Nick of Time

by John Gilstrap

  Brad lunged for the weapon, but not before he saw the tiny muzzle flash.

  * * *

  Scotty had been thinking about the pistol since they’d been in the car. Gramma didn’t think he knew about it, hidden the way it was, in the cabinet he was never to open, but he’d known about it for a week.

  It was a little .22 revolver—a piece of shit that no one in his old neighborhood would dream of carrying—but it was loaded. All he needed was an excuse to climb up into the cupboard and get it. That’s when he came up with the gambit of being hungry. Truth be told, he’d never even thought about dashing out the back door.

  He thought he was dead in the water, though, the instant he saw Gramma in the doorway. He expected her to blow a gasket seeing him reaching into the Forbidden Cabinet. For the longest time, he just stood there on the chair, frozen in place, waiting for the tirade. Then he realized that she was actually helping him, running interference, distracting the kidnapper so he could snatch the gun out and shoot.

  They were talking about Nicki, about her illness, and Scotty could tell that Brad was pissed that Gramma hadn’t done exactly what he had told her to do.

  Even standing on the chair, he had to raise himself on tiptoe to reach far enough in to find the weapon. Usually, it was right there near the front, and when he couldn’t feel it on his first try, he wondered if maybe Gramma had moved it.

  Then the tip of his middle finger—his bird-flipping finger—touched the hard plastic of the grip, and he knew he was home free.

  His heart pounded hard enough for him to hear it as he wrapped his fist around the grip and pulled it from the cabinet.

  There was no time to look or to think, no time to check to see if it was loaded. There was only time to turn, aim, and fire. In that second when he was turning, he caught a glimpse of Brad’s gun coming around—a cannon compared to his. Scotty didn’t know much about guns, but he knew the monster in Brad’s hand would blow him apart if the kidnapper fired first.

  There was no time for hesitation. No time for a mistake. He pointed the .22 at Brad’s midsection and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  The water on Shore Road was ankle-deep, and Trooper Matt Hayes was ready to move on. They’d been at this for nearly four and a half hours, and the north end roadblock hadn’t turned up anymore than his at the south end. When the word came from the duty commander, Maury Donnelly, to stand down and let traffic pass, he was thrilled. Back at the barracks, a hot shower and dry uniform were calling his name.

  All things considered, Matt admired the drivers’ patience. Once they understood the stakes, they mostly tucked their frustrations away and went with the flow.

  Even though they had failed to capture the killers, Matt felt confident that they’d trapped them. By reopening the road, though, they were about to lose their edge. Didn’t it make sense that once the bad guys saw the stopped traffic, they’d hole up someplace? That’s certainly what Matt would have done.

  Matt took a last look at the road, drearier than ever under the gray skies. His was not to reason why, his was but to stand in the middle of a friggin’ rainstorm and catch pneumonia. They had cops in white shirts to devise strategy.

  Slogging his way back to his cruiser, he smiled as he thought back on the number of drivers who’d assumed that he was running a sobriety checkpoint and had contorted themselves accordingly to keep him from smelling their breath. As the faces flashed through his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow missed the big catch. How difficult would it be, he wondered, to sneak through the line? If they’d hijacked a car and driver, all they’d have had to do was crouch low in the backseat.

  Trooper Hayes had just turned the ignition of his cruiser when he thought of the old lady in the big old Ford. He remembered that odd look in her face as she was talking with him. Why was that?

  Oh, that’s right. She was the one with the outstanding warrants. She had a grandson in the car with her, and was jumpy about being discovered. He remembered the kid’s smile, and the way his soaked hair and clothing stuck to him as he confessed to messing around with his grandmother’s purse. Jeez, if Matt had done that with his own mother’s purse at the same age, there’d have been ten kinds of hell to pay. Matt’s wife was the same way about her purse. It was as if all the secrets in the world—

  A thought formed out of nowhere that made him freeze.

  The kid was wet.

