Nick of Time

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Nick of Time Page 29

by John Gilstrap


  “When can you let me know?” the doctor pressed. “People wait years for donor organs to become available—”

  “Like I don’t know that?” Carter boomed. “This is my daughter’s life we’re talking about. We’ve been waiting nine months ourselves. I’m desperate here. I just need to know how much time I have to work with.”

  For fifteen seconds, silence echoed from the other end of the line. Carter wondered if maybe the doctor had hung up on him. When Dr. Cavanaugh spoke, he dealt his words as if they were individual sentences, very slow and very measured. “We need to be in the OR within six hours of the time of harvest,” he said. “Assuming that they’ve begun the harvest already, that means that I need you here within five hours. But I’ll need a commitment from you within the hour to verify that you’ll be here.”

  “And if we can’t make it, where does she go on the list?”

  “It’s not like that, Mr. Janssen. There are too many factors. Nicolette is in the good position of having a universal-recipient blood type. On the other hand, if the next donor turns up with a rare blood type that is difficult to match, and we have a recipient waiting for that rare blood type, then obviously, we have to lean toward them. It would not be unreasonable to expect another ten- to fifteen-month wait.”

  The air rushed out of Carter’s lungs. He needed to say something, to negotiate more, but there was nothing left to say. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back in touch in an hour.”

  “If I don’t hear from you,” the doctor said, “I will go to the next name on the list, and that decision will be unalterable, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. And—”

  “Let’s say forty-five minutes, then,” Cavanaugh said. “That’s forty-four minutes and sixty seconds. At forty-four sixty-one, the offer is off the table.”

  Carter opened his mouth to acknowledge him, but the line was already dead. As he folded the phone closed, he laid his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. “On any other day of my life, that would have been the best news possible.”

  “Her transplants are ready?”

  Carter nodded. “Somewhere in Towanda County, New York, parents are grieving the death of their son in an auto accident, and in the midst of all that grief, they had the decency to offer up his body parts to the living.” He opened his eyes and rocked his head to face the deputy. “How macabre is that?”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Darla said.

  “And after all the shit that two families have gone through, walking the tightrope between life and death, it’s all going to mean nothing because I can’t get Nicki there in time for the operation.”

  “How long did they give you?”

  “I have to call them in forty-five minutes.” He checked his watch. “Make that forty-four.”

  “You can’t get her there in that amount of time,” Darla said. “Even if your theories are correct, and everything goes right, there’s no way you can have her on her way in less than an hour.”

  Carter closed his eyes again. “We’ve got six hours total.”

  “That’s still not enough time.”

  His eyes opened and he lifted his head again. “Just whose side are you on?” he said.

  Darla felt uncomfortable knowing that she’d wandered into territory where she did not belong. “Partly on your daughter’s side,” she said, but there was no commitment to the words.

  Carter scowled. “Only partly?”

  Darla shifted in her seat. “Well, mostly, I guess I’m on the side of the parents who are trying to build something good out of tragedy.”

  “The donors’ parents.”

  “Exactly. If you delay, doesn’t that lessen the success of the surgery?”

  Carter couldn’t deny it. “The game is fraught with risk. All I need is one small miracle. Everybody is owed one of those in their lifetime.”

  * * *

  The crowd in Billy Yards’s pool hall was a little thin, given the weather and the time of day. Carter and Darla allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness before stepping beyond the entryway and the abandoned bouncer’s stand. This front room of Billy Yards’s was arranged in a large horseshoe, with the main entrance and the bar on the closed end, and the parquet dance floor on the open end. A cluttered stage spoke of a house band, which hadn’t yet arrived.

  In the late afternoon, it turned out, the real action hummed in a dimly lit room just beyond the dance floor, where half a dozen college-age kids were knocking balls around three of six pool tables. Darla led the way to the back, and as the two of them crossed the threshold, five of the six stopped playing, while one merely noted the cop’s presence with a crooked smile. Carter knew without asking that Mr. Cool was the one they were looking for.

