A Woman of Valor, page 35
At the corner, she spotted Harkins running down another alley across the street. She gave chase, radioing in her position. More footsteps and shouting joined in pursuit behind her. Sirens revealed that other cruisers were closing in to offer aid.
She reached the alley and ran to its dead-end. No Harkins! But how?
“He went inside!” Rico shouted, pointing to a fire escape ladder one story up. Val jumped to yank it down, but it was out of her reach. Rico’s too.
“Surround the building, and close off all the exits,” Dion Woodson said. “Dawes, you’re the quickest, so you take the front exit on the other side. Rico, go left. Steve, right. I’ll guard this one and radio in.”
Val sprinted around the building and noticed multiple dead-end alleyways with emergency exits. “Check every alley!” she barked into her radio. It would slow them down, but they couldn’t risk letting him escape again. “We need more backup,” she added. The dispatcher responded with a call for all available units. Val raced on. They were counting on her to secure the front exit.
Val reached the doorway, which opened onto a high-traffic downtown street. All quiet. Harkins either hadn’t yet left the building, or she’d already missed him. She had no way to tell.
She radioed in and waited.
***
Harkins spotted a police cruiser turning onto Abernethy Street and ducked into a convenience store, shuffling over to the coffee stand. The shopkeeper, a subcontinental man in his early 30s, greeted him. “Welcome, sir,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Harkins replied without turning. “Just need a cuppa Joe.”
“We kindly ask patrons to please pay for their purchase prior to pouring coffee,” the man said in a polite but firm tone. A sign over the coffee pot reinforced the request.
“Sorry.” Harkins continued to fuss with the coffee, taking his sweet time until the cruiser passed by the window. Took forever, too. Must be scanning every face on the street. Finally, the vehicle slid past.
“Guess I don’t need coffee after all.” Harkins shuffled toward the door.
But the shopkeeper blocked his path. “You must pay for that coffee you poured,” he said. “I cannot serve it to another customer.” He smiled, but he showed no signs of moving.
Harkins read the man’s nameplate. Taufiq Sharkar. “Well, Taufiq, it’s like this,” he said, keeping his voice friendly. “I don’t really care for your coffee.” He picked up the foam cup and threw the scalding liquid in the man’s face.
The man screamed, and Harkins punched him in the temple. The man collapsed in a heap. Harkins stepped over him and resumed his walk up the sidewalk, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Which he wouldn’t, soon. Oh, so soon.
He reached the end of the block. Another cruiser headed away from him. He turned and headed toward Martin Luther King Boulevard. A small theater loomed ahead, with a parking lot next door. Time to do some car shopping.
Chapter Forty-Four
Minutes ticked by. Val grew anxious at the front door of the apartment building. Several people had exited, but none of them resembled Harkins or had seen him. A crowd gathered across the street, speculating about the scene but staying out of her way.
Val’s radio coughed with a report of an assault at a convenience store. She recognized the address as Taufiq’s Quick Mart. Then came Shannon O’Reilly’s voice: “Dawes! The description of that assailant matches Harkins. Are you close by?”
“Less than two blocks away!” Val said. “I’m on it!” She took off at a run. Moments later, she found a wet and groggy Taufiq leaning on the counter of his store, tended by an elderly woman bearing an expression of concern.
Val showed Taufiq the picture of Harkins. “The man who hit you,” she said. “Was it him?”
Taufiq nodded. “He knocked me down, then went that way.” He pointed to the right. “I think.”
“Thank you, Taufiq!” Val shouted and dashed out of the store. She ran to the corner. No one in sight. Which direction had he gone?
Footsteps pounded the street on her left, and Dog ran into view. “That white dude,” he said, his chest heaving, “is at our meeting place.” A gunshot from the same general area punctuated his breathless announcement.
“Thank you, Dog!” Val left him there, catching his breath, and radioed in as she ran.
***
Harkins crept among the few parked cars in the theater parking lot, checking the oldest models for unlocked doors or signs of prior tampering. Older vehicles lacked the advanced security systems so many drivers opted for in recent years. Most were a cinch to get started, once inside.
