by Jason Parent
She pictured the shooter in her mind. A bald head rose over a mask, so unless they’d decided to give Michael an impromptu shave, the shooter wasn’t him. She was still holding onto the hope, believing in her heart that he lived. Having no real reason, she chalked it up to a mother’s intuition for lack of a better term. She’d warned the others of the possibility, however unlikely given the amount of time he would have spent in Wainwright’s company, of Michael being brainwashed and used against them. She’d likewise warned them she would shoot them where they stood if they even scratched Michael.
So as she waited at the ready for her target to reveal himself, Sam convinced herself that it could not be Michael and dared not think of the consequences might she be wrong. She knew she had the shooter. She might have smiled if not for the gravity of what that would mean for someone likely brainwashed and innocent of any crime. Still, she couldn’t risk any of the so-called Indians hurting anyone else. As if playing some twisted carnival game, she scanned the row of windows, trying to guess where the masked head would pop up next. She was one off, but it didn’t affect her ability to shoot twice at Wainwright’s minion. She crept forward, certain the first had hit its mark, the second shot only a cautionary measure.
“I’m pinned!” Bruce shouted to her left. It sounded as if he was facing a Tommy gun.
With no entrance on the side of the car facing her, Sam had a decision to make—circle to the back and help Bruce shoot his way into the train or head to the front to help Frank. The third option, the wait-for-backup option, certainly seemed the smartest, but she knew backup wouldn’t distinguish between killer and confused. They would shoot all equally just as she’d been forced to only moments ago. With a department on edge, she couldn’t trust some trigger-happy bozo to not light up anything that moved. As much as she hated to admit it, Bruce was right to move in. The three of them were the best chance any of the patients had of survival. If only they could aim low—something the head in the window unfortunately hadn’t allowed for.
Nevertheless, Sam chose the front. If she could get the drop on Frank’s shooter, and maybe thereafter Bruce’s, too, they all stood the best chance of staying above the dirt. She stalked closer, peering under the car and looking for feet near its entrance. She saw none.
Frank had stopped shooting, to her great relief, and she figured he must have spotted her. But the shooter inside the train kept firing, one or two at a time at Frank’s position with long breaks between as if the assailant was losing interest.
She crept to the end and readied for the turn. She needed to act quickly to eliminate hostiles and clear the way for the others.
“Look out!” Frank shouted.
A tall figure, lithe as a gymnast, sprang off the car’s outer platform, over the handrail, and smack into Sam. A sting in her arm caused her to cry out. Her gun hand knocked her attacker away, jostling her own weapon free. It clattered onto the gravelly earth. With a shaking hand, she pulled a ten-gauge needle from her arm. Its stopper had not yet been compressed. She held it out in front of her eyes, shivering as she wondered what the murky liquid inside could be.
Dr. Horvat’s expression was flat. She assumed a fighter’s stance, hands curled into fists and held upright, her right leg slightly forward.
Sam ejected the liquid onto the ground then tossed the needle aside. She barely noticed the gunplay behind and beside her, Frank no doubt trying to keep whoever else was in that train inside.
“You’ve ruined everything,” Horvat said matter-of-factly. “This all has been a huge setback. I might have ended the crime you struggle so vainly against, taking down one criminal only so four more can take his place. And yet, you stand in my way. For what? A few insignificant mentally ill patients, several of whom you yourself killed?”
Sam watched the doctor closely, looking for a shift in her eyes, a clench in her jaw, or the flex of a muscle—any sign telegraphing her attack. She almost respected Horvat for making no secret of the fact that an attack was indeed coming.
“You never cared for them before!” The doctor snarled. She sucked in a breath and stiffened. “No one ever has. No one but me. Yes, I have lost a few along the way due to my benefactor’s... unique proclivities. But they are nothing when compared to all those I will help, the countless I will heal. People who are hurting in ways standard medicine can never cure. People like your boy, Detective.”
