“Where’s Ken?” he asks the officer.
“In his car, blocking the driveway.”
“Any sign of the suspect?”
“No.”
“See if you can get behind the stage from this level,” Mills tells him. “If you can, check the hallways all the way to the upper stadium.” “Will do,” the officer says. It’s Hall, basically the best all-around cop you could ask for.
As Hall sprints away, Powell calls Mills on the radio. “I’m in the back of the complex,” she says. “We got Viveca Canning’s car. It’s under one of those car covers, here in a garage . . . This place is as big as a damn airplane hangar.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah, we ran the tag and the VIN. It’s hers. And there’s blood. Not obvious. But there are stains on the side of the seat, the shift, on the back of the steering wheel.”
“OK,” he tells her. “Standby.”
He steps out into the front atrium, then the parking lot. He peers down the driveway and, yes, Preston is sitting in his car blocking the exit. Then, oh shit.
“Preston,” he says into the radio. “Good idea, but you’re going to have to move. We got responders on the way. Multiple ambulances.”
As he’s giving the warning, he can see Preston shift into reverse and back up over the curb, turn and position the car on the dirt, facing forward to the exit. Then he dials Powell.
“Let the techs do the prelims with the car,” he tells her. “Then I want it on a flatbed to the lab.”
“On it,” she says. “Where are you?”
“In the parking lot,” he says. “No sign of Norwood here.”
“Here either.”
“Is that garage the only garage?”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit. He probably has his own helipad,” he says. “And I’m not joking.”
He shields his eyes from the sun and looks to the sky, trying to locate where the C-ARC would stash a chopper. There’s obviously no helipad atop the pyramid of the cathedral, but there might be one on another building on the campus. The shrill scream of sirens brings his eyes back to street level, where he sees an ambulance surge into the driveway and race toward the church entrance. Then another ambulance enters right behind, the sirens dueling insanely for the finish line. And then, as if he planned to use the commotion as camouflage, Gleason Norwood storms down the driveway, nearly hitting the second ambulance, his tires squealing, his engine roaring; it has to be him in that bright red Ferrari—shiny, glamorous, sexy, but a terrible camouflage after all.
“Lemme get back to you, Jan.”
Then he radios Preston. “Follow the Ferrari, Ken. Let the department know we have a pursuit. I’m right behind you.”
Mills runs to his car, running backward to keep his eyes on the
Ferrari. Norwood’s car races past Preston. Preston falls in behind. Mills can hear Preston on the radio sending out the bulletin. “We’re pursuing a red Ferrari, late model . . . it’s getting on the on-ramp to the 202 eastbound from Forty-Fourth.” Preston is reciting the Ferrari’s tag number as Mills reaches his car and jumps in. He peels out as a third ambulance rushes down the driveway toward him.
In a flash, he’s on the 202. He can’t see Preston. Can’t see the Ferrari. They had just enough of a jump-start. He gets on the phone with Powell.
“Put a call into the OME. I’ll tell you more later, but we found where the church has its bodies buried.”
She laughs.
“I’m not kidding, Jan,” he says. “There’s a huge room down there, like a catacomb. Or a mortuary. Something. Get down there. It’s as fucked as anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Jesus,” she whispers. “Will do.”
He hangs up and immediately calls Preston. “You still have eyes on the Ferrari?”
“Barely,” he says. “The guy’s clocking 130.”
“Stay on him. What’s your location?”
“I’m just getting on the 143, heading south,” Preston replies breathlessly. “I can see him. He’s about a quarter mile ahead of me, had to slow down to get off the 202. From here he can get on the 10 in either direction.”
An affirmation crashes against his chest like a rogue wave.
“Or not,” Mills says. “He’s not going to the 10.”
“OK . . .”
“Norwood’s heading for Sky Harbor. Has to be,” Mills says, his voice staccato. “Don’t lose him. I’m guessing General Aviation. He’s probably already summoned his pilot.”
