Fair Game

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Martin wanted Ashley so much that the longing was akin to pain. But she had to decide; it was out of his control now. She knew how he felt. If he thought he could bend that fragile body to his will, he would do it, but he knew that her resolution was as firm as his. He watched her, wearing her public face, and wondered what she was really thinking.

  When the Senator got up to go, the crowd flowed around him, and Martin and Capo sprang into action again. They followed Fair at a discreet distance, and Martin paused once to look around, then turned back to Fair. The Senator was caught up in conversation and didn’t seem to realize where he was going. Martin saw him greet someone at the entrance to a back corridor and then move forward again. He passed into the hall, disregarding Martin’s earlier warning, and Martin ran after him, swearing under his breath, trying to close the distance between them without alarming anyone.

  But he was too late. Afterward, it would seem to Martin that it had all happened in slow motion, and in silence. He saw a man rise behind Fair, saw the gun, the snub nose of the silencer. Martin charged toward the Senator instantly, shoving people roughly out of his way, shouting for Capo.

  Martin heard the whisk-thud of the silencer before he could reach Fair, and the sound went through him like a sliver of ice. He saw the Senator drop, grabbing for Meg Drummond next to him, a scarlet flower blossoming in the center of his chest. The second shot caught Capo as he lunged in front of the falling man, trying to shield Fair with his body. Martin screamed Ashley’s name as a third shot grazed her arm, stunning her. She looked around, bewildered, and turned toward the gunman as he reversed direction and melted into a hole in the crowd.

  Then the film speeded up, and the sound came in suddenly, like a raised volume on a television set. Screams filled Martin’s ears as he ran after the gray sweater he had seen disappearing into the sea of humanity. He broke through the knot of people and into the empty hallway, then raced up the staircase. The blank guest-room doors yielded nothing, so he dashed for the service door. He yanked it open and saw the gaping window, ran to it, and looked down. The fire escape and street were deserted, but he could see blurred footprints in the muddy grass below.

  The gunman had already fled on foot.

  There was no point in continuing the chase. The trail was already cold. Martin turned and raced back down to the lobby.

  “Call for an ambulance!” he shouted to the desk clerk, who stared at him in fear, alarmed by the growing confusion as the hysterical crowd began to pour out of the ballroom.

  Martin ripped his badge from his pocket and shoved it under the clerk’s nose.

  “I’m a police officer. There’s been an accident. Call for an ambulance right now,” he said in as calm a tone as he could muster.

  Convinced, the man lifted the receiver on the desk phone. Martin ran back into the ballroom, fighting his way through the pushing, yelling crowd to Ashley.

  He’d been gone less than a minute.

  She was on her knees next to her father, the blood from her abraded arm running onto her dress and pooling on the floor. Capo sprawled like a crumpled handkerchief next to them, bleeding from an abdominal wound. He appeared to be unconscious, his face heavily dewed with perspiration. Meg Drummond was holding his head in her lap and crying. Other people from the Senator’s group were trying to take charge of the situation, but chaos still reigned.

  Martin knew at a glance that the Senator was dead. His skin was like wax, and there was too much blood for him to have survived its loss. The cop felt for a pulse in the older man’s throat, then bent his head to listen to his chest.

  All was silence. Life had departed forever from Ashley’s father.

  Sylvia Fair saw the expression on Martin’s face and began to sob helplessly.

  Damico led her away as Martin raised Ashley to her feet. She seemed to be in shock; she stared at him stupidly.

  “We have to get my father to a doctor,” she said, struggling to turn back to the body.

  “Ashley, he’s gone. I’m sorry,” Martin said gently, pulling her into his arms.

  She moaned and sagged against him, closing her eyes, her body stiff with denial.

  Photographers were closing in on them through the melee, flashbulbs creating small explosions of light. Reporters circled madly, firing questions with the rapidity of a ticker-tape machine.

  “Stay here,” Martin said, putting Ashley away from him.

  She clung. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  “I’ll be right back. I have to check on Capo.”

