Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  He hung up on her.

  Eliza said, “He sounds high as a kite, but you can hear he’s getting desperate, and under it all, coldness and meanness. When he finds out there won’t be any helicopter, we’re going to have three dead hostages, three dead friends.”

  Savich knew they’d reached critical mass. He said, “Eliza, when you dial up Duvall again, assure him the helicopter’s on its way. Remind him we’ll blow his head off if he kills any of the hostages.”

  “But what—” Collette said.

  Savich only shook his head. “Trust me. Eliza, do it.” She got a nod from Collette.

  “I’m going to need a long rope.”

  Marvin nodded and brought him one from the trunk of the Crown Vic.

  Savich said, “Chief, please keep everyone here in place and see no one follows me, all right? Under no circumstances will you send the SWAT team or any of your people in after me. If Duvall makes himself visible, it’s important the SWAT team and your people don’t shoot him, unless there’s absolutely no choice. We need him to tell us who hired him to commit murder, and believe me, that’s not the end of it.” He smiled at Sherlock, whispered, “Here’s what I want you to do when I text you.”

  They watched Dillon head toward the building, the coiled rope over his shoulder.

  Collette said, “He saw something on the plans.” He shook his head. “Well, crap, a Fed hot dog. Take me, Lord, I’ve seen it all. Why the rope?”

  Sherlock had an insane desire to laugh. Ruth said in a clear, certain voice, “Stick with this, Chief. Our boss is tougher than the old boots from your army days in the back of your closet. Don’t know what the rope is for.” But Ruth knew that rope was headed for the fire escape.

  Between prayers, Sherlock decided she’d punch him out at the gym when this was over.

  50

  Gary Duvall’s brain was humming, sparking, working at top speed. Morphine was new to him, and he loved it. No more pain, amazing. He felt good, maybe too good. He’d seen the wound in his side up close and personal when he’d tried to take care of it himself, seen all the blood, felt pain he’d never imagined. He slowly turned from his post at the front window to face his three hostages, all sitting on the floor lined up next to one another, their backs against the wall. He said, his voice mean, “Shut up, old man. I’ve already said I won’t kill any of you if your hick police do what I tell them to do exactly when I tell them to do it. And there won’t be any CT scans or surgery. You’re going to load me up with some more of your morphine, and I’m getting out of here. So stop your begging.”

  Dr. Hodges said, “I’m not begging, you ungrateful whelp. I’m telling you what you’re doing is stupid. Without tests, I can’t know if the bullet nicked your bowels. Antibiotics and a few stitches won’t help you if it did. And you listen to me, I’m not an old man. I’m late middle age. Stop waving that scalpel around. Officer Janko can’t hurt you; you tied him up.”

  Duvall eyed Hodges. Late middle age? The old dude probably couldn’t see himself clearly when he looked in the mirror. He had wispy gray hairs sticking up in all directions, and his jowls sagged. Only his eyes were sharp, still some fire in that ancient brain. He looked at the blood smears on Hodges’s white coat, his blood. The doctor had stitched up his side quick enough and told him the bullet had gone through and out his back, got some muscles and some fat on its way through, and he was damned lucky. But the bowel deal? He’d take his chances.

  Duvall said, “You want to know what I really want, old man? Your bottles of morphine and some needles in a bag so I can shoot up myself later when you won’t be around.”

  Dr. Hodges said, “Look, we all heard you’re going to get your helicopter. Will you keep your word to the negotiator? You’ll leave us all here, unharmed?”

  “Well, sure,” Duvall said, and gave him a big grin, showing nice white teeth. “I’m the model of rectitude. That’s the right word, isn’t it? Don’t think I ever said it before.” He laughed, said “Rectitude” three more times as if savoring the feel of the word in his mouth. “The prison chaplain said it a lot.”

  He heard a growl and waved the Colt toward Janko, who looked both scared and angry. Duvall eyed him. Talk about young. Janko didn’t look old enough to be in the Boy Scouts, much less a puppy cop. He’d set Janko’s Beretta on the exam table within easy reach. Compared to his compact Colt .25, it was clumsy and big. Still, he’d take the extra magazine the puppy cop carried. Let Janko growl. Duvall had already shown him how easily he could take him down, even wounded. He looked at the nurse, young, pretty Jenny, and wondered if he shouldn’t take her with him instead of the puppy cop. Yeah, she could take care of him in lots of ways. She was sitting perfectly still next to Janko, her hands resting on her knees. He hadn’t tied her up, no reason to. She was a girl, no threat to him, but she had a big mouth on her. He could correct that fast enough. As for Hodges, the old man would probably fall over with a heart attack if he tried to jump him, and he was tied up anyway.

