“What about his house?” Helene said.
“Neat, clean. Everything looked new. The kitchen is immaculate. He cooked me a meal, coq-au-vin, yum, and he cleaned up, washed the dishes while I dried.”
“Any guns?” Helene said.
“Not where you can see them. He’s got a big closet, though. Big enough for a gun-safe.”
“How did it end?” Helene said.
“There’s no one inside Mr. Jeremy Cypher,” Connie said. “It was like he made himself up. I asked him about his Army service. He’d seen a little combat, but most of his time he was a paymaster, a base budget guy.”
Helene turned to Slattery. “Could you check on his military service, Steve?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“See if he had sniper training.”
“No need for that,” Slattery said. “I took him elk-hunting last year—New Mexico, north of Taos, around Red River, they got this humongous herd. I nailed my animal, my buddies got one each, but old Jeremy couldn’t kill an elk if it was tied to a tree and yelling for him to do it. The poor guy got down on himself. It’s not a pretty thing to watch, a guy losing face.”
Slattery’s cellphone beeped. He walked toward the door and went out, leaving Helene alone with Connie. Helene wanted to tell Connie about her relationship with Murdock. She didn’t have the right words. Should she say things were stalled out? Should she say things were on hold? Should she tell Connie about ….
The door opened and Slattery was back, heels hard on the floor, gripping his cellphone, shaking his head.
“It’s the youngest son, Arthur Ackerman. Shot in the leg; they’re bringing him in. What does this guy want, the whole fucking family?”
*****
In Cottonwood, at a medical supply house near the hospital, Fish paid cash for a white lab jacket, the only one in the store that came close to fitting. He bought a second hand stethoscope. He bought a valise, leather, pricey, so he could carry the white coat. He drove to the hospital. The car was powerful, he was over the speed limit before he knew it. A white sheriff’s SUV stopped him, Fish flashed his credentials, the deputy tipped his hat, told Fish to hold it down, sir.
From the highway, the CRMC had the appearance of a castle in a children’s storybook.
It sat on a low hill that overlooked an arroyo.
Clouds blanked out the sun as Fish followed an ambulance into the curved driveway. The radio said snow on the way.
Fish parked in the lot. A dozen official-looking vehicles. There was one uniform, a cop from Prescott. He checked Fish’s ID at the door. Who did the senator want to see? The director, he said.
A nurse with a knife-edge face took Fish to the director’s office, to a chubby assistant in a sweater. The director was out, back in twenty. Fish sat down to wait. The nurse answered a call on her beeper, “Rivera here.” She walked out talking.
Fish asked the assistant for help. “Which room for Mr. Ackerman? We’re old friends,” Fish said.
“Go on up,” she said.
Fish used the men’s room, put on the white coat. It felt tight.
He looked in the mirror, saw the sex scene that had destroyed his faith in family. His mother on her back, the pool boy between her legs. She was panting, cursing, enjoying herself. Fish remembered telling Father. He wanted revenge.
His mother went to visit her sister in Fort Worth. Father took Fish hunting, shooting in Arizona, where Fish nailed his first wetback. Always shoot righteous, his father said.
Fish draped the stethoscope around his neck, took the elevator to Six.
Huffed and puffed on the stairs, stopping to breathe.
When he reached Seven, Fish felt dizzy. He kept going. This was the chance of a lifetime—the pool boy in bed, weakened by drugs.
He passed a nurse’s station, two women on computers.
He turned right. The room numbers went up—734, 735, wrong way.
Fish kept going, circling toward his target.
He did not want to pass the nurse’s station again.
They would ask was he lost. They would remember he was there, a portly man masquerading as a doctor. Make one mistake in politics, your career is over.
Fish made another right turn, another, numbers going down.
Room 713. Room 710. Moving faster now, toward Room 700, where Axel Ackerman waited.
*****
Teri Breedlove sat next to Jeremy in the Subaru.
Tried to hold his hand, but he needed both hands on the wheel.
