Borrowed Time

by CJ Lyons

  He asked Hershey the question, but the dog just looked at him and wagged his tail. They turned to go home. The November sun had vanished, replaced by a clear night with stars and a half moon. Josh pushed his speed on the way back, the exertion banishing any thoughts of work or O’Hern from his mind. Except for a tantalizing memory from the dream he had last night. A memory of Kate’s bare breasts and arched neck as his hands caressed her body.

  But then the dream had slipped into a hellish nightmare. Kate’s body, naked beneath his hands, covered in blood. Her eyes stared unseeing into his, dull and lifeless. Blood puddled about his feet as his fingers fumbled, unable to stop the bleeding in her chest.

  He had woken clammy with sweat, his pulse pounding in his head. What if he lost her? The words echoed through his brain, leaving terror in their wake.

  She was never his to start with. Could never be his—not as long as he was her physician.

  Josh began to sprint, his breath coming in small gasps until that thought was exiled as well.

  Sergeant Philip Conrad pulled into Riley’s parking lot and took the spot in front of the loading dock. It was clearly marked “No Parking” and “Fire Lane” which was precisely why it was the only empty spot left.

  He shoved the Crown Vic into Park and sat there, enjoying the hum of its V-8. Seemed like none of the younger guys drove cars like this, not anymore. Today it was all SUV’s and pickup trucks and fancy foreign cars with gadgets and gizmos. Used to be the House’s lot was all Chevys and Fords, maybe a Buick thrown in for variety. If a guy zoomed in driving a Camaro or Corvette they’d be razzed for “going plastic” or thinking they were moviestar cops instead of “regular Joes.”

  Of course, that was a long time ago. Back when he was still on the beat, shoe leather days when he and Brian O’Hern patrolled, busting heads and breaking balls when need be. It wasn’t often, not on their beat. Time was they knew everything and everyone in that neighborhood. No siree, you didn’t get up to trouble, not when Conrad and O’Hern were on the job.

  His breath blew out, rattling around the old car like an old geezer shuffling down the hall of a nursing home. Which is what he felt like these days. Cops getting killed—it was always part of the job, nothing you could do about that.

  Not like this though, gunned down like animals.

  He swallowed, his throat dry and reached across to the flask in the glove compartment. The Jim Beam burned, an old familiar friend. He tugged at the collar of his dress uniform. Hated the thing, thought for sure after Sherry Thomas’ funeral in September that he’d never have to wear it again until his own retirement ceremony. Twenty-three days, that was all. Then he was gone, leaving it all to the younger guys, the ones driving the jazzed up cars and be-bopping to iPods.

  He only wished this thing with Kate O’Hern hadn’t happened on his watch. Brian had been a friend, a good friend—they’d saved each others butts more times than he could count, back in the day. What the hell was he supposed to do about Brian’s kid going off the deep end?

  Calling him, begging him not to go out tonight, to skip her own partner’s wake for Chrissake. And why? Because of some ditzy dream she kept having about him getting shot. A vision she said, said it had happened before and some old lady died. Like she was serious.

  That called for another drink. First thing tomorrow he’d need to have a talk with O’Hern’s doctors, see what the hell was going on with her. Couldn’t risk letting this crazy talk of hers get public—they’d crucify her for sure.

  Not just the reporters always looking to smear a cop’s rep. Other cops, too. There was already talk that O’Hern may have froze, hesitated. Rumors she and Hansen had been involved, that she let him get killed. And of course, the perennial, women weren’t meant to be cops, didn’t have what it took bullshit.

  Bullshit. He’d seen the tape. While it was useless to ID the shooter, it did give an accurate account of the shooting. The muzzle flash from O’Hern’s two shots came less than a second after the actor shot Rob. Much less. And the trajectory looked dead on for a classic double-tap to the chest. She should have killed him, yet the guy hadn’t even flinched. Instead he had scooped up Hansen’s uniform hat, then jogged over to the cruiser where O’Hern lay and stolen hers as well.

