by Dan Alatorre
Monty lifted the fuel hose. “Boat’s all filled up, Louis. Both tanks.”
Putting the hose back in the pump, Monty stared at DeShear then put his hand on the ignition key.
“I have a story for you,” Deshear said.
“I already heard your story, mister. It’s time you stopped talking now.”
Heat rose to DeShear’s cheeks. “There’s a little girl out there, and she’s alive. I don’t care what you do to me. I don’t care about the money in the hotel. But she’s out there, and I’m going to find her.” He leaned toward the lieutenant, straining against his handcuffs. “If that means I have to go through you and every man on Labadie, that’s what’s going to happen. But that girl is in danger because of me, and I’m going to find her and get her out of it.”
Moray’s eyes remained fixed on the dark water stretching out in front of his vessel. “That’s a fine speech, mister. But like I said . . .” He slipped the baton out of the holster and raised it over his head. “It’s time you stopped talking now.”
Chapter 12
Miss Franklin sat backwards on a folding chair near the front of the old building, her gun in her hand, staring at her two hostages. Her other associates were somewhere else in the warehouse, but Jules had long departed.
Franklin leaned to the side, taking a phone from her back pocket. “Hello?” She listened for a moment, then ended the call. “They’re here.” Looking past where Helena and Kitt sat, Franklin called out. “Mr. Washington, go ahead and open the big door. Mr. Jefferson, there’s a yellow electrical cable over there somewhere. If you wouldn’t mind locating that . . .”
“Yep. Got it,” a man behind them said.
The door opened with a rumble, and a chilly breeze swept through the vacant building. Franklin stood, crossing her arms. A light passed over her, throwing a large shadow onto the stone wall behind her. Kitt peered over her shoulder as a flatbed truck loaded with wooden shipping crates rolled to a stop. Dust followed, carried by the wind.
A thin, dark-haired man got out of the passenger side of the truck, walking toward Franklin. He stopped, gazing at Helena and Kitt through Coke bottle glasses, putting his hand to his mouth. “Is . . . is this them?”
Franklin glared at him. “Just set up your stuff, Doctor.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He rushed to the back of the truck, glancing again at the two prisoners. “Yes, yes. Right away.”
Washington and Jefferson walked to the vehicle, hauling the boxes down.
“Careful!” The doctor gasped. “Careful, you . . . apes. That is full of very delicate instruments.”
Behind him, Franklin huffed. “You wanna unload it yourself?”
The doctor peered at her, his hands trembling. “No. No, ma’am, I do not.”
She walked toward him. “Doctor, my friends and I are here as a favor to Mr. Hollings. When he gets here, I’m sure he’d like to see everything operational and ready to go.”
“H—Hollings is coming here?” The thin man backed away. “Doctor Dechambeau didn’t say anything about that.”
“It must’ve slipped his mind. Now, I’m going to go make some phone calls outside. How long does this stuff take to set up?”
“Oh, an hour, miss. Maybe a little more. We need to calibrate the—”
“Hollings will be here in thirty minutes.” Franklin glanced at her phone. “I’d say he’ll want it up and running by then. I’m sure you don’t want to disappoint him” She brushed past him, tucking her gun in her belt.
“Yes, yes, ma’am. Yes.” He turned to Washington and Jefferson. “You heard her. Move it!”
Jefferson squared his shoulders, narrowing his eyes.
The doctor backed away. “Uh . . . please.”
Another vehicle drove toward the flatbed, washing it in light. Kitt turned to see an ambulance. The driver turned off the headlights and cut the motor.
“Boys.” Franklin walked to the ambulance and opened the door. “Little help, here.”
Washington and Jefferson went to the ambulance and lifted out a fat man on a collapsible stretcher.
“Sorry, doc,” Franklin said. “Hollings got here early.”
The driver climbed out of his seat, going through the ambulance and grabbing a folding wheelchair. Jumping to the ground, he opened the chair as the fat man swung his legs over the side of the stretcher. With Washington and Jefferson under each arm, the fat man slid into the wheelchair and pushed himself away from the vehicle. The doctor reached into the van and withdrew a walking cane, placing it gently onto the arms of the wheelchair, then scurried away.