Teri was in love; she had found Mr. Right. He looked amazing in his blue EMTs. He looked like a soldier.
They left the highway, followed signs to underground parking. She asked what was his assignment. He blocked her question. Teri’s job was the interview. She should ask to read the manuscript. What manuscript, dude? Just ask, she’ll know what you mean.
“Too much drama, dude.”
“You have your orders, soldier.”
Teri Breedlove watched Jeremy walk off, carrying a little medical bag.
Her body still tingled from his touch—call it expertise. Her fingers fondled the Promise Ring, dangling from a chain around her neck, where Jeremy had left bites. She closed her eyes and sent a text to God.
Dear God, I am still a virgin.
She added the word, technically.
The elevator door closed. She pushed the button for Five.
As she was lifted up, she sent another text.
Dear God, does a little Sodomy count? Her bottom was tingly with remembering, and excited—all those nerves down there. When God answered her, she hoped He used a text. She hoped it was in English.
The elevator doors opened, easing her into the corridor on Five.
Her interview subject was in Room 505. Jeremy called this person the key to everything, open all the doors, answer all questions. Jeremy was so cagey, always keeping secrets.
She needed to know this man. Maybe she could compare notes with her mother.
Chapter 70
In the dream, Murdock climbs a curved glass staircase to a glass-walled room where Cypher is in bed with a redheaded woman who takes Murdock’s hand, leads him to the edge. He looks down the twisting stairs.
Murdock wears his bear claws and his first Sunday suit and a wide orange necktie. The redheaded woman wears a Halloween mask. Murdock turns to the woman, shows her the newspaper photo of five guys in business suits. Murdock asks: “Where are you in this picture?”
The woman gives him a push, “There you go.”
Murdock holds his arms out, like wings. He whirls inside a vortex. He crashes through a window, lands in a glass-walled room in front of a giant sheet of cardboard covered with words inside bubbles—Helene’s mind-map, showing her road to the solution. Slattery and Connie are erasing the mind-map, wiping out the connections between past and present.
Murdock rolls away. He’s safe in his wheelchair. Keep moving. His job is keeping it together.
The wheelchair rolls into the Amarillo library, doorway to the past, where Mrs. Dorothy Stanhope turns over a photograph that shows Penny Diamond leaving the Wilson house, slim hips inside a tight pencil-skirt. A boy stands on the porch, waving goodbye.
Murdock hears voices, two women.
“What’s he saying?”
“It’s the meds, dear.”
“Did he say something about wings?”
“Your husband will be fine, dear.”
“He’s not my husband, thank you very much.”
*****
Helene stood over Murdock’s bed, watching him come back.
Helene’s brain was on hold. She was an action person. She thought better when she kept busy.
Murdock was the thinker-planner, the guy with the sleuth’s intuition. His eyelids fluttered. His face looked peaceful; his hands were folded across his stomach. Helene was jealous. Why did he get to rest while the world tilted into madness?
“Hey, Steinbeck. How about a siesta?”
“You
are needed,” she said. “It’s two against one in the meeting room.”
“Does that mean we’re good again?”
“No,” she said. “Yes, if you want … I don’t know, I’m so tired. Just come with me, okay?”
“Who gets the wheelchair?”
“How can you be funny at a time like this?”
“Cosmic guffaw,” Murdock said.
“It’s Arthur Ackerman,” Helene said. “Axel’s youngest … he’s been shot. They’re bringing him in from the airport.”
“Family reunion,” Murdock said.
Wheeling Murdock along the corridor, Helene looked down at the top of his head and saw a little bare spot. Her heart did a thump. Murdock was taller; he always wore a hat or a cap. Murdock was human. His hair was getting thin. Oh, no. She told him about Connie dating Cypher. Murdock nodded, like he was not surprised.
They pushed through the door into the staff meeting room. Slattery scowled, Connie Fremont looked lost. Slattery was at the white board, making a list, lifting names from Helene’s mind-map. Axel Ackerman’s name was number one. Arthur Ackerman was number 13, way down at the bottom.
