The Deepest Wound

by Rick Reed

  The ambulance pulled away with his partner inside, fighting for his life. Part of him wanted to follow the ambulance, but he had to make sure a few vital steps were being taken here.

  Jack found Officer Rodriguez. “Be sure to fill out a chain of custody on that,” he said, referring to the gun Marcie had used. “Give it to no one but crime scene.”

  Rodriguez looked chagrined, then embarrassed. “Guess I got my prints all over it, huh?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just find out who called in the shots fired, and get a detective out here. I’ll call Captain Franklin.”

  He left for the hospital and had dispatch put out a BOLO. The descriptions were thin. A white van. Two men. Armed with baseball bats. No direction of travel. Nothing.

  His hands clenched the steering wheel.

  He didn’t have much to go on, but he knew he would find them. And when he did, he would kill them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  As book drove the two-lane road running north, they bounced around a blind curve. Clint’s hand went to his side and came away bloody.

  “We should have killed that crazy bitch!” he said, gritting his teeth.

  “Quit whining. You just got a scratch. Now let me concentrate on where we’re going.”

  “You’re not the one who got shot, Book. Slow down,” Clint said angrily. Yet he knew Book was right to hurry. They had to get rid of the van pronto.

  It had all been going as planned. He and Book had gotten out of the van quietly and walked across the street with baseball bats. The big cop got out of his car, his back to them. Made to order.

  Book hit him first, across the back, and the guy just stood there, so Clint hit him across the lower back, around the area of his kidneys. No matter how big you were, if your kidney got crushed, you went down. But the guy just grunted, and put his hand on his back. And then both he and Book started swinging for a home run. It sounded like someone beating a rug. Whop. Whop. Whop.

  The cop was tough. Clint would give him that. He’d taken eight blows to the back and chest before he became angry and made a grab for his gun. Clint swung the bat at the cop’s arm with all the force he could put behind it, and he hurt the guy because he at least let go of his gun. But then he started to get up. Book finally smashed him in the back of the head and he dropped like a rock.

  Clint took the cop’s gun from his holster and then rifled through his pockets for the drive. Unbelievably, the cop grabbed Clint’s hand. By that time Clint had had enough. They couldn’t stop beating him.

  Book hit the guy one last time in the stomach, and that’s when it all went to hell.

  Clint felt a bullet slice across his ribs before he heard the gunshot. If they had worn ski masks, he knew Book would have wanted to stay there and shoot it out with the crazy bitch. But they didn’t. Instead they ran to their van and got the hell out of there. But not before he heard bullets punching through the back doors. One smashed into the dashboard; another went through the windshield—missing his head by mere inches.

  He’d been in firefights in Afghanistan and knew that it wasn’t like in movies, where guys would spray bullets around and hope they hit something. Adrenaline, fear, and anger all affected muscle control, the fine motor skills needed to control a weapon. Even if a person took his time and aimed, it was a crapshoot whether he hit what he was aiming at. This woman was Annie Oakley on crack.

  “What was she firing at us?” Book asked as they passed cornstalks illuminated in the headlights.

  “Felt like a sledgehammer, Book,” Clint said, and leaned against the passenger door.

  Book laughed, but there was no humor in it. The fact was the broad had shot their asses up. Book wasn’t worked up about being shot at. He was pissed that he had been made to run like a coward.

  “We should have been told about the woman,” Clint said. “We got bushwhacked.”

  “Yeah,” Book muttered. “How could we know someone would come out shooting? It’s that cop’s fault for yelling. The big pussy.”

  Clint remembered how the cop stood up to their blows. “He wasn’t a pussy.”

  Book said, grudgingly, “Yeah, you’re right.” He smiled. “But we gave him something to remember us by, didn’t we?”

  Clint twisted in his seat and dug in his pants pocket. “At least we got it.” He opened his fist and revealed the flash drive.

  “You done good, Clint.”