  Like it was some kind of goddamn game or something. Cold-hearted son of a bitch.

  Conrad grabbed his cap from the seat beside him, adjusted it in the rearview mirror. The yellow and black checked trim made the hats distinctive but he’d always thought they looked stupid. Like they were amateurs, Keystone cops or something.

  He returned his flask to the glove box then paused before shutting the car engine off. Something about uniforms. Caps. Sherry Thomas had lost hers as well.

  Her death didn’t have anything to do with Hansen’s. She’d been killed during a traffic stop. Son of a bitch backed over her with his car, then shot her with her own gun. She’d been in one of the old cruisers, no video camera or mobile data terminal, so they had nothing to go on, the case was still unsolved.

  Too many dead cops. And now he had one crazy cop to deal with in the morning. Brian O’Hern’s daughter.

  He switched the car off and opened the door. A blast of cold air singed his nostrils. He was glad for the fortification he’d gotten from the Jim Beam. Hansen had been well liked. It was going to be a hell of a night.

  He stood for a second, bracing himself on the car door, the warmth of the car rushing past him. A man staggered forward. Ah jeez, who the fuck had already drunk so much that they couldn’t walk straight?

  Conrad was going to have to make sure someone took the guy’s keys and saw him safely home. Last thing they needed was the prospect of another cop’s funeral.

  He stepped forward, one hand behind him, ready to slam the Crown Vic’s door shut, when the man stopped. He was wearing a uniform but it wasn’t a PBP one, Conrad saw.

  The guy looked kind of familiar. Then he saw the short-barreled shotgun swinging up, aiming at his chest.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kate’s heart revved into overdrive, and she woke with her throat clenched tight. She opened her eyes to a room drenched in blackness except for the green glow from the monitor beside her bed. Someone moved in the shadows beyond.

  The heart rate monitor betrayed her, bleeping out her quickened pulse. The person froze. It was the shooter.

  Kate knew it, was certain of it. She reached a finger out to the call button, to summon help, then stopped.

  Warm, sticky blood, its copper stench saturating the air, splurted from the young nurse’s neck. The woman’s fingers fluttered, trying to stop the spurting blood as her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Then the bleeding slowed to a trickle, and her body slumped to the floor.

  Kate’s breath caught as she emerged from the vision. Her blackout had given the intruder time enough to move across the room. He stood beside her, looming over her, silhouetted by ghostly green light. She felt a drop of warm liquid on her forehead. Was it her blood? Had he cut her while she had been trapped in her vision?

  She lay frozen. Helpless. No weapon, tethered to the bed by wires and IV lines and the plastic wraps the nurses had swathed her legs in. The perfect victim.

  Kate couldn’t call for help, place unarmed civilians like the nurse in her vision in jeopardy.

  His fingers traced the outline of a cross in the liquid he had dripped on her forehead. Kate closed her eyes, willing this to all go away, to be part of the insanity that had wormed its way into her brain.

  His breath quickened, was loud enough that she could hear it over the monitor. She felt the rustle of the air between them as he leaned over her. He pressed his mouth against her forehead, cementing their unholy alliance.

  Water dripped on her lips next, followed by his finger drawing a cross.

  Kate opened her eyes. This was no fit, this was really happening. She tightened her right hand, ready to claw at his face if he came near once more.

  “Take your hands off me.” Her voice
was low but forceful, a tone that usually garnered her instant obedience on the streets when she had her Glock to back it up.

  The shooter paused, inches away from her face, his exhalation brushing her skin, making her shudder. His breath was sweet, wintergreen. He said nothing, merely lowered a hand to her left shoulder. His fingers closed over her fractured collarbone. Kate gasped in pain as the two ends of the broken bone ground together.

  His lips found hers, crushed against them. He pulled back out of her reach, her fist flailing through empty space.

  Then he was gone, leaving only a single whispered syllable in his wake. The word echoed through Kate’s mind, bouncing off her skull until it reverberated with every beat of her heart.

  Soon.

