Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  Hansen put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, easy, Warren.”

  Warren? He slapped away Hansen’s hand and glared. “Back. The. Fuck. Off.” Then to the door: “Ma’am, I’m not going anywhere until I look inside your room. And I will do that.”

  “What are you going to do, break the door down? Like the big bad wolf?”

  “Yes, ma’am, if necessary,” his tone flat and bored, the way he became before tearing loose with something aggressive, like standing back and kicking the door in. If she refused one more request he’d be justified. Might even charge her with impeding an investigation. Then see how fucking smug she sounded. Go ahead, bitch, make my day.

  “You do and I’ll file sexual assault charges against you.”

  Sikes laughed at the senselessness of the threat. “Ma’am, that’s not going to work. The head of security is standing right here next to me.” He glanced at Hansen. “Isn’t that right, Frank.”

  Hansen nodded at the door. “That’s right, ma’am. We’re conducting an investigation. We need your full cooperation. Need be, we’ll call another witness before doing anything, but you better believe we will see the inside of that room.” He seemed pleased with himself.

  Sikes continued. “I will look inside your room, so you might as well get it over with and open up. You alone or is someone in there with you?”

  “Jesus! What is it with you? Can’t a girl get some sleep around here? I’m on call. This might be my only chance to sleep. Give me a break.”

  Sikes backed up a step, ready to throw his shoulder into the door. “Last warning, ma’am. You don’t have this door open in ten seconds I guarantee you I will open it by force.” He paused for effect, then, “One … two … three—”

  “Hold your horses while I finish dressing.”

  Sikes grinned and hitched up his belt, wondering if she was a looker. Should he bet Hansen she had a man in there? Why else give him such a raft of shit?

  Several seconds passed before the door opened a crack, revealing a slice of a face and eye. “What’s all this bullshit about a security check?”

  Sikes placed a palm on the door and pushed, but met with resistance, like her foot or shoulder. “Ma’am, I need to look in your room, not at your eye.”

  She changed the angle of vision first to the right, then left. “Who’s with you?”

  Hansen answered, “Frank Hansen, ma’am, head of security.”

  She opened the door an inch further. “Let me see some ID.”

  Sikes hesitated. Bitch! He flashed it at her. “Satisfied?”

  “No. Hold it out a minute; let me read it.”

  Sikes gave a sigh of exasperation. What started out as a mildly entertaining fantasy had quickly become a royal pain in the ass. “Here.”

  She studied it a minute. “How do I know it’s real? You could’ve bought that thing anywhere. Matter of fact, I’ve seen them on eBay.”

  Enough of this shit. Sikes shoved the door harder, felt a little give. “Ma’am, I’m done playing games. We have every legal right to check this room and will. Now stand back before you get hurt. Next shove’s going to be hard. Fair warning.”

  She opened the door and moved aside. She wore green scrubs and her hair was mussed, like she’d been lying down. A looker too, the kind who’d get a lot of action. The room was the size of a closet with nothing but a single bed with the sheet and blanket bunched up at the foot like someone had been stretched out on it. He squatted down, checked under the bed. Nothing but a dust bunny. Shit, she was alone. Which pissed him off no end. He was certain she was lying and hated to be proved wrong.

  “You have some identification?”

  From behind the door, she produced a white coat with a plasticized picture ID badge clipped to the lapel, which she showed Sikes. “There! Satisfied?”

  He checked the name. Sarah Hamilton, Psychiatry Resident. Her face matched the picture. “Look legit to you, Frank?”

  Hansen inspected it. “Yeah, it’s real.”

  Sikes said to Sarah, “I need to check behind the door.”

  She didn’t budge. “Why?”

  Enough of this shit. He shoved her aside, stepped in with barely enough room to hold the two of them, and looked behind the door. Nothing. She was alone. Fucking unbelievable. Could’ve sworn he heard two voices a moment ago.

