Their sirens were off but their trouble lights spun like a Big Brother rave display. They drove in a tight column of Crown Vic rollers along the ridgeline highway, down the access road and around the outskirts of the development, which was now crowded with hundreds of civilian cars.
When they got to the road in front of the Gardens, however, the cops lost their cohesion: a dozen police cars parked on our side of the avenue, but only a few of cops joined the lynch mob parked across the way.
The small number of cops supporting them had an immediate effect on the enemy camp: suddenly they stood still and silent. An air of hopeless disbelief crawled across them like a visible entity. Faces grew unhappy, and many of them eyed their vehicles with longing.
A steroid-buffed cop I recognized from the deposition got out his car with megaphone in hand; he stood in the middle of the avenue between the two opposing camps, facing our enemies. “This is an unlawful gathering, and you will disperse immediately,” the amplified voice of the law boomed. “Cease and desist – it’s time to go home, folks.”
Our opponents did so, cringing away in driblets to their cars and driving away singly, no longer a caravan, no longer a mob, without that sense of communal purpose and predatory hum they’d seemed to bring with them. They drove home alone, hunched over their steering wheels, defeated. The few cop cars that had parked with them drove away too; I wondered if they’d still be on the department payroll after tonight.
Moe dropped to one knee. “Yes,” he said, karate-chopping his hand down at the ground like he thought he could split the earth. “You lost, bitches,” he laughed. “Don’t come back to the Gardens.”
All Sam’s friends erupted into applause. People threw hats and clapped one another on the back.
They looked around at one another, powerful emotions on their faces. This was the night Stagger Bay rolled over like a giantess in her sleep and escaped to less unpleasant dreams.
The cops unbent enough to smile and shake hands with everyone around them, appearing a little sheepish but still standing on Sam’s side of the street. The cop with the megaphone – the new Chief of police after tonight I assumed – looked my way and gave me a miniscule diplomatic nod which I returned.
I walked through the crowd, meeting everyone’s eyes. Tonight I could let them look right at me despite the grotesquerie my eye patch concealed. I circulated with everyone else, soaking up the feelings just as though I had any right to share them.
News crews had shown up without me noticing. That redheaded newscaster from Oakland eyed me intently as she advanced through the crowd clutching her microphone, her ever dutiful cameraman behind her in tow. She was one determined newswoman.
“Moe,” I said. “Here’s your chance to be on TV.”
I pointed at the newscaster and his eyes lit up like a hungry man seeing a delicious meal. He got in front of her and started talking even as Sam and I commenced our getaway, me limping along as rapidly as possible whilst clutching his shoulder for support.
As we left Big Moe spoke enthusiastically about the Driver and the war on the Gardens; about the atmosphere of fear ruling Stagger Bay. His bloody head made for a dramatic on-camera touch. He sounded like a natural, more comfortable in front of the camera than I’d ever be.
I heard a siren behind us and turned to watch as a fire truck warbled along the ridge line highway and up Moose Creek Road. Looking back into the hills in the ambulance’s direction of travel I saw a flickering glow up there in the woods, like a fire was blazing just about where Chief Jansen had lived.
Tubbs said he was cleaning up loose ends tonight. The Ancients believed fire was a good purifier, a good cleanser; it was also a great way to destroy CSI evidence. How wonderful when two ages could agree together on a course of action.
As Sam helped me hobble toward Natalie’s, that redheaded newscaster peered at me over Big Moe’s shoulder. I wasn’t going to be able to dodge that promised exclusive interview much longer.