by Susan Fleet
He looked out the window. Reinforcements had arrived, two big black Hummers rolling down the street toward the house.
“Benjamin Stoltz.” An electronically magnified voice floating through the window. “You’re surrounded. Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up and you won’t be hurt!”
Won’t be hurt. The cops giving him the Big Lie.
He peered out the window. Forewarned by the Belinda-bitch, the cops would be wearing body armor. That would lower the body count. He needed a better victim pool. And pain meds. He wiped blood from the bridge of his nose and laughed aloud, delighted at the conjunction of needs. His mind fizzed like Coke shaken in a can, foaming with possibilities.
Time to leave this filthy gutted house and go to a hospital.
He raced downstairs to the cupboard below the smelly sink where his arsenal was hidden. Those cops were in for a surprise.
Five minutes later he opened one of the second floor windows that faced the back yard. Two uniforms were creeping alongside the one-story house behind this one. Pelted with rain and drenched to the skin, the lead officer, a tall rugged-looking guy bulked out with body armor, reached the corner of the neighboring house and stopped. The cop behind him was wearing body armor too, but he was short and stocky, with a thick neck.
Perfect. Special Ops rules: In an ambush, pick off the rear man first.
He took out an all-carbon Blackhawk-4000 arrow and set it onto his crossbow. The 30-inch projectile had three yellow feathers at one end, a killer hunting tip at the other. The shot would be tricky due to the wind and rain, but he had confidence in his ability. Months of practice at the Special Ops target range had prepared him.
He took a deep breath, held it and released the arrow.
The short stocky cop fell to the ground with an arrow through his neck.
The first cop heard him fall and turned to look. No chance at that cop’s neck. He set another Blackhawk onto the crossbow, took aim and let it go.
His target went down, clutching his thigh. The other one wasn’t moving.
Excellent. The bow had served its purpose, a silent deadly weapon to create a diversion so he could escape. But he didn’t have much time.
He ran downstairs to the side door. The Diva’s flute lay on the floor. He planted his foot on one end, grabbed the other end with his hand and yanked. The Diva’s precious flute bent in half like a platinum Gummy Bear. With a grim smile, he threw it on the floor.
“The bitch will never play this flute again, Oz.”
Inside the wire-mesh cage, his precious little bunny gazed up at him.
His heart melted. Oz had been his faithful companion for the last three years. Always overjoyed to see him. Delighted to snuggle against him. Always wanting to be petted and stroked. Someone else would have to take care of his Wizard of Oz now.
“I hate to leave you, Oz. You’ve been my one true companion, the only creature in the world that loves me. But you can’t come with me.”
Couldn’t come with him because he was on a mission, the most important mission of his life and probably the last.
He broke down the Bushmaster, jammed it into his knapsack with the ammo and other supplies. Holding the Ruger, he ran to the back of the house and looked out a window. Forty yards to his right, pelted by rain, a crowd of cops encircled the two men he’d shot with the crossbow, dismayed and distracted, all thought of capturing the fugitive forgotten. For now.
He eased open the window. Rain stung his face. Levering himself over the sill, he dropped to the ground and took off running, the knapsack in one hand, the Ruger in the other. Seconds later he vaulted a low cedar-plank fence and sprinted to the street that paralleled the rear of the gutted house.
The safe-house that was no longer safe, thanks to the Belinda-bitch.
Pain pounded his forehead. She would pay for this. He didn’t know how, but he intended to find her and make her pay. His final mission.
He heard more sirens approaching, an undulating wail. He sprinted across the street and ran alongside a house with boarded-up windows, feet squishing in the rain-soaked grass. This was the danger point. He didn’t know how wide a perimeter the cops had established. If he ran into a patrol car, he would have to shoot it out and he didn’t want to do that. Not yet.
Breathing hard, he raced through tall weeds between two gutted houses, slowed as he approached the next street. Solid sheets of rain had drenched his clothes, and his skin felt clammy. His mind churned, ordering priorities.
