I felt like adding “and terrible” as my answer to the question, but I really had no complaints that he could help me with, so I elected to keep my mouth shut. My migraine had returned full force, and it seemed to have inextricably attached itself to the pain in my shoulder. The alliance that was formed was executing a battle plan that included a full-scale invasion of every nerve ending between the two points. While something in the way of a nice analgesic sounded like a good idea, considering the source of the ache, I wasn’t sure that it would do any good.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked my friend, taking on a concerned tone.
“Ignore him,” I offered, wincing as I turned my head. “He’s always like this. Have you heard anything about Detective Deckert’s condition?”
“Not yet, but we can check on him,” he told me.
“We’d appreciate it.”
“So how long are we gonna sit here?” Ben interjected.
“We’re getting ready to transport you both to the hospital in just a few minutes,” he told us.
“Guess I’d better call Felicity,” I said aloud.
“Sucks to be you,” Ben told me.
“Thanks,” I gave him a sarcastic retort as I sent my right hand toward my coat pocket only to realize that I no longer had one. “Dammit! My cell phone was in my coat. Do you still have yours?”
“Yeah,” he said as he nodded at me. “I think so. Lemme see…”
He began to gingerly slip his gauze-wrapped hand into his own coat pocket while looking over at the paramedic who was making some notes on a clipboard. “So what’s the holdup?”
“The police are doing a little crowd control right now,” he answered without looking up.
“Crowd?” I asked.
“Well, not really a crowd,” he explained. “But we got a few onlookers, and one of them has a vehicle blocking the street.”
“Roads gettin' that bad?” Ben asked.
“Yes and no,” he answered, holding his hand out and giving a little side to side wiggle. “This guy’s got a big van, and he’s having a little trouble turning it around.”
“How hard can that be?” Ben spat. “What’s he like a moron or something?”
“Ben!” I admonished.
“He seemed like a nice enough guy,” the paramedic shrugged. “A little weird, but hey, live and let live.”
“Weird how?” Ben asked.
“You know,” he returned. “One of those religious types. When I walked by, he was saying something about the Lord and consuming a fire or something like that.”
The combination of words caused a twinge in my brain, so I mentally sifted through the various Bible verses I’d committed to memory over the years.
“Was it something like, ‘For the Lord thy God is a consuming fire, even a jealous God,’” I said aloud. My words were slow and even. A slight note of fear rode in the crest of my voice as I finished.
“Yeah, that was it,” the paramedic confirmed.
I looked across the aisle at Ben. “Deuteronomy four, twenty-four.”
My friend was already rising as he spoke, “Tell me this asshole isn’t tall with white hair.”
“Yeah.” He was nodding vigorously. “Did you see him out there or something?”
“You stay here, Rowan,” Ben ordered as he started to push past the paramedic.
“Detective Storm, I think you should…” he began to object.
“Save it,” Ben shot back.
I spoke up. “Ben, you’re in no shape to do this.”
He had already eased the ambulance door open and was peering out the narrow gap.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “I can’t see ‘im. You got a radio?”
“No, sorry,” the paramedic answered.
“Shit!” Ben spat again and then turned to him. “Okay. Get out there and tell the first coppers you see to stop that van. Tell ‘em it’s on my authority and that there might be an armed suspect in the vehicle. Got me?”
“Yeah, but what’s going on?”
“I ain’t got time to explain it,” my friend returned with an impatient bite in his voice. “Now get out there and do what I told you to do.”
The paramedic didn’t argue, and Ben pressed himself back against the built-in cabinets of equipment and supplies to make room for him to exit. Ben caught the door with his hand and continued to hold it slightly open so he could watch what was happening.
“Do you really think that it’s Porter?” I asked.
I had already stood up and moved over next to him, but I couldn’t get any kind of a vantage point where I could see anything more than a small sliver of the street and the house next door to the one from which we’d escaped.
“Somebody torched that house while we were in it, Row,” he offered. “The door at the top of the stairs was blocked by somethin’, I’m sure of it. And besides, the friggin’ place went up too quick. Way too quick. My money would be on Porter.”
“But if it IS him then that would mean he had to have followed us here from Randy and Nancy’s place.” I tossed out the observation.
“Yeah, prob’ly,” he agreed.
My voice began to ramp up in pitch, audibly noting my panic. “But that would mean he knows where Felicity is…”
“Calm down!” Ben shot back, stopping me before I could implode. “Mandalay is with Felicity. She’s safe. Besides, if the fucker followed us here then he’s obviously leavin’ her alone and comin’ after you.”
His logic headed off my sudden run toward hysteria and brought me back down to a controlled level of fear. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. You’re right.”
“There they go,” he muttered as he pushed the door open a few more inches and cocked his head to the side.
I winced as a sharp pain burrowed into my shoulder and culminated in a grating ache throughout the joint. It felt something akin to a knife blade—or perhaps an ice pick—being thrust directly into the bone.
“It’s him,” I said aloud.
Ben glanced back at me, “Twilight Zone?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Twilight Zone. It’s him.”