He found a late-90s Honda Civic deep in the corner of the lot. Twin clean-swept arcs on the windshield indicated someone had driven it recently. Probably that morning, during the rainy commuting hours. Perfect.
Harkins darted to the driver’s side, which faced away from the street, and pulled a jackknife from his pocket. He’d broken many a lock with it before, including Hondas. He jammed the blade into the keyhole and jimmied it in a circular motion.
“The fuck you doing?”
Harkins turned to find two black men hovering over him with gold rings piercing each ear. The larger one, built like a football player, sported three rings in each lobe, and brandished a nasty-looking knife. The other, younger man stood a step behind him, arms crossed, a single earring in his right lobe.
“I, uh, lost my keys,” Harkins said, standing.
“That ain’t your fucking car,” the younger man said. Three-Rings glanced at him, signaled him to shush. Harkins slid his left hand behind his back, reaching for the .44 tucked into his waistband.
“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them,” Three-Rings said.
“Sure, sure.” Harkins froze his position. “I was just getting my wallet, so we can settle this like gentlemen.” He cocked his head as if to ask: okay?
Three-Rings scowled. “I said, hands where I can—”
Harkins whipped the weapon around and fired, but too soon. His shot went wide, blasting a hole in the wall ten feet away. The younger man dove to the ground, but the larger man swung a fist at Harkins. He dodged the punch, suffering only a glancing blow off the side of his head. He aimed the gun again at the big man’s chest. Three-Rings ducked, but he remained a huge target. Harkins pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing! He’d miscounted his rounds, or something malfunctioned, but the .44 no longer served its protective purpose. He reached his left hand into his pocket for the cop’s .38, but the big man charged him. Harkins spread his legs wide, grabbed the man‘s charging shoulders, and drove his weight onto him. Three-Rings hit the ground with an audible grunt and tried to roll free. Harkins smashed the butt of the .44 onto the top of the big man’s skull. Three-Rings collapsed, unconscious.
Time to go. Harkins headed toward the street, then stopped. To his left, a gang of black youths marched toward him, joined by the kid with the single earring. To Harkins’s right, a lone figure approached, running fast. A policewoman, talking into her radio with her left hand, holding a gun in her right. He recognized her: Valorie Dawes.
Their eyes met.
***
Val spotted Harkins ahead, right where Dog said he’d be. He froze in his tracks for a moment. From the far end of the block, a dozen or so Disciples approached in a V-formation. Pope and Trap led the march, angry determination lining each man’s face.
She spoke into her mic: “Suspect in sight!” She put the radio away and ran even faster toward him. “Hands up, Harkins! Don’t move!”
As unpredictable as she’d found Harkins in the past, he remained predictable in one essential respect: he never did as he was told. He darted into the street, but cars blared horns at him from both directions, tires squealing. More cars followed. He leapt backwards, then dashed back into the parking lot. A mistake. He had no way out except back into the busy, wide-open street.
Val pressed her back against the building bordering the lot. “Where’s my backup, Dispatch?” she muttered into the mic.
“On its way,” came the static-laden reply. Which could mean twenty seconds or twenty minutes. The latter meant she’d either have to face Harkins alone, or let him escape. Again. The sirens that had filled the neighborhood air for the last several minutes seemed no closer.
Val took a deep breath. She couldn’t let him escape. But protocol demanded she wait for backup. She searched ahead for a patrol car, then behind her—
Piercing pain shot through her skull—the pain of metal smashing into bone. She fell to her hands and knees. Something wrapped around her throat, a wire or cord of some kind, cutting off her breathing. She flailed her arms, but couldn’t reach her assailant. The cord grew tighter around her neck. She couldn’t breathe.
Val’s self-defense training kicked in. The first rule of survival: Don’t panic.
She pointed her weapon behind her and fired, apparently straight into the ground, as gravel exploded around her. Something smashed against her right hand, and she dropped her .38. But the cord loosened around her neck, allowing her to sneak a hand under it and yank it off. She elbowed her attacker in the ribs, and he loosened his grip. Reaching behind her, she grabbed his hair, dropped to one knee, and twisted her body forward, expecting him to land hard in front of her. But she’d rushed the move, and they rolled together, crashing into the side of a pickup. Val’s head hit the wheel, and for a moment she saw stars.
