by Barry Lyga
Hughes had put Finley on guard duty at Jasper Dent’s hospital room door. She seemed like a good cop; when he’d had that moment in the storage unit where he wanted to put a bullet in Jasper, she’d said nothing. Probably would have backed him up on it, too. That was Hughes’s measure of a good cop—someone who will back you up if you do something stupid. It was on him not to do the stupid thing, of course. It was just nice to know he had backup, if necessary.
“Anything go down since the lawyer came by?” Hughes asked Finley, who had—almost adorably—stood at attention when he approached.
“Nothing. Couple of nurses. Doctor stopped by. They removed the drain from his leg. Said they’re taking him off the IVs soon.”
Hughes grunted. Dent’s health mattered to him only insofar as he couldn’t indict a dead body.
“How long have you been on?”
Finley shrugged. Hughes knew it had been about ten hours of sitting in front of Dent’s room.
“Go stretch your legs. Get some coffee. Smoke a cigarette.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“You will.”
Finley took a few steps toward the elevator, then hesitated. “How long should I—”
“I’m not leaving him until you’re back, Finley. Take your time.”
He took a deep breath, hand on the doorknob. How best to play this? Dent had lawyered up, and the kid was no dummy—he would refuse to talk unless Hughes could prod him into it. Such prodding would have to be done carefully; anything Dent said at this point would be inadmissible in court… unless Hughes could get him to waive his right to counsel. He’d done it before. There were ways of convincing a suspect of what Hughes thought of as the Great Lie: It’ll be easier for you later if you talk to me now. Many, many, many idiot scumbags had fallen for it in the past.
Jasper Dent wasn’t an idiot, but he wasn’t superhuman, either. He could be broken and twisted into a new shape just like anyone else.
Hughes knocked once and entered. The overhead light was off, as was the TV. The only light came from the dim little reading lamp over the bed. Dent had the sheet drawn up to his chest. In bed, enervated, he looked like any other kid, and Hughes had to suppress a momentary spasm of pity. Serial killer’s son. Bastard never had a chance.
“Evening, Jasper.” Hughes removed his overcoat and hung it on a peg. It was a casual move, designed to communicate how comfortable he was in this situation. And that he planned to be here for a while. He stood near the door. Dent didn’t respond, staring straight ahead.
“I said, evening,” Hughes repeated, more loudly. This time, Dent turned his head, moving as though his neck had rusted. His eyes were heavy, lidded.
Drugged. The painkillers. Or whatever the docs had given him.
Tricky legal ground. Later, Dent’s lawyer could claim that he’d been under the influence when talking to the cops and couldn’t competently waive his rights. Risky.
Screw it. There was a dead FBI agent, and the kid was the son of a serial killer, and Hughes was amped up on an absurd amount of caffeine. He would take his chances.
“I’ve been talking to Sheriff Tanner. Down in Lobo’s Nod.”
Dent stared at him dully.
Hughes groaned. If the kid was too out of it to talk, then this was useless. He came closer to the bed. “The sheriff,” he said loudly and slowly. “In Lobo’s Nod. You know him, right?”
Dent slurred something that Hughes realized was “G. William.”
“Right. Him. Hey,” Hughes said, trying to get the kid to respond, “you know what the G stands for?”
More dull staring.
“Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you, Jasper.” Making a connection to the suspect was crucial. “I have some information that could maybe exonerate you. Or at least make a jury see things differently. Maybe I tell you something and you tell me something in return. That’s how it works.”
Jasper cleared his throat. It took forever. A streamer of sputum trailed from his lips to the pillowcase.
“I know I was pretty pissed before, but you have to understand. You have to see it through my eyes, you know? You get me?”
Jasper nodded weakly and whispered something. Exasperated, Hughes dragged a chair over and sat next to the bed. “What was that? What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” Jasper managed.
Hughes’s toe began tapping on the linoleum, but he succeeded in keeping his face impassive and contemplative. I’m sorry sounded a lot like the beginning of a confession. Time to dig a little more, get the kid talking, get him to the point where he couldn’t stop, then pull back. Can’t talk to you any more unless you waive your right to remain silent.…
“Sorry for what?” Hughes asked.