  Sikes nodded grudgingly at Hansen, “Room’s clear,” stepped back into the hall, slamming the door behind him, not bothering to say another word to the cunt. Wasn’t sure who he was angrier with: her for making him look like a fool, or McCarthy for not being dead right now, or maybe Hansen for seeing him blow his cool. Maybe all three. Fuck!

  HEART BEATING WILDLY, breaths short and ragged, Sarah waited a beat before locking the deadbolt. Coming face-toface with the man who intended to kill Tom took every bit of self-control within her, and for a moment, she’d waivered on a razor edge of destruction. Did he notice her anger? Did he suspect? She put her ear to the door to listen for what Sikes said to Hansen, but didn’t hear a sound. Was the silence a trick? Was he outside the door listening, waiting to see if she’d check to see if he was gone? It’d look guilty as hell to get caught checking the hall, but she had to know if he was still out there.

  She waited thirty seconds before unlocking the deadbolt and cracking the door far enough to see a slice of hall. A door slammed further down, then another as their footsteps grew distant. She opened the door and leaned out far enough to see Sikes and Hansen turn the corner at the end of the hall. A fifty-pound weight suddenly seemed to lift from her shoulders.

  With the door securely locked again, she climbed onto the bed and whispered at the ceiling, “They’re gone.”

  30

  MCCARTHY SAT ON the floor hugging his knees while Sarah sat on the bed in the lotus position, watching CNN, killing time, second by second. Tom checked his watch again—8:35—and said, “It’s time.”

  Last time she walked the route an hour ago, she came away with the impression the halls were still too heavily patrolled to risk it, so they decided to wait another hour. McCarthy stood, ready to go, figuring capture was preferable to another minute stuffed in this overheated, underventilated room.

  She flicked off the tiny television, said, “I’ll check the lobby, see if they’ve lightened up a bit more.” The plan was for her to make one final check immediately before starting the last section of the exit route. “Still want me to check your car?”

  “Yeah. I need something from it.”

  “First level, over past the storage bins, right?” She arched both arms straight up, stretching, antsy too, needing to get out of here as much as he.

  “Right.” He put the key in her palm and wrapped her fingers around it, then held her hand longer than necessary. “Manila folder on the passenger seat, but if you see any problems, forget it. I can live without it.”

  “Meet you in the lab, then.” She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. “Be careful; don’t get caught.” And she was out the door.

  McCarthy locked the door behind her and smiled, reliving her kiss. He reached up and touched the spot as he noted the time. He would give her a two-minute head start before heading for the stairwell.

  SIKES AND HANSEN stood in the security office studying a map of the medical center, looking for places they might’ve missed.

  Hansen said, “Don’t you think the odds are that McCarthy is long gone from here?”

  “Perhaps, but where else we going to look? Nothing’s changed at Davidson’s office. Far as I know, that shyster’s still there even though the rest of the building cleared out hours ago. Nothing different at McCarthy’s house either. So if he’s not here, where the hell is he hiding?”

  Hansen just shook his head.

  Sikes said, “I’m missing something. Not only that, but that bitch Hamilton was talking to someone. Something not right about the situation. It bugs me to not know what it was.”

  Hansen shook his head again.

  HALFWAY TO THE elevator Sara
h slowed her pace and finger combed her hair. Check the garage or lobby first? Would one route be quicker than the other? Did it matter? She decided to check the lobby last; it had been the most heavily guarded all day and so should be a good indicator of the degree of security now. Sooner or later they had to give up and assume Tom was gone.

  Their escape plan was simple: travel separate routes so that if caught, she wouldn’t be an accessory. He’d proceed directly to the EEG lab and arrive a minute or so before she would so he could unlock the door. After checking the surveillance level, Sarah would pick up the folder from his car and join him. If their route seemed clear, she’d head for her car while Tom went down to the basement to exit the back of the building. Once outside, he’d hide in the bushes until she came to pick him up.

  As she pushed the elevator call button a strong and eerie sense of déjà vu settled over her followed by a spine-tingling suspicion of being watched. She turned a slow 360 but saw only the empty hall and a grease-stained Godfather’s pizza box poking out of a trash bin. She heard the distant hum of a floor buffer and the occasional page from the PA system. All of which brought back memories of Northwestern and Jeff.