  “Anthony,” Ashley murmured. Her gaze followed Martin as he shoved past a couple of microphones to reach Meg, who looked up at him with drowned, tragic eyes, incapable of speech.

  Martin knelt next to the prone man and felt for the pulse in his wrist, which fluttered against his fingers, faint but steady. He took off his jacket and draped it over his friend’s still form.

  Meg’s expression was beseeching.

  “He’s hanging in there,” Martin said to her, trying to communicate a confidence he didn’t feel.

  Meg sobbed with relief, mopping Capo’s brow with what looked like a strip of her petticoat. A larger piece of the same material was wadded up at Capo’s waistline to stanch the flow of blood.

  “His wife,” Meg murmured, swallowing.

  “I’ll take care of it. Keep him warm, and don’t let anyone move him. Help is on the way.”

  Meg nodded, looking down at her charge. Easygoing Tony, she thought, her comical nemesis, always ready with a teasing remark. She blinked rapidly as the tears began to well up once more. Where the hell was that ambulance?

  When Martin approached Ashley again, it was clear that reality was setting in with terrible finality.

  “Tim,” she gasped, her face white. “Tell me. Is Anthony... ?”

  “He’s alive,” Martin replied grimly.

  “Thank God.” She wove unsteadily for a moment.

  He reached for her, and she fell against him as if he were the only solidity in a quaking world.

  “Take it easy,” Martin said. “You’re okay. I’m with you.”

  “Get me out of here,” she pleaded.

  He glanced around, sizing up the situation, and then scooped her into his arms. He carried her rapidly through the crowd as Ashley buried her face against his shoulder, hiding from the press and shutting out the madness that surrounded them. Newsmen and photographers dashed past, running into the ballroom, paying no attention to Martin and his anonymous burden.

  Once in the lobby, Martin set Ashley down on one of the sofas in the reception area. She hugged her torso with her arms, shivering, as he got down on one knee in front of her on the marble floor.

  He searched her face as she gazed back at him unseeingly, her eyes still filled with the images of the horror in the ballroom.

  “Ashley, look at me,” he said in a strong tone, commanding her attention.

  Her eyes focused, fixed on him.

  “Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening,” she murmured.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Him?” she repeated stupidly.

  “The man who shot your father, Ashley. Did you see what he looked like?”

  She nodded, dazed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “He was tall, maybe a little shorter than you are, with blond hair, fair skin. Not bad looking, actually.” She shuddered at the incongruity of it.

  “What was he wearing? A gray sweater?”

  “Yes, with darker slacks, I think. Did you see him too?”

  “Not as well as you did.” Martin looked away from her, thinking. “If he wasn’t disguised, he didn’t expect to be seen,” he added softly. “How old would you say he was?”

  “Mid-thirties, maybe. Not a kid, but still young.”

  “Ashley, try to remember. I know it happened fast, but is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

&n
bsp; She closed her eyes, forcing herself to relive those terrible seconds that took her father’s life.

  “His eyes were light, I think. Dark eyes look different from a distance; they don’t reflect the light as much. I’d say his eyes were blue or green, something pale. And that’s more likely with blond hair anyway, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Good girl. I’ll get a sketch artist to do some renderings for you, and we’ll try to pin this guy down.” He inched forward slightly and took both her hands in his.

  “Now, Ashley, this is very important. Don’t tell anyone but the police that you saw his face, that you know what he looks like. I don’t care who it is. Tell no one. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded solemnly, her eyes huge.

  Martin was satisfied. He didn’t want to take a chance on someone leaking the information that she could identify the killer. As long as the gunman didn’t know he’d been seen, she should be safe.

  He took her face between his hands and kissed her forehead lightly. “I’m going to bandage that arm. I’ll be right back.”

  Ashley glanced down at the flap of flesh hanging loosely from her forearm, now oozing a thin trickle of blood. She had forgotten the wound; shock had nullified the pain.