“This,” said Jasper Dent, and before Hughes knew what was happening, the Dent kid was going for his throat.
A good choke hold, Dear Old Dad had once told Jazz, is all about geometry.
Jazz had been maybe ten years old at the time. Geometry wasn’t yet in any of his textbooks, but it was part of the special father-son tutoring that went on every day at the Dent house. Geometry helped you figure out the angle of view of security cameras. Geometry told you where to stand and in which shadows. How to position the knife or the saw.
Geometry also guaranteed that your choke hold blocked the blood vessels on both sides of the neck, crucial placement if you wanted your victim unconscious and not merely pissed off and thrashing.
Pretend your elbow is a point, Billy said, and that her chin (for it was always and ever her with Billy) is another. You want to be able to draw a line between ’em. A perfect line.
Jazz had punched Hughes in the throat first. Not enough to break his windpipe—just enough to silence him and catch him off guard. Then, much to Hughes’s shock, he’d rolled out of bed, his right arm—the one that was allegedly handcuffed—outstretched so that when he finished his roll he was standing behind Hughes, the crook of his arm lined up with the detective’s Adam’s apple.
He bent his arm. His forearm compressed one side of the neck, his biceps the other. His elbow and Hughes’s chin made a line so straight that surveyors could have used it.
Jazz’s left leg throbbed, but he ignored it. As soon as he’d popped the cuff, he had risked pacing the room, testing his leg. True to Dr. Meskovich’s promise, he could walk. He limped and it hurt, but he could stand and walk, even with the bullet still lodged in the meat of his leg.
He tightened his arm. Hughes gagged and flailed and made sounds and movements that would have eked pity out of almost anyone else. But Jazz knew how to tamp down his pity. How to shove it in a box without any airholes and let it suffocate.
No matter what his birth certificate said or didn’t say, he was Billy Dent’s son.
A rush filled his ears. The ocean. His own blood. Maybe the roar of Hughes’s rage and surprise, psychically transmitted. Or maybe the ghosts of Billy’s victims, howling in betrayal.
Hughes passed out, slumping in the chair. Jazz held him tight for a few more seconds, just in case the cop was playing possum.
As soon as Jazz released Hughes, his hearing returned to normal and the timpani of pain in his leg jumped a degree. He took a deep breath and denied himself the weakness, the pleasure, of worrying about his leg.
Sometimes, Billy said, you’ll be hurt. And that’s when you gotta make a decision: Is it a big pain, the kind that’ll kill you? In that case, deal with it. Otherwise, shut it away. Lock it in the closet. Stuff it in a bag and throw it in the river ’cause if it ain’t gonna kill you, you don’t need it.
Meskovich had told Jazz the leg would eventually be fine. So he gagged it, bound it, and rolled it into a mental trunk, then slammed the lid.
Gagging. Binding. Right. Back to work.
Hughes wouldn’t be out for long. Jazz had been prepared for this moment, though he’d thought he would be choking out a doctor or nurse, not Hughes. Under his pillow, he’d stashed some things he needed. Like torn strips of sheet, whi
ch he stuffed into Hughes’s mouth and then taped down with some medical tape he’d found in a drawer. Not as good as duct tape, but he couldn’t afford to be picky.
Just as Hughes began to rouse, Jazz snapped the handcuffs on him, threading the chain through the bed’s far railing first. Hughes was helpless, and he knew it. His grunts through the gag were pathetic.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Jazz said. “This is going to suck. You’re gonna be a laughingstock around the precinct for a century or two.” He couldn’t really crouch down with his leg the way it was, but he was able to bend at the waist and look right into Hughes’s eyes. “I want you to remember something for me, Detective. I actually sort of like you. I guess I have a thing for people who break the rules. I want you to remember that I could have killed you very, very easily, but I didn’t. When it comes to my trial—assuming I live that long—you better tell the jury that.”