  The boy had made a point of explaining that he’d been killing time searching though his grandmother’s purse while she shopped for the videos, but if that had been the case, how did he get soaked? Besides, no kid that age would wait in the car while his grandmother chose videos.

  Wait a second! If the kid had the purse, then how did Granny pay for the movies in the first place?

  Holy crap, that was them. He’d been this close.

  If only he could remember the woman’s name. He could see her clearly enough in his head, and he could certainly make out the big green Ford, but what the hell was her name? He’d threatened to arrest her for unpaid summonses. It had been a bluff, so he hadn’t written the name down.

  They had an odd address. Lincolntown, as he recalled, down on the numbered lots. The old fishing community. He remembered because he used to spend time in one of those little shanties as a kid, back when his uncle would invite him down for a week in the summer. Very little to do, but lots of adventures to be found. Only a couple of hundred feet from water’s edge during high tide, those were the first places to be evacuated when a hurricane blasted through.

  What the heck were those people’s names? Peters? Parnell? Something like that. Something that began with a P. Parker! That was it. June Parker. Don’t ask him how he remembered that sort of detail, but it was the way his mind worked; the quirk to his personality that he hoped would one day earn him a detective’s badge.

  June Parker from Lincolntown. That should be easy enough to find. Pivoting the computer screen in his patrol car till he could see it better, Trooper Matt Hayes started typing.

  * * *

  Brad knew he was dead the instant he saw the gun. He lunged at Scotty without thinking, the instant the tiny gun fired. It popped twice and miraculously, impossibly, he missed! Brad didn’t know how, not at point-blank range like this, but sometimes God just steps in on your side at exactly the right time.

  Brad grabbed the revolver with his left hand and lurched it up and back, doubling Scotty over at the waist, while his right hand brought the barrel of the Sig down in a glancing blow across the top of the boy’s head. Scotty yelled as a gout of blood burst from his scalp. The kid wouldn’t let go of the gun. His forearm flexed and the tiny revolver fired again, this time launching a bullet within inches of Brad’s eye on its way to drill into the ceiling.

  Scotty’s strength surprised Brad. He fought like an animal, wriggling and kicking and cussing as he tried to break free and finish the job he’d started. To break the boy’s grip, Brad brought the heel of the Sig down hard on Scotty’s knuckles.

  Then the real screaming started. Gramma launched herself into the fray, her eyes red and wild. It was an animal sound, pure rage. She hit Brad with stunning force, leading with the heel of her hand into the tip of his nose. He heard a crunch, and his vision disappeared in a fog of tears and blood. There was another pained shriek as all three of them tumbled to the linoleum floor. He heard a clatter, and as he blinked his vision clear, he saw the little .22 skitter across the floor toward the locked back door.

  “Run, Scotty!” Gramma yelled. “Run as fast as you can!”

  The boy found his feet and Brad saw him staggering toward the door that led to the living room. “Stop!” he yelled, but the words only seemed to make the boy move faster.

  Gramma clawed at Brad’s face, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his cheeks as they searched for his eyes. He pushed her away with his gun hand, and delivered a half-powered punch with his left. Gramma grunted and rolled off him onto the crimson-smeared floor.
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  He had to stop the boy. Their only chance of survival was to stop him from running for help. Pausing long enough to snatch the .22 off the floor, Brad struggled to his feet and dashed for the living room. As he stepped over Gramma, she caught his ankle with her hand, and brought him hard back onto the floor.

  “Leave him alone!” she shouted. “If you hurt him, I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

  Brad rolled to his side, avoiding the anemic punch she tried to throw, and scrambled through the entryway into the living room, where Nicki was struggling to rise from the sofa.

  “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “What happened?”

  Brad didn’t stop to explain. He ran to the door, where he saw Scotty lingering in the front yard. When he saw Brad at the door, he ran.

  “Scotty, stop!” Brad commanded, and for an instant, Scotty did just that. He stopped and stared, his chest heaving from the effort, his face a crimson mask from the cut on his head. He listed a little to one side and holding his right arm as if it hurt, he looked to be all of eight years old. “Don’t make me shoot you,” Brad said. “I don’t want to have to do that. Come on inside.”

