Justice
Page 20
Angie looked dazed, like she was still hovering on the edge of shock. Other than that she actually looked better than he’d expected. There weren’t any visible marks on her face, no sign of physical damage. He’d seen domestic violence victims who’d looked a lot worse. There’d been a slow bloom of recognition in her eyes when he walked into her hospital room, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. Strothwood was small enough that you encountered the same people over and over again. For years he and Angie had rarely gone beyond exchanging simple hellos.
Brent had no idea what was coming. At first he thought she was just rambling, still suffering from some kind of reaction, but then she started talking about what the man had said to her and why he’d done what he’d done. It took time for Brent to register what she was talking about.
It was the only thing he’d done in all his years as a cop that he was truly ashamed of, and it sounded like Angie was ashamed of it too. It was the only explanation for why she’d stayed silent so long. He’d managed to live with it somehow, telling himself over the years that Tommy Nicholls was no choir boy, guilty of something somewhere, if not what he’d been accused of. The whole episode had faded into a lurking, foggy backdrop to everything Brent had tried to do since.
He held it together through the interview, or tried to. He kept his questions to the mechanics of what had happened, stayed away from even acknowledging what had led to all of it. He finally mumbled something suitably official and reassuring but from the way she looked at him it hadn’t come out right. She had a disappointed look in her eyes, as if she’d been expecting more, but he’d seen too many people say far too much for their own good. He felt like he was falling away from something. He stole a glance back at her as he left the room, saw something unreadable in her eyes.
He closed the door carefully behind him. He ignored Kelly’s questioning look and started walking. They were at the elevators before either of them spoke.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. “That poor girl’s had a rough time.”
Kelly nodded, the look in her eyes confirming that it was a dumb thing for him to say. Get it together, Brent. The elevator doors opened, the presence of other people inside buying him some time. They rode down in silence, got out with everybody else in the lobby.
“Give Lori a call,” he glanced at his watch. “Tell her to get someone in here to spell Raycroft.”
“I can do it,” she said.
“No, I’m going to be here for a while. I need you to go back and hold things down at the office.”
She hesitated just long enough to let him know she wasn’t happy with the dismissal and then did what she was told. He watched her go, knew that he hadn’t held up well at all. There was an outside chance he could control Raycroft but he had to keep the others away from Angela Lowry. If Randall picked up something from the prisoner she might put it all together, although it was probably too late in the game to matter. There were too many moving parts. It was all going to blow up, it was going to blow up fast, and there was nothing he could do about it. His first instinct was simply to walk right out of the hospital and keep going. He felt bitter and furious, emotions usually alien to him. This was Cunningham’s pay grade, not his, and while he didn’t think even Cunningham could fix it there was that thin sliver of hope that somehow he could.
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Vince had come out of it slowly, wasn’t all the way out yet. His head hurt like hell but he kept his eyes closed, tried not to show any signs of consciousness. He could hear a murmur of background noise and there was an antiseptic tang in the air. He kept his head still and finally opened his eyes just enough to take stock of where he was. There was someone sitting in a chair, just at the edge of his vision. He closed his eyes again and experimentally moved one arm, the one on the side away from the man in the chair. He moved it very slowly, only risking a couple of inches, slid it along the starched bed covers and then stopped. He waited for what seemed like a very long time and then moved it again. This time he felt resistance, heard a dull metallic sound and recognized the familiar weight and feel of a handcuff. He kept his eyes closed and feigned sleep, but his mind was racing, taking inventory. He wasn’t sure but he couldn’t feel any other restraint but the single handcuff, the other half of it secured to the metal guard rail of the bed. He knew that wouldn’t last, not when they found out everything he’d done. Then there’d be leg irons and waist chains and no chance at all.
He heard the chair next to him scrape the floor, the heavy exhalation of breath as the big man heaved himself out of the chair and shuffled toward him. Vince let his eyes open slowly, as if he was just waking up.
“I need to piss.” he said.
The guy snorted in disgust, as if he himself had never needed to. For all Vince knew there might be another cop in the room, out of his sight, but it didn’t feel like it, the room didn’t feel like it, and it didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that the one he could see finally made his decision and moved, walked slowly and deliberately around the foot of the bed and came up the other side. Vince watched him. He was big but he looked soft. He stopped beside the bed, took out his keys.
“You better behave yourself,” he growled.
“I told you,” Vince said, “I just need the bathroom.”
