From a Whisper to a Scream (Key Books, 2) - Softcover

Charles de Lint pioneered the urban fantasy genre with critically acclaimed novels and stories set in and around the imaginary modern North American city of Newford: The Onion Girl, Moonheart, The Ivory and the Horn, and the collection Moonlight and Vines, for which he won the World Fantasy Award. Among de Lint's many other novels are Mulengro, Into the Green, and The Little Country.

ONE
 
 
OCTOBER 1988
 
 
Thomas Morningstar was on traffic duty that month. He didn't mind the eight-to-four shift, but unlike most of the cops he worked with, he preferred a night foot patrol. Being stuck in a car for most of the day just made him antsy. When you walked a beat, you still felt as though you had some connection to the world around you. The stars kept you company, distanced only by the haze of lights that the city cast up into the darkness. The wind knew where to find you.
The blue-and-white patrol car, with the gold badge of the Newford Police Department on its doors, was too confining. The squawk of the radio, trapped between metal and glass, was a constant irritation. Looking out at the street through a windshield was too much like observing the world through the glass screen of a television set.
But he could be patient. This was his last day on traffic. Two days off, and he'd be back to hoofing it once more: evening shift, walking a one-armed post along Grasso Street. But before that he had to go up to the reserve to see his father.
Big Dan Morningstar was the elected chief of the Kickaha Reserve. He considered Thomas, his eldest son, to be his only failure.
"You want to be a cop, why don't you join the Tribal Police?" he demanded at least once on every visit Thomas made. "But no. You want to pretend to be a white man. You want to marry a white girl. You're ashamed of your people and that brings me shame. Why can't you be more like your brother?"
John was unemployed and still lived with their parents, but that was never brought up, because his politics were correct. Still, he, at least, understood Thomas's position.
Thomas wasn't ashamed of his heritage; he just didn't want to live on the reserve. That was the reason he had entered law enforcement, but not simply to escape. He truly believed that the only hope for his people to find a prosperous future was for them to meet white society on its own terms, to have a say in the making and keeping of its laws, while still maintaining links with their own traditions. And was it his fault that the woman who stole his heart was white? Why should it make any difference what color Angie's skin was so long as they loved each other?
He would sit on the porch of his parents' house with those thoughts in mind, but he no longer voiced them. He would keep his face stoic as he listened to his father, and he wouldn't argue. He'd long since given up trying to change his father's mind.
His mother had never expressed her feelings on the subject, but she didn't need to. Thomas could always sense her unspoken approval. It was to see her and John that he tried to come by at least a couple of times a month. Angie never drove up with him.
He thought of Angie now as he headed north on Williamson, where it cut through the Tombs, and was only half paying attention to the driver in the vehicle ahead of him. The radio squawked, and the dispatch receiver informed all units of a possible domestic over in the Rosses. Thomas was close enough to catch the squeal and reached for the microphone, but another unit beat him to it.
Just as well. He hated catching a domestic. You never knew what you were going to walk into--a normal argument that had escalated a little too loudly and caused the neighbors some concern, or some wacko standing there in the hallway, waiting for you with a sawed-off shotgun.
As Thomas straightened in his seat, some sixth sense made him pay closer attention to the occupant of the car in front of his own. The man kept glancing back at him in his rearview mirror, then quickly shifting his gaze to the road ahead. He seemed jumpy, more high-strung than was normal, even taking into consideration the nervousness that all citizens seemed to feel in the proximity of a police officer--whether they were guilty of something or not.
Thomas made a mental note of the license plate number and started to apply his brakes as the lights at MacNeil up ahead turned amber. In the car ahead of him, the man's gaze met Thomas's in the rearview mirror, holding it for a beat. Panic flickered in the man's eyes and he suddenly stepped on the gas.
His car shot across the intersection and just narrowly missed being struck by an eager motorist jumping the light. With a squeal of tires, he sped off. Thomas hit his lights and siren. He waited long seconds for the cars on MacNeil to let him through, then set off in pursuit. Steering with one hand, he hooked free the microphone and called in to his dispatch receiver.
"This is Charlie-car; in pursuit of a brown, late-model Buick heading north on Williamson through the Tombs." He gave the license plate number and the few meager details of description he had of the driver.
"Copy, Charlie-car," the dispatcher replied. "Do you require assistance?"
