by G. K. Parks
“He’s escalating. I bet he’ll make another run at you in the next few days.”
O’Connell’s words rang true a few hours later when his radio chirped, notifying him Abelard had been sighted in my neighborhood. I was positive Abelard made the call himself. The tactical team, which was set up across the street, was on high alert, and uniformed officers were moving in to secure the area.
“Showtime,” I muttered, unenthused.
Nick checked his side arm. My gun remained holstered but at the ready. However, I was unsure of what to do. This was when having no official job title made life difficult. The waiting was incredibly anticlimactic as I paced my apartment, avoiding the windows. I checked and rechecked my weapon a dozen times. About forty-five minutes later, Nick’s radio went off again. Uniformed officers apprehended a suspect matching Abelard’s description.
“I’ll make sure we have him,” O’Connell said. “Stay here this time.”
If I saw Abelard again, he would be bloody and lifeless. O’Connell radioed he was on the way and left my apartment. I stood in the doorway, watching him open the door to the stairwell and disappear down the steps. Taking a deep breath, I hoped this was finally over. I just locked the deadbolts when I heard a high-pitched, mechanical squeal coming from outside.
“Shit.” I unlocked the door and pulled my gun before exiting into the hallway. Leaving the door open, I put my back against the doorframe and peered around the corner. The hallway was empty, and I strained to hear if the sound had come from a different floor. Lowering my gun, I cocked my head to the side. Maybe I was imagining things. As I turned to go back into my apartment, the stairwell door opened, and a deliveryman exited onto my floor. There was something odd about the man. The warning bells in my brain blared, but lack of sleep slowed my mind and reflexes.
He has nothing to deliver, I realized, raising my gun to take aim. It was Abelard, but I was too slow. He rushed forward, wrapping one of his large hands completely around my throat and shoving me into the wall. I was suspended by my neck in mid-air, choking. His other hand grabbed for my gun, but I refused to let it go. However, my wrist couldn’t withstand the torment in its previously injured state, and after being slammed into the wall a few times, the gun slipped from my grip and clattered to the floor.
Had I been able to get any air in or out, I would have screamed bloody murder. Instead, my vision rapidly clouded with the encroaching black bubbles. I wasn’t getting any oxygen or blood to my brain, and there was nothing I could do. I made a feeble attempt to knee Abelard or fight back with my one free hand, but it was too little, too late.
Thirty-one
Abelard released his grip just before the entire world went dark, and I crumpled to my knees, fighting for breath. My head pounded as blood rushed to my brain. He slipped something around my neck, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and shoved me into my apartment and slammed the door.
“You didn’t think I would let you escape into the darkness, did you?” he asked teasingly in my ear. He pinned my arms and stood behind me, pressing a knife into my side. “That would be too easy, non?” His French accent was thick, making him hard to understand. The blade punctured my skin, but it was meant as a warning. “We should have some fun first.”
I was still coughing and dizzy, fighting to rein my thoughts into an attack strategy. He released my arms and tugged on whatever he placed around my neck. Metal dug into my throat, cutting off oxygen and blood. Using both hands, I tried to get my fingers under the metal chain before Abelard could properly garrote me. He pulled tighter, and I tried to fend off the choke-chain more emphatically. The wrist he slammed into the wall bled profusely, making my hand wet and sticky, and it slipped from the metal. The darkness encroached again.
Abelard dropped the knife, realizing he didn’t need it since I couldn’t fight against him and the garrote. He took the opportunity to run his free hand along the curves of my body as I fought against the metal chain.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re coherent enough for everything that’s still to come. It wouldn’t be as enjoyable for me if you were dead.”
I bucked backward, hoping to slam him into a wall, but we were in the center of the room. He was significantly larger and had come prepared. He released the pressure on my neck just enough to ensure I wouldn’t pass out. Waterboarding must be a similarly horrible experience, I surmised. I choked and sputtered briefly before he yanked again, cutting off my air supply.