  Martin returned from the men’s room and bound the cut with his wet handkerchief. The bullet had just grazed her, but the skirt of her dress, her stockings, and shoes were gory with a combination of her blood and her father’s.

  “Now, I have to leave you for a little while to make some calls. Will you be all right?” he said.

  She nodded. “Take care of my father’s... my father.” She closed her eyes again, pressing her lips together.

  Martin went back to the desk, which was now swamped with reporters vying for the house telephones. The bank of pay phones was also tied up, the center of a confusing babble of voices.

  Martin grabbed the nearest desk phone out of the hand of the reporter holding it.

  “Hey!” the man yelled, turning to confront Martin, who held up his shield.

  “Police, buddy,” he said. “Clear out.”

  “Wait a minute, I’ve got a deadline! You can’t just—”

  “Yes, I can,” Martin replied, already punching buttons. “Unless you want to get your ass arrested for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty.”

  The reporter impugned Martin’s ancestry, added something about the First Amendment, and then dashed madly for the pay phones to wait his turn.

  Martin contacted the Millvale police, who had already dispatched several cars to the scene, and then called Captain Gerald Rourke in Philadelphia.

  Rourke answered his own phone, unusual in itself.

  “Yeah?” Rourke barked.

  “Gerry, this is Martin.”

  “I heard,” Rourke said.

  “What the hell? It just happened!”

  “Never mind that. Is it true he’s dead?”

  “Yeah, and Capo’s down. I don’t know how bad. Gutshot.”

  Rourke swore expressively. “And the Fair girl? She was hit too, wasn’t she?”

  “It’s minor. She’ll be all right.” Ambulance sirens shrieked in the distance, coming closer.

  Rourke sighed. “Okay. Tell me about it.”

  Martin described what had happened as briefly as possible, keeping editorial commentary to a minimum.

  “Okay,” Rourke said when Martin was finished. “That fits with what I heard. You tried, but the guy wouldn’t listen to you. He was well known for that. Short of holding his hand, I don’t see what you could have done. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I wish I felt that way,” Martin said expressionlessly.

  “Hey, I don’t want to hear that. There’ll be an IA investigation, but you’ll be cleared. Everybody knew how Fair was. He had to be badgered into taking you and Capo on in the first place, and you have witnesses who heard you telling him what to do earlier tonight. He didn’t follow your instructions, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Martin was silent.

  “Did you hear me, son?” Rourke demanded.

  “I heard you.”

  “How’s the girl?”

  “Shaky.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I think she’ll be okay. She’s stronger than she looks.”

  “And the wife?”

  “One of the aides took her away. It wouldn’t surprise me if she lost it; she’s not wrapped too tight anyway.”

  There was a commotion at the front door of the hotel as the paramedics arrived with stretchers.

  “Got to go and see about Capo. The medics are here,” Martin said into the phone.

  “All right.”

  “Gerry, please call Lorraine and... tell her gently, okay? Be optimistic. Tony’s alive, and we all know how tough he is. That sort of thing.”

  “I’ll call her,” Rourke replied, and his tone was more compassionate than Martin had ever heard it. “Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Keep in touch,” Rourke advised him, and hung up.

  Martin set the receiver in its cradle and turned back to deal with the aftermath of tragedy.

  * * * *

  Ransom sprawled on the motel bed, fresh perspiration mingling with that which had already dried on his body. His adrenal glands were still pumping so hard that he could feel his pulse banging in his throat. He made a conscious effort to calm down, closing his eyes and relaxing his limbs. He began to tremble as his body cooled, and he pulled the threadbare spread on the bed up to his chin. He was still fully dressed, the gun concealed at his waist. He knew he would feel better if he took a hot shower, but the bathroom seemed too far away

  The water probably wouldn’t be hot in this fleabag anyway, he thought. If there was water at all. Through the grimy window with its plastic curtain he could see the motel’s neon sign, with two letters blacked out, announcing “Vacancies.”

  He had jogged the two miles from downtown Millvale to the Blue Star Motel in order to avoid using a traceable cab. He had never intended going back to the apartment, even though Meg believed he was away on a business trip.

