In an instant, he made a decision that he knew could turn him into a fugitive himself and give them all a good excuse to hunt him down and silence him forever, but he suddenly felt trapped. He felt as if he were being squeezed into a box far too small for him and made to bend and twist into something he wasn’t, something he would be forever. It wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to let it happen.
He groaned and seized his stomach, turning on his side as he did so. Hansen’s eyes popped open, and he looked down at him curiously.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you now?”
“Pain,” Ryan said. “Terrible.”
“You’re not supposed to have any pain.”
Ryan squeezed his eyes to grimace with agony and then opened them and looked at his hand. “Blood,” he claimed.
“Blood?”
Hansen leaned closer, and Ryan spun on the stretcher so that his left fist came up and caught Hansen smack on his Adam’s apple. The blow stunned him. Ryan brought up his legs and caught Hansen’s legs behind the knees, dropping him to the floor of the ambulance. Before he could react, Ryan struck him between the legs with his closed right fist. Hansen cringed in real agony, and Ryan struck him behind the head with an open scissor blow that rendered him unconscious. He fell back.
Quickly getting to his feet, Ryan took Hansen’s weapon and rapped on the closed window. The trainee driving opened it. With his back to the window, Ryan shouted, “Stop the ambulance and get back here! Hurry!”
“What?”
“Hurry!”
The driver slowed down and pulled over to a stop. The moment he did so, Ryan opened the rear doors and jumped out. As the driver was opening his door, Ryan came up on him and struck him sharply behind the head with the butt of his pistol. The trainee started to sink to the road. Ryan caught him and dragged him to the side. Then he went back into the ambulance and pulled Hansen out, placing him side by side with the driver.
“Sorry, boys. I know this isn’t going to go over well for you with Hilton Sacks, but it couldn’t be helped. Nothing personal. No hard feelings.”
He got into the ambulance and started away. A half hour later, he pulled into the University of Rochester Medical Center. He knew that in a short time, there would be an alert for this ambulance, and driving it on main highways would make it easily discernible. Parking it here on the hospital grounds was the most inconspicuous way to leave it. It would be some time before it was noticed, he was sure.
He hopped out and went around to the rear, opened the doors, and reached in for his suitcase and his bag. He opened it and quickly located the fingerprint gloves. Hilton had not bothered going through his things. Good. He closed the ambulance door and made his way to the main entrance of the hospital. Less then ten minutes later, he got into a taxi and was on his way to the airport.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot, he told himself. This wasn’t over.
With Natalie still under the effects of a sedative, Preston thought it would be simple and best if he just drove them home, despite the length of the trip. She slept all the way and was still deeply under by the time he arrived at the house. He pulled into the garage and carried her up to their bedroom. She moaned, but her eyes didn’t open or even flutter after he put her to bed and brought in her things. That done, he went downstairs and poured himself a double scotch on the rocks and sat at his bar. He was physically tired but still on an emotional roller coaster. The ride back had let him down some, but now that he was relaxed and at home, the whole series of events came tumbling back at him, raging like water over a falls.
He lowered his head to his folded arms on the marble bar. How did all this happen? How did it happen? He couldn’t help feeling like someone who had wandered into the path of a hurricane.
For the longest time, all the years of their marriage, perhaps, he was deluded by the calm of the eye of the storm. It was just lying in wait out there, threatening to destroy him and everything he had built. Now it was over, and he was thankful.
It would take time, he thought. Natalie would have to make a significant recovery from all this. Perhaps she never would. No matter how well he explained it, she would never understand, and she would never forgive.
He lifted his head and sipped the remainder of the whiskey, thinking now he might be able to get some sleep.
“She was killed in this house, wasn’t she?” he heard, and turned to see Ryan Lee standing in the doorway.
For a moment, Preston blinked and shook his head as if he were seeing a ghost.
“Lee! How the hell did you get here? I thought…how did you get here?”
It was as if Detective Lee’s physical accomplishment was the most important thing of all.
“I made a necessary detour. You didn’t answer my question,” he continued, drawing closer to the bar. “She died in this house, correct?”
“Who?”
“I think we both know who, Mr. Ross, but if you want me to say it, I will. Stocker Robinson. In fact,” he continued, gazing around the room, “from the way my bloodhound reacted, I would safely consider the scene of the crime to be possibly right here. Well?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and after all the commotion you caused at the foundation, I would have thought your superiors would have assigned you to lower Slobovia or someplace.”
Ryan smiled and took the corner stool. He looked relaxed and cool, which made Preston’s anger simmer.
“How did you get into my house?”
“In a moment,” Ryan said. “You threw me back there when you warned me about Hattie Scranton coming out of the closet. Actually, however, I think you were surprised about that yourself.”
“I was, for Christ’s sake.”
Ryan nodded, staring at him, infuriating him with his confident smile. “Maybe you were. Maybe murder wasn’t ever part of the scenario you envisioned, but it became part of it, and, I repeat, it happened right in this house, correct?”
Preston shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think I’m going to answer any questions.”
“Without the proper procedure, I know. We’ve been through all that.” Ryan reached into his pocket and held up a key.