  “Why, good afternoon, Deputy Sweet,” Peter Banks said. He sank an impossible shot into the side pocket, then moved on to his next.

  “We need to talk with you for a minute, Peter,” Darla said.

  To Carter’s eye, all of Peter’s remaining plays were scratch shots, but the kid seemed intent on a combination to sink the four ball. “We need to talk to me?” Peter mocked. He lined up the shot. “Who’s the suit?”

  “Now would be a good time,” Darla said. “Let’s keep it friendly, okay?”

  With a stroke so smooth that it could have been in slow motion, Peter’s stick kissed the cue ball, which in turn kissed the two, which sank the four. He allowed himself a grin. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked. Compared to the nervousness around the room, Peter Banks seemed to be the only innocent party here.

  “That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

  Peter resumed sizing up the table. “Sounds like maybe I need a lawyer,” he said.

  “Only the guilty need lawyers,” Darla said, drawing a look from Carter.

  Peter laughed. “Oh, is that a fact? I didn’t realize that the Court was so specific in the Miranda ruling.” He decided on the one ball into the far corner and lined himself up. “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind, Deputy, and I’ll decide from there whether or not I should talk with you.”

  “It’s about the murder at the Quik Mart this afternoon,” she said.

  Peter let the words just hang there as he took his shot. Perfect. He looked up again. “And?”

  “And we want to talk to you about it.”

  Peter came around to their side of the table and offered his hand to Carter. “Peter Banks,” he said.

  “Carter Janssen. Mr. Banks, this is really very important.”

  Peter made a show of recoiling from his words. “Mister Banks? You must be from out of town.”

  “New York,” Carter said.

  The next shot was a gimme. All Peter had to do was breeze the three ball into the corner. He flubbed it, sending the three into the cushion instead. He held his posture and shook his head. “I suck,” he said to himself. To one of the others in the room he added, “Your turn, Georgie.”

  He motioned with his head for them to follow him to a cocktail table just inside the threshold of the pool room. “I didn’t have anything to do with that shooting.”

  “I heard that you had words with Chas Delphin a couple of days ago,” Darla said.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed as he stewed on that. “Okay. But it was a couple of weeks, not days. He busted my balls for buying some beer without an ID. That’s not exactly murder.”

  “What about the candy you stole?”

  Peter looked at her as if she were crazy. “They were cupcakes. And I didn’t steal them. I tried to steal them. Dudley Do-Right behind the counter wouldn’t let me.”

  “That’s not exactly respectful for the dead, Peter,” Carter offered.

  Peter laughed. “That a crime in New York, Counselor? Chas Delphin was a pansy-assed dickhead. I didn’t respect him in life. Why the hell would I respect him after he’s dead?”

  Carter didn’t know what to make of the aggression, and judging from her scowl, neither did the deputy.

&n
bsp; Peter caught the look. “What, you want me to lie to you? I’m not a violent guy. Why the hell would I go there and shoot him today? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because you didn’t go in there to kill him,” Carter said. “Because you didn’t even think the gun was loaded. You just wanted to scare Chas and then you got tackled from behind and the gun went off.”

  Peter recoiled. “Is that what happened in there?”

  “Where were you, exactly, at around two this afternoon?” Darla asked.

  “Right here. I been here all day. Couldn’t buy a break on the table till just before you guys got here.”

  “Will these people testify to that?” Carter asked.

  Peter snorted a laugh. “You kidding? These guys are my friends. They’ll tell you I was in Tahiti if I ask them to.” When he saw that no one else was smiling, he dialed it down. “Yeah, sure. They’ll vouch for me.” He turned to Carter again. “You think the gun was unloaded?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I think you thought it was unloaded.”

  “I don’t even own a gun.” The magnitude of the problem Peter faced was dawning on him, and there was a new hint of desperation in his voice. “You can’t possibly think I did this,” he said.

  “Do you own a red baseball jersey?” Carter asked.