“I gotta have order,” Slattery said. “One-two-three, first things first.”
“Good job, Steve,” Murdock said.
“Thanks. Coming from you, that’s an A-Plus.”
“How many cops you got at the CRMC?”
“I got uniforms on the entrances,” Slattery said. “Couple more on patrol.”
“What did you get on Cypher’s military service?” Helene said.
“Nothing yet. Maybe I don’t know the right people.”
“Did the airport shooter use a sound-suppressor?” Murdock said.
“They didn’t hear anything,” Slattery said. “They figured it out when he blew a tire on their transportation.”
“Any others get shot?”
“Two security people. He left one unshot.”
“No kills, right?”
“They got lucky,” Slattery said. “Good questions, Sherlock. Maybe you should have stayed a cop.”
“In combat,” Murdock said, “if you shoot to wound, then you can shoot the rescuers.”
“So he didn’t mean to kill them?” Slattery said.
“He wants them all in one place.”
“What then? He gonna blow up the hospital … with us in it?”
“Not his style,” Murdock said.
“Oh, yeah. So how do you define his so-called style?”
“Clandestine,” Murdock said. “Slice and dice, feint and withdraw, pick off the outliers, work your way closer to the target … that would be this hospital, which is why I asked about manpower.”
“Big traffic mess around Flagstaff,” Slattery said.
“That profile does sound like Jeremy,” Connie said.
“Any clues on the weapon?” Murdock said.
“I know what you’re gonna say,” Slattery said. “You want it to be a small-bore .223.”
“We could check his house,” Connie said. “Want me to call for a warrant?”
“I told you people,” Slattery said. “Jeremy Cypher cannot fucking shoot!”
Chapter 71
The problematic part of the climactic plan was gathering the family into one room.
Cypher was human—two arms, two legs. He needed more arms; he needed to clone himself. Where was Joey when you needed him?
Cypher climbed the stairs from the parking garage. He used his smartphone to check the floor plan.
The surgery floor was Two.
Recovery was down the hallway from Surgery.
Cypher checked for police, saw a cop down the hall, chatting up a nurse. Cypher slipped into Recon mode, heard a chuckle from Joey. Hand over the controls, Bro. Stop calling me Bro.
A woman sat outside the door of Recovery.
Cypher recognized her from the tarmac—the two-handed shooting stance, the move you saw on TV. This was the woman Cypher had chosen not to shoot at Geronimo Airport. The woman security person looked up.
She asked his business.
Joey said, Second chance, bro. Don’t fuck it up.
Cypher shot her in the leg, took her weapon and her cellphone, and hauled her inside Recovery.
*****
Alone in Room 505, Karla dreamed of writing, her hand moving across the page, the ink forming words, sentences, paragraphs.
She dreamed of sitting at a table in a bookstore signing her name on the title page, smiling, thank you so much, the line of customers snaking through the bookshelves, out the door, curling onto the sidewalk, flowing onto the street, a flood of Karla Kurtz fans clutching copies of her debut novel, Little Killer Girl.
Her eyes opened. The door was opening. He had come to finish the job. Mr. Cypher was Mr. X, the man behind the scenes. Karla had sent him her writings from the workshop. He had sent them to Charity, aka Penny Diamond. Karla felt stupid.
She felt trapped. Her brain rocked from side to side; she saw a movie of her life. She was fifteen when she stabbed Chuy Medina in the mercado in South L.A. The cops handcuffed her to a metal table in an interview room. A red-faced cop felt her up. She learned to take care of herself, killing Benny Kelwin because he got her pregnant. She was doing real good until Charity showed her the police report; the Benny Kelwin case was still open, and the cops were hunting Karla. It was a lie and how could she get out of this hospital?
Someone outside her door.
*****
Kill the Nurse, Joey said.