The fat man rolled to the front of the old building, turning to stare at Miss Franklin’s two guests. A smile crossed his portly, unshaven face as his eyes met Helena’s. “Madam.” His British accent was thick. “How nice to see you again.”
Helena sat silent, her hands trembling in her lap.
The man’s gaze went to Kitt. “And you would be Dr. Kittaleye. It’s a pleasure, lass. I’ve come to learn quite a bit about you these past few days.”
The knot in Kitt’s stomach surged again.
I’m sure I’ve never met this man before. How would he have heard anything about me?
“Aye. Received a great deal of information about you, I have. From your new friend Helena. Or as I like to refer to her, Keeper 27.” He pushed his wheelchair closer, leaning forward and letting his stale breath assault Kitt’s nose. “And in just a few minutes, we’ll be learning a good bit more.”
“We got kind of a late start,” Franklin said. “Dr. Freeman here says he needs an hour to set up.”
“Freeman.” Hollings scowled, drumming his fingers on the cane. “Worthless as the spots on a goat’s rump. But he knows how to run the equipment, so he gets to stay a while longer.” He glared at Helena. “Now, it’s my understanding you two are in need of passports. And just where might you be wanting to go, old woman?”
Helena remained rigid. Her eyes were open, but unfocused, staring toward the stone wall at the front of the building.
Hollings chuckled. “Do you see how she does that, Miss Franklin? Quite a trick, wouldn’t you say?”
“What’s the trick?” Franklin lowered her head to see Helena’s face.
“She’s gone standalone. It’s like sleeping, but it don’t generate no dreams. She’s doing that to avoid answering me.”
Franklin waved her hand in front of Helena’s face. “How long does that last?”
“A few minutes, a few hours . . . a week—it lasts as long as the stubborn cow wants it to, but don’t worry. I’ve a remedy. Do you have your firearm on you, Miss?”
Franklin nodded. “I do.”
“Aye, very well. If you’d be so kind as to place it at the back of this young doctor’s head.” He smiled at Kitt. “Fully loaded, of course.”
“Of course.” Franklin pulled her gun from her belt and walked behind Kitt.
“Now . . .” Hollings rubbed the scruffy stubble on his chin. “It’s my thinking the old bird will awaken herself right quick if you were to pull that trigger, Miss Franklin—such a loud noise and all, eh? The thing is, will she do it before you pull the trigger?”
Kitt swallowed hard. “Please, sir . . .”
“That’s it, flower.” He winked at Kitt. “You tell your friend to wake up.”
“Don’t hurt me,” Kitt pleaded. “I—I don’t know anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Doctor.” Hollings drummed the cane again. “You know what she knows—if you want to. Has the old woman been acting at all like she could read your mind?”
Kitt sat frozen, her mouth hanging open.
“Yeah, I’d say she has, based on that look on your face. What you don’t know is, she ain’t been reading nothing. It’s you what’s been telling her. Bit of a difference, but same result.” He raised a finger, jabbing it toward Kitt. “And right now, you’re telling her you’re about to get your pretty little brains blasted all over the floor of this barn. We just need to
see if she hears you.” He glanced at Franklin. “Best cock that pistol, Miss.”
Franklin cocked her handgun.
“Aye, that’s it.” He lifted his chin. “Bit more drama if she feels the cold steel of that muzzle up against her head, eh?”
Franklin pressed the gun to the back of Kitt’s head.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen . . .” Hollings held his hands out, brandishing his cane like a ringmaster at a circus. “On the beat of three, I shall watch as the lovely Miss Franklin pulls the trigger on her .38 caliber handgun and ends the young doctor’s life in a most horrific fashion. Eyeballs will bulge, mates. Hair goes flying in chunks—skull attached, naturally. Maybe a few teeth will land at your feet, all bloody and pulpy and the like. And of course, lots of chunky, gooey brains, bleeding like bits of wet sponge right here on the floor—so those of you in the first row, eyes open, eh?” He glanced over his shoulder at Washington and Jefferson. “Don’t want to stand too close, boys. Mess up your trousers.” He put his cane in his lap and rolled his wheelchair backward a few feet. Lowering his voice, he peered at Franklin. “Have you ever smelled fresh brains, miss?”