  “Scotty, run!” Gramma yelled.

  Brad turned to see the old woman approaching from behind, and he raised the .22 in his left hand to point at her, even as he aimed the cannon in his right at the boy. “You stay right where you are,” Brad said to Gramma. “Don’t move, or I’ll kill you both.”

  Gramma stopped, but there was no fear left in her face; it was all anger now. Her eyes never left Brad as she yelled, “Run, Scotty! Run now!”

  Brad spat a curse as his head whipped around in time to see the boy inching backward. “I’ll kill you, kid,” he said. “I promise, I will.” He raised the pistol higher. He whipped his head back to his left to keep tabs on Gramma, and then returned his gaze to the boy, who again seemed frozen in place. “Come on back inside, kid.”

  Something touched Brad’s shoulder, causing him to jump. It was Nicki. She looked exhausted after her trek to the front door. “Let him go,” she whispered.

  “Leave me alone,” he growled. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Then don’t,” she said.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Sure you do. Just lower the gun and let him go.”

  Behind them, Gramma yelled again, “Please, Scotty, run!”

  “Do you want me to kill him?” Brad boomed. “Do you want me to blow a hole through your boy?”

  “He doesn’t belong here,” Gramma said. “He’s not part of this. You’ve still got me. Look, I’ll go and sit down if you’d like.”

  Brad’s eyes were red, and the blood from his bludgeoned nose dripped from his chin. He looked back outside and spat a crimson spray. “Die an old man,” he said to Scotty, “not a little boy.”

  It seemed like an eternity that they stood there, separated by twenty feet, staring at each other. Neither knew what the next move would be. Finally, Scotty pivoted and took off running.

  “No!” Brad yelled. “Goddammit, no!” He took two steps forward and centered the gun sights on the fleeing boy. He had time for maybe three shots before he disappeared around the dune. The idiot kid wasn’t even trying to zigzag as he ran. It was the simplest shot there was.

  Brad tightened his finger. He had to do it. There was no choice.

  But he couldn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When the electronic hardware on his belt chirped, Carter jumped, startling Deputy Sweet. “What?” she said.

  Carter’s first instinct was to reach for his cell phone, but by the time it chirped a second time, he realized that it wasn’t the phone that he was hearing. It was his pager.

  The pager. The one that he’d carried in silence for so long that he’d often wondered if it even worked anymore. The one that had brought false hope nearly thirty-six hours ago. Even as Carter read the LCD display, he was reaching for his cell phone. He dialed the number from memory, ignoring Darla’s inquiry about what was going on.

  “New York Heart-Lung Consortium. May I help you?”

  Carter couldn’t believe the ease with which they answered their phone, as if it were just any other business. “This is Carter Janssen. I received a page from you.” He leaned against the door as he spoke, in part to steady his trembling hand.

  “Have you been awaiting word on a donor?” It was the voice of an ageless female, very efficient.

  “Yes, ma’am. In fact, we’ve been waiting for some time. My daughter’s name is—”

  “Can you hold, please? I’ll put you in touch with the person you need to speak to.”

  He heard a click and then synthesized pop music. This was impossible, he told himself. It couldn’t be happening.

  “What is it?” Darla inquired yet again. There was real concern in her tone. “You look awful.”

  “It’s the donor center,” he explained.

  Darla gasped, “Oh, my God. Do they have the transplants ready?”

  Carter responded with a shrug, not trusting his voice.

  He had no idea how long he sat on hold. Not now, he prayed. Please don’t let them be ready now. He needed a week. A day. Donor organs had to be transplanted within hours, and they were so far out of the area—

  After a click, a pleasant male voice said, “Hello, this is Dr. Cavanaugh. Is this Mr. Janssen?” It was exactly how he had begun the phone call two days ago.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Father of Nicolette Janssen?” The doctor read off his address and phone number from the computer. Had he forgotten that they’d done this same drill last time?