He pulled the chair away from Hughes, forcing the man into the uncomfortable and maximally helpless position of half leaning over the railing, half crouching on the floor. A quick frisk turned up Hughes’s wallet, badge, phone, and gun. The gun tempted him. It seemed to communicate with him telepathically. Take me with you, Jazz, it said, speaking in a sexy female voice for some reason. You know you want to. You’re afraid you’ll use me, but that’s what makes me so much fun, Jazz. All the possibilities.
He settled for releasing the magazine and tossing the bullets in the toilet. The gun itself he left on the bed. Everything else he would take.
“Don’t worry.” He cast one look back at Hughes, who was trying to thrash violently, trying to make some noise. But the angle of his bent body over the railing made it impossible—every move punched him in the gut.
Angles.
You done well, Billy said, and for the first time in his life, Jazz didn’t mind it. He thought he felt something bordering on pride.
“Someone will come along soon enough,” Jazz said. “This is gonna hurt your reputation more than anything else.”
He took Hughes’s overcoat from the peg. Unfortunately, Jazz’s clothes were long gone, vanished into an NYPD evidence lockup somewhere, no doubt. All he had right now were a couple of hospital gowns. The overcoat was better than nothing. He filled its pockets with his phone, Hughes’s phone and wallet, and the cop’s badge. Anyone looking at his bare feet would realize he didn’t belong, so he paused a moment to steal Hughes’s shoes, too. They were too big, but when he stuffed some gauze in them, they worked.
With a deep breath, he cracked the door. The original plan had been to knock out the next nurse or doctor in his room and create a commotion to draw in the guard at his door. Then overpower the guard, too, and escape. When he’d heard Hughes dismiss the cop outside, though, he’d known that this plan was even better.
He slipped into the corridor and quickly checked left and right. There was some activity to his right, but only empty hallway and a bank of elevators to his left. Bingo.
Forcing himself to walk calmly, he strode to the left. He found that as long as he took careful, deliberate steps, his left leg didn’t bother him so much and his limp was barely noticeable. He grudgingly admitted that the surgical tag team of Billy Dent and Dr. Meskovich had done a good job.
At the end of the corridor, he paused. Elevator, or the emergency stairs off to one side? Elevator was faster, but there would be a camera in there, and if something happened, he’d be trapped in a box. Stairs were slower, but probably empty, probably not monitored, and he could exit on different floors in an emergency.
Fate or chance—he had no opinion on which—took the choice out of his hands. With a BING! that seemed unnecessarily loud, the doors in front of him slid open.
And Jazz found himself staring right at Officer Natalie Finley.
CHAPTER 17
Finley had a cup of coffee in one hand, a bag of food in the other. She was alone in the elevator, and the instant she saw Jazz standing there, a spurt of recognition widened her eyes and parted her lips. She froze for just a second.
One second too long.
She wore a bulletproof vest, he could tell. Made sense. Most of them did these days. So he went for the coffee cup, knocking the lid off as he smacked it toward her exposed face. No matter how good her training, her basic instincts took over and all her attention went to the hot coffee spattering into the air for just a moment. She dropped the bag of food, but she should have dropped the coffee, too. Jazz reached into the elevator, grabbed her by her collar, and yanked her into the hall, spinning her around as he did so.
She yelped in total surprise and finally let go of the coffee. Hot droplets pebbled Jazz’s cheek and neck, but he ignored them, focused only on the woman before him.
Bet she’s got somethin’ special under that vest, Billy teased, and Jazz shouted back, Shut up! I’m working! with a ferocity he’d never have dared face-to-face.
The bank of elevators was centered on the short branch where two hallways met in a T. Jazz kept his momentum and spun Finley around, careful to pivot on his right leg. She dizzily clawed at her holster, but at the last moment, he released her and she staggered backward with violent speed, stumbling and tripping against an abandoned cart of electronic equipment. With a cry of shock, she lost her balance and went down, banging her head against the cart along the way.
She clunked to the floor like a dropped sack of flour, hitting her head a second time on the floor. She lay very, very still.
