Warpath

by Ryan Sayles

  “Even taking that into account,” the doctor said, “he should be up.”

  “Have you tried to get him on his feet?”

  “He can’t stand,” the man said. “He seems to be suffering from extreme vertigo.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “We were waiting for you to arrive,” the doctor said. “You’re his emergency contact. Are you family?”

  “Mr. Stark is Sheriff Burke’s neighbor,” Telemaco said, “and good friend.”

  “Then you’ll have to make the decision as to how we proceed from here.”

  “What would you like to do?” Sangster asked.

  “Well. . . I’d admit him so we can run some more tests,” Doctor Judd said, “see if we can’t track down just what the problem is.”

  “Then do that.”

  “Um,” Dr. Judd said, “I assume Mr. Burke has Medicare? Or some kind of insurance?”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Sangster said. “You just find what’s wrong with him.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “It’ll be a while before we can move him into a room,” Judd said. “The nurse will show you where he is.”

  That was the first time Sangster noticed that the nurse was still there.

  “Hold on, Stark,” Williams said, “we wanna talk—”

  “Let Mr. Stark see the Sheriff, Ben,” Telemaco said. “We can talk later.”

  Williams gave his partner a sour look and said, “Yeah, okay.”

  “This way, Mr. Stark,” Nurse O’Malley said.

  “Thanks,” Sangster said to Telemaco, then said, “Thank you,” to the doctor.

  The detective nodded, and the doctor said, “Yes, of course.”

  Sangster turned and followed the nurse.

  TWO

  The nurse swept back a curtain to reveal Ken Burke lying on a gurney, a sheet pulled up to his neck. It was the first time Sangster could remember seeing Burke look his age. He was pale and drawn, the wrinkles were more deeply etched into his face than normal. They added age now, rather than character.

  His breathing seemed normal to Sangster, nothing labored about it.

  “Just a few minutes, please,” Nurse O’Malley said.

  “Sure.”

  She nodded and withdrew.

  Sangster stepped closer to his friend and neighbor.

  “Burke? Hey, Burke. Can you hear me?”

  For a moment there was no reaction, but then the old man’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Sangster?”

  The ex-hitman leaned in closer and said, “Stark.”

  “Right, right,” Burke said, his eyes closing again.

  “Hey, old man!” Sangster snapped. “Stay with me!”

  Burke’s eyes opened, again.

  “What happened?”

  “M-made a f-fool of myself,” Burke said. “Got c-caught.”

  “What are you talking about, Burke?” Sangster asked,

  “T-talk to Polly.”

  “Polly? Polly who—wait. You mean the woman who cleans your house? That Polly?”

  “Talk—talk to P-Polly . . .” Burke said again, and then drifted off.

  “What the hell—”

  Nurse O’Malley came in, brushed past Sangster, checked Burke’s pulse, then looked at the visitor.

  “That’s enough, I’m afraid,” she said, firmly. “We’re going to move him to a room. You’ll have to speak with Billing.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Sangster said, “but I think I have to talk to the cops, first.”

  “They’re still waiting in the hall for you.”

  “Okay.” He cast one last look at Burke.

  “We’ll take care of him,” she promised.

  “But will you find out what’s wrong with him?”

  “I’m sure the doctors will do their best.”

  Sangster nodded, then went out to talk to the detectives.

  He found Telemaco standing alone.

  “Let’s go to the cafeteria and get some coffee,” the detective said.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “I sent him to Pirates Alley with some uniforms.”

  “Pirates Alley?”

  “That’s where the sheriff was found.”

  Sangster knew that Telemaco referring to Burke as “the sheriff” was a sign of respect for the old lawman, and he appreciated it.

  “Sure,” he said, “coffee sounds fine.”

  They each got a coffee in real cups rather than Styrofoam and took them to a table.

  “What was the sheriff up to, Sangster?” Telemaco said, purposely not using “Stark.” He had found out Sangster’s name last year, when they were both in Las Vegas. Apparently, he hadn’t bothered to fill his partner in.

  “I don’t know,” Sangster said. “He didn’t tell me he was up to anything.”

  “So ya’ll don’t know what he was doing in Pirates Alley close to midnight?”

  “No idea.”

  “And if ya’ll did, you’d tell me, right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’d like to find out what happened to him.”

  “You mean you’d like me to find out what happened to him, right?” Telemaco said.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Did he say anything to you just now?”

  “Nothing that made any sense,” Sangster said, without hesitation. Maybe he didn’t kill people for a living anymore, but he was still a pretty damn good liar.

  “Like what?”

  “He was mumbling,” Sangster said. “Said he made a fool of himself, got caught. Not much else.”

  Telemaco sat back and rubbed his gray-and-black stubble thoughtfully.

  “What the hell was he doin’, working a case of some kind?” he leaned forward. “Was he doing any P.I. work?”

  “No,” Sangster said, “not that he told me.”

