by D. L. Wood
He held her, whispering to her to wake, to stay, until finally, sirens screamed up Chloe’s driveway. “In the kitchen!” Jack yelled as he heard the front door open.
Two uniformed officers strode into the room, followed moments later by a medic.
“She’s hurt,” Jack told them, as the medic moved to Chloe’s side and began working. “What about him?” Jack asked, tilting his head towards the front room.
“Who?” asked a burly, dark-skinned officer.
“The guy on the floor in there,” Jack replied, clearly annoyed. “He’s the one who attacked her.”
The officers looked at each other, then at Jack. “Sir, there’s no one in there,” the burly one said in a thick island accent.
“Yeah there is. I just left him,” Jack replied impatiently. “She whacked him in the head with a golf club. He’s out cold.”
“He’s right,” the burly officer’s partner replied insistently. “There’s no one in there. What happened here?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed and he eased himself out from under Chloe as they took her. He sprinted into the next room and stared at the floor in disbelief. There, at the spot where only minutes ago the intruder had laid unconscious, was nothing except a dark red pool of blood.
NINE
Parker stumbled back as Korrigan’s fist unexpectedly launched into his cheek, the blow echoing around the room. Parker clutched his face, bracing for more as Korrigan stepped closer. But Korrigan only looked at him, his black eyes narrowed to slits. Another man in the room stood silent in the shadows, well out of Korrigan’s way.
“How stupid are you?” he spat at Parker, pacing a circle around the man like an animal studying his prey. Weak rays of the cloudy St. Gideon dawn slipped through narrow gaps in the rusted aluminum siding of the abandoned storehouse, situated forty yards behind a closed cannery. It was exactly the opposite of the suite Korrigan had rented indefinitely in the posh hotel in downtown Binghamton.
Parker struggled to remain composed, despite the waves of pain coursing through his head. “Mr. Korrigan, I—”
“Shut up,” Korrigan grunted, as he walked to a table on the far side of the dimly lit room. He reached for a towel bunched up on its top, wiped Parker’s blood from his hand and exhaled a deep, menacing breath.
“Purposeful. Pitiless. Precision. Pre. Ci. Sion.” He growled each syllable slowly. “How did you let this happen? They were tailed! You were in contact! But somehow, you still managed to be there when she got home. Were you deliberately trying to screw this up or are you really that stupid? Because honestly, I’m not sure which is a better answer.”
Parker said nothing, but the fear in his eyes suggested he was too frightened of making things worse to respond.
Suddenly a disconcerting, altogether too easy calm came over Korrigan. “Well,” he continued, reaching into his pocket and extracting a cigarette case. “I am at a complete loss.” He took his time choosing a cigarette, then lit it and inhaled several deliberate puffs, as if drawing power from them.
“Let me fix it,” Parker muttered.
“Fix it?” Korrigan asked snarkily. “Fix it? I don’t think so. Too late for that.”
Parker’s eyes widened. “Wait. What . . . what are you going to do?”
Korrigan’s eyes raked over the man, his brows arching with understanding. He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. Precision, man, Pre. Ci. Sion.” Again he growled each syllable at Parker. “You think I’d take you out over this? No. That would be messy. That would not be precise. That would not make the situation cleaner. It would create more problems than it would solve. So, no, I’m not going to do that. I am, however, going to send you packing.”
Parker’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the pronouncement, though his nervous gaze never wavered from Korrigan.
“And,” Korrigan tagged on, causing Parker to clench again, “since we didn’t bring you down here to make stupid mistakes, you’re going to leave twenty with us when you go.”
“Wait . . .what? Twenty grand!” Parker squawked. “That’s more than you’ve paid me for this job! And I earned that fair and square! I’ve already been here three weeks, doing the job. One mistake doesn’t wipe all that out! Just don’t pay me for this last week, call it even, and I’ll walk.”