First, he needed a vehicle. During the torrential rains that often hit New Orleans, most residents stayed inside unless they had urgent business. All he had to do was find someone who did have urgent business.
Someone in a vehicle. Someone to drive him to a hospital.
Then, badaboom. Doomsday in New Orleans.
CHAPTER 41
Frank flipped through an old issue of Sports Illustrated with unseeing eyes. The hall door was closed, but faint announcements from the PA system filtered into the small windowless waiting room. City Hospital had replaced Charity as the go-to facility for trauma victims. Charity was much larger but it had sustained massive damage during Katrina and hadn’t reopened.
A lamp on the corner table gave off a cheery glow, but he didn’t feel cheery. He felt stymied. Frustrated. He wanted to go capture Stoltz.
A rap on the hall door, then Kelly’s voice: “Frank, you in there?”
About time. He set the magazine on a table and stood. “Come on in.”
Dressed in a rain-soaked hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans tucked into all-weather boots, Kelly stepped into the room, tracking mud over the institutional-gray carpet. “Where’s Belinda? How is she?”
He gestured at an inner door that faced the hall. “In there with the doctor. When I picked her up she looked like a war refuge, face streaked with dirt, hair matted to her head. I snuck her in through the side entrance. A nurse brought us up here to wait for the doctor.”
“Who’s the doctor?” Kelly said.
“Iris Golden.”
“Excellent. She does a lot of the rape exams. How’s Belinda?”
“Hard to tell. When the nurse asked if she wanted to wash up and brush her hair, Belinda said she just wanted to sleep. I think she wants to pretend this is all a bad dream, but Stoltz is still out there. She’s lucky to be alive.”
“That’s for sure. His sister said he served in the military.”
“Yeah? You didn’t mention that before.”
Kelly flashed a cool-your-jets grin. “The damsel detective did her due diligence, called Rachel back and questioned her. She said they lived in Rhode Island until 1985. Then they moved to Massachusetts.”
“That’s where Belinda met Rachel, in an All-State Orchestra. Maybe he spotted her then. But his parents are dead now, and Rachael lives in Atlanta.”
“So Rachael said, but who knows? I could tell she didn’t want to talk to me. If Stoltz was in the military, he’d have had weapons training. We need a warrant to access the military data base.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, imagining various scenarios, none of them good. His cell phone rang. When he answered, Vobitch yelled, “He shot two cops with a fucking bow! One’s got an arrow through his neck. The other cop took one in the thigh. SWAT’s ready to enter the house, but I’m not sure he’s still there.”
His gut lurched, a sickening freefall. “Did anyone see him leave?”
“No, but the cops he shot were behind the house. It was fucking chaos back there. He might have escaped during the confusion.”
“What about the van?”
“Still there. If he split, he’s on foot, but who knows for how long?”
“Kelly’s here. I asked her to come to the hospital in case we needed a female cop in the exam room. She talked to the sister again. Stoltz served in the military. Can we get a warrant to get into the military data base?”
“Military. Jesus-fucking-Christ! Frank, I saw some bad shit in Harlem, but
I’ve never seen anything like this. The fucking arrow’s embedded in his neck! In one side and out the other.”
His stomach churned like a coffee-grinder. “We need that warrant. If we access his military records, we might get a better handle on him.”
“I’ll take care of it. I already put out another bulletin to the radio and TV stations. Where’s the Scully woman?”
“In a critical-care suite on the top floor of City Hospital. A doctor’s with her now. Kelly and I are right outside in a waiting room.”
“Let's keep in touch by cell phone,” Vobitch said. “The radio chatter will be fierce once SWAT enters the house.”
He closed his cell and said to Kelly, “He shot two cops. One’s got an arrow in his neck. Another one took it in the leg. Vobitch thinks Stoltz might have left the house.”
“Arrows?” Her face paled and her eyes widened. “This guy’s a maniac.”
“Right. A well-prepared maniac.”
“It could have been you,” she said, gazing at him, horror-stricken.