  “You know, I been thinking about that guy. The one who was waiting for us to come and get the first body.”

  “So what about him? We got the flash drive. We call the boss, then we leave.”

  “What if we were set up?” Clint asked.

  Book’s voice filled with uncertainty. “You think the boss set us up?”

  “Maybe that broad back there wasn’t just some woman. Maybe it was another cop. Maybe she was supposed to take us out,” Clint said.

  Book fell silent, brooding. The van headlights illuminated a cutout that led west into a pasture. Book took the turn and drove across hard-packed earth and saw grass for several hundred yards. The track ended at a clearing in the middle of which was a barn. Their rented Taurus was parked along with several large pieces of farm machinery.

  Book pulled the van into high grass and continued onto a small rise. He stopped and cut the headlights. Both men walked to the back of the van, and Book let out a soft whistle.

  Clint took a penlight from his pocket and examined his own damage. Blood soaked the right side of his T-shirt, and his hands were covered with it. He lifted the shirt and breathed a sigh of relief. Book was right about it being a scratch. The bullet had cut a six-inch path, front to back. The wound should receive stitches and a good cleaning, but going to a hospital was out of the question. He twisted gently, testing, and took in a sharp breath. The bullet must have hit a rib. He’d have to let Book sew him up, and forget about the rib. Even if it was broken—and it felt like it was—it would have to heal on its own. Shit!

  Clint dropped his shirt back over his wound and watched Book count the bullet holes in the back of the van.

  “Seven hits, Clint,” Book said almost proudly. “Three in the left door and four in the right.” He covered the three holes in the left side with his palm. “That’s some damn fine shooting.”

  “Yeah,” Clint agreed, and emptied his pockets on the ground.

  “There’s about twenty dollars and change, a wallet with a badge, the flash drive, a half candy bar, and”—Clint pulled a pistol from under his shirt—“his gun.”

  “.45 Glock,” Book said.

  Clint felt the weight of the gun and lined up the tritium sights. “Think I’ll keep it.”

  “Too hot,” Book warned. “The serial numbers will be in their computer in no time. You get caught with that thing, they’ll put you away for good.”

  Book picked up the loose change and handed it to Clint. “You keep the money. That’s for getting shot.”

  Clint stuck the money in his pocket. “What do we do with the rest of this stuff?”

  Book took the baseball bats and the cop’s wallet and gun to the edge of the lake, where he tossed them in.

  Clint held the flash drive out to Book. “The boss said to destroy it.”

  Before Book could take it, though, Clint changed his mind. He closed his hand and stuck the flash drive in his pocket. “The boss isn’t here,” he said. “I say we see what’s worth all this. It may be our ace in the hole in case they were trying to set us up.”

  Book didn’t seem to think that was a good idea, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Think the water’s deep enough?” Clint asked, pointing out over the water.

  Book picked up a piece of wood and got back in the van. “Only one way to find out,” he said, backed it up fifty feet, put the gearshift in drive, and wedged the stick against the gas pedal.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “He’s stable now,” the young emergency room doctor said. Anticipating the rush, he stood with his back blockin
g the door. “He can’t have visitors until we see the MRI results. He’s completely awake and alert and demanding to go home. Just to be safe, I’m going to keep him in hospital overnight.”

  “Has he said anything?” Jack asked.

  The doctor shook his head. “You’re Detective Murphy, aren’t you?” Without waiting for Jack to answer, he touched the scar that ran down the right side of Jack’s face and disappeared inside his collar. “That healed rather well.”

  Jack recognized him at last. “You’re the doctor who took care of me when I was cut.”

  “You and your partner live a dangerous life,” the doctor remarked, and left the room.

  “You’re a legend, Jack,” Moira said.

  “Yeah, I’m a man ahead of his mind,” Jack said, and opened the door to the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” Moira asked.

  “To see my partner.”

  Moira started to go after him, but Katie stopped her. “Let him go, sis.”

