“Is he still breathing?” Cakes asked.
Doc pumped up the volume and a pulse thumped through the speakers.
“The broken heart still beats,” Doc said.
“I got to go, work to do. You boys keep an eye on him. Take turns if you like, but there’s got to be someone watching him at all times.”
“We got it, ma,” Cakes said.
She picked up her phone and left.
***
Betts listened as Canella puffed her way up a stairwell, then into the workshop. The sounds that followed were clanks and clunks, truck doors and hoods opening, and grunting sounds.
***
Doc and Cakes had sunk lower into their chairs, numbed by unchanging vision on the screen.
Doc got up and helped himself to a glass of whiskey.
“You know, we should have installed that camera in his head. Then we could see exactly were he was looking at all times.”
“You think he’s up to something?”
“Who knows. I would be. Definitely should have put in his forehead. I should have been consulted.”
“Oh really? You don’t think that would have been obvious, a lump and stitches on his forehead? He’d look like Frankenstein’s fucking monster. The chest is working, nobody’s noticed except for his girl, and she’s none the wiser. It was the correct placement.”
“Fair enough. But watching a dog take a shit would be more interesting than this. I’ll take first break. See you back here in the morning, okay?”
“Oh, so I get the graveyard shift?”
“Hey, this all happened coz of you, remember?”
“Fine. You get here at sunrise, you hear? I’ll call you at five thirty to make sure you’re awake.”
“No you won’t! I’ll be here, don’t you be calling me!” Cakes said. He left Doc in front of the screen.
***
With Canella working alone in her workshop, Betts had no idea if Doc and Cakes were watching the vision from the chest-cam. If they had drifted off to sleep, he would have been able to take some kind of evasive action. But there was no way of knowing. After lying still for about three hours, Betts took the ear-phones off and decided it was time to take the risk and spring into action.
The apartment was so dark he may as well have been blind, and he guessed there was no way Doc would be able to see anything from the camera. He silently opened a bedside drawer containing handcuffs, ammo and other police equipment. He took out a pair of police-issue night vision glasses that he kept for emergencies, put them on and crept to the bathroom.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps the chest-cam was also equipped with night vision. It was certainly stacked with features. The thought stopped him in his tracks. But then he realized this was possibly his last night, his last and best chance to attempt to free himself. If they had night vision, he was screwed, but if he could well be dead the following day. If he was going to try something, it had to be now, hopefully in the cover of night.
Standing in front of the mirror, Betts took off his work shirt and grabbed a pair of grooming scissors. He put them to his chest and snipped one of the stitches. Then he waited for the buzz. It didn’t come. His observers hadn’t seen or heard him. Betts pulled the stitch free, dropped it in the sink and went to work on the rest. The wound was already beginning to heal and he pried it apart so that there was a loose, semicircular flap of skin.
He peeled the flap up, exposing the camera, which was nothing more than a steel circular device with a lens on the outer surface. It looked like a watch with a black face. He took a grip of it and tried to pull it off, surprised at the resulting pain, and by how rigidly it was fixed in position.
Betts wiped his bloody hands on a towel and, looking at himself in the mirror, adjusted the zoom on night vision goggles. He got a close up view of the camera on his breastbone and discovered what was holding the camera so tightly to his chest: two stainless steel bands coming from the sides of the camera, like a watch bands. They disappeared into holes on his chest and seemed to disappear behind his breastbone.
They’ve strapped it around my breast bone!
He realized it must have been close to his aorta and other arteries, and that if he nicked them pulling it out, he’d be dead in a matter of seconds.
Betts inspected the device carefully, hoping to find some release button to remove the camera from the bands. But the bands were built into the camera.
He stalked to a cupboard in the hallway, in which he found a box of screwdrivers. He took the longest, thinnest one he had and returned to the bathroom, back in front of the mirror. Betts held the screwdriver in front of his stomach and slid the business end up underneath the camera, grimacing as it scraped along the membrane covering his breast bone until the tip pushed out above the camera.
Hoping to use the screw driver as a lever, he applied slow but powerful force, pushing the handle away from his stomach. But the camera didn’t even loosen.
He tried again, applying so much force that his forearms trembled. The tip of the screwdriver began digging into his breastbone and his mouth opened in a silent scream as he increased the force. But the camera remained stubbornly in place.
Tears filling his eyes, he applied more force still. Something had to give. But it wasn’t the camera. He heard the sound of tearing cartilage and felt his entire rib cage move. The pain was immediate and enveloped his entire chest from within. It was as if his lungs had been suddenly filled with flesh-burning gas. As he buckled over and collapsed to the floor, unable to breathe, he thought he was having a heart attack.
Betts lay on his side, winded and writhing for several seconds before he was finally able suck in a shallow breath. Gradually, his breaths got deeper until they were almost normal. The pain in his chest began to ease slightly and he wondered how much damage he had done. Had he punctured a lung? Or his diaphragm? Only one thing was certain: the camera could not be pulled off without rupturing his chest cavity, which would probably kill him. He pulled the screwdriver out from his chest.