  “You guys are tight, right?” Telemaco asked. “He’d tell you a thing like that?”

  “Yes, he would.”

  “Well, we didn’t get much out of him, either,” the detective admitted. “I’ll have to try and talk to him again when they get him into a room. Meanwhile, maybe Williams is finding something helpful.”

  “Yeah,” Sangster said, “maybe.”

  “I need something from you, Sangster.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need your word you’re not gonna get in my way on this.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you have a history of takin’ things into your own hands. You’re not gonna try to deny that, are you? Not after Vegas.”

  “That was my own business,” Sangster said. “This is Burke’s business.”

  “And now it’s mine,” Telemaco said. “I don’t want you in my business.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sangster said. “I can safely say the last thing I want to do is get into your business.”

  Telemaco stared at Sangster intently, as if he was trying to read between the lines.

  THREE

  Sangster waited around for them to get Burke into a room.

  While he was waiting he went and talked to the billing department. He told them he’d get Burke’s Medicare information and that the bills for anything not covered should be sent to Burke’s address. That was because he didn’t want to give out his own.

  That done he found out what room Burke was in, took the elevator to the right floor and found him out cold in a bed. There were tubes attached to machines that were beeping, and would keep beeping as long as Burke was breathing.

  “Excuse me,” a middle-aged nurse said, slipping past him.

  “Oh, sorry.” He stepped aside.

  “Are you family?”

  “His friend,” Sangster said, “and neighbor.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, then.” She went to the machine, checked the connections, and then turned to face him.

  “Where’s Nurse O’Malley?” he asked.

  “She’s an emergency room
nurse,” she answered, “so she’s in the emergency room. She’s through with this case.”

  “How is he?”

  “Resting,” she said. “That’s the best thing he can do.” She pointed her finger at him. “Five more minutes. Understand?”

  “I understand,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She left the room and he walked to the bed. Burke was breathing evenly, the machine beeping rhythmically.

  Talk to Polly was all he had. “I need more, old man. Come on, wake up.”

  He didn’t.

  “How’s he doin’?”

  He turned, saw Telemaco standing in the doorway.

  “Resting,” Sangster said. “They tell me that’s the best thing he can do.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “No,” Sangster said. “He hasn’t come around.”

  “And downstairs?”

  “I told you what he said when you bought me that great cup of coffee.”

  “I know,” Telemaco said. “I just thought maybe ya’ll might have something to add.”

  “No,” Sangster said, “I’ve got nothing.” He turned and looked at Burke. “I was hoping he’d wake up and talk to me.”

  “Well,” the detective said, “I’m gonna leave a man on the door in case he does wake up and say something.”

  “Or in case somebody wants to hit him on the head, again?”

  “Yeah,” Telemaco said, “that, too.”

  “Mind if I keep in touch with you?” Sangster asked. “In case he asks for me?”

  “I’d actually prefer that,” Telemaco said.

  “Fine.”

  Telemaco started to leave, then stopped.

  “You comin’?”

  “Yeah,” Sangster said, with a last look back at the man in the bed, “I was just leaving.”

  Telemaco walked with Sangster to the front door, and out.

  “Can I drop you anywhere?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a car,” Sangster said.

  “Okay, then.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  Telemaco jerked his head toward the curb. There was a Crown Victoria there with Williams behind the wheel.

  “Oh,” Sangster said, “glad I didn’t need that ride.”

  “I’ll see you . . . Stark.”

  As the detective started away Sangster asked, “Your partner find anything in Pirates Alley?”

  Telemaco just waved and kept going.

  When he was sure the cops were gone Sangster turned around and went back inside.

  He found Nurse Claire O’Malley in the emergency room, standing at the front desk talking to the nurse behind it.

  “Mr. . . .” she said, as he approached.

  “Stark,” he said. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure,” she said, “I have a few minutes.”

  They walked off to one side and stood against a wall. There was plenty of activity going on around them, and no one was paying much attention to them.

  Sangster noticed that while she might be called a plain woman, there was still something very attractive about her. Maybe it was the white nurse’s uniform. He’d never understood the appeal of the Catholic school girl look, but a nurse . . . well, that was different.

  “Can I assume that you’re the one who spent the most time with Burke?” he asked.

  “Well . . . maybe other than the doctor who actually worked on him.”

  “Can you tell me if he had any other bruises?”

  “Bruises?”

  “Yes,” Sangster said, “maybe around his ribs, or torso—”

  “Are you thinking he might have been beaten?”

  “Or kicked, while he was down.”

  She thought a moment, then said, “No, there was no indication of that. Are you . . . a policeman?”

  “Just his friend and neighbor.”

  “A rather good friend, I’d say, for him to ask for you.”

  “That’s another question,” he said. “You told me I was his emergency contact. Did he have something on him, in writing, I mean, to that effect?”

  “No,” she said, “he told me specifically to call you, and gave me your phone number.”