“You can’t do the job so we have to bring someone else in. And we’ve got to clean up your little mess. So you are going to walk, and you are going to pay us back what we’ve paid you plus a little more to cover our expenses in bringing someone else in,” Korrigan said, a thin curl of smoke escaping from his lips.
Parker squared himself off against Korrigan, the threat of losing twenty thousand dollars apparently steeling him with courage he hadn’t had before Korrigan took bodily harm off the table.
“I’ll give you the five for this week and that’s it.”
Korrigan leaned in until Parker’s face was only inches from his own. Lifting the hand that held his burning cigarette, he jabbed his first and middle fingers at Parker’s nose in sync with his words. “Or what?”
Parker inhaled resolutely but nervously, taking in some of Korrigan’s expelled smoke. “Or you don’t take the five, you insist on the twenty, and maybe the next time I get picked up, I have something more interesting to trade than the name of the dope dealer on the corner.”
Korrigan stood, his expression unchanged, taking in Parker’s threat. Then Korrigan walked three brisk paces from him and rotated swiftly, his Walther extended in his right hand. He fired once, instantly dropping Parker to the floor.
“Congratulations,” he said to the corpse. “You just made your elimination the least messy option.” Korrigan turned, unaffected, and strode out of the room. The other man darted out of the shadows and hustled after him.
“Get that cleaned up, Vargas,” Korrigan barked.
“Yes, sir,” the follower answered, turning on his heel and striding back towards Parker.
Korrigan slid his cell from his pocket and dialed. After a few seconds, he spoke.
“Yeah. It’s me. I need to speak with him. Tell him I’ve got an update.”
TEN
The rain pelted on the window in a steady cadence that guided Chloe back to consciousness. She stirred slowly, her clouded mind registering one sense, and then another. The thick smell of chemical sanitization. A quiet clinking of metal on metal somewhere not too far away, in concert with a timid repetitive beeping somewhere close by. In the background, voices spoke words she could not quite make out. She blinked. Once at first, then several times, willing herself into a clearer state of mind. Hazy shapes slowly resolved into recognizable objects. One of them turned.
“Chloe?” it said, moving to her bedside. “Can you hear me?”
She tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come at first. Finally, she managed a raspy, disoriented whisper. “Tate’s dead.”
The shape took Chloe’s hand and sat down in a chair at her bedside. “It’s all right, Chloe. You’re safe now,” it whispered back.
“Ruby?” Chloe asked weakly, very confused.
“Yes, dear,” she replied softly, patting Chloe’s arm.
Chloe squinted, taking in her surroundings. “I’m in the hospital?”
Her neighbor nodded. “Since last night. You’re going to be fine. Just a concussion.”
“How did you—”
“The police came over last night asking me about the break-in. Wanted to know if I’d heard anything. They told me you were here.”
“Where’s Jack?” she asked, concern evident in her voice. She started to push up into a sitting position, but the dizziness set in immediately.
“Don’t try that just yet,” Ruby said, gently easing her back down onto the bed. “He was here until a few hours ago. The police wanted him to come down this morning. Wouldn’t leave until I promised to stay with you.” A wry smile spread across her face. “I think he’s a little taken with you. He was really worried.”
&n
bsp; “How is he? Is he hurt?” Chloe asked.
“He’s fine. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious.” Ruby nodded at the bandage wrapped around Chloe’s head. “Nothing quite like your bump there.”
Instinctively, Chloe reached up to finger the bandage, cringing when she touched the area over the wound on the back of her head.
“Eight stitches,” Ruby offered.
“Ouch,” Chloe whimpered, running her hand over the gauze again.
“You shouldn’t touch that,” fussed a nurse in a starchy, white uniform as she stepped into the room. She smiled perfunctorily. “Good to see you’re awake. I’ll let the doctor know.”
For the next few minutes, the nurse went about her tasks, taking Chloe’s blood pressure and temperature, checking the monitors and such. After scribbling a few notes on her chart and informing them the doctor would be in shortly, she marched out.
“What time is it?” Chloe asked.