“Missed out on that, somehow,” Franklin said.
“Barely a smell at all.” Hollings’ voice was lyrical, like he was spinning a story for a child at bedtime. “Like a whiff of bread baking at a neighbor’s house down the lane, and carried to you on the wind—but with a hint of the stench from back of the butcher’s shop. Best see that you don’t get none on you, Miss. Hard to get out, for all the oils.” Looking over his shoulder again, he waved the cane at the others. “And you’ll be next, you lot, if you don’t get that gear set up. Now get to it!”
Washington resumed unpacking Dr. Freeman’s equipment. Jefferson set up a folding table and placed a computer on top of it.
“Back to you, lass,” Hollings said. “It’s counting time. If I get to three before your Helena pipes up, Miss Franklin stops all your worries the hard way—with a 200-gram piece of lead.” He sneered, rubbing his hands together. “Ready, steady . . . One.”
Gasping, Kitt clasped her hands together. “Please, no.”
“Two . . .”
The men stopped unpacking the crates, staring at the scene. Kitt turned to Helena. “Help me! Please!”
Hollings leaned forward, grinning. “Thr—”
Helena blinked, her eyes fluttering open. She faced her captor. “Mr. Hollings?”
“Yes, Keeper 27?”
She straightened up, her hands still in her lap. “How may I be of service?”
Hollings sat back in the wheelchair. “When my men get that gear set up, you’re going to strap on a cap like the old days and let me see what’s been going on inside that old gray noggin of yours. Then we’ll find the little girl and get everything back on track.”
“Do you mean to run things, then?” Helena asked.
“Me? Run Angelus Genetics and Hauser’s operation?” Hollings laughed. “No. We both know I don’t got the brains for that. But as it turns out, a wealthy Asian investor does—and he’s keen on following through on a deal what was set up between him and Dr. Hauser but ain’t been fully transacted, as it were. Maybe you know him—Armen Twa.”
Helena didn’t react.
“Playing your game again, eh? That’s fine. Once we get the machines set up, you’ll tell me what I want to know, rest assured.” He glanced over his shoulder, shouting. “Doctor Freeman!”
The doctor appeared, brandishing a large syringe.
Hollings chuckled. “Would you administer the sedative to my old friend, please?”
Helena gasped, recoiling. “No!”
Dr. Freeman rushed forward. Franklin grabbed Helena’s arm from behind, holding her still as the doctor plunged the needle into her arm and emptied the barrel.
“No!” Helena shrieked, kicking her feet, her eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, no, no!”
“Oh, my, yes. Yes indeed, madam.” Hollings stood up, leaning on his cane. “Now, there’ll be no more games—will there, Keeper 27?”
Chapter 13
The doctor held up a pen light and shined the beam into Trinn’s eyes. “How does that feel, young lady? Does this bother you at all, hmm?”
“No. It’s okay.” Trinn’s head rested on the hospital pillow. She held still, not staring into the light, her eyes focused on the wall behind the gray-haired physician. “How long was I out for?”
“A few hours.” He snapped off the tiny beam. The nurse turned on the overhead lights as the doctor wrote on the chart. “But that is a good thing. You are recovering nicely, Miss. You have a strong system and you’re healing well—but you needed your rest, and you got it.” He set the chart on the mattress, smiling at her. “In fact, I’ve never seen anyone rebounding so quickly from a gunshot wound. Youth and good health are wonderful gifts. Enjoy them and don’t get shot again, okay?”
Trinn smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
“Your fluids are good.” He went to the countertop, writing on the chart again. “Your heart, respiration—all good. I think we’ll take one last X-ray, then let you go back to sleep. In a few days, we can let you go back to your hotel.”
“A few days?” She put her hands on the mattress to sit up. DeShear’s instructions flooded back into her consciousness.