There was only one obvious conclusion; I had to stop struggling against the chain and focus my energy entirely on him if I had any chance of escaping. Pulling forward on the metal with all my strength, I gasped down a lungful of air before dropping my hands and slamming my foot into his shin. My elbow came up and struck him in the solar plexus, and I pulled partially away. The chain acted like a tether, forcing me to remain close to him unless I wanted to choke myself out. Turning at a ninety degree angle, I kicked into his kneecap with everything I had. He hit the ground, howling in pain and temporarily losing his grip on my leash. Collapsing onto the floor, I gasped for breath and frantically tried to free myself from my metal captor.
“Salope,” he sneered, cursing in French and clutching his knee. He reached for the cold metal, desperate to regain his only remaining method of controlling me. Giving up on shaking the metal collar from my neck, I launched myself away from him and reached for my gun. He lunged and took hold of the metal chain just as I pulled my backup free from my ankle holster. I was nanoseconds away from pulling the trigger when O’Connell burst through the door.
“Let her go,” O’Connell barked. His gun was at the ready, and his finger tensed over the trigger. Abelard dropped the chain and put his hands in the air. O’Connell kicked the discarded knife further from Abelard’s reach. “Just give me a reason, you sick son of a bitch.” O’Connell positioned himself in front of Abelard, separating him from me. Scrambling to my feet, I threw off the choke-collar, coughing spastically as tears ran down my face, but I had yet to lower my weapon. “Facedown, on the ground.” O’Connell kicked Abelard over until he was prone on the floor, and then he frisked and cuffed him. “You okay?” he asked me.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I had temporarily managed to stop choking, but I was having a difficult time lowering my weapon. All I needed was to apply less than ten pounds of pressure to the trigger, and it would be over.
“Alexis.” O’Connell took a step toward me. He holstered his gun, and his hand reached for mine. “He’s not worth it.”
I snapped my glance to O’Connell for a brief second before focusing back on Abelard. “He’s a monster, Nick,” I whispered. My throat was sore, and I wasn’t sure I could speak any louder without setting off another coughing fit. Abelard pulled himself to his knees and grinned maniacally. “I can end this. Right here. Right now.” My finger twitched slightly, and Nick faced me completely. If I killed a handcuffed man, he didn’t want to be able to testify against me.
“If you’re going to do it, at least let me take the cuffs off first.” O’Connell was reasoning with me, and I shut my eyes and dropped my trigger finger. Nick turned back to Abelard. “Stay down.” He reached for my gun, and I surrendered it to him reluctantly. “It’s over,” he said quietly, putting the safety on and laying my firearm on the table.
Abelard muttered to himself in French and climbed to his knees, rocking back and forth. O’Connell shoved him to the ground, but in the blink of an eye, Abelard slipped free from the cuffs and pulled O’Connell’s backup revolver from his ankle holster. I watched as Nick, without missing a beat, pulled the gun from his hip and double-tapped Abelard in the chest. In one fluid motion, O’Connell kicked his backup out of Abelard’s reach and checked for a pulse. Somehow, my gun was in my hand, safety off, and pointed at the now dead Abelard.
Without even flinching, O’Connell unclipped his radio. “The suspect’s been subdued. We’re in Parker’s apartment.” He gave them my address. “Send a wagon to pick him up and a bus. S
he’s been injured.” He put the radio down. “Now, it’s over.”
“Finally,” I eked out. For some reason, the room spun. I stumbled, and Nick wrapped an arm around my waist and helped me into the kitchen. I sat at the table while Abelard made a bloody mess on my floor. I needed to find a new apartment. “Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.
“Yeah.” He nodded and shifted his gaze, thinking. Checking my side and wrist, he went to the counter and handed me a dish towel. Wrapping the towel tightly around my bleeding wrist, I thought about my gun lying on the floor in the hallway. One of the cops could pick it up on their way in. “You’re going to the hospital, no argument.” He offered a small smile. “I just dealt with him, so you can do that much for me.” He was worried about the IA investigation that was mandatory following an officer involved shooting.