  “Yes, it’s me.” He heard the frustration in his own voice and made a point to settle himself down.

  “All right, and I just need you to answer the question you gave us on the application as a means of verifying your identity over the phone. What was your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Fox.” Jesus, would he ever get to the point? And while we’re at it, where the hell was the groveling apology they owed him?

  “Very good,” said Dr. Cavanaugh, and Carter heard papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “I have some very good news for you.”

  “Again?” Carter felt dizzy as he pressed his head against the cool glass of the side window.

  “A sixteen-year-old boy was killed tonight in an auto accident in Towanda County, blood type AB positive, and his parents have approved him as a heart-lung donor. You need to get Nicolette to the Pitcairn General Hospital as soon as possible so that we may begin the procedure. Congratulations.”

  Carter felt the panic blossom in his belly. “How much time do we have?” There had to be a way. There had to be time. He knew in his heart that Nicki had floated back up to the top of the list because the last screwup was no fault of her own. This time, the Janssens had broken all the rules; if it didn’t work, she’d fall right back to the end of the line, another eighteen months. A death sentence.

  “Well, sooner is always better than later,” Dr. Cavanaugh explained, “but you don’t have to panic. It will take an hour or so to harvest the organs, and probably another hour to get them to the hospital, so you’ve got plenty of time.”

  Carter’s mind raced through his options. Bilateral heart-lung donors were impossibly rare, once-in-a-lifetime gifts. Literally once-in-a-lifetime. If he were to tell the consortium that—

  “Mr. Janssen, are you there?” The silence had triggered a touch of alarm in the doctor’s voice.

  “I’m here,” Carter said. “What’s the longest you can hold on to the organs before there’s a problem?”

  “As I said, sooner is always best. Is there a problem? If there is, I need to know about it. These organs are precious and the last thing—”

  “No, it’s not a problem. I just have to pick Nicki up from school and take care of some housekeeping stuff. No real big problems.” Carter closed his eyes as he spoke, feeling terrible about the lie.

  Dr. Cavanaugh’s voice took on a very sharp
edge. “It’s Saturday,” he said.

  Shit! This was why Carter never told lies. He sucked at the details.

  “Mr. Janssen, if there’s a problem, you need to be up front with me. These gifts are far too valuable to play games. Is there a reason why Nicolette can’t get to the hospital in the next few hours?”

  “Can I have eight hours?” he asked.

  “Eight!” The doctor’s incredulity came through the earpiece clearly enough to draw a look from Darla, who quickly returned her eyes to the road. “Why on earth would you need eight hours?”

  And even that might not be long enough, he didn’t say. In pondering his answer, he lost the opportunity for Dr. Cavanaugh to trust his words.

  “Once more, Mr. Janssen,” he said. “I cannot overstate the importance of you being forthcoming with me. I’m on the feather edge of withdrawing my offer and moving to the next name on the list.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Carter said. “Please.” He decided to try the direct approach. “Okay, here’s the truth of it, okay? I don’t know where she is, exactly. I’m sure I can find her, but I don’t know precisely how long that will take.”

  All traces of friendliness evaporated from the doctor’s tone. “Were the instructions not clear enough for you, sir? We made it very clear that any form of travel out of the area would jeopardize any gift. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that we’d crossed this bridge two days ago!” Carter yelled, then he found the handle for his temper. Why did doctors presume the right to speak to you as if you were a child? “She was upset and she ran away. If you’d come through with your end of the promise on Thursday, we wouldn’t have this problem now, okay? So how about cutting me a break and telling me how much goddamn time I have?”

  Carter could hear papers moving on the other end. “I’m going to move to the next name on the list—”

  “Oh, God, please don’t do that,” Carter begged. “Not now. Not yet. Give me some time. Any time. You owe me that. Hell, just tell me what my criteria are. If I blow it, I blow it, but at least give me a chance here.”