“Noon.” Ruby smiled, then hesitated. “You know, I don’t want to pry, but several times when you were asleep you mumbled something about a ‘Tate’ and that he was dead. Was someone else hurt over there?”
Chloe shook her head. “He’s . . . he was . . . someone close to me that died recently.”
“Oh, hon’, I’m sorry. We’ll, I’m sure what happened last night didn’t help,” Ruby said sympathetically. “Speaking of which, a Detective Sampson came by.” Ruby fished his card from her pocket and handed it to Chloe. “Asked that you come see him after you leave here. I told him I’d bring you if you were up to it.”
“You don’t have to do that. Honestly, Ruby, I hate that you even had to come here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If my daughter were hurt I would hope someone would look after her. But I tell you what,” she said, picking up her bag, “if you think you’ll be all right for a few minutes, I’d like to go down and get a cup of coffee.”
“Of course.”
“All right then. You rest while I’m gone.”
Chloe watched Ruby slip through the door, then obediently closed her eyes, drifting into a light sleep as she listened to the rain fall.
* * * * *
Two hours later the doctor released Chloe with strict instructions to take it easy for a few days. Over Chloe’s objections, Ruby promised him she would keep an eye on her and insisted on driving Chloe home, by way of a short detour to see Detective Sampson.
The unremarkable one-story building that served as St. Gideon’s main precinct was located in the center of Binghamton proper. Several marked police vehicles were parked in the front lot. Two officers leaned against one near the door, smoking and talking. There was no sign of any other activity.
Chloe and Ruby walked through a glass door etched with the words “Binghamton Police Department,” into an unassuming lobby that smelled of stale coffee. Behind the laminated front counter sat one plump, uniformed officer, and behind him stretched two rows of unoccupied desks. Everything appeared orderly, with papers stacked neatly, coffee cups lined up beside the coffee maker, and chairs pushed under their desks. There was no clutter anywhere. Even the bulletin boards appeared thoughtfully organized. It seemed uncharacteristically neat for a police station, giving the impression that nothing much ever happened there.
As they neared the counter, Chloe turned her attention to the officer behind it, who was absorbed in whatever was displayed on his computer screen.
“Excuse me?” Chloe said.
The officer twitched, seemingly startled by the interruption, then busily shuffled nearby papers about, as though he had been in the thick of department business.
“Sorry, yes. What can I do for you?” he fumbled.
“My name is Chloe McConnaughey. I’m here about a break-in at my house last night. Detective Sampson asked me to come by.”
“Yeah, okay. Hold on.” The officer turned away, picked up a handset and dialed. A muffled ring sounded from a private office at the rear of the room. Someone must have picked up because the desk officer mumbled something into the receiver, then hung up.
His eyes flitted back to Chloe. “He’ll be right—”
“Hello, Ms. McConnaughey,” a voice from the back of the room interrupted. A tall, lanky man in his forties had stepped out of the private office and was walking towards them. He was dressed casually in a white, button-down shirt, navy tie and dark slacks.
“I’m Detective Pete Sampson,” he said in a heavy, New York accent, shaking Chloe’s hand. “I’m sorry about what happened to you last night. We don’t get too much of that here.” His gaze fell on Ruby. “Nice to see you again.”
“And you.”
“Well, thank you for coming so soon,” he said, motioning them behind the counter and to one of the desks. “Please, sit,” he invited, gesturing to two metal chairs in front of the desk as he pulled out the chair behind it and plopped down. He eyed the bandage on Chloe’s head and a concerned look crossed his face. “You know, we can do this later if you’re not up to it.”
“No, this is fine,” Chloe assured him “I feel okay right now. Besides, I’d rather just get it over with.” Already more tired than she would like to admit, she pushed her hair back off her face and leaned into the chair as much as she comfortably could.
“Well then,” he said, shifting in his seat and uncapping a pen, “let’s get started so you can get home.”
