No sign of blood anywhere in the apartment. He checked the front-door knob. None there either.
He called Bear. "Any of the guys cut themselves on the entry? Anyone bleeding?"
"Not that I saw."
"You'd better come back here."
"Why?"
"Found some blood."
"Where'd you find it?"
"On my hand."
"Okay. We're up in the office buildings checking out sniper roosts--be there ASAP."
Tim went back onto the landing and looked at the doorknobs of the apartments he'd checked. No blood. He jogged down the stairs, halting halfway. He ran his hand along the dark wooden rail. Toward the bottom, he hit a run of wetness.
He stared at it a moment, then started back up.
Sam's head lolled weakly on his slender neck. "I tried. I tried to be so quiet."
Kaitlin sat on bent knees, wiping the blood from his chin. "Why didn't you call for me?"
Sam's voice came strained through a seized-up voice box. "They would've got him."
Walker stood speechlessly, idiotically, his feet stubbornly planted since Kaitlin had shoved open the bathroom door.
Kaitlin scrambled over to her purse, dumped its contents on the bed, and grabbed the cell phone. Rushing back to Sam, she keyed in three digits. She sat in the blood, cradling Sam's head in her lap, and stared at Walker, her eyes blazing reproach. Sam swayed, a stream of blood spilling over the side of his mouth. His lips goldfished as he dry-heaved.
Sam's eyes rolled north, giving a prize view of his yellowed sclera, and then his body went limp in Kaitlin's arms.
Tim heard the complaint of a window forced open. He sourced the noise to the last apartment Thomas had checked. No one had answered Thomas's knock.
Pressing his ear to the door, he heard murmuring and what sounded like soft sobbing within. Directly in his line of sight on the worn-down sill, a single drop of blood stood out, flecked at the perimeter with tiny splash petals.
Tim stepped back, drew his Smith & Wesson, jerked in a breath, and kicked. He landed the sole of his boot beside the knob, picking up the resistance of the lock assembly so he wouldn't wind up putting his leg through the cheap door, leaving the rest of him trapped outside. The dead bolt ripped through the inner frame.
His eyes took in the dim interior in a sweep that matched the movement of his .357. Blood, shockingly red against white bathroom tile. A little boy's legs and waist in view by the toilet, his torso blocked by the half-closed door. Kaitlin's sob-stained face looking up, panicked and helpless. A disposable cell phone pressed to her ear.
Directly across from the door, framed perfectly from the waist up by the open back window, Walker mirrored Tim, aiming straight back at him.
Chapter 71
Tim remained two strides into the dark apartment, gunfacing his shadowed double through the open window. The faint light thrown from the hall encompassed only Walker's figure, suspended, an orb surrounded by darkness. A Weaver shooting stance, both hands firmed around the revolver's grip, head slightly canted for sight alignment.
Tim shouted to Kaitlin, "What's wrong?"
Kaitlin was rocking Sam's body, yelling, "He's dying! He's unconscious!"
Walker shifted his weight, and the fire escape creaked. Neither he nor Tim lowered his gun; neither barrel wobbled even slightly. Given their proximity and aim, one shot would mean two and the likely end of them both.
"Sammy's not breathing," Kaitlin sobbed.
Without the slightest movement of his body or turn of his head, Tim said calmly, "Have you called 911?"
"They're on the way. I don't know how long. The operator didn't get it. Sam's condition is too complicated. Don't die, baby. Please, breathe."
Tim felt his adrenalized pulse in his neck, the back of his throat. He took his left hand off the grip, showing his fingers, then rode the hammer home with his right thumb and turned the gun sideways. He tilted his left hand toward the bathroom, asking permission.
Walker nodded, pulled his gun back, and vanished, hammering down the creaky metal stairs of the fire escape.
The ambulance screamed toward the hospital, making Tim, Kaitlin, and the two paramedics dig their feet into the floor and brace against the walls. The cramped space reeked of stomach acid. Tim's pants and sleeves, like Kaitlin's, were stained red. Sam drifted in and out of consciousness. Bear followed, his Kojak light blinking atop his rig.