  “No.”

  “How about a red T-shirt?”

  Peter started to deny it, but then opted for honesty. “Yes,” he said. “And I own a blue one, two green ones, and God knows how many white ones.”

  “We’re talking about an Essex High School jersey, probably,” Darla prompted.

  “What, like the ones Hines wears? Hell, no.”

  “Like the ones half this county wears,” Darla corrected. “And why not?”

  Peter’s scowl deepened. “You mean because of all my rah-rah school spirit?” His tone dripped sarcasm. “I wouldn’t let any part of that shithole school touch my body.”

  “Is that a fact?” Darla said. She stood from her chair and pulled a set of handcuffs from the pouch on her belt. “I need you to come along with me.”

  Peter couldn’t believe this was happening. “You’re arresting me?” Carter was a little stunned himself.

  “No, I’m taking you into custody as a material witness.”

  “To what?” Peter protested. “I told you that I had nothing to do with that murder. You’ve got no evidence.”

  “I don’t need evidence to treat you as a witness,” Darla said. “Please put your hands behind your back.”

  Carter found himself surprised that Peter did as he was told. Apparently, the mouth worked independently from his spirit. “Hey, Mr. Lawyer, can she do this?”

  Carter shrugged. “If she considers you to be a material witness, and she believes that you constitute a flight risk, then yeah, she can.”

  The panic didn’t enter the young man’s eyes until the bracelets ratcheted closed, but when it came, it came in a rush. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he protested. It was hard to tell, but he might have been crying. “Honest to God, I wasn’t anywhere near that store today.” He struggled, and Darla pulled once on his arm, bringing him to a stop.

  When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost soothing. “Look, Peter, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of if you haven’t done anything. I’m just taking you in to keep you at arm’s reach while we look into this.”

  Peter tossed a quick look back at his buddies in the pool room, all of whom were gaping at the scene.

  “Think of them,” Darla continued, her voice even softer. “Today or tomorrow, if everything works out, you’ll be back with them. Be a man now, and it won’t come back to haunt you.”

  * * *

  The act of getting off the sofa exhausted Nicki. She’d never had a spell this severe, and as her heart raced even faster, she had the sense that everything would soon get worse. She felt as if her head weighed fifty pounds, her arms and legs a hundred pounds each. She imagined that this was the way Superman felt in the presence of kryptonite, as if someone had found the valve to her body’s strength reservoir and cranked it all the way open, until all that was left were the dregs on the bottom. All that, and the sensation that there wasn’t enough air in the world.

  She needed her meds.

  With Scotty gone, Brad turned his rage to Gramma. “Sit down!” he commanded, gesturing with the Sig to a padded wooden chair in the corner.

  She did as she was told, her face showing that she’d resigned herself to dying today.

  He helped Nicki back into the corner of the sofa and handed her the .22. “Keep an eye on her,” he said, “while I find something to tie her up with.”

  “Oh, Brad,” Nicki moaned.

  “Please don’t do that,” Gramma begged, but Brad seemed not to hear as he moved to the window and checked behind the drapes. He gave a satisfied nod when he saw the cord strung vertically between pulleys. Tucking his weapon under his arm, he fished his Leatherman out of its tiny holster on his belt, folded out the blade, and cut the cord into two six-foot lengths.

  When he turned around again, Gramma’s eyes were red as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Please don’t tie me up,” she said. “You don’t have to do that. You can trust me. I swear.”

  Brad chuckled, then winced against a cramp in his belly. “I tried trusting,” he said. “Just rest your hands on the arms of the chair.”

  “I’m claustrophobic.” She was stalling for time, but the panic in her eyes was genuine.

  “Please don’t make this into a fight, okay? I’m tired of fighting.” As if to emphasize the point, his belly cramped again, bringing a grunt. “You won’t be here all that long anyway. Scotty will bring the police soon enough.”

  Gramma did not fight. She placed her hands on the arms of the chair just as she had been asked, and she didn’t move as Brad lashed her in place with loop after loop of the cord.