  Duvall said, “What you better hope is the cops show me some rectitude, otherwise there’ll be an eye for an eye, right?” When no one answered him, he started whistling “Whole Lotta Love,” his favorite Zeppelin tune, marveling again at the absence of pain. It was like that weird psychic bitch hadn’t shot him. Suddenly, he was there again and he saw her stagger, blood blooming on her arm. He wanted to shoot her again, a death shot. But she shot him, and he saw himself stumble to the floor, saw her staring at him, her gun still pointed at him. The pain in his side nearly froze him, but he pulled himself up and ran. Duvall blinked, shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that long, skinny living room, that place where he nearly died. He knew now he should have shot her again, at least tried, but he’d felt like he was dying himself. He wondered what had happened to her.

  He shouldn’t have waited a day. He could tell right away the wound was bad. And now he was trapped in this bum-crap town. He wondered if one of the sick old geezers in the waiting room had heard him in the back and given him away. Whatever. Soon he’d hear helicopter rotors, and he’d be on his way, with cash and morphine in his pockets. No way he would ever go back to that prison, where the prisoners eyed him like he was a Snickers bar.

  He looked down at his watch. Nothing to do but wait. Duvall smiled. Why not mock out the old codger some more? He knew he was smarter, so it’d be fun. Maybe he should be thinking about where he should go, making plans, but his brain was hopping around too much, all sorts of weird thoughts. The morphine. So what if he’d given himself too much? It would wear off, and he could give himself more if the pain came back. Who cared? He loved feeling like he could fly. He smiled again.

  * * *

  Savich knew if he made any noise, Duvall would hear him. He studied the ancient fire escape with its open steel gratings and drop-down ladder on the upper floor. No doubt in his mind, the old contraption would gladly creak out his presence if he unhinged the ladder and pulled it down. He uncoiled the rope and made a loop out of it. He swung the coil to give it momentum and sent the loop upward toward a strut anchoring the platform to the building. He missed, and the metal groaned from the impact. He went silent. No sound from above. He managed to loop the rope around the strut on the third try. He tied off the rope, yanked on it, and it held. He took off his boots, said a prayer, and slowly pulled himself up the rope, hand over hand, his stockinged feet holding the rope steady, careful not to swing enough to touch any part of the fire escape. He reached the landing, paused, and listened. Nothing. He pulled himself quietly onto the platform. Now the window. It was closed, as expected. He took out his pocketknife, pushed it under the bottom edge of the window frame, and torqued the blade steadily and gently until he got enough purchase to slide the window smoothly up.

  He climbed into the doctor’s office, looked around, and walked on cat’s feet out into the hall. He heard voices. They were in Exam Room 1, the door shut and no doubt locked. He eased farther down the corridor and spotted the exam room Jenny had
told them was separated off only by a wallboard partition. He stepped inside as quietly as he could. It was dim, the shades drawn. There were contractor tools stacked neatly in one corner, an exam table and two chairs next to them. To the right was the Sheetrock wall. Savich pressed his ear to the Sheetrock and listened, heard Duvall say, “Hey, old man, are you getting it on with this sweet young nurse? No way you could keep up with her. What you need is an old bag as ancient as you are and the both of you could go to a retirement home in Florida.”

  Jenny Connors spurted out a mocking laugh, and Savich felt a stab of fear. He heard Duvall take a step, probably toward Jenny, then stop. “Shut up! Why are you laughing?”

  Savich breathed easier when Jenny stopped and hiccupped. The Sheetrock was so thin, he even heard her swallow. She said, her voice steady, “It’s what you said. It really was funny. Dr. Hodges said he hired me because he was too old now to appreciate my youth and vigor, so I’d be safe. You swear you’re not going to kill us?”

  Before he could answer, Janko said, “Who shot you?”

  Duvall said, “A weird bitch. I wasn’t expecting her to be in the living room, but there she was.”

  Dr. Hodges started laughing. Duvall yelled, “Stop laughing at me, old man, unless you want a bullet in your feeble brain right now.”

  Dr. Hodges said, “Listen, you young fool, I’ve got two ex-wives spending all my money, and with a malpractice insurance company charging me more than the national debt and cutting back what they pay me every year, I haven’t got that much to look forward to. Why do you think I’m still here? I have to be here, to keep a roof over our three heads, three different roofs, three different heads. I’m the one living in a ratty apartment, not those two harpies.”