The recovery room was a jungle of IVs, empty gurneys, a nurse wearing a face mask. Cypher shot her in the leg—another wounded non-combatant—took her beeper and cellphone.
Cypher stood over the bed of Arthur Ackerman, a handsome man with a lean tanned face and the bright fake-white smile of a film star. The eyes revealed a man on medication.
“And who might you be?”
“I am Transportation, señor.”
“Transportation for where?”
“To visit your father, señor.”
“What’s the program, my man?”
“A family reunion, señor.”
“Where the fuck are we?”
“The elevator, señor.”
“Going up, going down,” Arthur said. “Like it is with careers. You’re lucky, you and your film star visage. I could agent you to six figures, then seven. Who are you calling?”
“Mi esposa,” Cypher said. “My beloved wife.”
“What’s your name, anyway?”
“I am called Death, señor.”
*****
Teri Breedlove paused in the doorway to Room 505.
Her interview subject lay in bed; the room was dim. Teri saw bandages and black hair. Male or female, Teri could not see.
She put her smartphone on interview mode. Record, it said. A little red light flashed. Ready. A voice came from the bed: “Halt, who goes there?” Teri recognized Karla, from Red Rock Coffee, and felt better.
“It’s Teri Breedlove, hon. Your fellow barista from the Red Rock.”
“What’s with the uniform, girl?”
“Jeremy sent me. He says you’re writing a murder mystery—that’s so fab—so I wanted to interview you … for my class.”
“So this is a career move … interview with a victim?”
“Jeremy said you got shot. Mind if I ask where?”
“In the left butt cheek.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Did you just have sex, girl?”
“Say what?”
“You’re glowing like a girl scout bonfire.”
“The person who shot you,” Teri said, “was she a woman?”
“Nice evasion of subject. The shooter was a man.”
“And why exactly did she shoot you?”
Karla hesitated. “Okay, a woman. I’ll tell you if you roll me out of here.”
“No way. You could die or something.”
“You need money, I’ll pay you big-time if—”
�
��Where is it?”
“Cypher’s bank. I got a box.”
“Why do you call him Cypher?”
“He was a captain, I was an NCO.”
“You didn’t answer me, hon, about the reason she shot you.”
“Cypher shared with her, brought her into the loop.”
“Shared what?”
“He shared my writings … from the mystery workshop.”
“The manuscript?” Teri said.
“Yeah.”
“You sure about that?”
“He set me up,” Karla said. “He wanted her to shoot me.”
“But how did she know?”
“The manuscript told the story of her life, girl. We got a love-triangle here, me and her and fucking Cypher. Now unhook these two tubes, unplug this little thing from the wall.”
Teri’s cell played a little tune. “Jesus loves me.” The screen said Jeremy. His voice sounded tight, a tense whisper. He ordered Teri to roll the next suspect up to Room 719, two floors up. Her job was transportation, moving a so-called suspect to Room 700, at the end of the corridor. Suspected of what?
Teri tried protesting, her interview was going great—lots of rapport, okay? In a hard voice, Jeremy told her to move now, ASAP, no fucking around. Teri was stunned. She had never heard him swear. He didn’t sound like himself. She said okay, turned back to the bed.
“Sorry, but I have to go.”
“First he fucks you, then he kills you. Get me out of here, girl.”
Teri stepped close. Karla reached out, grabbed her hair. Karla’s eyes were angry. She said mean things about Jeremy. She accused Teri of having sex with Jeremy. She called Teri a Jezebel. Teri pried the hands away from her hair. Was everyone crazy?
*****
Cypher heard a voice yelling in his ear. It was Joey, the crazy one. Where the fuck are we going, bro? Cypher told Joey to get lost. Joey wanted to control the op. It was his idea, his plan, borrowed from the Odyssey. I’m the one who read the book, bro. Do what I say. Cypher told him to back off. Arthur Ackerman opened his eyes.
“Who on earth are you talking to?” Arthur said.
“My alter ego, señor.”
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 24