“Jesus, Jack, do all the psychos in this town have tiny feet?” The line crackled. Staal lowered the trunk but it wouldn’t latch.
He paused, “Yeah, I guess.” The yellow Pontiac had slowed to a stop. Staal thought of an age-old cop saying; ‘There are no coincidences.’ “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you bagged half a dozen Marlboro butts.”
“Nope. But I did get five fresh Camel butts and several older ones of every other possible brand.”
“Oh, yeah? That trail is a favorite dog-walking path. I’m sure some guys gun a few cancer sticks while out on their morning stroll.”
“These Camel ones, though, correlate with the scene.” Staal heard voices interrupting Drummond and the man spoke to someone else. “Yeah, I’ll look at that in a minute.” To Staal he said, “Still there, Jack?”
Staal was thinking about Camel cigarettes. He had seen that brand of smokes recently. But where?
“Jack, you there?”
“Huh? Yeah, Will, I’m here.” Where? “Shit!” On Irene Campbell’s coffee table, there was a pack of Camels and a book of matches.
“What? Jack…you there?”
“Look closely at those Camel butts, okay? And—” he paused to adjust the bags so the vehicle trunk could close.
* * *
Nathan Campbell had followed Detective Staal in his Pontiac for two blocks. Now the cop was out of his vehicle and vulnerable. Campbell was confused about what the cop was up to.
“He took my garbage?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But why?” He strained to see what detective Staal was doing with the trash bags in his trunk.
He was so angry that he couldn’t think straight. His house was left in ruin, and the mission nearly compromised.
“Why my fucking garbage?” He thumbed the windshield wiper. “Fuck this!”
Why didn’t he burn the shit in the fire?
He didn’t know why the cops wanted his trash, but he knew it wasn’t for any good reason. Staal was close to sorting things out—too close. “I have to do something! What?”
He revved the Pontiac’s engine, dropped the clutch, and stalled out. “Shit!”
He started it again and this time successfully engaged first gear. He accelerated down the street, jolting the car as he shifted into second.
* * *
Jack Staal slammed the trunk closed after shifting the oversized bags
three times in order for the trunk lid to close and not crush the bags.
“—and what?” Drummond was growing impatient.
“Hold on a sec, Will.”
Without warning, the yellow coupe accelerated quickly, as though the driver had stomped on the throttle. The engine screamed and Staal turned in time to see the Pontiac streak toward him. The front bumper caught him just below the knees. The force of the impact threw him off his feet. He landed head first in the Pontiac’s windshield; his hands couldn’t protect his forehead as it crashed against the safety glass. The driver slammed on the brakes. Staal’s body slid off the vehicle’s hood. For a moment he was airborne. Then he slammed into the pavement, his body rolling with his momentum.
“Jack! What the fuck is going on?” It was Drummond’s voice. Staal still had his phone in his hand.
Staal tried with all his strength to stand, to run away, but his legs would not respond. He tried to speak, to alert Drummond. “Alp offider dowd!” He crawled on his hands, pulling himself off the street.
“Fuck! Staal’s hurt,” he heard Drummond say. “Somebody call dispatch. Jack. Jack are you with me?”
“Nide-wud-wud. Offider-dowd. Shid!” Staal cursed his own voice.
The Pontiac’s engine roared to life. The driver floored it again. Staal braced for an impact that did not arrive. Instead, the engine sputtered and stalled. The guy can’t drive a stick, Staal thought. Blood was in his eyes and mouth, and he felt dizzy, his eyesight blurred. He clutched the cell in his hands as he continued to drag himself between the two parked cars.
“Jack—buddy. I need to know where you are, man!” Drummond yelled.
Staal reached the relative security of the spot between the two parked vehicles. He reached under his blazer for his weapon, grabbed the pistol, and rolled onto his back. Pain shot through his body, blazing from his legs to his spine until it reached his shoulders.
“Tweld Streed,” Staal said in a garbled voice.