“Well, it wasn’t.” But she was right: it could have been his neck with an arrow in it.
“Want to call Rachael? Maybe you can get more out of her.”
“Good idea.” He opened his cell phone. “Give me the number.”
______
He loped through the rain, splashing through puddles, laboring under the weight of the knapsack that held his Bushmaster M4, extra ammo and other supplies. He rounded the corner of a house and stopped.
Twenty yards away, a tan Mazda MPV stood at a traffic light.
Rain pelted the pavement, driven sideways by the gusty wind. The street was deserted, not another car in sight. Approaching from the rear, he trotted to the MPV and peered through the back window. A woman alone in the car. Perfect. Gripping the Ruger in one hand, he crept to the passenger side door and dropped the knapsack.
In one swift motion he yanked open the door and leveled the Ruger at the woman’s head. “Freeze or you’re dead.”
Her head swiveled, her mouth sagged open, and he was inside.
Training the Ruger on her with one hand, he hauled the knapsack inside with the other and slammed the door. Paralyzed by fear, she gaped at him, a chubby-faced woman, early twenties, her dirty-blond hair twisted into twin ponytails that flopped over her ears.
“Don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be fine. We’re taking a ride.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Please don’t hurt me. My baby’s in the backseat.”
Fuck-all! He turned and saw the kid, about a year old, bright-red cheeks, staring at him with dull glazed eyes.
“Do what I say, and you and junior will be fine.”
“Lucy,” the woman said in a high-pitched voice. “Her name is Lucy.”
“Whatever.” He didn’t give a damn what the kid’s name was. She wasn’t old enough to talk, much less cause trouble.
He saw the traffic light turn green.
“Drive to the nearest I-10 entrance and get on heading west.”
The woman gnawed her lip. “I have to take Lucy to the doctor. She’s got a bad fever.”
“Not now you don’t. You’re gonna take me where I want to go. Drive like your life depends on it because it does. Yours and the kid’s.”
Her mouth contorted in anguish. She gripped the wheel and accelerated. At the next corner she turned onto a wide boulevard, following a sign for the I-10 entrance.
He heard sirens. Looked in the side-view mirror. Saw flashing blue lights behind them. “Pull over and let them go by.” He touched the muzzle of the Ruger to her head to make sure she did. Then he squirmed into the foot-well beside the knapsack and ducked below the dash.
The woman pulled over.
The sirens grew louder and a police car flew by, lights flashing.
“Very good. Now get going. Take me to Lakeside Hospital. My wife’s having a baby.” This was almost fun, making things up on the fly.
The woman glanced at him and quickly looked away. “Why didn’t you call a cab?”
“Shut up and drive.”
The kid in the back seat whimpered, a soft petulant sound.
“Please, you can have the car. Just let us out and take it.”
“No, keep going.”
Her face puckered and tears rolled down her cheeks.
She swerved, and they hit something.
“If you crash this car, you and the kid are history.”
“It was a trash can. I couldn’t help—”
“Shut up and drive!”
The kid shrieked as if stabbed by a knife.
______
“No answer,” Frank said, and closed his cell phone.
“You think she’s in cahoots with the brother?” Kelly said.
“Could be. I think he’s been stalking Belinda for years. He was savvy enough to get a fake ID from the guy in London, ruthless enough to run her off the road to get her to hire him. After Jake fired him, he poisoned the brownies and got the Goines kid to deliver them. He claimed he was in Atlanta during the supposed break-in at Belinda’s house. The sister lives in Atlanta. She’s stonewalling you and—”
He broke off as the door to Belinda’s room opened. Doctor Iris Golden stepped into the anteroom and shut Belinda’s door. A handsome woman in her fifties, Golden was tall and slender, with warm brown eyes and dark hair streaked with gray. She beamed Kelly a smile. “Hi, Kelly, how are you?”
“I’m good, Doctor. Have you met Frank?”
“Briefly, before I examined Belinda.”
