The Bishop pbf-4

by Steven James

  I saw no movement in the parking area. Heard no footsteps.

  No, no, no!

  The door behind me burst open, and I spun, aiming, saw Doehring rush in. I immediately lowered my weapon and turned my attention to the parking area again. “Mollie,” I said, “is she safe?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t found her yet.” He was out of breath. His eyes had found the latex glove. “Is the guy in here?”

  “I don’t know. You go left. I’ll go-”

  Wait a minute.

  The freight elevator, Pat… they opened the elevator doors to slow you down… last night Aria waited at the scene… didn’t leave until after emergency personnel arrived…

  After.

  After.

  Assume the greater threat.

  Two not one.

  Doehring noticed my hesitation. “What is it?”

  “Stay here by the door. Make sure no one doubles back. Get this garage sealed off. And have security check every car. Trunks included.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  I ran back inside and surveyed the hallway: the elevator, the hall I’d come down, and saw a door I hadn’t noticed before because my eyes were on the elevator.

  A sign read: Restricted Access. Authorized Personnel Only.

  Oh yeah.

  That would be it.

  Astrid and Brad were making their way through a sprawling room, dark and cluttered, their path lit only by an exit sign fifty feet ahead of them. “The glove,” she said. “It was a good idea.”

  “I hope so.” Brad seemed unsure. Uneasy. “This one’s smart. This agent. Somehow he found us.”

  I felt along the wall, found a light switch, flicked it on. A line of fluorescents blinked on one at a time, in a long, methodical row. “There’s no way out,” I called, hoped it was true.

  I saw no one in the vast room.

  Stall, stall, stall.

  Slow them down.

  “We have this hotel sealed off.” I moved forward cautiously. “Step out now with your hands in the air!”

  The storage room was cavernous, stretching nearly the length of the hotel, and was filled with stacks of chairs, end tables, beds, TV cabinets, and mirrors-the leftover furniture from the hotel’s recent renovations.

  Literally hundreds of places to hide. But a cleared path led straight through the middle.

  I took another quiet step.

  Heard a scraping sound ahead of me to the left and swung my gun toward it.

  Then a gunshot.

  Impact.

  The bullet slammed into my left arm as the sound reverberated, echoed, thundered through the room. The force spun me around, nearly threw me to the ground, but I managed to pivot behind an old television cabinet with four mirrors leaning against it before dropping to the concrete floor.

  Astrid was standing next to the exit door when Brad shot the FBI agent.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice low, accusatory.

  “Sending him a message.”

  He scurried across the aisle to join her.

  “You’re not playing this smart anymore.” She grabbed his hand, pulled him outside; she heard sirens whining. “You’re going to ruin everything.”

  “No, I-”

  “Quiet.”

  The alley stretched in both directions.

  Left or right?

  A choice. She made it.

  They ran.

  Blood all over.

  It felt like someone had slammed a sledgehammer against my left biceps, and the pain made it almost impossible to think.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to concentrate on the scene.

  The scene.

  The scene.

  A moment ago, I’d heard the exit door at the far end of the room bang shut.

  Oh, man, that hurts.

  Three possibilities: both suspects left the building, one was still here, or both were still inside and they’d just opened the door to trick me, lure me out.

  Thick pain chugged through my shoulder, up my neck, then broke apart like an explosion of glass in my head.

  Focus, Pat.

  Focus!

  I’d passed my gun to my left hand and was instinctively pressing my right hand against the wound to slow the bleeding, but now I removed it, and a quick check told me the bullet had both entered and exited my arm-a through and through.

  It was bleeding heavily but not spurting, so I doubted there was arterial damage, and I didn’t see or feel any obvious fractures, so that was a good sign, but the blood and the pain made it impossible to tell.

  I needed my gun in my right hand, and that meant I had to find another way to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. I yanked off my belt and braced myself because the pain was about to get a lot worse.

  Gritting my teeth, I wrapped the belt around the wound, slipped the end through the buckle. I didn’t need a tourniquet, but by tugging it tightly I could make a crude pressure bandage.

  Do it, Pat.

  Come on, come on!

  I clenched my teeth and pulled the belt snug.

  A shower of hot light broke apart inside my head. Breath escaped me.

  Focus.

  Focus!

  I secured the belt. My arm flared again. Dizzying pain.

  Eyes squinched shut, I leaned back against the cabinet.

  Tried to catch my breath.

  The exit door.

  Don’t let them get away.

  Before I could make a move, I needed to know where the suspects were, so I tilted one of the nearby mirrors to see down the corridor between the pieces of furniture.

  No one.

  Strategically they had the advantage. There were two of them, at least one was armed. They might be anywhere.

  I pulled out my phone, called Doehring, whispered, hoarse, out of breath, “The perimeter. Is it up?”

  “It should be.”

  Should be.

  The suspects could already be gone.