Find Helena. If they found Constantine, they’ll find her.
“No, I can’t wait a few days.” Trinn threw the sheets back. “Doctor, I have to—”
“You were shot, madam. You mustn’t make light of it. We’ve operated to restore the integrity of the bowel, but you were lucky. The bullet passed through without hitting any major organs. We’ve cleaned you up and stitched you up, but that doesn’t mean you’re ready to run off and go . . . parasailing, or some such nonsense. We need to keep you here for a few days’ observation and make sure no infections arise. Then you can be on your way.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
Quiet down and play along for now. Look for an opportunity to slip out, then take it. Don’t raise eyebrows.
Get out, and get to Helena.
But no hospital would let me walk out the front door right now. Not without raising a lot of attention . . .
“How is the pain in your side?” The doctor sat on a stool by the counter and turned around to face her. “We can put you in a wheelchair and roll you downstairs to the X-ray room.”
“I’m pretty good with pain.” Trinn sat upright, wincing as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She tucked the edges of her hospital gown around her thighs.
“I see.” He glanced at the nurse. “Genevieve, bring the wheelchair for our patient, please.”
“I can walk,” Trinn said.
“I believe you can, Miss. But my job is to get you healed completely, not to let you see how quickly you can rip your stitches and return to surgery. You will have plenty of time for showing off later—after you have been released from the hospital. Agreed?”
“Okay.”
“Yes, I’m quite the spoilsport. You’ll thank me later.”
The nurse opened the door, pushing a wheelchair.
“Off you go now,” the doctor said. “Time for some pictures.”
* * * * *
Prenley adjusted his glasses, typing on his computer. A New York driver’s license photo of Jaden Trinn appeared on the screen. “There we are.” He turned the computer around and displayed the photo to his hired man. “Now, this nice lady is currently located in room 212 of Monarch Hospital. You’ll go up the stairs from the main lobby and down the hall to the right.” He handed over a wad of currency. “Any questions?”
The man counted the cash. “There’s only a thousand here.”
“Surely you’ve done work for my boss before, Nigel. You get the other half when the job is completed.” He slid a hospital identification and a set of folded scrubs across the desk. “This will get you past the admitting nurse. Any thoughts on . . . how you’ll do it?”
“She’s dehydrated, lost blood
from a gunshot. I think a quick respiratory attack will do nicely. A pillow over the face until she stops kicking.”
Prenley made a claw with his hand. “Make sure none of your DNA ends up under her fingernails.”
Nigel ran a hand over his beard. “With a bird like this, it’s best to sit on top of her as I administer the procedure—stuff her hands under my knees before she knows what’s going on, and use the body weight so she ain’t able to get up. Then, it’s all about pressure to the nose and mouth—under the pillow, of course.”
“Of course.” Prenley turned his computer off. “Come ‘round in the morning for the balance of payment. And use the anteroom entrance to His Honor’s office. Then take a little vacation.”
“That, I will.” Nigel stood. “I’ll be off to Jamaica for some fun with the ladies, play a bit in the casino, and have me a time.”
“Just make sure you do a thorough job of things tonight. It needs to look like she succumbed to her injuries.”
“Oh, don’t you worry none, Mr. Prenley. I know my job.” He shoved the cash into his pocket. “Your Miss Trinn is as good as dead.”
* * * * *
In his newly-acquired hospital scrubs, Nigel ascended the stairs to the second floor of Monarch Hospital. The hallway was quiet and mostly dark. He crept toward room 212, readying himself for the assault that would take place.
The plan was simple. Overwhelm and asphyxiate.
As he walked, the room numbers went by.
Room 208 . . .
His target was already wounded and possible sedated, so she wouldn’t cause much trouble.
Room 210 . . .
He glanced at his watch. If things went quickly enough, he’d still be able to grab a pint at Hawley’s Tavern before last call. It would be mostly shrimpers, but maybe there’d be a local dealer looking to make a late night score or a freelance escort headed to the casino parking lot—anyone who wanted some additional muscle and had a few bucks to pay for his time.