  CHAPTER 14

  Blake sat alone in his darkened apartment, too wired to sleep. The TV was on, but the sound was off and it threw silent, ghostly flickers over the walls. Shadow puppets, dancing, as if they too shared in his triumph.

  Goddamn, this was better than meth or coke. The night’s activity played over and over in his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on each detail, engraving it into his memory for later.

  He’d worn his uniform; it helped to let him blend in. At first he’d gone into the pub, scanning the crowd, watching for any eyes that recognized him. No one did, not with his disguise, the security guard accoutrements and air of authority. He’d walked right through them all, had even used the john. The sergeant wasn’t there yet.

  Then he went back out to the parking lot, got his gun from the car and crouched in the cold, waiting for his prey. This was their weakness; they had no patience, no endurance for the hunt. No way in hell some flatfoot, flabby-gut cop would ever be able to stalk him, not the way he was stalking them.

  Anticipation and the recurring fantasy of how he would kill the sergeant kept him warm as he sat between two cars. He even had a cover story if either of the car owners came out—the bathroom was filled and he came out here to take a leak. Either that or he’d just blow the guy away.

  Finally a dark sedan pulled into the crowded parking lot and parked illegally in front of the loading zone. Blake gathered himself together as he saw the sergeant get out, the dome light illuminating his features. He was the perfect target with the light on behind him and he was alone.

  Without thinking twice, Blake rushed forward, raised his arm and fired at almost point blank range into the police officer’s chest. The man fell back so fast his uniform hat flew off. Blake paused and took aim, firing a second round into the sergeant’s face. With a quick pause to scoop up the dead man’s hat, he took off, running past the dumpsters to where his car was parked down the block.

  So slick it had been—like something out of the movies. He’d hit the cop and been gone before any of the others could make it out the door.

  It been even more thrilling to sneak into O’Hern’s room at the hospital.

  She was waiting for him, as if she realized she was his accomplice, his partner in crime.

  Other than the one word, he hadn’t spoken to her. It was too early, he felt, and they didn’t really need words. He had made his point, had seen the gleam of terror in her eyes.

  She now knew she belonged to him. He would take her, when he was ready. No. When she was ready.

  When he’d started this, he’d known it was suicide. But he’d been thinking about suicide off and on for a long time. He wanted to die; he needed to die. Needed to stomp out the firestorm gaining strength in his head. Thoughts and images and urges that made it impossible to pretend to be normal.

  Oh, he had tried, tried for years. To be the good boy, the perfect soldier, the worker bee. Each day, he’d don his uniform as if it were a Halloween costume, designed to mask the monster. Each morning, he’d force his face to mirror the plasticine Barbie and Ken smiles that everyone else found so natural. Each second, he’d use all his energy to go through the motions, to control his quick-fire urges to slash and burn everyone and everything he saw.

  It was all getting so damned hard. He couldn’t do it, not for much longer. Then, after what happened with the cop two months ago, he realized he didn’t have to. Didn’t have to keep worrying about going back to prison, about getting caught thinking and doing things he shouldn’t.

  It didn’t matter. Because the wonderful, freeing, absolute joy about killing yourself was that you were in control. You decided when and where and how.

  After the bitch cop in September, Blake finally understood what he wanted. He wanted to let the monster loose, set it free on the ones who had always acted so smug and superior, the ones with the power.

  Yeah, he was going to die, no doubt about that.

  But he wasn’t going to die alone.

  CHAPTER 15

  Josh and Hershey returned to the duplex and climbed the steep porch steps to his half of the house. Hershey pawed at the door as Josh fumbled the keys in his chilled fingers before finally getting it open. The dog ran in, throwing himself onto the comfortable chair beside the TV.

  Josh shed his outer layer of clothes and clicked on the TV as he stretched out on the floor. Tried to pretend that his life was the normal, boring routine he lived before last Friday night when Kate O’Hern had crashed into his peaceful existence. He was in the middle of a set of crunches when the nightly news began.