  “Was he able to say anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, anything that might be helpful in figuring out who did this to him.”

  “No,” she said, “nothing . . . but isn’t that the job of the police?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sangster said, “I’m just trying to be . . . helpful.”

  “Really?” she asked. “You seem to know what kind of questions to ask.”

  “I read a lot of mysteries.”

  She looked at the tiny watch on her wrist.

  “I have to go back to work.”

  “Of course,” he said, “thank you for talking to me.”

  “No problem.” She stood there a moment more, then said, “Call me . . .”

  “What?”

  “. . . if you think of anything else you, uh, want to ask me,” she finished.

  “Oh,” he said. “Yes, okay . . . thanks, again.”

  She nodded. As she walked away he suddenly had the urge to see what she looked like with all those red curls down.

  FOUR

  He made sure the hospital had his phone number, in case anything went wrong, and left to drive back home to his house in Algiers. He’d return later in the day, during visiting hours, hopefully he’d find something out by then.

  When he got home there wasn’t much to do except catch a few winks. He removed his shoes, laid down on the bed fully dressed and fell asleep.

  He woke several hours later, ravenously hungry. He made himself an egg sandwich, washed it down with two cups of strong coffee. Finishing the last cup, he looked out the window at Burke’s house, next door.

  Polly was a middle-aged woman who cleaned Burke’s house for him. As for his own house, Sangster cleaned it himself, not wanting anyone inside at any time, even though Burke had recommended Polly several times.

  He sometimes saw Polly arrive in the morning between eight and nine a.m., other times saw her leave about three or four in the afternoon. However, he didn’t know her, or what her exact schedule was. So he wasn’t sure if she’d be cleaning Burke’s house on this day, but that was the only place he had to start.

  He rinsed his empty cup out, grabbed the extra key Burke had given him some time ago, and went next door.

  In the almost four years he had been renting his house on Algiers Point, across Lake Ponchartrain from the French Quarter, he had played chess with Burke at least three times a week. They alternated porches for their games, turning their matches into a home and away series.

  The two houses were similar: two story wood-frame structures that had survived both the fire of 1895 and Hurricane Katrina. Sangster rented his, but Burke owned.

  Before using the key he knocked, in case Polly was inside cleaning. When there was no answer he used the key to let himself in.

  Burke also had an extra key to Sangster’s house, but it had taken the two men a long time to trust each other that much. Sangster, the ex-hitman, had been shocked to find that Burke, the ex-lawman, was a kindred spirit, and the two had formed a bond—the kind of bond Sangster had never experienced, and never could have experienced, before that morning when he woke to find that he suddenly had a soul.

  It took only seconds to ascertain that Polly was not around. However, the house was clean, so he assumed she had been there in the past day or so.

  There wasn’t much he could do for his friend until he spoke with Polly. That meant finding her. Burke had a small office, with a desk and one file cabinet. Sangster went through the cabinet. In the first drawer he discovered Sheriff’s Department files, all of them unsolved cases. But he wasn’t interested in those at the moment. In the second drawer he found what he wanted: copies of paid—and unpaid—bills. He had to go through gas, electric, mortgage and other monthly bills before finding some canceled checks that had been
written to Polly. He pulled the folder out, leafed through it, and finally found Polly’s address. He didn’t recognize the street, but it was also an Algiers address. He kept the piece of paper it was written on and returned the file to the cabinet. Then he left Burke’s house, locking the door behind him.

  He went back to his house, using his landline to call the hospital and check on Burke’s condition. A woman at the nurse’s station told him Mr. Burke’s condition had not change—no better, no worse.

  “Can you tell me if there is still a policeman outside his door?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, there is.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up. There was no reason for him to rush to the hospital right away. So, he decided to go find Polly, and then see Burke during the evening visiting hours.

  After locking up his house, Sangster set off on foot to find Polly.

  Algiers was home to many pubs and restaurants—no fast food places allowed—many of which, like the Old Point Bar, had live music. Some of the Mardi-Gras troupes had warehouses there. In addition, there were many Catholic and Baptist churches in the area. The population was about 2,200.

  As Sangster walked, he discovered that Evelina Ave, where Polly lived, was also in Algiers Point, but on the other side of the ferry landing. When he reached the address he saw it was one of the older shotgun style houses, so-called because there were no hallways inside. You could fire a shotgun through the front door and the bullet would come out the back door.

  He stepped up to the front door and knocked. After a few moments the door was answered by a small boy about eight.

  “Hello,” he said, looking up at Sangster.

  “Hello,” Sangster said, “does Polly Bourque live here?”

  “Yeah,” the boy said, “she’s my ma. I’m Hugo.”

  “Hugo, is your ma home?”

  “Naw,” the boy said, “she’s at work.”

  “Work?”

  “She cleans.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  “Naw,” Hugo said. “My sister’s here.”