The Pontiac pulled up beside the vehicles between which Staal lay. He heard the door open and the driver step out into the street. Staal clutched the grip and raised his pistol. He fumbled, almost dropped the weapon, recovered, and fired three rounds into the door and window of the coupe. He heard the driver curse and the door slam. The engine screamed and the front tires spun before the Pontiac sped away down the street.
Staal dropped his handgun and leaned back onto the asphalt. He was dizzy, and his stomach clenched. Wilson Drummond’s words echoed in his mind: “Do all the killers in this town have small feet?” He thought of Jed Wilkinson’s story at the Gull and the cabby, Dhalliwal’s statement....
Red light flashed behind his eyes, his heart pounded in his ears and chest, and he drifted off into blackness.
Chapter 22
Someone was screaming. No, it was an air-raid siren. No, it was the screech of grinding metal. Jack Staal didn’t know what the sound piecing his eardrums was.
“Relax, Detective, you’re going to be okay,” a voice said to him.
Staal’s vision was blurry, and he hurt all over, from his legs, to his abdomen, to his head. He tried to sit up, to get his bearings, but he couldn’t move. Was he paralyzed or just restrained? Whose voice was that? Was it Campbell, or an accomplice? He struggled to move and was rewarded with a jolt of searing pain.
“Detective, don’t fight the restraint...” The voice continued to speak, however Staal could not understand the words. He felt nauseous and he was losing the battle to stay conscious. White light filled his vision and then it went dark. The screeching ceased.
Staal felt as if he was floating, then falling until he landed in a field. He felt pain, sharp and intense, throughout his body. Somebody pulled him to his feet, a uniformed cop in full riot gear. Several other cops were walking next to him on both sides; each armed with shields and batons.
Then they weren’t riot police anymore, they were detectives. To his left, Rachael Gooch, called out, “I’m hit!” She dropped to her knees, with blood bubbling from her mouth. Then she was gone.
Staal kept walking. He knew Fraser, Wakamatsu, and Gina Hayes were a few yards away from his position. He tried to call out to Gina, to tell her to take cover and to run from the area, however no words would come from his mouth.
Straight ahead, a faceless man in dark clothes stood up from the ground and walked toward the cops. Staal pulled out his pistol, and assumed a shooter’s stance. The dark man morphed into Nathan Campbell.
Campbell was a giant, at least ten feet tall. In his right hand, he held the severed heads of Kim Walker, Gabby Haywood, and Stephanie MacKay. In his left, he held Sean Moore by the scruff of the neck. The eyes of the dead stared at Staal, begging him for help.
Staal charged, firing his weapon at the beast Campbell as he ran, pulling the trigger over and over until he had emptied the fifteen round magazine. Campbell was gone.
“No!” Staal yelled.
“Jack. Jack, it’s okay.” It was Gina’s voice. Staal opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see. He smelled Gina’s perfume and tried to reach for her.
“Jack. You have to stop struggling or they’ll put you back in restraints.”
“Rachael?”
“Yes, Jack, I’m here.”
“Cap-all id bird day boy,” Jack murmured.
“Shhh, Jack. Honey. Be quiet. Just rest.”
“Cap-all id bird day boy,” Staal tried again. “Shid!”
“What’s he saying?” Fraser said. “Something about Birthday Boy.”
Staal turned toward him and tried to rub his eyes,
but he couldn’t move his hand.
“Jack, please—stop it,” Gina begged. “Can you give him anything?”
“This should help.” Staal felt a prick in his right arm, and a wash of comforting warmth spread through his body.
“He’ll be all right now.”
Everything went blank.
When Staal woke next, his eyes were sleep-encrusted, his head throbbed, his body ached, and he felt like shit. He couldn’t remember the fight, but he was certain he had been knocked out. When he finally pried his eyes open, he found he was in a brightly lit room. He felt marooned in the desert hot. His tongue tasted like something from that desert had crawled into his mouth and died. He could see someone in the room, a blonde woman in light pink overalls.
“Oh, my gosh. You’re awake!” she said.
Staal tried to talk, but his throat was so dry that all that came out was a croak.
She wiped his face with a damp towel and said, “I’ll get the doctor.”