“What’s that?”
“You should recognize it, Mr. Ross. It’s the key to your house. How did you think I got in here? Were you worried that someone gave me your lock code?”
Preston raised his eyebrows. “You found out where our spare key was hidden?”
“Oh, a while back. I followed Stocker Robinson here and saw her put the flashlight into your garage, remember? I saw her fetch the key from under the fake rock, where your wife left it for her mother to have so she could get into your home to do her domestic engineering.”
“So?”
“So, I didn’t find it under the fake rock. It wasn’t there anymore. Do you know why, Mr. Ross?”
“I expect you’ll tell me.”
“It wasn’t there because I found it in the back pocket of Stocker Robinson’s jeans when I examined her at the scene of her alleged suicide. Then, when the bloodhound indicated a tracing in this room, I concluded she was in here and with the flashlight, correct? Some cells of Lois Marlowe’s blood must have flaked off. The instrument is so sensitive it doesn’t take much at all, microscopic, in fact.”
It was Preston’s turn now to stare, and he did so. Ryan could almost see his mind working, wondering if he should admit to anything, reveal anything.
“I don’t know about any murder in this house,” he finally said.
Ryan smiled. “That’s possible. It’s possible you were only told what they wanted you to know,” he agreed. The way he did so convinced Preston Ross that he knew more, a great deal more.
“Stocker Robinson tried to blackmail you, didn’t she? My guess is the day she ran away from school, she came here to see your wife. No one answered the door, so she got the key and entered. I could check the video phone brain here and in s
econds know if a call was made to your office from this location on that afternoon. Was it?”
“I didn’t kill that girl,” Preston insisted.
“Maybe not, but if you didn’t, you called someone after you received the call from Stocker, and that set off the events that brought us together tonight.”
Preston started to shake his head.
“Stocker Robinson wasn’t the only one blackmailing you, Mr. Ross. She was simply the most obvious and unsophisticated about it. My guess is she wouldn’t even have made much of a demand on you, but it was enough that she knew your wife was pregnant and that she was intending to have a Natural. Your whole career, your life here, all that you have, was truly in jeopardy. No, maybe you didn’t kill her, but you didn’t shed a tear or perhaps even have any regrets about what did happen to her.”
“Where are you going with all this?”
“Wherever it takes me,” Ryan replied.
“It’s going to take you straight to hell, believe me. And I’m not the one threatening you. I don’t even have control of the threats or the outcome, even if I wanted it. I’m just as much a pawn in this scenario as you are.”
“I’m not anyone’s pawn, Mr. Ross. No one’s pulling my strings,” Ryan said.
“Really?” they both heard, and turned to the doorway.
“It’s a regular traffic jam in here tonight,” Ryan said.
McCalester smiled. “Boy, you should see the video phones and the laser fax going in my office. You’re like one of the ten most wanted or something, Ryan.”
“I imagine I am. Actually, I’m surprised it took you so long to get here. I was half expecting to find you in the house with Mr. Ross when I arrived or waiting for me outside.”
“Hey, you know this is a helluva job. I don’t get enough time off as it is,” McCalester complained. He had his right hand resting on his pistol, which was still holstered.
“Yes, you’re a busy guy, McCalester. No one could accuse you of resting on your laurels.”
McCalester laughed. “I like you, Ryan, I really do. I thought you were just another CID hardass when you arrived, but you have a way of getting under someone’s skin.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“That’s the way I mean it, despite the situation.”
“Right, the situation,” Ryan said. “As chief of police, you have the access code to this house as well as any. Is that how you got in now?”
“Absolutely.”
“And that was how you told Hattie Scranton she could get in, too,” Ryan said.
Preston turned to McCalester, who just stood there smiling.
“And why would I do that?”
“So she could take care of the problem. Mr. Ross called you as soon as Stocker Robinson called him, I imagine,” Ryan said.
“Reaching a bit to save your own rear end, aren’t you, Ryan?”
“Don’t we all? The night we parted and I staked out the Robinson house, you staked me out, McCalester. You followed me following her and saw her put the flashlight in Mr. Ross’s garage. Don’t try to deny it. I traced your government-issue tires to the scene.”
“I knew I should have let you leave first. I guess I let my discovery get the best of me, the excitement and all,” McCalester said.
“Once you saw that, you knew what I suspected was true. You knew Mrs. Ross was pregnant, and you confronted Mr. Ross immediately.”
“Is that so?”
“Everyone thinks the baby squad here was run by Hattie Scranton, but you’re the one who really runs it,” Ryan said. “Oh, I don’t think you do it all on your own. I think you take orders, maybe from the rich and the powerful, like your new partner, Mr. Ross,” Ryan said, turning back to Preston, “Mr. Cauthers.
“I like to think you really did send your wife to give birth to a natural child, Mr. Ross. Maybe that was truly your intention, and maybe you were betrayed, too, or forced to comply once Stocker Robinson was done in.”
Preston simply stared, his lips looking pasted together.