He began by having her relate what had happened, then had her go through it again, pinning down as many details as possible. Then he asked her about Jack, other witnesses, potential motives and anything else remotely relevant. When he ran out of questions, he dropped eight mug books in front of her. After an hour, she had examined hundreds of photographs. Not one resembled the man who had bled all over her living room floor.
“I’m not surprised,” he told her. “You were under a lot of stress when you got a look at him. I’m not sure I would have done much better, Ms. McConnaughey.”
“Please, it’s Chloe.”
“Well, Chloe, we had Mr. Collings stop by earlier, and he didn’t recognize anyone either.” He smiled thinly and ran a hand through his wavy, brown hair, a thick, gold-crusted ring on his right hand glinting in the light. He wasn’t bad looking, but had a certain slickness about him. And, given the premature lines on his face, the years were showing. “Based on what we’ve got, I’d have to say that this seems like a run of the mill break-in. Fact is, rental properties are more prone to this kind of thing than hotels since they generally don’t have any security. Normally, these guys aren’t violent. If you hadn’t walked in on him, I suspect none of this,” he said, gesturing towards her bandage, “would’ve happened.”
“But do you think it’s safe for her to stay there?” Ruby asked.
“I don’t see why not. I really don’t think you’ll be seeing him again.” He flipped a report over and scanned some handwritten notations on its backside. “From what we could tell, it didn’t look like anything was missing from the cottage. But you obviously would know better. When you get back, take an inventory, check to see if anything’s gone. If you realize something’s missing, or if anything else seems strange, let me know. Is someone staying with you?”
“Well, I’m right next door,” Ruby volunteered. “I’ll be checking on her.”
“Good,” he said approvingly, then was quiet for a moment, as if considering something. “I know you’re ready to go, but do you think you could hold on one second? I’ll be right back and then I think we’ll be done.”
“Sure,” Chloe said.
He disappeared down a hallway at the back of the room and Chloe returned to flipping through the mug shots absentmindedly. Something bothered her about the identification issue. She had looked right at her assailant’s face and, concussion or not, she was sure she had never seen him before. But there was still something familiar about him. The thought nagged at her desperately, but she couldn’t make any sense of it. By the time Sampson returned, she was no closer to it.
The ch
air behind the desk creaked unforgivingly as he sat down in it. “If you don’t mind,” he said, looking at Ruby, “I’d like to talk to Chloe alone for a minute.”
Ruby glanced at Chloe, who nodded. “Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll be outside in the car if you need me.”
Sampson waited until Ruby was out the front door, then leaned towards Chloe.
“There you go,” he said, sliding a small pistol across the desk. She looked at him, unsure of what she was supposed to do.
“A gun?” she asked.
“It’s already loaded. Just a spare I keep around. You can return it when things seem back to normal. Just turn off the safety if you need to use it. You have any experience with guns?”
“A little,” she answered, thinking of her third to last boyfriend, a gun enthusiast who frequently took her on dates to the Atlanta Gun Club.
“Well, this one is really simple.” He ran through the mechanics of it quickly.
“You really want me to take this?”
Sampson nodded. “I thought it might make you feel more safe when you’re alone.”
“I thought you said I had nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t think you do,” he confirmed confidently. “But it never hurts to be prepared.”
Chloe slid the weapon off the desk and placed it in her purse. “Are you sure this is okay?”
He nodded and slid a piece of paper towards her.
“Just fill this out—it’s a license application and gun registration. I’ve already filled out the weapon information. It gives you a temporary license till it goes through, which should be later this week.”
She nodded and scribbled out her information.
“Just be careful with it, and don’t go waving it around unless you have to,” he warned, taking the completed form back.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Chloe replied. “Anything else?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Go home and sleep it off.”
Chloe shook his hand, then headed towards the lobby. She had only gone a few steps when Sampson called her back. “You know, this isn’t exactly encouraged, if you know what I mean,” he said in a hushed tone. “They probably wouldn’t appreciate me arming a civilian, so, maybe it’d be best if you kept it to yourself.”