Chapter 51
Back in the den, Doc was busy eating Chinese and listening to classic jazz on the radio. He glanced over at the screen, seeing Betts’s chestcam vision: still dark, no sign of any activity.
***
Betts lay on the floor, his breathing back to normal. His chest was still hurting, but not nearly as much.
Come on, get up!
Careful to avoid putting pressure on his chest, he pushed himself up onto his knees, then to his feet. Night vision goggles still on, Betts went to the refrigerator and turned the power off at the wall, in order to disable the fridge light. He then opened the door. Inside he saw Yasmine’s lentil casserole. He shoved the pot of foul looking stuff aside and dug a bottle of cider from the back of the fridge.
Wary of the damage in his chest, he sipped a mouthful, and waited, feeling it go down.
My esophagus is intact, no hernia.
He drank some more. Then an idea hit him. He took a large plastic bottle of cola from the fridge, emptied its contents into the sink, then put the casserole on the kitchen bench. As quietly as he could, he squeezed and crushed the bottle to half its width, held it upside down and stuck the end into the casserole, making a vacuum. When he squeezed the bottle back into shape, it sucked up a large portion of the casserole. He kept at it until he had filled a good three quarters of the bottle. Then he turned the bottle back upright and placed it on the bench. He looked at his cider, almost a full bottle, and poured the yellow liquid into the cola bottle so the stuff was more like a soup than a casserole. He took it to the toilet and placed it behind the W.C., out of sight.
Betts took the first aid kit out and took a couple of painkillers, downing them with a glass of water. He lifted the flap of skin open and sprayed some antiseptic on it. The sting was almost unnoticeable, after the pain he had just endured. He spotted a small bottle of ipecac syrup in the first aid kit and was struck by another idea. He put it in his pocket.
; Betts went to the kitchen, took the casserole from the fridge and shoveled several spoonfuls of the cold muck down his throat. From a drawer he took a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors, went to the bedroom and drew the curtains. It was still dark outside. He lay down gingerly, his chest still aching. When he was flat on his back, he cut a circle of duct tape off the reel. He then stuck it on the bedpost and started cutting another.
***
Doc was sleeping with his feet on the computer desk when Cakes bustled in, a half-eaten ham and cheese croissant in hand.
“Rise and shine, it’s time for crime!” Cakes said, sliding Doc’s feet off the desk.
Doc woke up and brushed the food away off his mouth and clothes as Cakes sat in front of the monitor. He was looking at the ceiling in Betts’s bedroom, filling with the early morning light.
“He stay in the same place all night?”
“Pretty much,” Doc said.
“Shall we give him a wake up buzz?” Cakes asked, picking up the remote control device.
“No, don’t do that. If he’s in a deep sleep it could kill him,” Doc said.
“That’d be worth watching!” Cake said, laughing. He put down the remote. “So nothing interesting?”
Doc shook his head.
***
Betts opened his eyes. He took the bottle of ipecac syrup from the pocket of his pants, opened it over his stomach, then moved it up along the side of his body, off camera, and up to his mouth. He took a couple of mouthfuls, and although he had an idea what to expect, he wasn’t prepared for what happened. His stomach heaved with incredible force and he curled over the side of the bed, vomiting uncontrollably.
***
“Christ, look at this!” Cakes said, pointing to the screen as the vomit poured out from above the camera and down onto the bedroom floor.
“Jesus,” Doc said, as Betts’s guttural moans roared out of the speakers, accompanying the endless flow of lentil casserole and bile that spewed out of him.
“What’s wrong with him?” Cakes said.
“Looks like a stomach bug. Gastro,” Doc said.
***
Betts was on all fours now, sharp pain returning to his chest as he crawled over the vomit and headed out of the bedroom. His stomach contracted with incredible force, purging more of its contents over his hands and the carpet as he pressed on.
Christ, I hope they’re watching!
***
And they were. Disgusted, but unable to look away. Cakes dropped his croissant, feeling slightly queasy as, on the screen, Betts made it to the toilet, propped himself up on the W.C. and pulled his pants down around his ankles. Another burst of vomit and his pants, feet and the tiled floor were covered in it, his feet slipping and sliding. The moaning continued as he crouched over so that Cakes and Doc got a good look at the mess he had created.
“I can’t watch any more of this,” Cakes said, turning away.
***
Betts may have been feeling like hell, but so far all was going as he had planned. Still looking at the growing pool of vomit, he reached around behind the W.C. and took the cola bottle, full of lentil casserole and now gasless cider. Doing the best he could, he held it behind him and aimed it down towards the bowl of the toilet, hoping for the gap between his ass and the seat. He squeezed the bottle and muck sprayed out, covering the back of the seat, his ass, and the bowl. He kept squeezing and moaning until he felt the bottle was close to empty. He placed it back behind the toilet, then he turned around and looked into the bowl, giving his audience a perfect view. He had created the perfect illusion of a toilet seat and bowl after a cataclysmic case of diarrhea.
***
“Yep. That’s gastro alright. I’ll leave you to it, Cakes,’ said Doc, getting up to go.
“Do I have to watch this?” Cakes said.
“Yes, you do.”
