’d been gutshot and you were going to die.
The cell phone. That was his only hope, and of course the fucking thing was on top of the chest of drawers and he was on the fucking floor, pardon me, the fucking deck, and what he needed was Medic Alert, because he’d fallen and he couldn’t get up.
Had to.
Couldn’t.
Fuck that. He had to.
He got to his feet, grabbed the cell phone, then fell down again and felt it spill out of his hand. Groped around, got hold of it. 9-1-1, he thought. Easy to remember, same as 9/11, the day it all started.
And, talking to the 911 operator, telling her who he was and where he thought he was and what had happened, a thought came to him. He pushed it away until he’d gotten the message across to her, then let go of the phone and sprawled on his back.
And the thought was there again. His mother, telling him how he had to wear clean underwear every morning, in case he got hit by a bus. Because what would they think in the hospital?
And what would they think, he wondered, when they found Francis J. Buckram, the former commissioner of the NYPD, stark fucking naked and not a single hair on his balls?
The worst part, he thought, as his consciousness began to fade, the worst part was that he wasn’t going to be around to see the expressions on their faces.
forty-one
THE FIRST THINGshe thought was that he didn’t look so bad, not as bad as she’d feared. And her second thought was that he didn’t look so good, either. His face was so pale, so drawn, and there was gray in his hair that hadn’t been there before. He had tubes coming out of him, monitors hooked up to him.
His eyes were closed, and she drew a chair up next to the bed and just sat there for a while, watching him. Then she said,
“Franny?”
His eyes opened, focused on her. Light came into his eyes, and his lips showed the slightest suggestion of a smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t call you that here.”
“That’s okay.”
His voice was weak, but it was his voice, with the force of his personality behind it. He brought his hand out from under the covers and she laid her hand on top of it.
“I hate to tell you this,” she said, “but I can’t give you a blow job.
I had to tell them I was your sister. Oh, shit, did I do something wrong?”
His face was twisted in pain. He got hold of himself, said,
“Jesus, don’t make me laugh,” and set himself off again. And she struggled not to laugh herself, and of course that was hopeless, like trying not to laugh at a funeral. She slapped herself in an effort to make herself stop, and evidently that struck him as the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
And she thought, isn’t that a fine thing, I spent all that money on handcuffs and dildos, when all it takes to torture you is a funny line.
Somehow she managed to keep the thought to herself.
“Y O U ’ R E A H E R O , ” S H E told him, when they’d both got hold of themselves. “You went out single-handed and caught the Carpenter.”
“If I’d gone in with backup,” he said, “the Boat Basin would still exist, the Circle Line wouldn’t have lost a ship, and a lot of people would still be alive.”
“Possibly. Or he may have gotten away. As far as the city’s concerned, you’re a hero. There’s a lot of speculation that you’ll run for mayor in 2005.”
“I’d rather shoot myself,” he said.
“Really?”
He nodded. “But not in the belly. Once is enough. A doctor came in the other day and told me there was no reason I wouldn’t be able to perform sexually. I said I’d just as soon wait a while, if it was all the same to him.”