“Leave my boy out of this.” Sam scowled. The mention of Michael and the doctor’s purported diagnosis that he was mentally ill shook Sam. The momentary lapse into thought was apparently what Horvat had been waiting for. She struck with a jab that hit Sam square in the mouth. At once, Sam tasted copper as her head rocked back.
The doctor followed with a left cross while Sam was still reeling. The hit sent her staggering into the railcar, jarring her shoulder, but she pushed off it with almost feral ferocity. She wiped the blood from her lips and squared off against her opponent.
Horvat showed no pleasure in her earlier success, her mouth flat and eyes filled with determination. That she’d had training was evident, but the extent of that training was unknown. Something about the way she moved suggested that kicks were in her repertoire of moves, so Sam guessed some form of MMA. Sam, with her father’s boxing instructions and years of judo under her belt, didn’t know if she could win a fair fight against the doctor.
But Sam had no intention of fighting fair. She charged at the taller, stronger, and younger woman, unleashing a barrage of jabs and hooks. Aside from a few punches that glanced her sides, Horvat easily blocked the rest with her forearms. The flurry of strikes hadn’t been intended to do damage but to move Sam in close, to eliminate the doctor’s reach advantage.
Her plan worked to close the gap, but what Sam didn’t expect was that Horvat was just as effective with her elbows as she was her fists. Sam took one to the jaw so hard her teeth actually rattled, something she’d previously only thought an expression. She rubbed her chin as she fell to one knee, taking her eyes off her opponent for only a second. And for that second, she was rewarded with a breath-stealing kick to her chest.
Neither paid any mind to the bullets ricocheting off metal around them. Sam was getting her ass handed to her and needed to do something to turn the tides. Her hands clawed at the ground as she pushed herself up, hoping for enough sand to throw into Horvat’s eyes but only coming up with a few pebbles. Those dropped back down to the ground as she endured another kick, this one just under her chin and feeling as if it might have enough force to pop her head right off.
Instead, it lifted her into the air. Her back crashed down into the unforgiving ground, knocking what little wind she had out of her. She clawed at her neck, unable to speak or breathe, hoarse wheezing the only sound emitting from her. Had she had an Adam’s apple, she would have eaten it. As it was, she couldn’t swallow. Tears filled her eyes, which bulged in their sockets. Unable to get any air into her lungs, she tried to rise, rolling to her stomach and pushing herself up onto hands and knees.
Horvat moved in for the kill. Sam could offer no defense as the doctor wrapped her arm around Sam’s throat and yanked her to her feet. Sam flailed weakly against Horvat’s chest, the chokehold tightening. It almost seemed superfluous since she was already breathless.
Through her pain and tears, Sam heard a low voice in her ear. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I can’t have you interfering again. Just know, no harm will come to your boy from me.” An exhale tickled her ear, a strangely peaceful sensation despite the chaos ravaging both her mind and body. “I’ll do my best to keep Carter from harming him, assuming his boy can even bring him to us.”
Sam gritted her teeth. Michael! Through the din, Sam clung to one idea. Horvat was talking as if Michael were still alive. She’d hoped as much, but whether Horvat’s words were truly confirmation or not, Sam took it that way. And there was no chance she was letting Carter Wainwright anywhere near her boy again, not so long as her heart still beat.
At some le
vel, Sam registered that the gunfire at both ends of the train had stopped. Standing her up had been a mistake. The doctor should have locked in her legs in what wrestlers called a double grapevine and stretched Sam out so she had no chance of standing or escaping the choke. Sapped of energy, darkness spreading across her vision, Sam summoned the last of her strength. She shot her hip to the side and slid her arm around the doctor’s waist and a leg behind her body. With a roar that sounded like a croak, she thrust her hip in and up, lifted Horvat into the air as she leaned back, then threw the doctor over her body.
In a loud thunk, skull met train car. Dr. Horvat fell limp.
Still unable to breathe, Sam clawed again at her throat even as a small boy ran around the front of the train, holding a gun that seemed too big for his hands. He pointed it at Sam, his face contorting into a sulk. “Is she...?”