We sat silently, waiting for backup to arrive, along with the ME and some paramedics. O’Connell was forced to surrender his weapon and was ushered away for a proper debriefing. He threw a small smile and nod over his shoulder before being escorted out of my apartment. The paramedics evaluated my vitals as I tried to explain what happened. Eventually, I gave up due to the coughing fits and pointed to the metal choke-collar on the floor. Thompson and a few officers watched the exchange. I had yet to be asked about the shooting, but that would soon change. Eventually, I was moved downstairs and away from the scene.
In the ER, my wrist was X-rayed, my side was bandaged, and my neck was examined. My blood pressure was elevated, but everything else appeared normal. I attempted to give my detailed statement to the police, but my speech was impaired from my larynx almost being crushed. The authorities would just have to come back after the doctors finished their poking and prodding if they wanted more information.
By some miracle, my wrist wasn’t broken, and I had not sustained any permanent damage to my neck or throat. However, I was to avoid speaking or straining my neck in any way until it had time to heal, and I was to remain a while longer under observation because of my elevated BP and failure of my wrist to properly clot. My previous injuries, courtesy of Abelard, were also reassessed.
At least it provided me the opportunity to evaluate the pertinent information surrounding the shooting. O’Connell’s review would be expedited after everything that happened, especially after the police considered my statement, my injuries, and the wireless surveillance camera which recorded the altercation in the hallway. The shooting was justified. O’Connell was acting in self-defense and in the defense of another, namely me. But how did Abelard slip the cuffs? O’Connell secured them tightly, but his comment about taking them off would appear suspicious if these details were divulged. There was a practical explanation, and I wanted to figure it out just in case it became an issue.
O’Connell’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Moretti, stopped by my hospital room to ask some questions. Luckily, I wasn’t up to talking. Providing him with a brief recount of the events, I agreed to have the Abelard files forwarded to him.
“The Police Nationale can fax over my original report and involvement.” I reached for my cell phone and dialed Ryan, requesting the information and promising to call later. I didn’t want to give him any details other than the good news that Abelard was no longer a threat to anyone.
About an hour later, I was still in the damn hospital when Agent Farrell appeared at my door. He was given the contact information for O’Connell’s precinct, and I felt like a switchboard operator, having to relay one message from one person to another and put people into contact with each other. Finally, after briefly speaking, or squeaking since my voice wasn’t cooperating, to a dozen different people, I was left alone. Lying in bed, I shut my eyes. Since the doctors wanted to hold me hostage, I should use this time productively to catch up on some rest. The doctors had given me some kind of painkiller or sedative that made me drowsy.
I was just about to doze off when the doctor returned. My blood pressure had returned to normal, and my wrist clotted temporarily. But it needed stitches. My neck was a different story. While there was no permanent internal damage, the flesh was bruised and sore. The doctor wrote out a prescription for an ointment to aid in healing, and he recommended ice and time. For my sore throat, some lozenges and sore throat spray should suffice. Why didn’t I have a medical degree? He promised to send someone from plastics to do the stitches to minimize scarring.
I lay back against the pillow, my hopes for a nap vanishing. Instead, I watched people walk back and forth until a nurse came in with some forms to sign.
“How are you feeling, sweetie?” she asked as I held the pen awkwardly in my bandaged hand.
“Ready to go home,” I whispered. “Or somewhere else.” I handed her the papers and noticed a man in a three-piece suit and tailored overcoat throwing a fit at the nurse’s station. “Do me a favor and tell the obnoxious guy in the expensive suit to stop making a scene and get in here.”
Confused, the nurse went into the hallway and brought Martin to my room.
“Alex.” He hurried to my side, unsure of how to proceed, looking both relieved and worried at the same time. “Are you okay? I got here as soon as I could. Obviously, you aren’t okay. You’re in the emergency room. That was a stupid question.” His speech pattern was rushed, bordering on frantic.
I leaned my head against his chest and hugged him awkwardly with one arm. “Calm down. I’m okay.” I had no idea why he was here, but I was happy to see him. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “What are you doing here?” I tried to speak normally, not quite succeeding.
