She still didn’t answer him. Only after more encouragement did she slowly inched her way out from under the truck. Nick immediately began checking her over.
“Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked. “I don’t see anything. Let me look at your back.”
She bent forward.
“Am I shot? Did he get me? …I rolled under the truck, but I don’t know. Do you see anything? Am I shot?” She was crying.
He stood her up and hugged her. “Everything looks okay. He missed. He didn’t get you. I thought ….” He stopped talking and kissed her lips, her cheek, her forehead. She was unresponsive.
“He held a gun on me,” she managed through gulps of air. “He told me that if I didn’t go with him he would just start killing people. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did the only thing you could do. Everything’s okay now.”
“No, it’s not!” she shouted. “He’s still out there. This will never end. I didn’t think it would be like this. Is this how you live? Is this how it is?”
Nick held her and after a moment said, “Will you be all right by yourself?”
She stared at him. “Don’t leave me Nick. I’m scared.”
“I’ve got to get him, babe. You said it yourself, he’ll just come back. I have to stop him. Go inside. You’ll be safe there. Help is almost here.”
He turned her around and walked a few steps with her towards the party, before turning back to his car. She looked at him once but continued on, zombie-like.
Nick dropped the magazine out of his pistol, reloaded with one of his two spares and took off running.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Nick reached over his left shoulder for his seatbelt, sucked-in a half breath, choked-back a grunt, exhaled, and followed it with a series of short, quick breaths until the pain eased. It felt like somebody landed with both heels on his chest. He twisted front again and gently put his fingers to the impact point of Moby’s bullet. The fabric of his shirt and vest had holes in them. Somewhere in there should be the slug, he told himself. As much as he wiggled his finger into the hole, though, he couldn’t feel it.
The trouble wasn’t just the pain. His chest felt all soppy wet, too. He hoped it was just sweat and not blood. The vest he had on was supposed to stop any handgun bullet, but when you’re the one who gets shot, ‘supposed to’ doesn’t give you a whole lot of comfort.
After he drove out onto the street, he dropped a hand down and ran his fingertips along the bottom of his vest. They came away without any blood on them. If I am bleeding, it’s not bad, he thought. It still hurts like hell, though.
He gingerly leaned over and switched on his red lights and siren. Thirty seconds later, he blew the intersection at Edenvale and Monterey Highway to a chorus of angry horns.
As he continued south, over the scanner he heard patrol units setting up at various intersections across the city looking for the white GMC Envoy. Nick knew Moby could have literally gone in any direction, but he had an idea of where he might be headed.
He flipped open his cell phone and scrolled through the menu until he found the number he wanted and pushed the call button.
“Deputy Palmer?” Nick queried.
“That’s me, who’s this?”
“It’s Zajac. You anywhere near the airport?”
“Zajac? …Oh yeah, not really but what do you need?”
“Can you get over there and see if you spot Moby or his plane. He just tried to kill a witness. He may be wounded and looking for a hole to crawl into.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Be careful, man. He’s armed and shooting at anyone who tries to stop him.”
“What’s he got?”
“A pistol; probably a forty cal. He may have others, though. At one time he had a rifle and a .22 pistol. He’s also driving a white GMC Envoy.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in five or so and give you a call if I see anything.”
Over the phone, Nick could hear the deputy’s car engine wind-out. “Thanks, I’m headed your way. It’s the only place I can think of where he might go.”
Nick transitioned onto Highway 101 south and pushed his Ford up to ninety plus. Even at that speed, when he should have his full attention on the road, he couldn’t help thinking about how close Ellen came to dying. The bastard had tried to kill her for no other reason than to show he was more cleaver than anyone else. His identity was already known at that point; his guilt already established. Killing her wouldn’t help him one bit. He just wanted to do it; take a life and give the finger to everyone else at the same time. He had to be stopped. The man was evil.
When Nick saw the San Martin Ave exit sign showing one mile ahead, he dialed Palmer again but only got his voicemail. He had hoped to have heard back from him by now.
Just before he exited the freeway, he cut his red lights and siren. Moments later, he turned left onto Murphy. As he reached the north end of the airport, he spotted a car with its parking lights on, stopped inside the perimeter fence a short distance from the runway. Its silhouette showed a light bar on top, so Nick braked hard, reversed, and turned into the airport.
The South County Airport was the smallest in the county with one badly patched and unlit landing strip surrounded by two foot high weeds. It ran north and south with Hwy 101 bordering the eastern edge. On the west side were several service buildings. This was also where the planes were parked. There was no control tower or regular staffing in place and, except for the car with its lights on, the airport looked unattended.
Nick parked several car lengths away and stood for a moment behind his car door surveying the area. The other car’s engine was running and the driver’s door was standing open. He could hear Palmer’s police radio muttering away inside. The surrounding area was mostly dark, and there was nobody in-sight. In the distance, he could hear traffic on the freeway, big trucks mostly. All this left him with a lonely, isolated, vulnerable feeling.
Nick drew his pistol and approached the Sheriff’s car with his head and eyes in constant motion. Halfway there, he saw the outside of Palmer’s left knee and lower leg and concluded that he was lying across the front seat of the car with his butt in the driver’s position and his head and shoulders in the passenger area.