Sam paid him little mind. She had to get her panic under control if she wanted to live. Concentrating on her breathing, she slowly paced and took in air through her nose, her throat burning and chest exploding in pain as her lungs began to fill. In and out, each time with a little more air. It felt like sucking thick liquid through a thin straw. Amid her pacing, she snagged the gun from the boy’s hands.
He ran to Dr. Horvat and shook her. “We were just playing a game,” he whined, tears in his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to hurt her.”
Sam caught a glimpse of Frank approaching, using cover as he did. He made his way toward them, pistol trained on the car’s entrance. “The boy,” he said, not taking his eyes off the door. “That’s Mitchell Lancaster, the missing child from Brentworth. I think,” he continued, his voice rising in disbelief, “he was just shooting at me.”
“It was just a game.” Mitchell cried. “Youse are the ones that ruined it. She”—he pointed at Sam—“she killed Dr. Horvat.”
“Is it true, Sam?” Frank asked. “Is Horvat dead?”
Sam was breathing a little easier then, but every inhalation felt as if she’d swallowed a milk jug full of pins. She wobbled over to Horvat and checked for a pulse. “Still breathing,” she hissed. “Who’s left inside?”
The question hung in the air as they exchanged a look. After cuffing the doctor to the train’s undercarriage, she tucked Mitchell’s gun in her waistband and picked up her Glock. Mitchell made no effort to move from Horvat’s side, so they frisked him and left him there. Sam signaled that she was going to check on Bruce, leaving Frank to cover the front. She headed toward the back of the train, biting down against the pain sizzling throughout her body, fairly certain she was suffering some internal bleeding. After she took down Wainwright, after she found Michael, she thought a medically induced coma sounded like a wonderful plan.
A shot whizzed by her, and she groaned.
“Sam?” Bruce called. “That you?”
She couldn’t speak above a hoarse whisper, so she did something akin to a jumping jack to get his attention then extended her middle finger. Slowly, he rose then proceeded to her position. By the time he was halfway there, he was nearly skipping. “Is he in there? Do we have him?”
Sam just shrugged. Sirens howled, growing closer. The first of Fall River’s finest were arriving on the scene.
A slow clapping came from inside. “Come on in. I’m unarmed.”
A flash of anger crossed Bruce’s face. He pulled something out of his pockets and pressed it into his ear, then he charged into the train car. “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch. I’ve finally got you.”
Sam delicately pulled herself up onto the platform, then she stepped into the car. Bruce stood in the narrow aisle several feet beyond the entrance, his back to her and gun raised. Over his shoulder, Sam saw a smiling Carter Wainwright with his hands in the air. She could see no one else alive in the car, though anyone could be hiding between the seats, waiting to spring up at the most inopportune moment.
As for the dead, Sam counted two. Staying on alert, she crouched before a still figure wearing a mask just inside the threshold, who’d evidently been shot in the chest by Bruce. Another masked man lay midway down the aisle, his mask askew and revealing his bald head and half of the dead man’s stare. A hollow pang hit her stomach as she realized he was her victim, and the security guard’s uniform he wore, together with the absence of any other guard on the lot, made her certain she’d likewise gunned down an innocent.
Thinking she couldn’t be so hard on Bruce for taking out the poor puppet at her feet, Sam reached for the fallen brave’s mask, hand trembling. She froze, panic rising in her so quickly it made her head spin as her brain tried to process who it was. The shooter’s size was so much like Michael’s. Then his red hair registered somewhere deep, but it did nothing to diminish her dread. Her shaking intensifying, she slid the mask from his face and gasped.
“Jimmy!” she shouted, finding her voice through the pain. His eyes found hers as his chest rose and fell in almost undetectable shallow breaths. She immediately put pressure on his wounds.
“What?” Bruce asked, his voice inordinately loud as he dared a glance back at her. “What is it?”