“O’Connell called. He said you needed someone to pick you up. What happened?”
I shook my head. It was too long of a story to launch into right now. Martin pulled away and scrutinized my injuries. He tentatively brushed my hair away from my neck. His jaw muscles clenched.
“He shouldn’t have called,” I whispered, but Martin shushed me.
“More importantly, are you sure you’re okay?” Before I could respond, a doctor came in. “Is she okay?”
The doctor looked for permission, and I nodded. He gave Martin a synopsis of everything I had already been told. Relieved, Martin took a step closer, and I buried my face in his shirt as the doctor stitched my wrist. When the doctor finished, he promised to send someone in with discharge papers.
“I didn’t realize you were squeamish.” Martin attempted levity. He was calmer now than he had been when he first entered the room. I was glad because I would have hated to ask the nurse for a tranquilizer.
“After the month I’ve had, I can’t do it anymore.”
“You’re not supposed to talk,” he insisted.
The nurse came back, and I signed my walking papers, got off the bed, and headed for the exit. I hated hospitals. Martin followed closely behind. He had car keys which meant Marcal wasn’t here and neither was Bruiser.
“Where’s Bruiser?”
“Dammit, Alex, for once, just shut up.” He put his hands on my hips and kissed me. I pulled back, seeing the concern evident on his face. “I got a call from O’Connell and thought you were dead.”
“Then why would I need a ride?” I teased, my tone not convincing in its whispered state. “Is there a hearse in your garage that I’ve never noticed?” I really needed to work on my decorum.
“Smartass,” he sighed, defeated. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Wait,” I was reaching the limit on my volume, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to turn it off sometimes.” We were in the middle of the parking lot, being stared at by too many nosy onlookers.
“Funny, you know how to shut me out all the time. I’m not a complete moron.” He spun around to face me. “I’ve been reading the papers. You cut me off. No contact. All I had was the news. I read about that body hanging in the warehouse, the bomb at the motel, and the hostage situation yesterday.” He was seething. “I get a call from the police, and I made the only logical assumption.”
Fighting the urge to point out this was exactly
why we shouldn’t be involved, I shut my mouth. It wasn’t fair. I never considered how this would affect him. Martin opened the car door, and I got in.
“It’s over,” I whispered. He looked hurt and confused. Bad choice of words, Parker. “Abelard’s dead.” My voice was scratchy, and I fought the urge to cough, only compounding the problem.
“What happened?” He was no longer angry. His short burst of anger was replaced with distress as I proceeded to gasp for breath around my coughs. He swept my hair behind my shoulder and studied the ligature marks around my neck as he gently stroked my back.
“You know the French and their garrotes,” I joked, but he wasn’t amused. “Nick took care of him.” Shutting my eyes, I remembered how badly I wanted to pull the trigger. Thank god, Abelard was dead.
“Good. I hope he gets a commendation.” His tone was eerily sincere. I nodded in agreement as he started the car and pulled away from the hospital parking lot. “Where to?” he asked, caressing my back as I got the coughing under control.
“Shouldn’t you be at work? You can just drop me off at my place, and I’ll take it from there.” I put him through enough today, and I didn’t want to deprive him of his main joy in life, his job.
“I’m the boss. I can play hooky anytime I want, and right now, that’s exactly what I want.”
Gracing him with an appreciative smile, I considered my prescriptions. “Drugstore then my place.” I rested against the seat and avoided looking at the speedometer. Martin had a habit of driving like he was trying to place at the Indy 500.
“Condoms and sex, got it.” He raised an eyebrow and winked.
Laughing slightly, I was glad he dropped the serious edge. “That sounds like more fun than cough drops, painkillers, and something cold to drink. Not to mention, the pool of blood on my floor that I don’t want to deal with anytime soon.”
“Well, those aren’t mutually exclusive events, except for the blood on the floor thing.” He missed our verbal sparring over the past week. “You don’t have to go home. You can stay at my place,” he offered, but I shook my head.