No one seemed to have seen or heard. The elevator bank was empty, and they were now shielded from the folks down on the long stem of the T by the corner where the two hallways met. Jazz checked Finley’s pulse and breathing. She seemed okay. Just unconscious.
That wouldn’t last long.
A buzzing in his ears deafened him. His heart raced. He’d barely walked ten yards and already he’d had to fight two armed cops, with a healthy dollop of sheer dumb luck partially responsible for his continued freedom. Luck, though, as Billy had said so many times, was like lightning—it struck sinners and saints in equal measure, and it did so on its timetable, not yours. At some point, someone would get the drop on him.
Have to get out of here. Have to get moving. Mom needs me.
And Billy. Where Mom was, Billy would be, too.
Next time you see me, you go right ahead and kill me.
That was the plan. For Connie. For Mom. For everyone else. For the one hundred and twenty-three and counting.
And Sam? What about her?
He shook if off. Finley wouldn’t stay unconscious forever, and he couldn’t just stand over her out in the open like this. He swiped her handcuffs and tossed her service revolver into a nearby trash can. One less gun coming after him later.
After a moment of thought—a plan beginning to form—he took her shoulder mic and radio. There was a schematic of the hospital layout mounted on the wall opposite the elevators. Jazz studied it for a moment. Yes. Yes, this might work.
It was crazy, but then again, so was Billy. And look at how long he’d managed to stay one step ahead.
Jazz ducked into the stairwell. It was freezing in there. The hospital’s heating system could not penetrate the concrete box that ran between floors; he shivered, nearly naked under the overcoat.
Ascending the stairs proved difficult with his leg. Walking on a level floor was one thing, but bending his leg and putting pressure on it to go up was quite another. By the time he’d made it up one floor, he was drenched with sweat. But he also understood why people in horror movies always ran upstairs, even though everyone in the audience screamed at them to go down.
Because people expect you to go down. They assume you’re trying to get out, so they’re waiting for you downstairs. Upstairs gives you some breathing room.
He went up only one floor. That was all he needed, fortunately, as he didn’t think his leg could take him up another flight. Pressed against the wall next to the stairwell door, he risked a glance through the glass slit that revealed the elevat
or bank on this floor. There were some doctors and nurses milling about. No cops or security that he could tell.
Am I really going to do this?
Well, yeah. What other choice do you have? Are you gonna take hostages? That never works.
He switched on Finley’s radio and raised the mic to his lips. Thumbed the Send button.
“Attention, all units,” he announced. “Attention! Attention! We have sighted suspect Billy Dent! He is converging on the back entrance to the hospital! Repeat: back entrance to the hospital! All units, please respond!”
The radio immediately exploded into a flurry of calls and countercalls. One voice demanded—repeatedly—“Who is this? What’s your call sign?” But it was swiftly drowned out by an overlapping cacophony of calls and responses from a multitude of officers. There were rules and procedures and protocols, but Jazz knew the NYPD was on edge right now. Morales was dead. Hat-Dog was dead, by mysterious means. No one was thinking straight. Everyone was on hyperalert.
And then Jazz had tossed Billy like a grenade.
He exited the stairwell and with a smooth, unhurried action, produced Hughes’s badge, holding it aloft. “NYPD!” he shouted in his most authoritative tone. “EVERYONE, PLEASE CONFINE YOURSELVES TO THE NEAREST ROOM! CLOSE THE DOOR, AND DO NOT OPEN IT UNLESS TOLD TO BY A MEMBER OF THE NYPD!”
He marched straight into the cluster of doctors and nurses, the badge before him like a torch. His left leg throbbed, but his slow, confident stride ameliorated the pain.
“What’s going on?” a doctor asked.
Jazz didn’t speed up and he didn’t slow down. He knew he looked just barely old enough to pass for an adult, but he didn’t want anyone taking the time to notice how young an adult. “Sir,” he snapped, “please get into a room and close the door. Billy Dent has been seen in the area.”
Kablam! Another Dear Old Dad grenade. The doctors and nurses obediently scattered. Jazz made his way down the hall, the badge his standard, barking out instructions.