He made a show of not paying any attention as the cop unlocked the handcuffs. He could hear everything he needed to, sense the man’s proximity as he leaned down to fumble with the latch for the bed’s guard rail and finally found it. He would never get any closer. Vince heard the sound of the latch and he moved, rolling fast over the open space where the rail had been, bringing his right fist up and around to catch the cop high on the side of his head. It was enough to stagger him but that was all. Vince hadn’t expected anything beyond that, had his feet on the floor now, some leverage, and he put everything he had into the next one. The cop went down hard, unconscious before he hit the floor. Vince reached down, rolled him onto his back and yanked the gun clear of its holster, turned toward the door in case there was someone stationed outside. If there had been they’d already be on the way in but the door stayed closed.
The cop on the floor was still out, maybe for only a few seconds. Vince needed to be sure, needed longer than that. What he didn’t need was the noise of a gunshot, so he hit the cop again, a vertical hammer blow just above the bridge of his nose, maybe enough to kill him, maybe not.
Vince didn’t care either way. The priority was getting out.
• • •
He knew he didn’t have long. It had taken a second to orient himself once he’d opened the door. It would have been a lot better if the corridor had been busy but instead it was barren of activity, at least until a nurses’ station at the far end of the corridor to his right just before a door that presumably would get him out of this place. It was just an ordinary hospital ward, no security provisions at all other than the cop he’d stripped and left lying on the floor in the room.
To his right there was no exit at all, just a couple of doors similar to his own before a ninety degree left turn. That probably meant a U-shaped corridor that would eventually lead him to another turn and eventually past the same nurses’ station. It was an easy choice to make. He hitched up the cop’s utility belt and went left, reminded himself to take it slow and casual. He had the uniform, he had the gun, now all he had to do was play the part and hope no one gave him more than a passing glance.
He could hear murmured conversations from the nurses’ station as he approached. There was a raised transom about four feet high fronting the station itself, and Vince kept close to the far wall of the corridor to cut down the angle of anyone sitting behind it. He kept his head down but he knew it would all be a matter of chance. The only thing he had going for him was the uniform and a roughly similar build to the cop he’s left lying on the floor. If he was challenged all he could do was run, but the quiet conversations continued uninterrupted, no gasps of surprise, nothi
ng. Then he was past the station and pushing through the door into a little chicane that opened onto another corridor, this one featureless except for a pair of elevators. He heard the elevator doors sigh open and a young cop stepped out.
There was nowhere to go for either of them. The young cop’s expression went from a friendly smile to confusion to incredulity in a little under a second. That was enough time for Vince to pull the Glock clear of its holster and put two rounds into him.
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“Turn around, tough guy,” Ellen ordered.
Frank did as he was told. The gash in his shoulder had looked and felt worse than it actually was. Even so it had taken a lot of stitches to close it up. Ellen gently ran her fingertips down his bare shoulder.
“Nice,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I meant the stitches.”
She tapped him lightly on his good shoulder and he turned back to face her.
“How’s Angie doing?” he asked.
“She’s okay, if you can describe being banged up, drugged up and traumatized as okay. We’re keeping her overnight just in case,” she gave him a look, “which is what we should be doing with you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. A concussion and someone tried to stab you to death. Just another day at the office.” She picked up a pen and a clipboard. “You know the drill. You’ve got to sign this before we can spring you.”
Frank took the pen from her, scrawled his name across the bottom of the single sheet of boilerplate on the clipboard and handed it back.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel a lot better now. If you drop dead in the parking lot we’re covered.”
There was a sudden crackle on the hospital’s antiquated PA system. The announcement was almost unintelligible through the static, but Frank and Ellen stared at each other and then found the same word at the same time.
“Shit.”
They’d managed to pick out the important part. Code Silver.
“You’d better stay here,” Frank told her.
“Fuck you. They might need me out there.”
’Fine.” Frank didn’t have time to argue. “Just let me go first.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned to the metal side table where he’d left the Python. He didn’t bother with the shoulder rig, just slid the big revolver out of its holster and held it muzzle down against his thigh. He brushed aside the curtain, ignoring the startled look he drew from a passing orderly, and headed for the door that led out to the ground floor hallway. He stopped only long enough to make sure the hallway was clear and then turned left to where it intersected with another hallway that led to the lobby and the elevators. There was always the chance that it was a false alarm of some kind, so he stayed at a walking pace down the corridor, headed for the security kiosk at the far side of the lobby. He wasn’t surprised when he found it unoccupied, had just turned around when he caught a glimpse of a big cop on his way out the lobby doors. It looked like Brent, but all he could see was the man’s back. No matter who he was it was exactly the opposite of what he should have been doing during a Code Silver. Even Brent would have gone toward trouble, not away from it. By the time Frank put that thought together the man was gone.