“Ten little Indians... standing in a line,” Jimmy whispered, the corners of his mouth twitching as if trying to smile as a tear ran from the corner of his eye. “One... toddled home...” His eyes searched the ceiling as if looking there for the rest of the rhyme. They fixed on a spot and went still.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Sam whispered, finding it suddenly hard to breathe all over again. She thought of Michael—how easily it could have been him instead, and how easily Bruce would have shot him. Jimmy hadn’t deserved that any more than Michael would have. “I’m so, so sorry.”
She checked his pulse, first at his neck, then at his wrist, already knowing what she would find but doing it anyway. Crying, she closed his eyes with her fingers. Hanging her head, she rose, her sadness and rage mounting to a boil. Pulling energy as if from the ether, she ran at Wainwright, checking her way past Bruce with the form and grace of a bull. And like a matador, the killer danced aside, spun her around, then caught her in his arms. He had a knife to her throat before she could even move to stop it.
“Ah, and here we are, Bruce, old friend.” Wainwright kissed Sam’s cheek as she squirmed in his hold. “Now this, this is the drama one might say I kill for.”
He pressed the knife harder against the soft flesh of Sam’s neck. She could feel the warmth of her blood trickling down to her chest.
“I had more plans for you,” Wainwright whispered in her ear. “But this is so, so much better, no? Ol’ Brucey losing not one but two young partners? The only question is, will he shoot you before I slit your throat?”
Sam threw back her elbow, but still winded from her fight with Horvat, only managed a glancing blow. She was rewarded with the blade pressed harder into her neck and much more warm wetness cascading down her skin.
“Will you take the shot, Bruce?” He tightened his grip around her waist, his hot breath on her cheek sending waves of revulsion through her body. “Does your desire to kill me trump the risk you’d be taking with her life? Take the shot, Bruce.” He tittered with excitement. “Take the shot.”
Bruce’s expression never wavered. He stared emotionlessly down his barrel at Wainwright, likely ruminating on whether to take the shot.
Sam nodded. She was willing to take the risk her own stupidity had placed her in. Bruce narrowed his gaze down the barrel of his pistol, aiming. She was going to die, her only consolation being that Wainwright would surely die with her. She closed her eyes.
“He never learns,” Wainwright whispered in her ear. “Such A fool. He and I are going to have some fun with you.” With a booming, singsong voice, he said, “Four little Indians up on a spree.”
Oh no. Sam didn’t think it was possible for her heart to sink any further, but it did. Bruce’s expression, already fairly blank, remained that way—robotic. And no doubt under Wainwright’s spell.
Wainwright laughed. He shifted behind her. “Shoot out her left
knee cap.”
Bruce didn’t move beyond tracing the movement of Wainwright’s head with his aim.
Wainwright cleared his throat. “Four little Indians up on a spree. Shoot yourself, Bruce!”
A click sounded behind Sam. “You have one second to drop it,” Frank said. “One.”
The knife fell from Wainwright’s hand, and he raised his arms high. Apparently, he was a bit more cautious with his life than he let on.
Frank slammed him down onto a nearby table, yanked his arms behind his back, then cuffed him.
As Frank stood him back up, Wainwright smiled at Bruce. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
“Huh?” Bruce pointed to his ear and the earplugs he’d jammed into them. Then he punched Wainwright in the stomach.
“Enough,” Frank said.
But when Wainwright started to laugh, Sam couldn’t help herself. She punched him too.
“Enough!” Frank shouted. He threw Wainwright into a seat, which with the killer’s hands cuffed behind him, might have hurt Wainwright more than both punches combined. If it had, the sadistic bastard didn’t show it. He just sat quietly, smiling up at the three of them.
AS THE SUN BEGAN ITS descent, the cavalry took up position outside. Frank announced their presence, and they exited the train car with weapons holstered, dragging their prize in tow. They ushered him toward a patrol car then corralled him into the backseat just as three men in black suits made their way past.
Once Wainwright was secure, they turned to see one of the suits reviving Horvat with smelling salts.
“They yours?” Sam asked.
Frank shook his head. “No, but I was afraid something like this might happen.”
“Something like what? Who are they?”