His lips formed a grim frown; he nodded at me and then looked back out the gap in the door. “Jeezus H. Christ!” he exclaimed almost immediately, slamming the door completely open and leaping out the back of the vehicle. “Stay here!”
I could hear the roar of an engine being gunned as I followed Ben out the opening, completely ignoring his command. My brain was beginning to adjust to my uncorrected vision, and while detail was still muddy, I could easily make out the white panel van as it backed toward us with a quick lurch. The rear corner of the vehicle slammed hard into the police cruiser that was sitting diagonally in the center of the street no more than forty feet away from us. The high-pitched tone of metal deeply creasing blended with the hard sound of the crash and the hailstorm rattle of broken glass as it spilled onto the street from the car’s headlight.
Out of reflex I jumped backward as the patrol vehicle moved several feet toward us and rocked up at one corner. Toward the front of the sedan, a uniformed officer lay in a heap on the slush-covered pavement as if thoughtlessly tossed aside. I could only assume that he had been hit by the van and that was what had prompted Ben to reveal his presence.
The familiar sound of a handgun popping nearby combined with the simultaneous metallic thump of the rounds impacting the side of the panel van. The handful of onlookers who had gathered on the perimeter were now screaming and scattering from the scene. The firefighters and paramedics in the immediate area ducked for cover near rescue vehicles.
The driver’s side of the large van was angled toward me, and I stood there mesmerized by sudden slow motion that affected the scene. I could hear my own measured breathing echoing in my ears as the cacophony surrounding me became a muted background roar. There was a tingle in the back of my head, and my face felt hot and flushed. I looked up from the prone officer and turned my head to stare coldly at the open sliding
door on the cab of the van. I didn’t need my glasses to recognize the face staring back at me nor to see the hatred burning in his eyes.
The underlying roar rose in volume and was lacerated by the high-pitched grind of manual transmission gears as the extended moment fast-forwarded into real time. I heard Ben screaming my name as he crossed in front of me and pushed me back toward the waiting door of the ambulance. The wrenching groan of metal tearing apart scraped through the air once more.
I stumbled and slid on the icy pavement, catching the door to steady myself as I continued to watch the action play out. The van was already moving forward as Ben’s arm whipped up from underneath his coat, his bandaged hand wrapped around his Beretta. Eldon Porter was still glaring at us from the open door of the vehicle, and I stared back with morbid fascination as my friend took aim.
An ye harm none. The snippet of the Wiccan Rede passed through my mind as I watched. It was the simplest of instructions and a covenant by which I endeavored to live my life. But now, it was something I was unable to embrace. I wanted Eldon Porter to be dead. I wanted Ben to empty his handgun into the bastard just as he had done with the lock on the basement door. I wanted him eradicated from existence, and the hatred I felt for him burned inside me hotter with each passing second.
From where I stood, the shot was clear. Ben was even closer. I started to breathe a heavy sigh of relief because I knew that at this distance my friend could not miss. It was all about to be over. The nightmare was coming to an end.
I jerked my head quickly to the right as several shots sounded from the opposite side. I saw the uninjured Wood Dell officer firing once again into the panel van as it lurched forward, allowing the patrol car to drop back down on the front corner.
I heard an almost anguished expletive to my left and whipped my gaze back. When my eyes fell on Ben, he was standing there slapping a fresh magazine into his weapon and jacking the slide back without having fired a single round.
I screamed, “What happened?!”
The tires on the panel van had bit through the slush and were now making a wet squeal against the pavement as the vehicle sped away.
“Goddammit!” my friend exclaimed once again, as he centered the muzzle of his weapon on the van and tracked it. However, the immediate opportunity for a clear shot had passed as it was already rounding the corner. “Goddammit!”
He lowered the handgun and then slipped it back into the shoulder rig as he turned. “Empty!” he shouted. “I never fuckin’ reloaded after we got out of the basement!” His face was contorted in a painful mask of self-loathing.
I didn’t blame him for what had happened, but I was infuriated. Porter was getting away, and we had missed a prime opportunity to stop him.
“Jeezus, I don’t believe this!” my friend screamed as he ran toward the disabled police cruiser.
I released my grip on the ambulance door and chased after him, dodging a paramedic who was racing for the downed officer. I fought for steady footing on the grey slop that covered the street and slipped several times before making it the thirty-odd feet to where he was standing. He had cranked the passenger door open on the patrol car and was speaking into the microphone of the police radio.
I listened as he identified himself and then began describing the van. The last thing I heard him tell the dispatcher was the direction the vehicle had been headed and the street on which it was traveling.
I didn’t hear anything else because I was lying on my side in the icy slush with the metallic tang of electricity coating my tongue and my body tensed in a violent seizure.
CHAPTER 19:
It’s dark.
It’s cold.
I try to move, and then I remember that I cannot.
How long have I been here? I can’t remember. It seems like forever. A day? A week? A month?
I’m confused.
I’m trying to think. Where am I?
Where am I? Hell, who am I?