  “The south side of the building,” I struggled to keep the pain out of my voice, “get officers there now. The suspects are armed. Proceed with extreme caution-there might be only one person; I’m not sure.”

  End call.

  You’re hit. They’re armed.

  I ought to wait. I really ought Screw it.

  I stood and leveled my gun, then spun around the cabinet, and trying to move my left arm as little as possible, headed toward the exit door watching for any movement as I raced through the room.

  Saw nothing.

  No one.

  I arrived at the exit. Threw my body against the pressure bar, and the door flew open.

  A quick visual sweep.

  Just an alley, a dumpster.

  No fleeing suspects.

  No one.

  I checked in and around the dumpster.

  Clear.

  Both streets lay about forty meters away, and I had no idea which direction the suspects might have fled.

  Sirens, but no officers in sight.

  Would the suspects split up? Go different directions?

  Splitting up made sense, but obviously I could only check one street at a time. I chose the one to the right and ran toward it.

  At the corner, here’s what I saw: a ponytailed jogger, typical DC traffic, a woman facing the crosswalk pushing a stroller, three young children straggling behind her. Across the intersection four businessmen were looking the other way waiting for a light to change.

  No one who fit either Aria’s or the unidentified man’s build. No one who was acting suspicious or even looking in this direction.

  No!

  The other street. They went the other way through the alley.

  With this much time elapsed since they’d left the building, I doubted it would do any good to check the other street, but I needed to be thorough. I started toward it.

  But only seconds later two burly officers burst through the basement door and swept into th
e alley. “I’m Agent Bowers, FBI.” I pointed to one of the men. “Check the other street”-then to the other-“Get back in there and guard the exit. They might still be inside.”

  The officers obeyed.

  More sirens.

  The streets were being sealed off.

  Too late. It’s all too late!

  Every time my heart beat, my arm throbbed. My vision blurred. I leaned my weight against the wall.

  Another officer emerged from the door, and I had him radio dispatch to stop traffic and have officers detain and question everyone on the streets on both ends of the alley.

  “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.

  “Go.”

  When he left, I noticed that the woman with the young children was staring at me. She looked pale. I saw her swallow and then direct her children to follow her toward the pedestrian crosswalk.

  The blood.

  The blood on your arm.

  Wait.

  She hadn’t been facing the alley when I ran to the street, but there was a good chance one of her kids might have seen something.

  I holstered my weapon and, pressing my right hand against the wound to hide the blood as much as possible, I approached the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  33

  She didn’t give me her first name, just said that she was “Mrs. Rainey,” and then proceeded to tell me she hadn’t seen anyone leave the alley. “I’m sorry.” She was staring at my arm. “We were going the other way. Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?”

  Probably.

  I looked at her children. A sleeping baby in the stroller. Twin girls about three or four years old. A boy, maybe six. I knelt beside them. The twins eased back, grabbed the legs of their mother. One of them bit the corner of her lower lip and looked like she was about to cry. I couldn’t hide the blood completely, but I turned to the side to hide it as much as I could.

  “I need to get them home,” Mrs. Rainey said.

  “Just one moment. I won’t upset your children. I promise.” She looked at me uneasily, then at my arm, then at the alley where more officers had arrived, and then at the police cars screeching to a stop nearby. Though she was clearly reluctant, she must have realized the importance of my request, because at last she nodded. “Okay.”

  “Listen,” I said to the kids. “Did you see anyone come out of this alley? Just a little while ago? It’s very important.”

  None of them responded.

  I held up the phone’s screen with the picture of Aria Petic that Ralph had sent me. “Did this woman come through here?”

  The children just stared at me.

  I showed them the man pushing the wheelchair. “Or him?”

  Silence.

  “Go on,” their mother said. “Did any of you see them come out from between those two buildings?”

  The girls clung to her. The boy just looked at me suspiciously.

  All right, this was going nowhere. I was feeling queasy from the pain, and I was only upsetting the children.

  Normally, we’d detain potential witnesses a little longer, have another officer follow up, but I didn’t like it that the kids were here at a time like this.

  “I really should go,” Mrs. Rainey said.

  I took down her address and phone number so I could follow up, then I handed her one of my cards. “If any of your children remember anything, anything at all, call me.”

  She accepted the card, and I headed unsteadily toward a park bench to sit down and catch my breath.

  But I hadn’t made it more than three steps when I heard her voice: “Wait.”

  I turned and saw one of her daughters pointing.

  At a taxicab.

  34

  The driver, who astonishingly spoke English as his first language, told me he’d just made a drop off, but hadn’t picked up anyone from this curb for hours.

  Mrs. Rainey asked her daughter again and found out she’d meant that she saw someone get into a taxicab, not that taxicab, which, of course made sense, but still, it frustrated me.

  Another setback.

  The streets were surrounded by officers. No other taxis in sight.

  Margaret had arrived and was walking down the sidewalk toward me.

  This day was just getting better and better.