“I know I’m probably deluding myself, but it’s the romantic in me,” Ryan said. “I’m like your wife. Perhaps it’s a characteristic of Naturals. Makes sense when you think about it. We’re imperfect, so we can dream, fantasize, fall in love, and imagine other people doing the same. We love people for their failures, their inadequacies, in short, their humanity.”
“Ridiculous,” Preston muttered. “To cast aside all the great strides and accomplishments man has made just to cling to some illusions.”
“It’s those illusions that in the end make it all seem like a great and wonderful journey. To run and never have fallen, to laugh and never have cried, to see the sun and never have seen a cloudy day, denies you the wonderful sense of appreciation that can come with accomplishments. Sift through your files to guarantee the state you’ll recommend only the qualified people to become parents and, with a sweep of the pen, deny those who would work a little harder, try a little harder, just so they could have a family.”
“Wasted energy and, more importantly, wasted social resources,” Preston said.
“I’d love to stand here all night and listen to this,” McCalester said, “but there are some important people who would like to talk with you, Ryan. Seems you’ve been on some sort of a rampage, not only killing Hattie Scranton but her poor bastard husband as well.”
“Really? What did he discover? Your involvement?”
“What difference does it make now?”
“I wondered why you were never worried about the prints I would find on Stocker Robinson’s body. You never asked about them because you knew if I found any, they would be Hattie Scranton’s prints. You were a little worried about the footprint I found on the porch floor. When I determined Mickey Robinson didn’t go there, I knew whoever it was helped Hattie because Stocker was far too heavy for even a powerhouse like Hattie Scranton to lift, and besides, it would have taken two people to set up that charade.”
McCalester just smiled.
“The shoeprint…those damn government-issue shoes of yours.”
“So far, it looks like my biggest mistakes are caused by following departmental regulations when it comes to uniform and vehicles,” McCalester said, smiling at Preston.
“From the look on Mr. Ross’s face here, it would appear he didn’t know the full extent of your involvement, not only in this specific murder but as the baby squad enforcer. Don’t you see, Mr. Ross, it makes perfect sense to employ someone with McCalester’s credentials. He has police power, and he’s been here for years and years. Who better to read the community and to do the bidding of the powers that be?”
“Who better to care about the community and its economic welfare, you mean, Ryan.”
“Socking it away for that impending retirement, eh?”
“I do my duty for my community, and if I am rewarded well for it, so be it,” McCalester said.
“Time’s up for all this chatter,” he added, and drew his pistol. “Let’s go, Ryan.”
He pointed the pistol at him. Ryan sat there a moment as if he were really deciding whether to be cooperative or simply permit himself to be shot.
“It won’t be hard for Mr. Ross and me to claim a rogue CID detective broke into this home and threatened him. Not after all the other things you’ve done. I came just in time to save the Rosses,” McCalester said.
“You go along with that, another murder in your home, Mr. Ross?” Ryan asked him.
His silence was the answer.
“I guess you’re just going to have to do it, then, McCalester. The problem for you is that I have transferred all the forensic material to central headquarters, along with my report. It may not be covered up. Your superior might not have the juice.”
“You’re bluffing, and anyway, he does have the juice,” McCalester said. “But just in case he has some difficulties, you’re probably right. It would be better to do away with you here and now.”
He started to raise his p
istol when an almost unearthly scream was heard from the doorway leading to the hallway and stairs. Natalie Ross was standing there in her nightgown, her hands over her ears as if she anticipated the great report from the pistol. Her piercing howl drew McCalester’s attention from Ryan, who dropped off the stool and spun around behind the bar. McCalester shot twice, the bullets taking off a chunk of the marble bar and the splintered remnants shattering the mirror behind it.
Natalie screamed again. Preston leaped from his seat and charged at her, embracing her and pulling her from the doorway and the room. Ryan heaved a bottle of soda over the bar and to his left. It smashed against the wall. McCalester turned to it just as Ryan rose and fired his pistol, leaping backward and onto the bar simultaneously. He threw himself over the side, got into a crouch, and peered at the door.
McCalester wasn’t there. In the other doorway, Preston Ross embraced Natalie, who had fainted. He scooped her up, and as best and as quickly as he could, he fled toward the stairway.
“What we have here,” McCalester called from outside the room, “is a hostage situation. Fortunately, your compatriot Hilton Sacks is arriving any moment with a full contingent of officers, and he’s pretty pissed off. You can have the house to yourself for now, detective. It will help us write the story. You know that old adage: History is written by the victors. Besides, how would it look for a Natural to have outwitted a superior Natal like Hilton Sacks?”
He heard McCalester laugh and then heard him go out the front door.
All was silent. Ryan rose slowly and moved toward the front of the house. He saw the lights of approaching vehicles and backed away from the window. There was just enough time to go out the rear of the house, he thought. McCalester was right. They could make it look as if he was holding the inhabitants hostage. He had to get out.
He spun around to do so and faced Preston Ross, who had come silently down the stairway and stood there with a pistol in his hand.
“Drop your gun, detective. Quickly, or I will shoot you. I don’t want to, but you heard McCalester. It would be easy to explain it. Drop it!”
The Baby Squad Page 25