  Meg, he thought despairingly. She was the reason he had blown it, blown it sky high.

  He’d had the Senator in his sights, a drilled shot, when she moved between him and his target, a rosy smudge on the magnified, computerized crosshairs.

  And he had hesitated, pulled back.

  He could not take the chance of hitting Meg.

  Then she had moved out of range, and the Senator was in position again. But the timing was off; he had missed his chance. With his trained reflexes he was able to act anyway, getting off three shots, but there was a rhythm involved in the act, as in dancing, and he remained out of step. He was exposed too long in the crowd, and the shots weren’t clean. Fair was dead, he’d accomplished that much, but he’d heard on the motel clerk’s portable radio that both a cop and the daughter were wounded, the cop critically.

  It was a sloppy job, and his trademark was precision. He had never injured anyone else but the target before, and he had never left such a mess.

  He mopped his face with the sleeve of his sweater, then pulled it off over his head and dried his hair. At least nobody had seen him; none of the reports mentioned it. But he had made a mistake, and he didn’t like it.

  He didn’t like the reason for it.

  He hadn’t realized how emotionally involved he was with Meg until she had drifted across his gunsights like a deep-pink sunset cloud. His trigger finger had frozen, then erupted into delayed action, and now he had a bloodbath on his hands.

  Look for the woman, he thought, rolling over and turning his face into the lumpy, foul-smelling pillow. The French proverb was correct. Meg had wormed her way into his life, not with the bold tactics others had used on him to no avail, but with a tenderness and concern that eventually left him defenseless.

  Ramsom sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes, suddenly composed enough to take charge again. He strip
ped off his clothes and stepped into the tepid shower, doing the best he could with the drizzle of water, ratty washcloth, and discolored sliver of soap.

  He had to get out of the country, but before he could do that he had to get out of this bedbug paradise.

  And he had to forget Meg Drummond.

  The rest of the night was a blur for Martin. He rode in the ambulance with Ashley and her father’s body; her stepmother had collapsed and was under sedation.

  Meg went with Capo in the paramedics’ van to meet Lorraine Capo at the hospital.

  The admissions area was swarming with reporters and federal agents by the time they arrived. The press had not been officially informed that the Senator was dead, so his stretcher was whisked inside through a service entrance in order to dodge reporters.

  Ashley was treated in emergency, where Martin left her in order to go with Capo, who was admitted to intensive care.

  Lorraine was waiting for him there.

  “Timmy,” Lorraine said as he embraced her. She was trying not to cry.

  “He’s going to be all right, Lori, I know it,” Martin said, hugging her tightly. His expression was one of abject misery.

  “I always thought that as long as he-was with you, nothing would happen to him,” Lorraine said as he released her.

  Meg saw that this made Martin feel worse, if that were possible, and she said quickly, “Mrs. Capo, I’m Meg Drummond. Your husband regained consciousness on the ride over here. I’m sure that must be a very good sign.”

  Lorraine took Meg’s hand and said, “Call me Lori. Mrs. Capo is my mother-in-law. Tony told me all about you. He got quite a kick out of some of the things you said.” Lorraine smiled bravely.

  “The kick was more than mutual, Lori,” Meg replied, her throat tightening.

  A doctor in surgical greens appeared and informed them that Sergeant Capo would be undergoing surgery immediately to repair a perforated intestine. The intern was reluctant to give an opinion, but when he mentioned that Capo would need several units of blood, Martin volunteered to be a donor.

  He left the two women together and shortly afterward wound up in a pale-green cubicle screened off by a canvas drape. He had nothing to do for the next thirty minutes but stare at the ceiling and flex his hand as his blood ran through a plastic tube and into a plastic bag on a stand next to his cot. This gave him too much time to relive the evening’s events in detail, and he was very glad to see the nurse come back to remove the needle from his arm. She taped the incision and handed him a paper cup of orange juice. He bolted the juice and dropped the cup in the trash on his way into the hall.