"Wouldn't hurt. I've got a bad feeling about this."
"Backup's on the way. Ten-four."
Thomas dropped the microphone. Letting it dangle loosely from its cord, he concentrated on the pursuit. He'd seen the Buick make a sharp right two blocks north of MacNeil as he was signing off, but when he made the turn himself, the car was no longer in sight.
Siren blaring, he gunned the engine and raced up the deserted street.
This part of the city was nightmare country. The Tombs stretched for what seemed like endless blocks of derelict buildings, rubble-strewn lots, abandoned cars, and refuse. It was home to junkies and biker gangs, homeless squatters and runaways. Citizens' groups had been screaming for years to get the city to clean it up, to no avail.
Thomas slowed down at each cross street he came to, looking sharply left and right, but the Buick seemed to have vanished into the jungle. He killed his siren, but left the cherry lights strobing as he continued on. He could hear the approach of the backup patrol cars, wailing in the distance. From the broken windows of the abandoned buildings on either side of the street, faces peered down at him as he passed. Street rats, in uniforms of ragged jeans and T-shirts, lounged in doorways, their studied nonchalance ready to be replaced by flight should his attention turn to them.
He reached for the dangling mike to call in his position, then realized he didn't know where he was. Street signs here had long since been torn down or vandalized beyond recognition. All he knew was that he was somewhere in the Tombs and he'd lost the car he'd been pursuing. He brought his hand back to the steering wheel and started to brake for the next cross street.
A flicker of sun on metal caught the corner of his eye, and he found himself hauling on the steering wheel and squealing around the corner before he was consciously aware of making the decision to do so. The patrol car shot down the side street, slaloming around the hulk of an abandoned station wagon, orange with rust, and the rotting mass of a box spring that someone had left in the middle of the road.
When Thomas reached the next cross street, he was in time to see the Buick slide around another corner. He'd closed the gap between his own vehicle and the Buick by almost three car lengths, he estimated as he leaned against the driver's door to make his turn. He burned rubber up the length of the block, his own tires squealing and sliding as he followed the Buick's lead.
He pumped the brakes as he came around the corner. The patrol car slid sideways across the buckling pavement before it came to a jerking stop that threw Thomas against his seat belt. Halfway up the block, the Buick had crashed into the back of a derelict pickup truck. The driver of the car was on foot, running across the debris-covered lot that lay between the two old tenements fronting the scene of the accident.
Thomas snapped free his seat belt and rolled his car down toward the lot. He was out of the car almost before it came to a full stop.
"Police!" he called after the driver.
The driver was almost at the far side of the lot. He was overweight, definitely out of shape. Thomas didn't think he'd have any trouble running the man down. But when the driver turned at the sound of Thomas's voice, he had a gun in his hand.
Thomas ducked, scrabbling for his own service revolver, as the first shot rang out. The No Parking sign above his head, with its spray-painted graffiti, rang with the impact of the bullet and showered him with rust. The sound of the shot boomed and echoed between the buildings.
Thomas's heartbeat kicked into overdrive and his training cut in. He could almost hear his instructor's voice at the police academy ringing in his ears: "Don't aim; point like you're using your finger."
The revolver bucked in his hand and he saw his assailant drop. A heap of rubble hid the man from his sight.
Was he dead, or just wounded?
Thomas moved cautiously forward, giving himself plenty of cover, but it wasn't necessary. By the time he reached the downed man, he could see that the driver wasn't going to be leading any car chases ever again. He was sprawled on his stomach, the back of his head a bloodied mess. It looked as though he'd fallen backward against a low wall, but then pitched forward. His gun lay by his hand, where he had dropped it. Thomas's bullet had caught him in the face and taken off most of the back of his head on its way out.
Thomas moved forward, the adrenaline rush still whining through him. He kicked the man's gun a little farther from his hand--procedure, though it seemed stupid. This guy wasn't going to be reaching for anything.
Thomas stared at the body, his gaze caught and trapped by the gory exit wound in the back of the driver's head. Slowly it sunk in. He'd just killed a man.
This wasn't the body of some victim he'd come across in the line of duty, when he would seal off the immediate area so that the suits and Crime Scene Unit could conduct their investigation. The man was dead because he'd shot him. He'd pulled the trigger. And all the poor fuck had been doing was speeding.…
He turned away and heaved up the fast-food lunch he'd eaten a couple of hours ago. Leaning weakly against another part of the stone wa...