She recovered and lurched to her feet. Harkins lunged at her, knocking her flat on her back next to the truck. He pinned her elbows with his knees and punched her face, splitting her lip. Blood spewed from her nose into her mouth. She tried to wriggle free, but his weight crushed her ribs and elbows, and she had trouble breathing through her bloody nose.
In his right hand, Harkins held a .38, identical to her own. He pressed his weight onto her and ground his groin into her chest, then laughed and aimed the weapon at her head. “Goodbye, Valorie Dawes,” he said. “Another dead hero for Clayton.”
In a flash that felt like forever, memories and regrets flooded Val’s mind. So, this was it—the end of her life, and her short career. Lofty ambitions to rid the world of scum like Harkins would die with her. She’d never see her friends and family again, never see Ali’s cherubic smile again, never know true love. Nothing. Never make up with her Dad, as Chad had begged her to do, as deep down she’d hoped would be possible someday.
At least Ali and Kendra were safe. Chad, too, she guessed. He’d always remember that she’d kept his family safe. He’d be proud of her.
But Gil wouldn’t. Val had done what he’d warned her against. Became an Avenger, putting lives in danger—this time, her own—to nail her perp, no matter the cost. She’d never be able to see him again, explain to him why she’d done things this way. Never see his eyes twinkle when he smiled, hear his reassuring voice. Never know what it would be like to hold him.
She gazed up at the heavy-set man on top of her. Shadows darkened his face as he pinned her to the bed, forcing himself onto her, dominating her—
No, no, not him, not Milt. Harkins. And he was going to kill her, any moment now.
“It would be such a shame,” Harkins said in a husky voice, “to waste an opportunity like this. I bet you have a pretty little pussy, don’t you?”
Hot bile surged up her throat. She glared up at him, struggled to wriggle free. He leered at her, joy in his eyes—yes, joy, the sick bastard. He loved this. Loved the sight of her, helpless and afraid beneath him.
Harkins ground into her harder. “Yeah, that’s nice,” he said. His foul breath swept over her face, gagging her. He shifted his weight, pressing his hand onto her chest, groping for her breast through the thick Kevlar vest. He swore and reached back, groped her thigh, moved it up toward her crotch.
That took some pressure off her elbows, and she shook one free. Val punched him under his left eye, whipping his head back. She bucked up and shoved him, and he toppled off her, dropping his weapon. She rolled away, onto her feet, and reached for his .38, but he batted it away. She spotted her own .38, five yards away. She chased it down and turned back to face Harkins.
He reached his weapon and pointed it at her. She scrambled to her left before he could fire. He ducked behind a Subaru split-seconds before a shot ricocheted off the brick wall behind him. Men shouted: “Get him, Dog!” “I got him, Pope!” “Watch it, Trap!” The owners of the voices, members of The Disciples, crouched behind cars parked along the street, pointing probably illegal weapons at the Subaru shielding Harkins.
More shots rang out. Bullets hit the dirt and plunged into the sides of the Subaru, creating dark craters and flattening its tires. One of them missed Harkins by inches. The Disciples had spread out, improving their shooting angles, pinning Harkins in.
Val crept to another vehicle, searching for a better shot without exposing herself to stray fire from the gang. She peeked around the car’s bumper.
No Harkins. Where had he gone?
Gravel crunched to her left. Harkins sprang out from the vehicle’s front end. He ran at Val, screaming, pointing his weapon at her. Val crouched and aimed her weapon at his torso, as she’d been trained.
But at the last moment, she lowered her aim, ever so slightly, and fired.
Harkins’ body flew backwards, as if he’d been rammed in the midsection, and blood spilled over his crotch and legs. He landed flat on his back, arms splayed, and his weapon skidded away from him. His head hit last with a loud, sickening thud, and he lay spread-eagle on the gravel, bleeding.