Then he dials the hospital. No one knows where to route his call. He slams the dashboard. He has to repeat “surgery” twice, “oncology” three times, and “breast cancer, breast cancer, breast cancer . . .” Finally, he reaches the nurses’ station in the pre-op room, where someone fetches Nurse Nancy. Nurse Nancy apologizes for the “wicked bad” communications in the hospital and says Kelly is doing just fine. She’s on a mild sedative, Mills learns, and he wants to ask Nancy to save a little for him. “She’s still a good ow-wah before suhhgehhwehhy.”
OK. That’s a relief.
He thanks Nurse Nancy and floors it. He blows by the other cars on the freeway. It’s a beautiful day for flying. He peers into the clear Phoenician sky, into the valley of blue above, and he searches for somewhere to land his prayers. He doesn’t know whom to ask. He’s not best buddies with God. He’s an acquaintance. This is what happens when you lapse, when you really have no claim to grace. But that’s all right. Up there, there has to be hope. That sky is too fucking huge to not accommodate hope. So he prays to the sky. “Save her. Just save her, OK?”
Then, “Damnit, save her.”
His phone rings. Preston.
“Yeah?”
“He’s getting off at Sky Harbor,” Preston says.
“Knew it!” Mills shouts. “Stay on him. I’ll call in reinforcements. I’m betting General Aviation.”
He hangs up and calls headquarters, as well as the precinct at the airport, for backup. He tells the precinct to get word to the tower to hold all private flights.
“That fucker,” he says to his empty vehicle. “That fucker thinks he’s going to fly away . . .”
He utters a full tirade of expletives, creative expletives, like “fucking fuckhole” and “holy cuntface” and “holy rolling fuckhole cuntface.” He can’t believe his ears.
His foot is practically through the floorboard. He swings down the exit ramp, his tires squealing all the way.
Thank Christ for red lights. That’s probably not what Norwood’s thinking, but the great thing about getting off the freeway is surface street traffic. The red Ferrari is about eight cars ahead of Mills, about four cars ahead of Preston. They’re all sirens now, and the Ferrari is trying to get around the one car in front of it at the red light. Sirens. Persistent sirens. Persistent Ferrari. That fucking fuck actually pulls onto the shoulder, sideswipes the car ahead of him, and takes off through the intersection, nearly t-boning another vehicle coming from the opposite flow of traffic. Preston is right behind him. The other cars are yielding nicely to Mills. The light turns green, but the other drivers clear a path for Mills to bust through first. The Ferrari heads away from the terminals, keeping to the surrounding surface streets that will eventually double back to General Aviation. Another red light. No cars in front of them. Norwood runs the light, followed swiftly by Preston, followed nearly as swiftly by Mills. Mills hears the blaring of additional sirens; they’re behind him, backup. Good. With any luck, they’ll be coming in the opposite direction too. But they’re not. Not yet. And Norwood is heading to the northwest, looping around toward General. In less than a minute, the Ferrari careens through the General Aviation gate and comes to a mild crash in a parking spot. Norwood hops out, carrying a briefcase, and sprints into the lobby. Preston is on him, several paces behind, but he’s on him. Mills thunders into the lot, ignoring all parking etiquette, slams on his brakes, and jumps out of his car in the middle of the place, aware he’s blocking anyone who might want to
leave. He can hear the backup swarming closer. He follows Preston into the building, then out the other side where he can see his colleague pursuing Norwood. Wearing a fancy schmancy linen suit and that shiny silk shirt, Norwood looks like a cross between a cocaine kingpin and a shuffleboard player, and his run is jaunty and ridiculous. Preston orders him to stop. Mills, now shoulder to shoulder with Preston, does the same.
“We got you, Gleason,” Mills howls. “Put your hands up, now!”
Preston and Mills have drawn their guns. Behind them, there’s a burst of commotion, the rumble of feet. Mills can’t turn, but his ears estimate about eight officers closing in. Looking ahead, Mills sees a sleek cylinder weaving a path in their direction. The sun is shooting serious streams of reflection off the roof of the aircraft. A Gulfstream. On its tail, the design of an angel. Scripted down the length of the fuselage, like the name of an airline, are the words “Rising Like an Angel.”
Norwood ignores them. He’s running toward the plane, which comes to a shaking, sharp stop.