After Walker had fled, Tim had turned Sam on his side and fingerswiped his mouth, clearing any blockage. It had taken a few rounds of messy CPR to get Sam's heart back on line; finally he'd coughed and started to cry hoarsely. Tim had radioed the paramedics who'd backed up the raid; they were only a few miles away. Bear had hustled the other ARTists, setting them on Walker's trail. LAPD had been alerted as well, a good sweep of the neighborhood already under way.
Sam had lost enough blood to drop his hematocrit, the paramedics said, plus his advanced liver disease was impeding his ability to clear ammonia. The combination left him woozy and mildly disassociated. They gave him a few boluses of saline and called ahead to the pediatric intensive care unit at the UCLA Medical Center. Sam seemed to regain clarity, wearing a grim expression and offering the paramedics one-word responses. The ambulance screamed into the bay, and Tim and Kaitlin jogged beside the gurney as it banged through three sets of double doors and landed in a procedure suite. The ER doc declared Sam stable almost immediately, and Tim and Kaitlin rode up on the elevator with Sam, a nurse, and a resident, Sam looking up at their drawn faces as if he found the gravitas mildly amusing.
Kaitlin kept her hand balled and pressed to her mouth. Finally her worry got the better of her. "Why are you so calm, Sammy?"
Sam said, "Because there's nothing I can do."
They got him set up with a private bed in the PICU, Tim waiting outside in the hall while Kaitlin settled him in. An extensive Mexican family had gathered at the far end of the hall. The kids were playing jacks, and the adults spooned posole out of thermoses and ate it with crisped corn tortillas. Tim wondered how long they'd been there. He grabbed a doctor leaving Sam's room and got the rundown. Sam had significant coagulopathy and elevated ammonia, which meant he was now in full-blown liver failure. The liver team could put in a request to upgrade Sam's status on the transplant list, but there were already two Status Ones ahead of him. His prognosis looked ominous.
Bear brought Tim up a fresh shirt from the gift shop. They checked in with Guerrera at the command post, and then Bear went back to his rig to retrieve some information from the field files. Thomas and Freed showed up, having had no luck with the pursuit. They kept near the elevators, walking tight circles with their cell phones pressed to their ears. Tim sat some more, a set of matte black handcuffs resting against his thigh.
Kaitlin finally came out. She'd pulled her hair back taut into a ponytail and changed into scrubs. She took note of the handcuffs. "He wants to see you," she said.
Tim slid the handcuffs back into their belt pouch, stood, and nodded at Thomas and Freed. Thomas squared himself so he was facing Kaitlin.
"Don't go anywhere," Tim said.
Sam was sweating, sheet thrown back from his bloated legs. His skin, so dry in places that it had cracked, had darkened to an olive-yellow shade.
Tim sat bedside and said, "Hey, Sam."
Sam coughed a bit. He sounded dry and raspy. "Kaitlin's not being all dramatic still, is she?"
"She's doing okay."
Sam's upper lids were puffy, more jaundiced even than the rest of his face. "I was thinking...." he said. Tim waited him out. He coughed some more, then said, "If any of my other organs are any good, maybe some other kid could get 'em so his eyes don't have to turn yellow."
Tim lowered his head. Took a deep breath. Said, "Sure, I can have the doctor come talk to you about that."
"I wanted to tell you before Kaitlin. She's too emotional."
"I'll make sure she knows what you want."
Sam scratched his sho
ulder, leaving red tracks through the flaky skin, and drowsed off. The sleeve of his gown stayed shoved up. High on his flimsy biceps, Tim made out a Magic Marker tattoo, days faded. It was an imitation of Walker's--all yin, no yang. The tattoo was not featured on any of the photos of Walker they'd released to the press, nor in any of Walker's files.
Kaitlin was on the bench where Tim had left her, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She'd loosed her ponytail, her hair falling in sheets, hiding her face. Between her shoes, a few clear drops blurred the tile. She gripped the pager in both hands, just below the fringe of hair. Another tear tapped the floor.
Tim sat down beside her. "How long have you been in touch with Walker?"
"Just this night."
Not according to Sam's faded Magic Marker tattoo. Tim clenched his jaw, weighing the variables that had collided. He said, "Do not lie to me. I'm your friend here for about five more seconds. Then I'm not."
The anger in his voice snapped Freed's head around up the hall, but Kaitlin kept hers down. Tim counted to five, then pulled the handcuffs out. "Sam needs you right now. But if you won't cooperate, I'll take you out of here." He grabbed her right wrist and cinched metal around it.