Nick broke into a run to check on the deputy. Two or three strides into it, he heard two shots and felt a burning sensation to his right calf. He continued on, though, and threw himself against the side of the car, next to the driver’s door. The pain from his new wound blossomed like a mushroom cloud rising above ground zero.
Nick felt his leg with his free hand, and this time it came away covered in blood. Another shot sounded and a bullet impacted the open car door, so he scooted on his side around the front fender, away from the source of the shots. He kept moving around the car to the passenger side where he opened the passenger door and checked on Palmer’s condition.
It didn’t take Nick long to realize that the deputy was dead. There was an entry wound behind his left ear and an exit hole in his forehead. Blood covered the floor on the right front passenger side.
Nick reached for the mic to alert Sheriff’s dispatch and discovered that only bare wires were at the end of the cord. Moby had ripped the mic off. Palmer’s handheld was missing, too, so Nick went to his cell phone to call for help. The pain in his leg was coming-on strong.
He hadn’t even punched-in the first number when his phone rang. The screen showed Palmer’s number calling — so Moby.
“I’m going to kill you, Moby,” he said.
“That’s the spirit, Nick. You and I fighting it out. Best man wins and all that sorta shit; that’d be me of course. …Hey, got you again, didn’t I? Does it hurt much?”
Nick peeked over the right-rear fender of the Sheriff’s car and thought he saw the glow from the cell phone at the corner of a building about thirty yards away. He fired a round right at it.
“Eww-ee, that was close,” Moby said over the phone. He fired two shots back, skipping
them under the rear of the car. They came only inches from Nick’s knee and foot that were positioned behind the right rear tire. “Right back at you, motherfucker.”
Nick crawled back to the open passenger door and searched Palmer’s duty belt for his pistol and spare ammunition. All were missing. He thought for a second on what to do next, then leaned across Palmer’s body, put the car in drive, and, as it started to roll, he cranked the wheel so it was headed right towards Moby. Once it was on-target, Nick moved to the back of the car and used it as a shield, limping in a crouch behind it. Two more bullets hit the car’s windshield.
“Coming to get you!” Nick shouted out loud.
When the car was ten feet or so away, Nick fired a couple of rounds at the corner of the building just to keep Moby off balance. Three seconds later, the Sheriff’s car hit the end of the building and Nick stepped out from behind it ready to shoot but found Moby was no longer there.
There was another long, single-story, rectangular structure to the left of the one Moby had been hiding behind and three more to the right. The three to the right were constructed out of corrugated steel so Nick assumed these served as either hangers for airplanes or workshops. Beyond that he could see several small, fixed-wing airplanes parked on a paved area and more buildings behind them.
Not sure which way Moby went, Nick took a chance and went to the right, figuring Moby would be trying to sneak around behind him and he could meet him head-on. He hopped to the corner and took a quick look between the two buildings. He didn’t see anything, so started moving along the wall toward the far end, which was at least forty yards away. Over the phone he heard Moby say, “You still there Nick? You haven’t gone and died on me have you.”
Nick stopped walking long enough to look for and hit the ‘end’ button on his phone and then punch-in the numbers for the San Jose dispatcher center. Enough of this bullshit, he thought; time for reinforcements. As soon as Nick heard a voice on the other end of the line, he saw Moby step out from the far end of the building and fire twice. One of the bullets hit the side of the building, and Nick thought he heard the second whiz-by his head. In response, he dropped the phone, moved away from wall, took a two-hand stance, and fired twice back. Moby ducked back out of sight, and Nick stooped to pick-up his phone only to discover that he had crushed it with his foot when he stepped away from the building.
At that point, Nick backtracked, trying to get to his car and call for help via his radio. When he reached the corner of the building, he pressed his back flat against it so he could look forward and back by just turning his head. His calf was really hurting at this point. He could feel the lower half of his pants leg sticking to his skin because it was soaked with blood. He gave it a few seconds in the hope that the pain would ease-up a little. It didn’t.
An airplane engine started up to his right. Moby. He was getting away.
Nick peeked around the corner, but it was too dark to see anything. He was able to determine that the engine sound was coming from the area of the airport where planes were lined up on a paved strip of ground. Regardless of the personal risk, Nick just couldn’t let Moby get away.
He turned the corner and did an awkward hop-run to the side of the next building. He stopped again, took the weight off his leg as much as possible, and peered around the corner of this building toward the noise. This time he could vaguely see some activity about thirty-five yards away, somewhat in the middle of the line of parked and tethered planes. He moved out from the end of the building to where he thought he had the best shot, and fired a series of shots at the cab of the plane with the running engine. His pistol’s slide locked back open, indicating he was out of bullets, so Nick depressed the eject button and dropped the empty magazine.
Moby stepped into view from the far side of a different airplane.
Nick jammed a fresh magazine into his pistol.
Moby fired.
