The Bastille - a Thriller

by Victor Methos

  She looked down at the bandage covering her stitches. Peeling it off a little, she looked underneath.

  “Fucking Frankenstein,” she mumbled.

  The stitches had healed enough so she could actually move around without tearing them open. How long am I expected to just lie here with that sick fuck coming for me? It was great that two police officers were stationed at the hospital, but Tamora took out four guards in his escape, without a weapon. What could he do if he actually had one? What if he just came in packing an AK and decided to take out everyone who got in his way?

  No one, she decided, could stop a truly crazy person who wanted to kill, if he had a gun. At least, not until after the crazy’d taken a few lives.

  Angela swung her feet over the side of the hospital bed. The floor was cold. She put weight on one foot and then the other. The pain wasn’t so bad. Just a sharp, stabbing agony that nearly made her knees buckle.

  The pain didn’t fade as she hobbled across the room and retrieved her clothes. She had to check underneath the bandage and make sure she wasn’t bleeding. Everything appeared normal and she figured she couldn’t expect to walk around painlessly after getting stabbed.

  After she’d dressed, she sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped her shoes on. That was the most painful part—the hunching over to get the shoe on over her foot. She was grunting the whole time as though doing squats in the gym.

  When it was over, she lay back on the bed a moment and just caught her breath. When she’d become a federal agent, she’d known there’d be consequences. Nobody got to carry a gun around and arrest people without someone wanting to kill them. But it had never really hit home until that blade went into her stomach. A frightening thought hit her: what if Armageddon was just a lot of people like Tamora? People who no longer respected the law. How quickly would society break down if enough people decided the law didn’t apply to them anymore?

  Shit, Angela. You’re philosophizing while that fucker is on his way here to gut you.

  With an enormous effort that caused burning pain in her belly, she forced herself up and out the door. She debated checking out but knew the doctors wouldn’t let her. She’d just call them later and let them know.

  A quick glance over her shoulder revealed the officer assigned to watch her room reading a paperback novel and not paying attention at all. She grinned to herself as she hopped on the elevator and headed to the first floor.

  One thing she felt naked without, as she tried to appear as though she was walking without pain, was her sidearm. But she reached into her pocket and felt her badge. That would have to do until she got home and grabbed a holster and one of her pistols.

  Only when she was staggering out of the hospital’s front entrance did she realize she didn’t have her car. It had been left at Tamora’s old house and probably had been towed to the Bureau’s lot.

  “Shit,” she mumbled.

  That left three options: she could walk, she could call someone to get her, or she could take a cab or bus. She decided the safest option was to take a cab. If she had called someone to pick her up they might try and force her to stay at the hospital with Tamora on his way. And as her little escape just proved, it was not exactly top of the line security.

  She took out her phone and called a cab. Then she leaned against the hospital wall and focused on the pain in her belly. Really felt it. She had always thought that the way to conquer pain wasn’t to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t there. Because it was. And just denying some aspect of reality didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

  The better approach was to let it take over for a moment. To permeate every part and really feel it. Owning it gave the chance to calm it.

  She wasn’t standing there long when a cab rolled to a stop in front of her. She limped inside and sat down, fire shooting through her torso.

  “Where to?”

  “FBI office on Lake Mead Boulevard. You know where it is?”

  “Yup,” the cabbie said, pulling away.

  Angela leaned back in the seat and rested her head against the headrest. The sky didn’t have any clouds. She didn’t realize when she’d moved to Vegas from Seattle how much she would miss the rain. There was something romantic about it, though romance was the last thing she’d had any of the past few years.

  She felt her phone in her hand. There was one person she did feel like calling and letting know she was out of the hospital. Besides, the Bureau might put out a citywide missing persons call for her when they discovered she was gone. Someone needed to know where she was so they could straighten it out.

  Angela dialed Mickey’s cell number. It went to voicemail.

  “Mickey, it’s Angela. I left the hospital. I know, I know, but I was going crazy in there. And it’s not exactly well guarded if that psycho comes to finish me off. Call me so we can meet up. I’m gonna grab my car but I’m not going home.”

  She hung up, but didn’t have the strength to slip the phone back in her pocket. Instead, she laid it on the seat next to her, and stared out the windows.

  16

  Mickey’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He reached in and pushed the “silence” button.

  Cornelius drank his beer and watched the basketball game, as if he hadn’t just told Mickey they had forged all the police reports in a major investigation. Mickey, an attorney before joining the Bureau, knew exactly what that would mean.

  A good attorney could get Zain Tamora’s guilty verdict vacated. The officers lied in an official report and then must’ve lied on the stand at his trial. It would bring into question every case the officers had ever worked. The Clark County courts would be flooded with Post Conviction Remedy Act petitions, and dozens of cases would be reopened and vacated. It was a shit-storm he didn’t think Cornelius Red truly understood.

  “Are you telling me you lied in these reports?”