My head hurts. My whole body aches.
Fear grips me, and I don’t know why.
What is it?
Why am I afraid?
The feeling passes, and I just forget. It seems easier than trying to remember. It doesn’t hurt as much.
I’m uncomfortable sitting here.
I try to move again.
That’s right, I can’t move. I wonder why.
My hands wriggle, but when they do, my wrists hurt. They are sore.
I can move my feet. Not much, just a little. My ankles hurt just like my wrists.
I hear water splash, and I can feel it on my feet.
Why are my feet in water?
Good question. Where am I again?
I listen.
It is quiet here in the dark.
Almost too quiet.
I don’t like it.
I wait.
I listen.
Footsteps.
I hear footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.
I keep listening and try to remember who I am.
T…
Tee?…
Tuh?…
Tay?…
Two?…
Two times two is four.
Two times three is six.
Two times four is twelve.
Twelve?
That’s right, isn’t it?
Two times four is twelve.
Two times twelve is sixteen.
Sixteen?
I’ll start over. Two times two is eleven.
No, that’s not right.
What was I trying to remember?
I give up.
My mouth tastes funny. Metal. Weird. Hmph. I can remember what metal is, why can’t I remember what time it is?
It sure is dark.
There’s that sound again. It’s like a motor running. I wonder what it is?
Fear.
Cold terror.
* * * * *
Muted sirens were warbling in a frantic bid for attention, and they were filtering into my ears. I was cold, and I felt myself physically shiver. I was laying flat on my back, and there was something resembling a thin layer of permeable warmth draped over me. It felt like it might be a blanket, but it definitely wasn’t the one I had on my bed at home.
So if I wasn’t at home in my bed, I guess that ruled out this whole day being a nightmare.
My shirt felt damp along my right side and across my shoulders. My pants weren’t much better. The chill seemed to seep in deeper and even drop a few degrees lower in the places where the wet clothing touched my skin.
I twitched and felt a fork of pain spread from one end of my body to the other. My head was pounding. My shoulder was aching. My knees hurt. My face was sore… And, it didn’t stop there. I finally gave up on taking inventory once the individually identifiable aches and pains advanced past ten.
A familiar metallic tang had parked itself somewhere in the region of the back of my tongue. On the front half, my taste buds were being assaulted by the unmistakable woody flavor of a tongue depressor. All of it was underscored by the salty taste of blood.
Quiet voices and the crackle of a two-way radio eased in beneath the sirens, and an occasional thump or bump would fill in the gaps. There was an overwhelming sense of motion vibrating through my prone body, and I decided that I must be in the back of an ambulance. It was a new experience for me, and I had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed logical considering the sensory input I was working with.
I heard myself groan and then felt my stomach turn a quick flip as my body pitched to the side. At first, I thought I was going to fall, but then I felt myself pressed against straps that crossed my chest and legs. My muscles tensed anyway, and I paid the price as my various aches snapped to attention, letting me know beyond any doubt that they were still intact and intent on continuing to produce the agony for which they were conceived.
I groaned again.
“You awake, Row?” I heard Ben’s gravelly voice over the mélange of sounds bouncing around the inside of the vehicle.<
br />
I started out by slowly opening one eye and rolling it around until I found his face. Then I opened the other and gained at least some sense of depth perception. I focused in and just stared back at him mutely.
My friend looked pretty much as he had when I’d last looked at him. Soot streaked and well worn. He peered back at me with a tired expression. “You gotta stop this shit, white man,” he told me.
“What?” I croaked, my voice just as raw as his.
“Floppin’ around like a fish outta water,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed softly. “I think you’re right.”
“Was it one of those outta body things?”
“Yeah.”
“Just checkin’. You weren’t sure last time.”
“I’m pretty sure this time.”
“Get anything from it?”
“Bad taste in my mouth,” I replied.
“I would too.”
I didn’t bother to explain that my comment wasn’t intended as a metaphor.
“Mister Gant?” A different voice called my name.
“Yeah?” I grunted. “Who wants to know?”
“Mister Gant, my name is Rick,” the voice returned. A pair of surgical-glove-sheathed hands came into view and were followed by the face of a paramedic. “How are you feeling?”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Are you having any trouble breathing?” he continued, ignoring my sardonic query.
“No,” I returned.
He adjusted a plastic tube beneath my nose then stole a glance at his watch. After a few seconds, I realized that he had taken hold of my wrist. Once he finished taking my pulse, he scribbled something on a clipboard. “Try to relax Mister Gant. We’re only about seven minutes out.”
“Yeah, sure,” I answered.
I rolled my head slowly to the side and brought my eyes back to Ben. He was sitting on the bench across from the gurney, still holding his bandaged hands limply in his lap. He had leaned back against the wall and had his eyes closed. His chin was tilted up, and his jaw was set tight. I watched as he reflexively reached up with his right hand and started to smooth his hair back then winced before dropping the appendage back down. He let out a heavy sigh and frowned even harder.
The Law Of Three: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 16