“Gleason Norwood, we know exactly what you did,” Mills yells to the suspect. “We know exactly what you’re doing at that church. There is no escape. You cannot evade us. Put your hands up. Now!”
It’s unlikely Norwood can hear him with all the aircraft noise around them, but ten cops in pursuit, weapons drawn, should be a fucking hint. Still, Norwood continues his race to the plane, Mills and Preston on his heels. Fuck. It has to be 107 degrees. Hot as fuck. But it’s a dry fuck. He has to come up with a better description and he knows it. Preston surely will drop dead here; this harrowing combination of heat and age has little mercy even on the hardiest. He checks his colleague. Preston is breathing, but his face is ashen. Jesus.
Now the pilot is lowering the aircraft’s stairs to the tarmac. Damnit, they’re going to scoop that fucking preacher right up and steal him away. Mills can feel the heat of the tarmac through his shoes; ten more minutes of this and his soles will melt. Mills wants to give Preston a nudgeful of wordplay here—soles will melt—but he knows better. His feet slap the ground, followed by a cavalry of more feet. Then, out of nowhere, sirens. Their big, beautiful, sweet sirens blaring, three cruisers speed into the aircraft alley ahead of him, putting the Gulfstream and Norwood in the middle. It’s the Sky Harbor precinct. With these sirens, evidently, comes the pilot’s recognition that something might just be awry because, before they even touch the ground, the stairs begin their hydraulic lift upward without Gleason Norwood aboard.
Mills yells, “You’re going nowhere, Norwood. Hands up!”
Norwood drops his briefcase, which Mills takes as the first sign of surrender.
Mills is wrong, as the man simply stands there waving his arms madly at the plane, waving and waving and waving, incensed that the pilot is not following orders. He actually stomps his feet, rips off his ridiculous blazer, and throws it to the ground. His back is to the cops as he gesticulates to the Gulfstream, this little boy and his little tantrum on the broiling pavement. He turns now, but it’s too split of a split second for Mills to notice the holster or the gun before Norwood begins to shoot.
Preston and Mills return fire.
“Drop the gun, Gleason! Drop the gun!” Mills shouts at the preacher.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Drop the fucking gun,” Mills repeats.
Pop. Pop.
And Mills is hit. A bullet strikes his left shoulder. Fuck of all fucks!
A blinding light. A piercing pain and a white flash of disbelief.
“Aw shit, aw shit, I’ve been hit . . .”
41
Gus sees a doorway. That’s all he sees. He expects anyone at any moment, though he can’t say whom. But it’s a doorway, and on this side there are expectations. Gus is waiting for Kelly to come out of surgery. The door is real and it’s not. He’s there and he’s also in a vision. When someone emerges, it will be somewhat of a triumph. He doesn’t understand why. But at this same moment, the figure materializes: a woman, a gown, the beam of salvation. Something. Maybe this is about Kelly Mills. Maybe it’s about Billie Welch. It’s not about Billie Welch.
Billie Welch has already walked through the door. Going the other way.
She’s made her exit.
There’s a long hallway on the other side taking her far away.
And that’s okay. He has felt, for a while, his heart dividing. There is someone else. And he always thought it was about Billie, that the someone else was Cam Taylor; but it’s not. There’s someone else for Gus. He knows she’s close. She will drift through that doorway. He should have known before this. Something tells him that he knew all along. They’ve connected before. Gus feels a sudden pinch in his neck, a spasm, then heat radiating down his arm again. He tries to ignore it, but the pain wraps around him like tight coils of rope, burning, choking. He wills himself to snap out of it, but he can’t and so he tries to intuit; all he can see is a speck of dark matter, a black puddle of blood, and the tributaries that run from it.
Is the sky above spinning? Or is it just the angle of Mills’s face? Is he losing lots of blood, or does the pavement always get wet at this hour? Hard to tell.
Preston rolls to his side, covers Mills. The backup has advanced and continues to shoot. With one cheek against the scorching pavement, and one of his eyes free to witness, Mills sees Norwood’s gun go airborne. It does a couple of revolutions and hits the ground, as does Norwood. Cops are all over him, guns still drawn. “I need to make this arrest,” Mills whispers to Preston.