  “Lie… it wasn’t really a lie. Ain’t a lie if it’s a good cause, right?”

  “So, his wife lived and you kept that from the defense?”

  “Shit, we kept it from everybody.” Cornelius shifted in his seat. “They found her knockin’ on death’s door. So in the hospital, me and Hank—he was my partner then—we made a call. We decided that sick bastard would come at her again. So we leaked to the press that everyone had been killed. The only people who knew the truth were me, Hank, and the doctor. We all three agreed it was the best thing to do.”

  “Do you realize what’s going to happen? When Tamora is recaptured, his attorney can have the case reopened. Not to mention every other case you and Henry handled.”

  He nodded. “I know. It was worth it.”

  “How could that possibly be worth it?”

  “’Cause you didn’t see what that son of a bitch did. Little baby, no more than a year old… he fucking slit her throat like she was cattle. The wife… she got the worst of it. But she was a tough lady. She lived. She took everything he gave her and lived. I wasn’t ’bout to let that happen to her again.” He shook his head. “No way. I woulda rather got fired than do that to her. And that fancy witness protection only wanted mob guys. They wouldn’t have taken her. I did the right thing.”

  Mickey sighed and leaned back. His eyes slowly drifted to the television and both men watched the game in silence for a few minutes.

  “So,” Cornelius said, “you gonna rat me out?”

  “Rat you out? You lied under oath to a jury. I’m not going to be part of that. I have to report it.”

  He nodded. “They’ll let him go.”

  “They’ll have him for the murders at the gas station. He’s not going anywhere.” Mickey waited a moment before asking. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. I told her to get the hell outta the city but she said this was her city. She was born here. Her children were born here. I think she felt like she would stay connected to them if she stayed in Vegas.”

  “So you have no way to get in touch with her?”

  “I have a number. She gave it
to me and only me a little bit ago.”

  “Her life’s in danger. I can protect her, Cornelius.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Lemme see your badge and ID. Then I’ll get you the number.”

  Mickey showed them to him. Cornelius rose with a groan and his knees cracked again. He disappeared into another room and then came out a few minutes later with a slip of paper. He handed it to Mickey and then sat back on the recliner and said, “Some things are more important than your job, you know?”

  “I guess I do. Thanks for the information.”

  Mickey rose. The truth was, he was in a thick haze. He couldn’t think clearly. How many cases had this man worked that would be overturned? How many hardened criminals would be released because he protected a woman that he knew the system couldn’t protect?

  As he stepped out into the sunlight, he thought, briefly, that he shouldn’t report it. That he should keep the information to himself. But if he did that, and it was ever discovered by someone who did report it, every case he had ever worked would be called into question, too. And the thought of some of the people he’d put away these past years getting out filled him with dread. He had no choice; he would have to report it.

  The rental car was hot as he sat down, and the seat warmed the back of his thighs and buttocks. He stared at his phone, which had a voicemail from Angela. First, he listened to the voicemail. He shook his head when he heard that she’d left the hospital. Really, he wasn’t that surprised. He would have to go pick her up and take her back. If her wound ripped open she could die from sepsis. In Vietnam, Mickey had seen it with people’s feet.

  The jungles were constantly wet and people would get trench foot. The skin on the feet would become so waterlogged it would slide off. Like skin slipping off chicken legs in soup. The trick was to not wear socks and stop every hour and air your feet out. A lot of the new guys didn’t know that and their feet would open and get infected. Much of the time, there was nothing the medics could do. They would have to take the foot off.

  Mickey lowered the phone and thought about calling the Clark County DA’s Office to inform them of Cornelius’s confession. His thumb was over the browser on his phone to look up their number, but he couldn’t press it down. Not now. Not yet. Instead, he dialed the number on the slip of paper. A woman answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Carrie Tamora?”

  A long pause.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Mickey Parsons. I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m helping with the apprehension of your ex-husband, Zain Tamora.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Cornelius Red gave it to me. I was hoping we could talk, Ms. Tamora.”

  “That’s not my name,” she said sternly.

  “I’m sorry.” He glanced at the apartment. Cornelius was glaring at him through the window. “I think we both know your life is in danger. I would like to meet with you if you can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe Zain Tamora is coming for you. I would like you in federal custody for your protection.”

  She scoffed. “Sorry to disappoint you Agent Parsons, but I’m not sure anyone can protect me.”

  “That may be, but you have a better chance with us than on your own. I don’t know that much about Zain Tamora, but he doesn’t strike me as the type of man that gives up easily.”

  She was silent a long time. Then she said, “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing. I just want to meet you. We can do it in a public place. Are you near a restaurant somewhere?”

  “Yes. The Amber near I-15.”

  “Heading out of the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll meet you there then. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. If you’re not here in twenty minutes, I’m leaving.”

  Mickey started the car. “I’ll be there.”

  17

  The Amber was one of the most rundown restaurants Mickey had ever seen. The exterior looked like it could collapse at any second and the interior appeared not to have been cleaned since the opening. The tables were dirty and smelled like old mop water and the lighting was harsh and hurt his eyes.