Doctor? Okay, the room and that disinfectant smell made sense now. Staal tried to remember the events that would have hospitalized him. He recalled driving to Campbell’s neighborhood and finding the house was on fire. Arson. He couldn’t remember much after that, though, and the nurse returned with the doctor, distracting him from further thought.
“Detective Staal, this is Dr. Sterling,” she said, standing out of the doctor’s way.
“Well, well, what a surprise. It’s nice to meet you, Detective,” Sterling said.
“Gooda meed yoo-too,” Staal said, embarrassed that his voice had not returned. “Waz goin’ on? Where is dis?”
Sterling and pink nurse were already going fuzzy in his vision. Sterling was talking and Staal wanted to ask more question about what happened, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Staal turned around in time to see the yellow Pontiac slam into him. He flew in slow motion and landed on the hood. Suddenly, he was watching himself lying on the pavement between the parked cars. George Clooney was there and he kept saying, “I’m not really a doctor; I’m an actor.”
This time when he woke, he could see clearly. The nurse in pink was in the room with him.
“Oh, hello!” she said. She pushed the intercom button and spoke. “Sheila, could you please page Dr. Sterling?”
“Who,” Staal croaked, “are you?”
“I’m Jo-Anne Breen, your day shift nurse,” she said.
Jo-Anne was tall, or perhaps it only appeared that way because he was lying down, but he thought she was at least 5’10”. She had brown hair cut short and looked to be in her late twenties. When she knelt to wipe his face, Staal noticed that one of her eyes was brown, and the other green. She grinned at him, with a smile that could melt a glacier.
“You have often said the name Gina in your sleep. Is that your wife?” Jo-Anne asked. “Because I can call her if you like.”
“Oh, uh, Gina is a cop on my squad.”
“Detective Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“She’s visited you every day and I hear that she stays late into the evenings.” Jo-Anne smiled. “She normally comes in around this time.”
“Could I—” he coughed. “Get a drink, Jo-Anne?”
“Well, certainly. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Staal noticed that his right arm was in a sling. He felt around his face and found several bandages. He poked at a dressing that went across his forehead and all the way around his skull.
“How are you feeling, Detective,” Sterling asked when he entered the room.
“Lousy.” His voice was raspy, but no longer jumbled.
Jo-Anne reappeared and held a plastic cup with a bent straw to his mouth. Tap water never tasted so good.
Sterling took Staal’s pulse and blood pressure. He didn’t look like the doctors on television. He was overweight, balding, with a comb over that was comical. He took Staal’s left foot and held it firm. “Can you feel that?”
“Yeah, but it feels weird. Kinda numb and tingly.” He was out of breath. “What’s going on, Doc?”
“You’re fine, Detective,” Sterling poked the sole of Staal’s foot with a blunt needle. “Feel that?”
“Shit, yeah!” Staal attempted to pull his leg away from Sterling. He felt a stab of pain and discovered that he could barely move his leg. “Doc, if I’m fine then why is my leg so sluggish and why the fuck are you checking for sensitivity in my feet? Is my back broken or something!”
“Gosh, no; you have a bone fragment in your left leg that is pressing on the sciatic nerve. That is why you are experiencing tingling and numbness.”
“So, I’ll need an operation to get the chip?”
“Yes, but it’s not serious. Just uncomfortable. We won’t be able to book the surgery for at least six—maybe eight weeks.” He paused for a moment before starting again. “Mr. Staal. When you first woke up you were confused about where you are and about what happened to you. Do you remember the incident?”
“Yeah, and call me Jack. At first, when I came to, I drew a blank and couldn’t remember. Now I remember I was hit by a car and knocked out. I’m at the hospital—but I don’t know which one.” Staal smiled.
“Welcome to Lake Hanson Regional Hospital, Jack,” Sterling said.
Sterling made several notations in the chart at the foot of Staal’s bed and then he left the room. With an IV in his arm and a catheter elsewhere, Staal couldn’t relax in his bed. If he moved, it hurt and if he didn’t, it was worse. His back and butt were numb; itchy, actually, and he needed to get up and stretch for a while.