  The elevator door opened. Empty. She pressed the button for the first floor, but couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling of déjà vu.

  Sarah rounded the corner to the long empty hall to the garage door. Last time she checked, an SPD officer had guarded the door. Not this time. She sighed with relief, more confident that they could make it out undetected, their patience finally rewarded.

  Yet her echoing footsteps intensified the nagging gut feeling that something bad was about to happen. She glanced at a window to the darkened Medical Records department only to see her worried reflection. A tingling burrowed under her skin and slithered down her spine. The stillness didn’t seem right in spite of this being the first evening of a three-day weekend. She was at the door, reaching for the knob when another wave of anxiety hit.

  She hesitated, turned around to cast one more glance around the dimly lit empty hall. She felt embarrassed at being so squirrely. Like during childhood when she was afraid of the monster under her bed, she whispered, “Go ahead, girl, open the door. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s only a parking garage.”

  She straightened her back, took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into a cavern of bare concrete, harsh fluorescent light, thick warm air with the lingering smell of car exhaust and motor oil. She paused to listen but heard only the hum of an overhead fluorescent light.

  CLICK.

  She spun around, heart banging wildly and realized the latch in the heavy fire door had just seated. Without thinking she grabbed the door knob but it wouldn’t turn. Crap city! Locked. Which, now that she thought about it, was always the case with this door. And her swipe card—the magnetized edge of her hospital ID—was on her coat in the call room.

  The sight of all the empty parking stalls left her feeling alone and vulnerable.

  Double crap city!

  Tom had parked on the lowest floor, two down. She would have to take either the stairs or the car ramp. Neither option appealed to her, but at least the relative openness of the parking area seemed safer than the enclosed stairwell. Tom said the folder wasn’t all that crucial but might be helpful to proving his case. Why not just walk out the vehicle exit and be done with it?

  Another tingle snaked down her spine.

  This is ridiculous. It looks exactly the same as during the day except for fewer cars. Get on with it! And, as long as you’ve gone this far, check the damn car. Just make it quick.

  She started down the sloping drive to level two and at the bottom of the ramp paused to glance around. The vehicle entrance—with its yellow-and-black-striped guard arm—was a half-block away. Just beyond that, in a pool of a sodium-vapor streetlight, four gangbangers leaned against the concrete wall smoking and listening to a lung-vibrating boom box.

  Not Seattle’s best neighborhood.

  Before they noticed her, she continued down the ramp past a large ventilation vent with a noisy fan. Loud enough to mask any screams for help. Crap, there was no one around to hear her scream anyway. Her gut tightened. Just pick up Tom’s folder and get out of here. If she was lucky, the bangers would be gone by then.

  At the bottom of the ramp a Cyclone fence enclosed a bicycle rack. Strange, the ceiling light was out, leaving it in deep shadows. She couldn’t remember ever seeing the light out before, and this unnerved her even more. She stopped. Crap, she’d have to pass right by it.

  Turn around?

  BUCK LEWIS HEARD the woman’s footsteps before she rounded the corner on the ramp. He didn’t recognize her but assumed she was a doctor or nurse. The interesting thing was there were only two vehicles down here—McCarthy’s and an SUV. Without a word, he double clicked his transmitter, alerting Sikes to a potential situation. Her presence was too coincidental to dismiss. After all, chances were fifty-fifty she was heading for McCarthy’s Beemer. If so, she was their ticket to him. And payback.

  DON’T BE SILLY. Sarah was about to start walking again when the uneasy feeling became almost overpowering. As if someone was watching her.

  Then a thought hit. Although she hadn’t looked specifically for surveillance cameras on the other floors, she knew probably one or two monitored the garage. Could the cameras be causing this feeling of being watched? And now that she thought about it, the police or security must be monitoring Tom’s car. Which, in a way, felt reassuring.