Preston, who’s just called for an ambulance, says, “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Bring that asshole over here and let me arrest him.”
“He’s been hit,” Preston says. “Not badly from what I can tell.”
Blood is seeping through the preacher’s pants in the thigh region.
“Drag his ass over here.”
Preston shouts something to a nearby cop. A few moments later, it could be several minutes, Mills can’t tell; time is slipping through him as if he’s the sieve and God the sifter. Or something like that. Whoever God is.
“Mills, open your eyes . . . Mills?” It’s Uncle Ken’s voice.
Mills complies and sees a haggard Gleason Norwood a few yards away on his knees, his hands cuffed, blood still seeping. Sirens. Ambulances. “We got you Gleason Norwood. For the murder of Viveca Canning. And a whole lot more. We’re shutting you down. Now . . . say goodbye . . . say goodbye.”
Then Norwood disappears.
“I read him his rights,” Preston says.
Mills feels like he’s falling asleep, suddenly withdrawing from the day.
“Mills?”
“Tell the ambulance to take me to Phoenix Memorial,” he tells Preston. “I have to see Kelly.”
“OK.”
And then he lets himself let go.
Gus watches as Trevor paces the room. The kid showed up, kissed his mom, and held her hand as she was wheeled out of surgery about twenty minutes ago. She’s been dozing on and off ever since. Right now she’s asleep. The TV overhead plays the murmurs of a daytime talk show hosted by a table of women. The nurses have shuffled in and out. One is here now adjusting an IV. Trevor furiously taps his phone.
“Everything all right, buddy?” Gus asks.
“Fine. I just have a bunch of asswipes pissed off that I’m missing scrimmage.”
“Surely they understand with your mom in the hospital . . .”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain to them now,” Trevor says. “But even though I’m sending them a group text, they’re all responding to me separately like they’re a bunch of morons.”
“Ignore them, Trevor. The game will go on with you or without you.”
Trevor drops his phone to his side, stops pacing, and says, “You know, you don’t have to hang around, Gus. I’m here now. I can handle things.”
“I made a promise to your father.”
“Right. But he’ll understand. He wouldn’t want you here wastin
g your whole day.”
“Are you asking me to leave, Trevor?”
The kid shrugs. “No. Not really.”
“Then how about I go get us something cold to drink,” Gus says. “What do you want?”
Trevor asks for a bottle of water. It takes Gus maybe ten minutes to find the cafeteria, grab water for both of them, and return to Kelly’s room. As he approaches from the hallway, he senses commotion, an intervening factor, an extra voice. Entering, the first thing he sees is a uniform from behind on a frame that isn’t Alex’s. The man turns. It’s the sergeant. His face is grave.
“Sergeant Woods?”
“Hey Gus.”
“Everything all right?”
“I was just telling Trevor there’s been an incident.” His voice is hushed, apparently so Kelly can rest undisturbed.
“Where’s Alex?” Gus asks.
“My dad’s been shot,” Trevor says, his voice trembling.
Gus takes a deep breath; he wills it to calm his jittery nerves. “How bad?”
“He lost a lot of blood,” Woods says. “He’s in surgery now.”
“I want to see him,” Trevor insists, heading for the door.
Woods gently pulls him by the shoulder and says, “I told you that’s not possible. You can see him after surgery.”
Trevor sniffles. He’s on the edge of tears. Gus approaches. “Trevor,” he says, “The sergeant will make sure you’re the first one to see him when he gets out of surgery.”
“It’s not up to me,” Woods says. “But the minute the doctor gives us the okay, I’ll bring you up. I promise.”
Trevor pushes past him. “No! I want to go up now!”
Woods grabs him by the elbow. “You’re going to have to man up right about now, Trevor, and do what’s asked of you. Right now we’re asking you to stay with your mother. Someone needs to be here for her when she wakes up.”
“You want me to tell her the news?” Trevor asks him, his eyes brimming.
“Yes,” Woods replies. “You’re an adult. I can trust you with that.” Woods winks at Gus and says, “If you want to hear the latest, change the station. All the local channels are live with breaking news . . .”
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