They kept watching as Betts tried to clean himself up with toilet paper.
“It’s going to take more toilet paper than you got, buddy,” Cakes said, “go take a fucking shower!”
“He can’t get it wet, remember?” Doc said.
“I ought to blast him to death, put the poor prick out of his misery,” Cakes said, half serious. “I’m not watching this.”
“Yes you are. Be professional,” Doc said.
“Professional? I’m a professional crook, not a fucking nurse! That’s the most disgusting shit I’ve ever seen!”
“Then you’ve had a sheltered life,” Doc said. “Buck up, do your job.”
“Alright, alright. Get out of here, I’ll see you later,” Cakes said.
Doc left and Cakes kept his eyes on the screen, shaking his head as Betts pressed ahead with the overwhelming task of cleaning up the toilet. He soon gave up and staggered into the kitchen, where he picked up the phone. Cakes turned up the volume to listen to the call.
“Forrest,” Betts said, “I can’t come in. I’m knee deep in diarrhea.”
“He ain’t lying!” Cakes said, as if Forrest could hear him.
Betts hung up and staggered along the trail of vomit that led to his bedroom and collapsed, chest first, onto the bed, then crawled under the blanket.
Cakes sunk into his chair. “Stay in bed, you prick. Don’t put me through anymore of that shit,” Cakes said.
Chapter 52
Cakes was watching the news on the TV when Canella walked in with a cup of coffee in hand.
“Why is the screen black?” she asked.
“He’s in bed, under the blanket. He’ll be there for a while,” Cakes said. “He’s got the worst case of ass splatter I’ve ever seen.”
“Ass splatter?”
“The shits. It’s exploding out of the guy like a god damned volcano.”
“That’s pretty convenient, don’t you think? The last thing he wants to do is go to work today, lead us to that Walker boy,” she said.
“This guy is in wall to wall shit and vomit. You can’t fake that. I’ve never seen anything like it. You ever seen The Exorcist? That ain’t nothin’ compared to this. Doc said it was a clear case of gastro.”
“You know he’s not a real doctor, don’t you?”
“Ma, trust me on this. We know the where and when for the Walker kid anyway.”
***
Betts lay on his stomach, listening to the conversation through his earphones. He felt relieved that the vomiting had stopped, and more relieved that it had worked, that Cakes and Doc had bought it. He listened as Cakes and Canella continued.
“Is Doc’s crew ready?” Canella asked.
“Yeah, what’s left of them.”
“You don’t think they’ll pull it off?”
“They’ll die trying, I guarantee you that.”
“I hope your passport’s valid, coz if this goes south, so do we. And we’ll only have a few hours.”
“It’s valid. Where are you thinking? Mexico or Brazil? Brazil’s got a lot to offer. No extradition either.”
Canella didn’t answer. Betts knew Canella was planning to use all her muscle to take out Mitch Walker. They’ll probably be the same crew that hijacked the pharmaceuticals truck.
Keeping his chest and the chest-cam under the blanket, Betts took a piece of duct tape off the bedpost and pulled it beneath the covers. He lifted up the flap of skin up, exposing the camera, and stuck the black tape over the lens, hoping to create the illusion that he was still under the blankets. To be sure no light would get through to the lens, he stuck on another two layers for good measure.
Then he crawled out from the blankets and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to Cakes and Canella talk about trivialities.
“You see that Bears game last night? Hell of a game,” Cakes said.
Betts took the blanket off and tensed up, grimacing. Then he forced out a ripping fart that would have cleared a crowd of hobos from a soup kitchen.
***
The fart came through the speakers loud and clear, with extra bass effect. It was followed by deep groan
ing, like Betts was in the grip of gastrointestinal hell.
“Here we go again, I’m not listening to this,” Cakes said, and muted the volume.
***
That was exactly what Betts wanted to hear. He got up and stood by the open window, putting the duct tape to the test. If any light came through to the lens, Canella and Cakes would surely comment. They didn’t.
Betts went to the bathroom. He ran the tap ever so slightly, just in case Cakes hadn’t turned the volume down completely. Then he started sponging off the vomit and lentil muck, surprised at how much of his body was covered in it.
***
Dressed for work in a suit, Glock strapped to his chest, palm-sized pistol strapped to his ankle, Betts got into his car and gently pulled the door closed. He kept the revs at a minimum and hit the road. The phone was plugged into the cigarette lighter socket and charging, the headphones in his ears.
Chapter 53
Mitch was cuffed to the hospital bed watching TV when Forrest, Jenkins and a uniformed cop named Turner came in.
“Drop your cock and grab your socks, it’s time to go to court!” Forrest said.
“Where’s Betts?” Mitch asked.
“Sick.”
Mitch didn’t like the sound of that. Betts may have been an asshole, but he was a principled asshole and the only cop Mitch trusted.
***
They took the escalator down to the parking garage, Mitch dressed in a suit and skullcap, hands cuffed. He was escorted into the back of the unmarked sedan with blackened windows. Forrest took the wheel and both Jenkins and Turner sat in the back with Mitch. They drove out through the ambulance exit, Forrest thanking the security guard with a wave.
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