  I called to the officer I’d spoken to a few minutes ago and told him to get some men to check all the drop-offs and pickups of DC cab companies along this street over the last twenty minutes.

  He eyed my arm. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “I’m fine. Are you listening to me?”

  He didn’t look away from the bloody sleeve. “Yes, sir.”

  I described the suspects and explained that we didn’t know if they were traveling together or separately.

  “If we find their cab and they’re in it, don’t let the driver stop until we can get some undercover officers there waiting for the suspects. Got it?”

  “Yeah.” He was still looking at the blood.

  “Go.”

  He hesitated. “Is your arm-”

  “Go on.”

  He left.

  I started for the bench again, but Margaret was catching up to me. “So you got shot?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

  “I did.”

  “Apprehend anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Shoot anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the suspects well enough to identify them?”

  “No, Margaret.” I made it to the bench. “I did not.”

  A small sigh. “Well, then, sit down before you collapse.”

  “Good idea. Did we find Mollie?”

  “Not yet.”

  I lowered myself onto the bench and cradled my arm in my lap. Tried to calm my breathing.

  She took out her radio and called for a paramedic-ASAP-then addressed me again. “That stunt you pulled at the press conference, oh, that was…” She shook her head in lieu of finishing her sentence, then added, “You have no idea how tenuous your job is right now.”

  Firing someone with my seniority wasn’t easy, but Margaret was a resourceful woman, and with the congressman on her side it wouldn’t be a tough sell to Rodale. “I might,” I said.

  “I will be writing an official reprimand to be placed in your personnel file.”

  That wasn’t exactly at the top of my list of concerns at the moment. “Okay.”

  “But, you led us here. You were close to catching the suspects, and you were wounded by adversarial action, so I won’t be submitting the reprimand. At this time.”

  I blinked.

  How about that.

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She listened carefully as I filled her in on the chase and the shooting. “Mollie Fischer must be somewhere in that hotel,” I concluded.

  “Yes,” Margaret said vaguely. She was looking at Mrs. Rainey and her kids, who were still standing amidst the swirl of law enforcement activity. “You said those children saw something?”

  Beyond her, at the end of the block, I saw an ambulance pulling to a stop at the hotel entrance.

  “Just someone entering a taxi-I think. I’m not even sure about that. They’re not really excited about talking to strangers.”

  “I’ll speak with them.”

  “Um, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “I’m good with children,” she said, and before I could dissuade her, she’d paced over and knelt beside the twin girls.

  35

  “Hello. My name is Mrs. Weeeeeeellington.” Margaret drew out her name in a long, comical way. “That’s kind of a funny name, isn’t it?”

  One of the girls nodded.

  “What’s your name?” Margaret asked.

  “Her name is Lizzie,” Mrs. Rainey answered before the girl had a chance to reply.

  “I’ll bet you’re five years old, aren’t you?” said Margaret, keeping her eyes
on the girl and sounding impressed.

  Lizzie shook her head.

  “Six?”

  Lizzie held up four fingers.

  Margaret dropped her jaw, widened her eyes. “No, you must be more than four! You’re seven, right?”

  Lizzie shook her head. She was smiling.

  “We’re both four,” her sister said.

  Two EMTs in their early thirties-a stocky Caucasian man and a petite Persian woman-stepped out of the ambulance and began walking toward me. The woman carried a large paramedics response kit, the man was pushing a gurney. I had no intention of lying on the gurney, but I didn’t mind seeing that first aid kit.

  “Wow.” Margaret was looking back and forth at the sisters. “You two look like you might be related.”

  “We’re twins!” they shouted.

  Fake surprise. “Really?”

  Both girls nodded.

  To the second girl: “So, is your name Lizzie too?”

  “No!” The girls squealed in unison.

  “I’m Jill,” Lizzie’s twin replied, then pointed to her brother. “And he’s Danny. He’s six.”

  I could hardly believe my eyes. Margaret really was good with kids.

  “You two are big girls,” Margaret said. “And smart too. I can tell. And it’s nice to meet you too, Stanley.”

  He looked at her curiously. “It’s Danny.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mannie.”

  “My name is Danny!” he said impatiently, but he was smiling.

  “Frannie?”

  “Danny!”

  She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Right. Yes. Oh, I’m so sorry, Granny.”

  All three children laughed. He had his hands on his hips. “Danny, Danny, my name is Danny!”

  “Hi, Danny,” she said. “Good to meet you.”

  He groaned.

  Margaret had those kids in the palm of her hand.

  Amazing.

  The paramedics saw where I was sitting and picked up the pace.

  Margaret pointed to the alley. “Tell me about the people who came out of there.” She nodded toward me. “Before this silly-looking man showed up.”

  I’m a silly-looking man. I see.

  “Is he hurt bad?” Danny asked.

  Their eyes shifted to my bloody shirt, and I turned in my seat to show them my good arm.

  “Oh no,” she told them, then said to me, “Show them a funny face, Agent Bowers. Show them you’re not hurt badly.”