Nick thumbed the slide release, felt the impact of Moby’s bullets, and fired as he staggered back. As his knees buckled, he saw Moby bend at the waist to one side, do a half spin, and start down. Nick landed on his butt and from there fell to his back. He laid there for a couple of seconds feeling a whole new set of pains before trying to raise his head to see if Moby was still moving, but found he couldn’t. He then tried to lift just his gun hand to shoot his remaining bullets in the direction he last saw Moby (hoping for a lucky hit) but couldn’t raise his arm either. After that, everything just went dark.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Nick, wearing a pair of blue shorts and a gray SJPD Academy tee shirt, sat sideways at the kitchen table, slouched on a chair with his bandaged right leg propped on a pillow which, in turn, was propped on a different kitchen chair. His right arm was in a sling and a second bandage covered the right side of his neck, extending all the way to the shoulder. Stubble showed on his cheeks and neck. His left forearm rested on the kitchen table. A cup of coffee sat nearby.
At the sink, his mother rinsed a plate and laid it on the drain board, up-side-down, to dry. Max lay on his side at her feet, eyes closed.
“Time for your pain pill,” she said.
“I’ll give it some more time. They make me feel funny.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
“I’ll see how I feel in an hour.” He was feeling cranky and not inclined to being diplomatic. If he thought he could get away with it he’d stay at his own place. She’d give him nothing but grief, though.
“So what did the doctor say?” Terrie Callister asked. “When can you go back to work?”
She was leaning with the small of her back against the counter top, holding a cup and saucer. It was her first visit since Nick had been released from the hospital. There was still tension between the two of them over Ellen.
“At least a month. After that it depends on how physical therapy goes.”
Outside, Nick heard a car door close and saw the head and shoulders of his partner as he passed-by the kitchen windows headed toward the back door. When Al entered, the dog raised its head, looked at him, dropped it back down again, and wagged its tail a couple of times making a thumping sound on the floor.
“Hey, what smells so good,” Al said as he opened a cabinet, grabbed a coffee cup, and helped himself to the coffee. “How’s it go, Terrie?”
“Good. You know ….”
“I just baked some coffee cake,” Ann replied. “Can I cut you a slice?”
“Well, since you offered, wouldn’t want to be rude. Hey Nick, I brought you something.”
Al sat down and slid a sheet of paper across the table to him.
Nick picked it up and saw that it was a copy of a handwritten note.
“Dear Nick: Sorry I couldn’t stick around and shoot you some more, but the dogs were at the gate. I think it’s actually better this way, don’t you? We’ll both get a chance to do it all again. I’ll be in touch. M.”
“Where’d this come from?”
Ann set a small plate with a slice of coffee cake on it, in front of Al.
“Our feds got it from the Mexican feds, who got it from the cockpit of his plane.”
Terrie pushed off from the counter, set her cup down, and walked behind Nick. She reached over his shoulder and took the sheet of paper out of his hand.
Nick looked back at her mildly annoyed. “No, I mean where, like in where was his plane found?”
Al took a bite of the cake and with his mouth full said, “Oh, on the Mexican side of the Arizona – Mexico border. Supposedly, the pilot’s seat was covered in blood so they figured he’s probably using his drug connections to get treatment and using money he has stashed to pay for it. Sounds like you got him pretty good.”
Yeah, and he got me pretty good, too. “Any idea where in Mexico he is?”
“If they know, they aren’t saying. But I don’t think they have a clue. They’re feds, not real cops. You can’t expect too much.”
Terrie put the piece of paper back down on the table and walked back to her cup
and saucer.
“It’d be nice to know. If they knew for sure he’s in Mexico, it might make people feel better.”
“She’ll be back, Nick. You just have to give her some time,” Ann said. “She cares for you very much.”
Nick looked at her and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“She stayed until she was sure you were all right. That shows how important you are to her. But you have to put yourself in her place. She’d be living her life in a prison. She couldn’t operate her business. She couldn’t even go out of her house without a bodyguard. She would be completely dependent on you. Eventually, she’d resent it and maybe even hate you for it. She has to have a life of her own, to love someone back.”
“We could have figured something out. Look, let’s just change the subject, okay?”
“Hey, I got an idea Nick; why don’t you quit your job and go live with her.” Terrie said.
Nick shook his head. He was starting to get pissed off. “Get real, huh.”
“So, in other words you’re not willing to give-up what’s important to you for her, but you want her to do it for you.”
“That’s not the way it is.” When did you become Ellen’s new best friend?
“That’s exactly the way it is.”
“Lighten-up, will you.”
“Yeah, why should I. You may be a good cop but you don’t know jack about women.”
“Here’s a good one for you,” Al said. “You guys know what a Polish mine detector is?”
“Aloysius, if you finish that joke, you’re out of here,” Ann said.
“Just trying to help the mood.”
“Well, help it some other way.”
Nick turned to Al, “Can you bring me my notebook and a copy of the case file?”
“Sure. Whadda you got in mind?”
“What do we really know about Moby? I want to find out everything I can about him; talk to the people he worked with in Ohio, his friends, schoolmates, teachers, foster parents, family, anyone who knows anything about him. That narc in Arizona, or even the one in San Francisco, maybe they have a snitch into the people he hangs with in Mexico who can locate him. We never had time to check out all the people he called with his cell phone, either. I have nothing better to do.”
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