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Ed Cunningham didn’t like being summoned. Concerned citizens were one thing–voters were voters, and Ed had a pretty good response time where they were concerned. Brent Williams was someone Cunningham only thought of as a subordinate. He hadn’t sounded right on the phone, something in his voice that Ed had never heard before. Brent was usually respectful, even obsequious, but not this time. There was no equivocation at all, just a terse message to meet him at the hospital. Brent had hung up before Ed could ask him why.
Ed had taken his time anyway, just enough to remind Brent who worked for whom. The hospital was set a long way back from the road, separated from it by a large parking lot at the front. Ed was about to turn into the lot when he saw Brent walking out of the hospital’s main entrance. Ed bypassed the parking gate and drove the remaining fifty yards to the drop-off lane in front of the main doors.
Everyone on the force knew Ed’s car on sight, so he’d expected Brent to be waiting for him at the curb. He wasn’t there, and Ed felt a sudden flash of anger. Brent had practically demanded that he meet him at the hospital and hadn’t told him a damn thing beyond that, and Ed had dropped everything to do it. Now Brent hadn’t even bothered to wait for him. That wasn’t the way things were supposed to work, and unless Brent gave him a damn good reason for that kind of behavior …. Ed looked to his left, back into the parking lot, and saw Brent wandering around as if he’d forgotten where he’d left his car. The man was a goddamn embarrassment, his only asset that he did what he was told. At least most of the time. Ed leaned on his horn before getting out of the car and going after him.
Even the blaring horn hadn’t made any difference. Brent didn’t even turn around. His back was to Cunningham and he seemed to be looking for something, pacing up and down the rows of cars and glancing into the driver’s side window of each one. Ed swore to himself. It was ridiculous, trying to catch up to his own chief of police so he could tug at his shirtsleeve like a child. Ed’s head was down and he was struggling for breath, somehow found enough to call out Brent’s name again. He was closer now, maybe twenty feet away, and Brent finally straightened up and turned around.
It wasn’t Brent. Ed stopped in his tracks, riffled through his mental inventory of names and faces on the limited roster of the Strothwood P.D. He came up empty. His confusion must have shown on his face because the cop’s face creased into a slow smile.
“Who the hell are you?” Ed demanded. “I’m looking for Chief Williams.”
“That’s quite a coincidence, Mayor,” Vince told him. “I’ve been looking for you.”
• • •
Frank came outside and saw Cunningham’s car sitting in front of the main doors. There was no sign of Cunningham. Frank stood there for a moment, torn between whether to go back inside or not. Inside was where the trouble was, and he was about to turn around when he caught a glimpse of movement in the parking lot. He hurried past Cunningham’s car and crossed the fire lane to the short stairway that overlooked the parking lot itself. The elevation helped, and he paused at the top long enough to distinguish Cunningham talking to a police officer. Whoever it was, he was quartered away from Frank so that he couldn’t see his face.
Something in the body language of the two men was wrong. Frank was about to start down the stairs when he saw the cop draw his gun and point it, arm extended, straight at Cunningham’s head. There was no time. Frank bellowed something incoherent but it was enough. The cop wheeled toward him, the gun tracking in a flat deadly arc. Frank was already bringing the Python up, pure instinct, and the big revolver bucked twice in his hand. He heard and felt the hiss of a return round just as the back of the cop’s head exploded and blew blood, bone and brain matter all over Cunningham, the cop toppling backward on top of him.
It took Frank a very long few seconds to walk across to where both men lay on the ground, and even longer to pull the body off Cunningham. There was just enough of the man’s face left for Frank to reassure himself that it hadn’t been Brent, that he’d done the right thing. He sagged against a car in relief, the blood roaring like thunder in his ears. Something came back to him, something an old hand in Pittsburgh had told him his first year on the force. The thing that kills you, he’d said, is that first split second of disbelief. Frank had never forgotten it, had survived because of it more than once. It didn’t change the fact that he could have been wrong. Either five seconds or five minutes passed before Frank became aware of Cunningham standing in front of him, his face covered with bloody offal and only inches away from his own.
“What if you’d missed?” Cunningham screamed. “You could have killed me!”
“Be careful, Ed,” Frank told him. “I’ve got four rounds left.”
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