  Captain Franklin stood in the ER driveway, and in between drags on his cigarette he spoke on his cell phone to a sleepy Trent Wethington.

  “Mugging? How could this have happened to one of your detectives?” the prosecutor asked.

  Franklin wondered why every time Trent spoke, it sounded like an indictment of the police department.

  “We don’t know it was a mugging. They’re keeping him overnight, Trent,” Franklin responded. “I’ll express your sympathy to his wife.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, Charles. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive,” Trent said. “Tell her that if she needs anything, anything at all, to call my office. We take care of our own.”

  Franklin wasn’t sure who the prosecutor considered “his own,” but there was no benefit in arguing with the man. He dropped his cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it underfoot. “Thanks, Trent. I’ll tell her. I’m going to see Jack now.” He started to end the call, but Trent wasn’t finished.

  “Captain, I have to say something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t have to remind you how sensitive this case is. You need to take Murphy off the case. He’s too close to this. I mean, with what has happened to Detective Blanchard . . .”

  Franklin pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. Trent was still speaking, but Franklin had stopped listening. Why did he keep wanting the department’s best homicide detective off this case?

  In the treatment room Marcie was talking with a nurse who was taking Liddell’s pulse. Liddell was sitting up in bed, dangling his bare legs and feet over the side. He was sporting raccoon eyes. He tried to smile when Jack entered, but with his face so swollen it came out a leer.

  The nurse turned toward Jack in irritation. “You’re his partner,” she said. “Tell him he should stay at least one night.”

  Jack recognized her face. Her name was Julie something-or-other. She’d been at a couple of Christmas parties. Some older cop’s daughter.

  “You should listen to Julie, Bigfoot. You look like hell.”

  “I’m going to get you some slippers,” the nurse said to Liddell. “And you’re going to let me put you in a room, mister. That’s an order.”

  Liddell gave a grunt of disagreement. His words came out stiff and slurred. “Gang up on me, why don’t you? Do I have a choice?”

  “Looks like you’re outvoted,” Jack said, and as the nurse passed him to get Liddell admitted, she whispered in Jack’s ear, “My Prince Charming.” She touched Jack’s arm in a familiar way and was gone.

  He stared at her retreating figure, feeling the stirrings of a memory. He had drunk a lot at the last Christmas party. He hoped he hadn’t done anything inappropriate, but the smirk on Liddell’s face told another story. “Shut up,” he mouthed at Liddell, then for Marcie’s benefit, “You gave us all quite a scare.”

  Liddell scooted to the edge of the gurney, but when his feet touched the floor he cried out in pain. Both Jack and Marcie needed all their strength to help him back into bed.

  Marcie felt his face and neck. “Do you need something for pain, honey?” she asked. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin and his color had gone pale.

  “I’ll get the nurse,” Jack said, and hurried out of the room.

  Liddell’s condition improved quickly after he had taken two Percocet. When he was docile, he was moved to a private room.

  “I’ll give you two a few minutes to talk, and then the doctor says he needs to rest,” Marcie said. “I’ll go see the girls.” Her expression softened and she gave him a hug. “I don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.”

  “Captain Franklin was in ER. He’s putting a security detail outside the room.”

  Marcie looked concerned. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

  Jack’s fists clenched. He really hoped they would. “They’d be crazy to try. I’m going to stay for a while.”

  Marcie’s look of relief made his heart ache. Once she left the room, he turned to his partner. Liddell’s eyes were lidded and he was trying not to nod off. Jack had a million questions to ask, but he would settle for a few.

  “Feel like talking?”

  The drugs were working their magic. “Tell Marcie—go home. Get sleep . . .”

  Jack saw tears forming in the corners of Liddell’s eyes. That was a side effect of Percocet. It helped with the pain, but it heightened emotional responses, such as anger, fear, or remorse. He’d been down in that valley himself not too long ago.