When Jo-Anne returned, Staal opened up with a salvo of questions. “When can I get out of here, Jo?”
“Jack. You have a dislocated shoulder, deep tissue bruises in both legs, a concussion, and a mild skull fracture.” She smiled at him.
“So tomorrow isn’t likely?” Jo-Anne shook her head. “Jesus, Jo. I’ve got bad guys to put away. You couldn’t sneak me out the back door, could you?” It was Staal’s turn to grin.
“I’m sure the police can make do for a few days without you, Detective. What I can do is get you something to eat, if you like.”
“Yeah, that would be great. I’d give my left you-know-what for a cup of coffee. Speaking of which, you think I might be able to get this drain pipe out?”
“Huh? Oh, the catheter. I can take that out for you.”
“That would be great. Instead of using a bedpan, do you think you could help me over to the john?”
“Well, first we would have to work on sitting up. Next we’d attempt a wheelchair. But, first, I’d have to check with the doctor. It may be too soon to move you.”
“Jesus.” Staal felt like an invalid. He envisioned a career-ending injury. What if the doctor wasn’t being straight with him? What if the bone chip was more serious than it sounded? Staal couldn’t handle a desk job, not for another decade at least.
“Jo-Anne? Am I going to fully recover from this? I mean—will I have trouble walking?”
“You’re a little banged up, but you’ll be back catching crooks in no time.” She flashed him a reassuring smile. “You may limp for a few days and you’ll probable suffer from Post Concussion Syndrome, but you’ll be fine.”
Removing the catheter was more uncomfortable than wearing it. Jo-Anne left Staal’s side to find some food for him. Staal was embarrassed when he thought about how he must have appeared to Jo-Anne. Afraid. However, Breen had reacted in a calming, professional manor. She was used to all of this. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the hospital.
“Room service!” Gina Hayes bustled into his room with a tray of food. “Oh, Jack. How are you?” Gina had on her brave face. However, behind the smile lurked trepidation.
“I’m fine, babe. Don’t worry.” He tried to ease her anxiety with a happy smile of his own. “Doctor says I’ll be up and around in a couple of days.”
Gina set down the tray and sat beside Staal on the bed. She took his free hand and squeezed. “I thou
ght I was losing you.” A tear slipped down her cheek.
Staal gave her hand an answering squeeze and said, “It’ll take more than that jerk-off Campbell and a hit and run to finish me off, babe.” He pulled Gina close. “Did you put him down? Campbell, I mean.”
“No, Jack, Campbell’s still in the wind. No one has seen him in three days.”
“Three days? Shit! How long was I out of it?”
“It’s July seventh.” She stood and reached for the food tray. “Your nurse said that you can only have liquids for now. So, chicken broth and coffee.”
Staal took a minute to think about the fact that he had been unconscious for over a hundred hours. Campbell could have made it to the states or somewhere in the Yukon by now. He shook his head. No, he was sure that Nathan Campbell was still in town.
Staal made a weak attempt at humor. “Shit, five days. Think I’ll get paid for that?”
“Jesus, Jack. Try and eat your soup.” Gina pushed aside a stack of magazines and sat next to him.
“What happened with Hennessey and his crew?” Staal sniffed his meal and wrinkled his nose.
“Nothing, really. Freeman’s team became interested in the DFA angle. Drummond and the Mounties’ lab people looked over everything and found nothing solid. Crown Counsel is trying to make something stick, but Hennessey’s attempt to buy a sex slave—well, it’s thin.”
Staal sipped a cup of salty broth, and then traded the tepid liquid for black, stand-a-spoon-up in it coffee. The back cover of one of Gina’s magazines featured a smiling Joe Camel in an outdated bid to sell cigarettes. The ad caught Staal’s attention, but he wasn’t sure why.
“You find those mags in a museum, babe?” Staal said, smiling.
“Huh?” She returned his smile.
Across the hall from Staal’s room, another patient listened to the television with the volume turned up high. A Coke commercial gave way to a familiar sit-com’s theme song. “Taxi!”
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