"We never wanted any part of it," Kaitlin said quietly. She still hadn't raised her head. Tim keyed the cuff, releasing her wrist. She rubbed it like a weathered con, an instinctive reaction she'd likely picked up from TV. "He never told me anything specific about what he was up to. He broke into the house a few times to root through Tess's stuff, find clues, I guess, like you. He left when he was ready. Finally I told him he couldn't involve me and Sammy. That we never wanted to see him again."
"And tonight?"
"I went there to say good-bye. And to let Sammy do the same. I thought everyone deserves a good-bye."
"He bonded with Sam?"
"Yeah. Despite himself."
"When's the first time you saw him?"
"The morning after he got out."
Tim made a noise and sank back in his chair. "What else do you know? About where he was staying, what he was doing? Anything?"
"I don't know any more than what I saw on the news. He didn't tell me, and I knew better than to ask." Kaitlin spoke in a monotone. "He poked around in Tess's room and wanted revenge on the people he thought had killed her. That's it."
"If you're not being straight--"
"It's the truth." At last she sat up, swept the hair out of her face. She placed the pager on the bench beside her delicately, as if it were made of glass. "So what are you gonna do? Let Sam die alone? Put me in jail?"
"People are dead because you aided and abetted a fugitive."
She clutched her beat-up purse in both hands, as if holding on to it to stay afloat. A label on the worn leather read PURSE. She managed only a whisper. "What are you gonna do to me?"
"The cell phone Walker gave you...?" Tim nodded at her purse, but Kaitlin didn't respond. "We're putting a trace on it."
Kaitlin removed the disposable phone from her purse, snapped off the cheap flip top, and threw it down the hall. It skittered across the tile, past the Mexican family, past Thomas. Freed, stepping out of the elevator, stopped it with a Ferragamo loafer.
Tim looked at her incredulously. "Why?"
"What do you know? How can I explain a thing like that? Why. Because I'm stupid. Because he picked me in a smoky bar with Merle on the jukebox and me with my two beautiful friends and he picked me. And he picked me every day, every day till he didn't. You have to do that. You make a choice every day, and you pick your spouse every day." Her dishwater hair, tired brown streaked with gray at the temples, hung lank. She glanced at Tim's ring. "I'm not sure if you know that or you don't. But that's how it works. Every day. He fought something out there in the desert he shouldn't have fought, and it's not fair, but that's how it is. But he's still my husband, and I still picked him. Every day. Even when he didn't pick me."
"Kaitlin--"
"I knew you'd never understand. You probably have a sweet wife and a quiet life with a bunch of healthy kids and they're great and they jump on you when you get home from work. And it makes sense, your world. There are laws. There are answers. There are solutions. Maybe we're too dumb to figure it out, or maybe we're too busy feeling sorry for ourselves. Me and Tess and Walk. We just can't get the fucking answers right. I had six miscarriages before the doctor told us to stop trying. Six. Every one like a piece of me bleeding away. I tried so hard, but I couldn't. The last one--I knew it would be the last--I went to the bathroom and there was blood everywhere, blood on the toilet and the tile, like today, today with Sam, and I sat on the toilet because I didn't know what else to do. I must've sat four, five hours before Walker came home. He put his hands here"--she gripped Tim's forearms so he faced her, their foreheads almost touching--"and he looked at me. Didn't say anything. And then he got some towels. And he wiped the floor. And he ran the water, ran it warm. And he cleaned me, the blood, from my feet, and my ankles, and here"--she touched the inside of her thigh--"and I sat there and I thought I might be dead, but here was this man on his knees cleaning me, cleaning every part of me. And I knew I wasn't dead. I knew I wasn't dead because of him. And that part of him, that part of him he lost somewhere along the way. And I don't want you to kill him for that."
A nurse went into Sam's room, trailing a fresh saline bag on an IV pole.
Tim shoved down his emotions. He hardened his face. He said, "I'm gonna get you another phone programmed with that number, and I'm gonna get you a warrant, and you're gonna answer it if it rings. If you don't, you'll be leaving Sam on his own and putting yourself in prison. It's my best offer, and it's good for about thirty seconds."