  He fingered the thick scar that ran beside his own ear, down his neck and chest and ended just beside his nipple. A year ago he had lain in a bed at this hospital, on this same floor. Liddell had saved his life.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Jack said, and was surprised when Liddell reached out and grasped Jack’s arm.

  “Hit me from behind,” Liddell said, and a look of anger flickered across his features. “Kept hitting me. Tried to get my gun.” His voice was a labored whisper.

  “Who tried to get your gun?” Jack asked. He hadn’t checked with anyone at the scene whether or not they had recovered another Glock.

  “Me,” Liddell said. He vaguely patted for a holster he was no longer wearing, and then lifted his right hand close to his face. With weird intensity he examined the purplish bruise that covered his hand and wrist. “I heard gunshots. Was that me?”

  Jack felt a tower of rage building inside. Cowardly bastards! They blindsided him. That brought another question to mind. Why didn’t they kill him? They could have easily. But according to the doctors, he had only been struck in the back of the head once. You don’t attack an armed policeman—especially not one the size of Bigfoot—with baseball bats. The way Marcie described the beating, it was just that—a beating. Was this some personal vendetta?

  Liddell had given in finally to the painkillers and was lightly snoring. Jack pulled the covers up and said softly, “I got you, partner. I got you.”

  Moira and Katie had gone, Marcie was curled up in a recliner, and Jack sat in a chair against the wall. He stared out across the parking lot. The nurse had brought Liddell’s personal belongings and put them in the cabinet, and Jack had gone through this while Marcie and Liddell slept.

  Jack uncovered his shirt, pants, belt, and holster, but his gun was missing. Jack called everyone who would have been involved with collecting the weapon, and no one had seen it. They all thought Jack had it.

  Liddell’s pants pockets were empty. His police wallet, badge, money, and credit cards were gone. He could see why the responding officers had assumed it was a robbery. Yet if it was a simple street robbery, why pick on someone Liddell’s size? Plus, they took his keys, so why not steal his car? True, carjackings were rare in Evansville, but so were attacks on policemen.

  On the other hand, if it was personal, they would know Liddell was a policeman and armed. Why bring bats to a gunfight? The kicker was: the flash drive was taken. Jack didn’t believe in coincidence. Who would know that Liddell had the flash drive? Only
a handful of people even knew it existed, and he had given it to Liddell minutes before the attack.

  “You look like shit,” a raspy voice said from across the room.

  Liddell’s eyes were open, and the nasal cannula dangled from his skillet-sized fist.

  “Welcome back, partner,” Jack whispered, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. “You’re the one who looks hammered like you-know-what.”

  “You should see the other guy, pod’na,” Liddell said through dry lips. His tongue made a feeble effort. “Need a drink.”

  Liddell tried to pull himself up, but Jack gently kept him in place. “Whoa, big guy. You don’t move until I get a nurse.”

  “Water first,” Liddell rasped, licking his dry lips.

  Jack maneuvered the straw to his lips and Liddell drank thirstily, then closed his eyes and moaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked, and stood to get help.

  “Brain freeze,” Liddell said, and tried to smile, but ended up wincing in pain.

  “I’m going to get the nurse,” Jack said, punching the button next to the bed that summoned the nurse’s desk.

  Marcie woke up in a bleary panic. “What’s happening? Is he awake?”

  “You still with me, partner?” Jack asked, but there was no reply.

  Liddell had only come up for air.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Chief of Police Marlin Pope had already fielded a dozen voice mails—most wanting a statement about the attack on one of his detectives. He knew he couldn’t hold them off forever. He would have to make some statement.

  His intercom buzzed, and he gave a sigh. He preferred to be at the hospital, where he had an injured man, but his job was here, running the department. He was also expecting a visit from Trent Wethington. Franklin had prepared him as to what the prosecutor wanted to talk to him about.

  Jennifer Mangold, the chief’s secretary, buzzed his phone again. “He’s here.”