  Savich heard Duvall laugh. He was distracted, perfect. He texted Sherlock, typed only “Now.” In the next second, earsplitting music erupted from bullhorn, a Sousa march, so loud it shook the building. He heard Duvall curse and run to the window.

  Savich stepped back and ran full tilt at the wallboard, hit it at full speed. It buckled and splintered, and he burst through. “Duvall, drop the gun! Now!”

  For a wild, confused instant, Gary Duvall didn’t know what was happening. He whirled around, saw a big man pointing a gun at him, and raised his Colt, but he wasn’t fast enough. He heard a shot and felt a sledgehammer slam into his shoulder. He screamed, felt his precious grandpappy’s Colt slip from his fingers as he sank to the floor. He lay there only a second, still aware enough to know he couldn’t let it end like this, couldn’t go back to Red Onion. He made a grab for his Colt.

  A boot heel smashed down on his wrist, and he screamed again as he felt the bones crack.

  It wasn’t Savich’s boot; it was Teddy Janko’s. His hands were still tied, but he’d managed to stumble to Duvall and kick down. Then Janko kicked Duvall’s Colt across the room, managing to keep his balance. He stood over Duvall, panting.

  “Good going, Officer Janko,” Savich said.

  Jenny Connors leaped up, her intentions as clear as water to Savich. She raised her foot, then slowly lowered it, blinked, and stepped back. “Sorry, I nearly lost it. I’d still like to put his lights out.”

  Dr. Hodges said, a good deal of satisfaction in his voice, “Better not to smash him more, Jenny. I don’t want you killing the idiot.” He grinned big at Savich. “Whoever you are, that was one amazing rescue.”

  “I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. I must say it’s a relief to see all of you in one piece.”

  Jenny turned to Savich. “Thank heavens you understood what I was saying about the Sheetrock. I wouldn’t care if you were the coffee maker repairman. Thank you. Now, Dr. Hodges, let’s get you and Officer Janko untied. I can put this bozo’s lights out later.”

  Savich called Sherlock. “All clear. The hostages are fine. Get an ambulance here fast for Duvall. I had to shoot him in the shoulder to bring him down, and Officer Janko broke his wrist.”

  They heard shouts and cheering from outside. Savich turned to Jenny Connors. “Yes, I understood what you meant. Along with the building plans, your information made all the difference.” He paused, then said, “Dr. Hodges, I think Jenny deserves a raise. Officer Janko, I’ll tell Chief Collette what you did here, maybe it’ll mitigate the butt-kicking he’s planning.”

  Teddy Janko took a deep breath. “Thanks, I’ll probably need any good words you can say. But you know, I can tell him if I hadn’t seen Duvall, if I hadn’t come in, things might have turned out differently.” He gave Savich a huge smile and looked hopeful.

  “Good luck with that,” Savich said.

  51

  ST. LUMIS

  POLICE STATION

  TUESDAY NIGHT

  When Pippa stepped into the warmth of the St. Lumis police station, she saw Deputy Davie Hauck bundled in a heavy coat, handmade fingerless mittens on his hands, hunched over, talking on his cell. Davie looked up, punched off his cell, and waved. “Hello, Chief, Agent ma’am. I got a call from Mrs. Gilly about a varmint, probably a possum, raising a ruckus in her she-shed. She locked it in.” Davie lumbered to his feet. “I guess I gotta go see what’s what.” He walked toward the door, still hunched over in his coat.

  Wilde said, humor in his voice, “Looking at Davie, you’d think the station was the North Pole.” He pointed to another older man, his brown uniform starched cardboard stiff, expertly twirling a pencil between his fingers. “Clem? This is Special Agent Cinelli, FBI. Clem’s my dispatcher. He’s very proud of his full name, right, Clem?”

  Clem beamed at her. He was older, slight, with about ten pounds of thick white hair on his head. “That’s right. My mom calls it alliteration. I’m Clement Collin Clark, ma’am—C cubed.” He grinned, showing very white buck teeth. “So, Chief, it’s all over town this lovely lady is your new girlfriend. Davie said she was a looker, and she was in some kind of trouble. But I don’t see why she can’t take care of herself, seeing she’s a federale.” Clem paused and eyed Pippa. “You sure don’t look like an FBI agent.”