"I never had a good choice. Not in any of this."
He felt a pull in his chest--she was wrong, but only partly. "You put yourself here, Kaitlin."
The door swung open as the nurse left, and they could see Sam. An oxygen tube snaked under his nose. He waved, and the door closed.
"Fine." Tears ran down her cheeks. She looked at her hands. "I'll do it."
Tim put his back against the wall, and they sat side by side. He said, "He showed up at your house. He was controlling, dangerous. He threatened you and Sam if you ratted him out. You were scared. He demanded you show up at the apartment where we found you. You obeyed because you were worried he might hurt you if you didn't."
She kept her gaze on her lap as he rose. In a quiet voice, she said, "That's just how he told it." She fussed with her hands. "Thank you."
He paused over her, staring down at the floor, then kept walking.
Thomas got off the phone as he approached. "What are we doing with the broad?"
"Get her a new cell phone. Get her number transferred. Use Frisk if you have to."
"You think Walker'll call her?"
"Probably not, but we can't afford not to be set up if he does."
"You sure you're not just hunting out something for her to cooperate with to buy her lenience when the prosecutors bring the heat?"
"I'm not that bright. More important, I want you to go up live on the hospital line to Sam's room. Walker cares about that kid more than he's let on. He's gonna be in touch with him."
"Why?"
"Because Sam's gonna die soon. And he saw that in the apartment."
Thomas's mouth dropped, a rare show of emotion. "Days?"
"Maybe less." Tim moistened his lips and tried not to think about the resigned yellow eyes. "I want you at the switchboard, and I want to be patched in, live, before you put any calls through to Sam's room. And secure the floor in case Walker makes a personal appearance."
Tim rode down to the basement. He wound through endless white corridors before stepping out into the ambulance bay. Bear's truck was in the far corner; Tim could see the scattering of files across his dash. He headed over, passing parked ambulances, one after another.
An EMT with a shaved head sat on the tailgate, face buried in a newspaper. The headline read FUGITIVE MAKES APPEARA
NCE AT DEPUTY'S MOORPARK RESIDENCE. Tim cast his mind back through the chronology. Yes, that had been yesterday. This morning had begun, decades ago, with the sniper attempt on Dolan and Dean at the Vector investor meeting.
Without lowering the paper, the EMT called out, "Want me to take a look at that neck, pal?"
Tim raised his hand to the cut. A dribble of blood. The paramedic at Game had gotten in only three of five stitches before Tim had bolted for his father's. "No, thanks."
He got about halfway to Bear's rig when he stopped. Bear looked up through the windshield, puzzled. Tim raised a finger to Bear, turned around, and walked back to the EMT, standing before the wall of newsprint.
Pete Krindon, freelance techie and man of infinite disguises, lowered the paper. His eyes went to Tim's neck, and he frowned. "Sit down." He threw a file in Tim's lap and snipped at the old stitches with a tiny pair of scissors. "Who sutured this? Dr. Frankenstein?"
As Pete pulled the old sutures out, Tim stared down at the top page. A blank e-mail, sent at 12:43 P.M. on June 3, carrying an attachment. Forwarded from [email protected] to tess_jameson@westindentistry. com. The subject line read, simply, Highly Confidential. Tess must've found it by running a key-word search on Chase's BlackBerry that pulled up something in the attachment's contents.
Pete, who'd started resuturing the wound, said, "Sit still."
Tim flipped the page and was hit with a dense spreadsheet filled with abbreviations and numerals. It looked like a lot and not much at the same time. "Pete--"
"Shaddup for a second. I'm almost done."
"Wait a minute. What am I doing?" Tim started to pull away, but Pete was midstitch. "You're not an EMT."
"No, but I play one on TV." Pete produced a square mirror and held it up, barbershop style. "All done."
The sutures actually looked pretty good, but since Tim didn't want to concede the point, he returned his focus to the report that Pete had recovered from Tess's work computer, where she'd forwarded the e-mail. Charts, graphs, more numbers, nothing clearly labeled. The bottom sheet showed Tess's pizzazzu account access log. Tess had logged on the evening of Thursday, May 31, and then just past midnight on Saturday, June 2. Tim closed his eyes, recalling dates and constructing the likely story.
Last Shot (2006) Page 36