  On the other hand, if she went to the car … Oh crap, they might follow her. Too late now. She started walking again.

  Suddenly, it did feel like someone—not just a camera—was watching her. Instinctively, she glanced at the enclosure, but nothing seemed different than a few moments earlier. Yet …

  SIKES TOLD HANSEN, “That woman in the call room. I could’ve sworn I heard her talking before we knocked on the door.”

  “But you looked inside the room.”

  Sikes was thinking about McCarthy escaping through the ceiling. Maybe the fucker had climbed up there. Maybe the bitch stalled to give McCarthy enough time. Sikes started for the door. “Take me back there. Use the shortest route. Now!”

  31

  ON-CALL ROOM

  TOM SLIPPED ON the bouffant-style surgical cap and waited a full two minutes before opening the door far enough to peek into the hall. Deserted. Fifty feet from him a green exit sign glowed above a steel fire door. He’d never used that stairwell, but Sarah assured him it went straight down to the correct floor. The question was, had she thought to make sure the latches allowed the doors to open from the stairs? All he needed was to be trapped in a stairwell like earlier. With his luck, he’d be forced to exit on the first floor directly in front of Sikes. Well, hell, he had no choice.

  Besides, odds were these doors weren’t locked because, to save time, doctors routinely took the stairs, especially between only one or two floors. In this wing you could die of old age waiting for an elevator. From overhead came a page for a cardiologist he knew. It made him wonder what it was like in the normal world.

  He was out of the room, moving rapidly toward the fire door when he heard two male voices from an intersecting hall. He sped up, making the exit just before the men rounded the corner. Quietly, he let the heavy door shut, then stood for a moment on the landing listening to the echoic quiet of concrete and steel before starting to move.

  SIKES BANGED ON the call-room door, got no answer, and banged again.

  Still no answer.

  He tried the knob and, to his surprise, found the door unlocked. Inside there was nothing but one bed rumpled as if someone had been sleeping on it. No Sarah Hamilton.

  Hansen shrugged. “Don’t know what to say. It’s a call room. Maybe she was called.”

  Sikes looked at the ceiling of soundproofing tiles. Nothing looked disturbed. Still. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  SARAH RECOGNIZED THE back bumper of a silver BMW dead ahead, the remainder of the ca
r hidden by a concrete column. Three stalls further was a sun-faded black Blazer. She walked to the Blazer and stopped beside the driver’s door and casually groped the pocket of her coat and froze for a beat.

  Wide-eyed, she glanced at the pocket, then frantically reached inside the other one. With both hands she patted all pockets, stopped, and momentarily assumed a thoughtful pose. Slowly, turning a complete circle, inspecting the oil-stained cement as if maybe she’d dropped her keys. For the next few seconds she stood, fists on hips, scanning the area around Tom’s car.

  Convinced of having given an Oscar-winning performance, she headed back toward the ramp, glanced again at the bicycle bin just as a primitive fear surged through her gut. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her breath caught. What was that? A slight movement in the darkness? Or just a sixth sense? She started running for the stairwell.

  BUCK LEWIS SAW the woman pretend to ignore McCarthy’s car. Shit, did she really think she could get away with a bullshit act like that? What a damn joke.

  As soon as she started back toward him he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to spring as she passed. But then she unexpectedly took off sprinting for the stairwell.

  He was up and moving, simultaneously keying the throat mike, saying, “Mother Hen, Chick One. Target identified in stairwell southwest one. Request acknowledged.” Damn bitch was quick, already through the door.

  He threw open the stairwell door, heard the scramble of shoes on metal above, and hit the first stair when his knee buckled from a searing bolt of pain where McCarthy had clobbered him. Fuck it! He righted himself and pushed through the pain, his dream of payback enough to force him to sprint. Well, limp was more like it, but goddamn it when he caught McCarthy’s bitch he’d beat the living shit out of her until she coughed up the bastard’s hiding place. Then he’d break the traitor’s fucking legs one at a time before Sikes had the pleasure of terminating him.