  Pippa arched a brow at him. “I don’t? Oh my, that’s not good. I guess I’ll have to try harder. Any suggestions, Clem?”

  “Don’t mean anything by it, Agent Cinelli. You can’t help it if you’re pretty. I’m happy to help if I can, otherwise I’d have to be dealing with the little ghostbusters who threw tennis balls at the Harmons’ house Halloween night when they weren’t home to give out candy. Broke a window and the neighbors reported it. Chief, please give me something I can do for you instead.”

  “As a matter of fact, Clem, we do need your help. I’d like you to take a walk around town, talk to people, see if you hear about anyone new in town. Agent Cinelli and I will be in my office.”

  Wilde’s office was long and narrow with windows across the back looking out at a scraggly tree and two bushes Pippa didn’t recognize, a parking lot off to the left. A nice oak credenza sat behind an ancient military-looking desk, probably from World War II. There were wire baskets, a pile of papers, and a brand-new computer on top of the desk, nothing else. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Wilde motioned her to a chair, sat down, and booted up his Mac.

  While he waited, Wilde said, “By the way, I know Grizzlie. If he was guilty of dropping a gum wrapper on the sidewalk, he’d come to me and confess. Grizzlie didn’t look at your tablet.”

  “I can see Mrs. Trumbo snooping,” Pippa said. “Not a big deal, simple curiosity about her guests, maybe telling herself she was protecting the others. But then who did she tell? Did she consider an FBI agent staying at her B&B only an interesting bit of gossip? Or did she have another reason for searching my room? Do you think someone paid her to keep an eye out for a stranger who could be FBI?” Pippa shook her head. “But who would pay her?”

  “All good questions.”

  Pippa looked down at her tablet. “Before we start dumpster-diving, let me tell you what I already know. Major Trumbo was career army, retired, honorably discharged. He and Mrs. Filly were married for
fifteen years, no children. After he divorced Mrs. Filly, he married Mrs. Trumbo, also divorced. The major did consulting work on government contracts with the army. He died of a heart attack, was cremated, and sits, as you saw, in a beautiful gold urn on the mantel in Mrs. Trumbo’s living room.

  “Mrs. Trumbo’s son by her first husband—Ronald Pomfrey’s his name—is a textile artist. He moved back to Baltimore after staying here in St. Lumis with his mom and the major for a couple of years. That’s all we’ve got.”

  There was a knock on Wilde’s door. A dazzling young woman with long, dark brown hair in a French braid thicker than Pippa’s danced in, no other way to put it. She looked insanely happy. “I wanted to meet the FBI agent, Chief.” She stuck out her hand to Pippa, who obligingly shook it. “I’m Deputy Lorraine Carr, but everybody calls me Mouse.”

  Pippa nodded and smiled. “I’m Agent Cinelli.”

  “It’s a total pleasure. Chief, is there anything special you want me to do?”

  “Do what you do best, Mouse, but keep your eyes open. Let me know if you see anything unusual.”

  “You got it.”

  After Mouse danced out, Pippa asked, “And just what does Mouse do best?”

  “Parking meter patrol. No one ever gets pissed when Mouse gives them a parking ticket. It’s like she waves fairy dust on them and they smile even though she’s taken twenty bucks out of their pockets. So do you want to call Savich?”

  “No, he and MAX have enough on their plates. Actually, I’m pretty good at this myself. How about you?”

  He smiled, and they settled in to work.

  After a bit, Pippa raised her face. “Wilde?”

  He looked up. “Yeah?”

  “I think I might have something. Here’s Major Trumbo’s obituary in the St. Lumis Herald.” She read: “ ‘Major Corinthian Ellis Trumbo died unexpectedly of a heart attack while vacationing in the Poconos with his family.’ It lists his age, sixty-two, and briefly mentions his military service and that he had no surviving children. No mention of Mrs. Filly. I guess Mrs. Trumbo wrote the obit.” She typed a moment, then looked up. “And here’s another obituary in a veterans’ magazine. A bit more here. Yes, it says Major Trumbo was vacationing at his stepson’s cabin with his wife, stepson, and one of Ronald’s female friends, in the Poconos, near Cold Bluff. Sounds like a girlfriend to me. Just a second.” Pippa called up the Poconos on her tablet map. “Here we go. Cold Bluff is a tiny hamlet, maybe half an hour from Bushkill, which is very small, too. The obit goes on to say the heart attack was sudden, with no medical warnings. He was cremated, and a memorial service was held at his home in St. Lumis, Maryland.”