  “We’re just going to take your truck and see what we can do to get away. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Why bother to tying me up at all, then?”

  “In case you have a machine gun in here.” Brad smiled as he finished the last knot. “I don’t need you shooting me on my way out, know what I mean?”

  “Looks to me like you’ve already been shot,” Gramma said. She nodded at some smears of blood on his shirt.

  Brad’s hand went to the spot, and as it did, the cramp fired up again. When he lifted the front of his shirt he saw a larger smear of blood and a purple bruise. “Shit.”

  “Let me see,” Nicki said from the sofa. Sitting up was difficult, but there was nothing wrong with her vision.

  Brad pulled his shirt off over his head and took a couple of steps closer to Nicki. She saw what might have been a big bee sting, just a half inch up and to the right of Brad’s navel. She started to touch it, but Brad recoiled, and stepped away.

  “There’s a hole, Brad. No shit, there’s a hole right next to your belly button.”

  He made a sound that might have been a grunt or a chuckle “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I thought the little shit missed me. I wondered how it was possible, but I thought for sure that he missed me. Damn it!”

  “Doesn’t it hurt?” Nicki didn’t understand. She’d seen the damage done to Chas. This hardly looked like anything.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” He looked at Gramma, whose expression was a study in intentional passiveness. “Look what he did!”

  “What did you expect him to do?” Gramma asked.

  Brad looked again at his bloody fingers. “I expected him to be a scared little kid.”

  “You disgust me,” Gramma said.

  Yeah, well, I disgust myself sometimes, he didn’t say. He picked up Gramma’s car keys from the table where she’d dropped them and turned to Nicki. “You’re looking pretty bad,” he said. “Can you still walk?”

  Nicki looked sad. And exhausted. “It’s over, Brad,” she said. “Don’t you see? With my spell and you being shot, it’s over.”

  �
��Not yet it’s not,” Brad said.

  “There’s no way we can get away,” Nicki argued.

  “Not if we stay here. Now, I’m leaving in that truck. Are you coming with me?” When she didn’t answer in two seconds, he started for the door.

  “Wait!” Nicki called. “Just help me up.”

  He hesitated. “You sure?”

  “Somebody’s got to keep you out of trouble,” she said with a little smile.

  Brad took back the .22 and stuffed both it and the Sig into the back of his waistband, then paused just long enough to put his shirt back on before holding out both hands as an invitation to help her out of the deep, soft cushions of the sofa.

  It was a struggle, but he got her to her feet, and together they limped toward the door. Nicki paused and looked back toward Gramma. The old woman looked helpless. “I’m sorry,” Nicki said. “Honestly, you’ll never know how sorry I am to have put you through this.”

  “Come on,” Brad said, and he pulled on her arm. “We don’t have time.” When they were on the stoop, he closed the door behind them.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away. The plan’s the same as it’s always been. When we get some miles between us and the cops, we’ll switch out cars again.”

  “What about that?” Nicki pointed to his blood stain.

  “I can make it,” he said. “It’s a tiny bullet, but a hospital would still have to report it. We’ll figure something out on the way. Can you hold out?”

  “If you can, I can,” she said. Fact was, she was probably going to sleep through most of it. Brad was the one in the most pain.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s very, very—”

  He froze in mid-step. The hood of the Bronco was open. “What did that little shit do?” He left Nicki and moved to the truck. As he crossed the back side of the vehicle, he saw the long-handled bolt cutters lying in the sand, and he knew exactly what he was going to find.

  “Shit!” He shouted the word to the gray-black sky, turning his face up to the pounding rain. “God damn it!” In a rage, he picked up the bolt cutters, holding one of the handles as if it were a baseball bat, and swung it as hard as he could into the driver’s side door, over and over again. “You. Son of a bitch. I. Should’ve shot you. When I had the chance.” To punctuate the last phrase, he threw the cutters through the window in the door, launching a shower of glass pebbles.

 

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