  The announcer described a shooting behind a local bar. What made it newsworthy was that this particular bar had been inhabited by over thirty police officers at the time of the killing. The victim had been a police sergeant named Philip Conrad.

  Josh jumped to his feet, turned up the sound and watched as the camera panned over the grisly scene, following the body bag being loaded into an ambulance. The gunman escaped. More details later. He clicked through the channels, hoping he’d heard the name wrong.

  It couldn’t be. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

  The phone rang.

  “Dr. Lightner?” It was Adams, the resident on call at Three Rivers. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s O’Hern, sir. She seems to have gone psychotic. I was going to restrain and medicate her, but she kept insisting that we call you, and well, she is a police officer, sir, so I—”

  “What exactly seems to be the problem?” Had Adams witnessed one of her spells?

  “Well sir, she’s delirious. She claims that the man who shot her was in her room here at the hospital tonight. And she keeps yelling at someone named Conrad to look out—it’s all quite bizarre. I’ve ordered restraints and some Haldol, but the charge nurse insisted that I speak to you first.”

  “You ordered what!” Josh’s mind filled with an image of Kate strapped to her bed, her mind clouded by drugs.

  “Sir, if you confirm my orders for the charge nurse, I’ll take care of everything—”

  “You’ll take care of nothing,” Josh snapped, louder than he intended. “I’m on my way in. Don’t give her anything until I get there.”

  “Yessir.”

  Josh hung up, grabbed his coat and car keys and was out the door seconds later. At the hospital he found the nurses’ station empty.

  He stalked down the hall to Kate’s room, determined to give Adams a piece of his mind. Even if Kate had another of her hallucinations, there was no reason to restrain her.

  The door to her room stood half open. The room was dark except for a swath of light spilling out from the bathroom. Josh stood in the doorway, his pulse pounding with anger and anxiety, then felt his heart lunge against his chest wall.

  Kate’s bed was empty.

  He rushed inside the room. The door slammed shut behind him. He spun around.

  She stood in the shadows, clutching the extension rod from her IV pole, ready to swing it like a club. Her eyes were wide, jaw clenched, sweaty hair plastered around her face.

  “Kate?” His heartbeat smoothed back into a normal rhythm when he saw she was unharmed. “What happened?”

  The metal rod slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a clatter. Her b
ody teetered, ready to follow her makeshift weapon. Josh ran forward and caught her in his arms.

  “What the heck is going on?” he asked as he held her upright with one arm and pulled the lower part of her IV pole with the other. She had hooked her urine bag and the chest tube drain to the handle of the pole. Her body shook in his arms, sweat poured from her.

  “I thought he might come back,” she said in a breathless voice as he half-carried her to the bed. She sank back against the pillows with a grunt of pain.

  He flicked the lights on. She was ashen, panting with exertion. “Who? Adams? What did he say—”

  “No. Not Adams. The shooter. He was here.”

  “Here? You mean in another of your-er-visions?”

  Her glare nailed him like a laser. “No. I mean here. In this room.”

  Josh stared at her in disbelief. The killer couldn’t have been here—he was half way across town busy killing another cop.

  He should have done something about her delusions sooner, should have never let it get this far. Should have never let himself get personally involved.

  There were reasons for the rules. He turned away, busying himself with re-connecting the medical paraphernalia she had stripped away.

  “Did you really think you could face down a killer with a metal rod as your only weapon?” he asked, wanting her to see how deranged her thinking was. He plugged the monitor leads dangling from beneath her gown back into the machine and reached past her to turn it on.

  A pitcher of water sat on the shelf beside the monitor. A large, white funeral lily dangled over its side.

  The sound of her sharp inhalation drew his attention back to Kate. Her face had grown even paler. She reached out her good hand and gripped his arm with a white-knuckled grasp. “Don’t touch it,” she said. “He must have left it.”

  Josh looked from the solitary blossom to her. Her eyes pleaded for him to believe, the rest of her face was set in a rigid mask of nonchalance. The racing of her heartbeat on the monitor proved her indifference was a lie.