  He stood near the hostess and scanned the restaurant. A woman was sitting by herself in a booth, away from the windows. He walked over, observing her. She seemed distant, staring off into space and absently stirring a cup of coffee. She was middle-aged and attractive.

  “Carrie?” he said, keeping a good distance from her.

  She folded her arms. “Yes?”

  “I’m Agent Parsons. May I sit down?”

  She nodded. He sat across from her and didn’t say anything for a moment. He picked up a menu and scanned it. He was somewhat hungry again, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk food poisoning by eating there.

  “What’s good?” he said.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been here.”

  The waitress came by and he ordered a cup of coffee and a cheeseburger. His watch buzzed and he took the two halves of his pill with ice water. Sometimes he forgot about the disease, forgot that he was living with it. And the watch would buzz like some reminder from the universe that his time was ticking down. He would always have to tell himself that with modern medicine, those infected with HIV could live long, fruitful lives. It wasn’t the death sentence it was in 1981. Sometimes it comforted him, and sometimes it didn’t.

  “So Cornelius trusted you enough to give you my number, huh?”

  “I don’t think he had a choice. He’s advanced in age and I think he knew he couldn’t protect you.”

  “Protect me,” she mumbled, staring down into her coffee.

  Mickey chose his next words carefully. “I’m sorry this happened to you. Sometimes good people don’t get any breaks.”

  She nodded, not looking up at him. “I lost everything I had in one day. My husband, my children, my home, my friends, my church… everything.”

  “What happened, Carrie? Why did Zain do what he did?”

  She shook her head. “There isn’t a moment that goes by that I don’t ask that question. I don’t know. One day we’re planning a trip to Disneyland and he kissed me goodbye before he went to work… and the next he kicked in our door and he had this, like, look on his face. Just the most evil… it was just awful. He didn’t look human.” Mickey could see tears welling in her eyes. “And he just shut the door behind him and… and…”

  “You don’t have to go through it if it’s uncomfortable.”

  “No, I want to. I haven’t spoken about this to anyone in twenty years. Do you know what that’s like, Agent Parsons? To have a secret this big and no one in your life knows about it?”

  He watched the waitress place his coffee down on the table. He took two packets of sugar and emptied the contents into the cup. “I know some things about keeping secrets from people you care about. I did it for a long time, too. The thing about secrets is that if you keep them, they’re only your problem. As soon as you share them, the burden is lightened.” He sipped the coffee. It was bitter, even with the sugar. “How did you survive?”

  “He was using a knife on us.” Her lip curled in anger. “I think maybe he thought a gun would be too impersonal. That it would be too quick. He stabbed me in the kitchen… I don’t know how many times. Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty. When I was lying on the floor bleeding, I could hear the children screaming…”

  She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. Mickey let her quietly weep. She finally took a napkin and dabbed it at her eyes. When a few minutes had passed, he placed his hand over hers and they sat quietly a little longer.

  “You must think I’m so weak,” she said.

  “How could I possibly think that?”

  “It’s been so long and I’m still this scared. I’ve seen those young girls that get raped at frat parties. How they testify against their attackers and rebuild their lives. I wasn’t
able to do that. Mentally, I’ve just been in hiding.”

  “Everyone deals with this type of trauma in their own way and in their own time. There’s no right or wrong way. As long as you can get out of bed every morning, you’re making progress.”

  She wiped the rest of her tears away. “Do you really think you can protect me?”

  Mickey, suddenly, was back in his mother’s kitchen. Watching her shoulders tremble as she put ice on a black eye. His father wasn’t a bad guy… when he wasn’t drinking. But when he drank, that temper flared and all bets were off. Mickey remembered countless nights of being woken up by screaming. He would rush out and see his mother huddled in a corner and his father raging throughout the house.

  Once, Mickey had tried to stop him. He was only ten years old at the time so he didn’t have the strength to do much. But he got his father’s attention, and ended up in the emergency room because of it.

  When his mother died of breast cancer, his father changed. Something inside of him changed. He withdrew into himself and he and Mickey would go weeks without saying a single word to each other. When Mickey was seventeen, he joined the army to get out of the house. At the time, seventeen was written as eighteen by the recruiters as long as you didn’t appear seventeen. Mickey had even served with a sixteen-year-old from Brooklyn who’d escaped a life on the streets by joining the service.

  But even after Vietnam, even after the horrors and the monsters he’d dealt with in the FBI, the monster that stuck out most to Mickey when he closed his eyes was his own father. Deep down, he felt a painful guilt. He could have protected his mother better. Called the police. Called other relatives. Done something to stop it. If only he’d been a little stronger, a little more knowledgeable about the world, he would have seen his father locked away in a cell and he and his mother would have escaped across the country. But that wasn’t what fate had in store for them. The innocent were usually the ones that suffered the most.