Val lowered her weapon, watching Harkins for signs of life. His chest remained still as redness enveloped his midsection. Voices blended together around her, unintelligible words that sounded like praise or awe or at least not anger. She stood and approached the body. Checked for a pulse, found a faint one, and equally weak breathing. She held her radio mic close to her mouth.
“This is Dawes,” she said. “Subject is down. Repeat. Subject, down!”
Try as she might to maintain a professional demeanor, she could not keep the jubilation out of her voice. She did, however, suppress the strong inclination to dance on Harkins’s inert body.
The figure of Pope appeared before her, arms crossed. “This the guy that molested those young girls?” he asked.
Val nodded and surrendered a tiny, relieved smile. “Guess I still owe you five hundred dollars.”
Pope shook his head and raised his hand for a high-five. “Copette,” he said, “let’s call it even.”
Chapter Forty-Five
The architects who designed the public meeting room in Clayton police headquarters never anticipated more than a few dozen people to show up for the dry, low-key ceremonies often conducted there. But media attention surrounding the dramatic chase and take-down of Richard Harkins filled the space to overflowing. Newspaper, TV, and radio outlets flooded in from cities as far away as Springfield, Boston, and New York. Seated on the dais between Jalen Marshall and Shannon O’Reilly, Val stared wide-eyed at the legion of cameras and microphones, searching for familiar faces behind them. The ceremony was supposed to begin in five minutes, but most of the people she’d invited remained absent.
“You’ve got fans,” Shannon said with a smile. “I hope your autograph pen has lots of ink in it.”
“Do I have anything stuck in my teeth?” Val asked without looking over at Shannon. Not that she’d eaten anything all day. Her nerves barely permitted her to slam a cup of coffee that morning.
“You look great,” Shannon said. “Your face even looks normal, almost.”
“Bullshit,” she whispered back. Harkins’s punch had cracked her nose and given her a huge bruise on the cheek. Beth had offered to lend expensive foundation to cover it, but Val had refused. “Let the world see what he did to me,” she’d insisted. And to all of his other victims, she could have added.
As if summoned, Beth pushed her way into the room, with Chad, Kendra, and Ali in tow. Ali, dressed in her favorite outfit—her police uniform—waved at her, and they found seats in the back row. Val smiled at them, then spotted Brenda Petroni and Travis Blake mingling with a few other sergeants on the side aisle. Good—some friendly faces. But still a few hadn’t yet shown.
“Let’s get started,” Gibson said, tapping the microphone at the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that last Friday, Clayton Police apprehended a violent fugitive, Richard Harkins, who had wreaked havoc in recent months on several communities in the region. Mr. Harkins resisted arrest and opened fire on our officers, wounding Sergeant Alex Papadopoulos, who is being treated for gunshot wounds at Mercy Hospital. Alex, I’m pleased to say, remains in stable condition at this time. Mr. Harkins also attacked Officer Valorie Dawes, who discharged her weapon in self-defense while attempting to capture the suspect. Mr. Harkins remains in critical condition and will stand trial as soon as he is able.”
Gibson turned to acknowledge her with a quick nod, and Val smiled back, appreciating his supportive words. For a change she allowed herself a moment of pride. Harkins had victimized so many women, girls, and even armed police officers, like Gil, Pops, and Samuels. But no more.
“Today,” Gibson went on, “I would like to commend the Inter-city Task Force for a job well done in removing a menace from the streets of not only Clayton, but the entire region. Would the members of the Task Force please step forward?”
Shannon stood and waited for Val, who remained rooted in her chair. “Get up!” Shannon whispered. “You have to stand for this.”
Val glanced around and noticed that Jalen had also stood, as did the handful of Task Force members in the second row. She swallowed hard and pushed herself to her feet. Bright lights shone in her face, reporters and news cameras scurried into position to get the best shot of them, and the room got scorching hot all of a sudden. It reminded her of why she always hated award ceremonies, even after her victories at track. The fuss, the speeches, and the poses struck her as fake and beside-the-point. Let her accomplishments speak for themselves.