No high-wattage smile for him, Frank noticed. “How’s she doing?”
“Reasonably well, given the circumstances. Her heart-rate, pulse and blood pressure are elevated, but that’s to be expected. I was going to do a rape-kit exam, but she said it wasn’t necessary.” Golden gave him a grim look. “He was about to rape her when you phoned this morning.”
“Jesus,” he muttered. If he hadn’t called . . .
“She wouldn’t tell me about what happened later. She’s in shock and I didn’t want to push it. I asked if there was anyone she wanted to call, but she said no.”
“Her family died in a car accident years ago,” he said. No need to mention that Belinda had no friends to call in an emergency. The doctor was smart enough to figure that out.
“I’m going to admit her,” Golden said, jotting notes on a form clamped to her clipboard. “I want to observe her for twenty-four hours in case she has any adverse reactions.”
“Can I talk to her?”
Golden gave him a stern look. “Not now. She needs to rest. I’ve given her a sedative to help her sleep. When she wakes up, she might need to talk to someone. Will you be here, Kelly?”
“Frank and I will stay with her,” Kelly said.
Frank said nothing. Kelly could stay, but he wouldn’t. Not with Stoltz out there. Stoltz was a ticking time bomb with an arsenal, packing a rifle, shooting cops with arrows, no telling what he’d do next.
______
The woman kept crying, great gulping sobs, tears pouring down her cheeks. Traffic on the Interstate was light, cars creeping along, splashing through puddles, windshield wipers working furiously. The kid had settled into a continuous whimper, a grating sound that aggravated his headache.
To drown out the whimper he punched on the radio. A commercial was on, touting Extra-strength Excedrin for headaches. He smiled at the irony.
He had the mother of all headaches.
Because The Diva had gored him with her fucking screwdriver.
The commercial ended and a news-bulletin jingle sounded.
“Updating the hostage crisis we reported earlier,” said a male voice, “the woman escaped. Police have taken her to a hospital, no word on her condition. SWAT teams have surrounded a house where they believe the kidnapper is hiding. He’s described as a white male, six feet tall, with reddish-brown hair. If you see this man, police ask you to call 9-1-1. Do not approach him. He is armed and extremely dangerous.”<
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The woman made a keening sound in her throat, and the kid let out an ear-splitting scream.
“Shut up!” How could he think with them blubbering? He shut off the radio. The cops thought he was still in the house. Good. The Diva hadn’t told them he’d shaved his head. Also good. Police had taken her to a hospital. No news on her condition. But what about his condition?
He pressed a hand to his forehead, his excruciatingly painful forehead. He lowered his hand. Saw blood on his fingers. Clenched his fist.
If he knew where that bitch was, he’d go there and kill her.
Think, you idiot. Where would they take her?
To a trauma center of course, but not Charity. Charity was closed.
Then he recalled the newspaper article about his Belinda-substitute—the one whose nose he’d broken.
“Change in plans,” he said. “Take the next exit.”
Gripping the wheel, the woman eased into the exit lane, still sobbing, but quieter now. Rain thundered on the MPV roof. They passed a strip mall with a Blockbuster and a Sears Auto Center. Two blocks later he spotted a bus stop with a plexi-glass waiting area.
“Pull over at that bus stop. You and junior are getting out.”
She looked at him, a quick glance, then away.
“Your forehead is bleeding,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Well, aren’t you sweet, worrying about my bloody forehead.”
She parked beside the bus stop and shot him another quick glance. Was she worried about the gash on his brow? No, she was looking at his gun.
“You got a cell phone?” he said.
“Yes. In my purse.” She sniffled, sucking snot down her throat.
“Throw the purse over here by my feet.”
She took a big leather pouch off the center console and tossed it into the foot-well at his feet.
“When you get out, I’ll have my gun on junior. You do anything stupid, I’ll shoot him.”
“I won’t do anything stupid. Please don’t hurt my baby.”
He smiled. “See how nice I am, finding you a nice dry place to wait out of the rain? Go.”