by Allen Wyler
McCarthy wiped sweat from his eyes and fought to slow his breathing. Where the hell was he, outflanking him? He glanced to either side but only saw shadows in the weak city light.
“Who’d you give the documents to? Who’s your controller?” Sikes’s voice came from the right this time. Closer.
McCarthy aimed and fired. Glass shattered. Had he hit a window?
“You’re really testing my patience, boy. Keep fucking with me I’ll just kill you and be done with it.”
McCarthy squeezed off another round.
Sikes yelled, “Going to start counting. When I hit five you’re one fucking dead man. And when that happens it won’t make a shitload of difference to you what I think. Run that one up your Jesuit pigshit theology flagpole.”
McCarthy inched left to peek around the edge of the desk in the direction of Sikes’s voice. A shape darted through shadows. He fired at it.
A second later the desk to his left splintered as Sikes returned fire.
“You’re really beginning to piss me off, McCarthy, shooting at me like that. Same way you killed Washington.”
“Looks to me like we’re in a Mexican standoff. Come any closer I’ll shoot you. You’re Department of Defense, right? That’s federal. So I’ll make a deal with you. Have the cops contact the marshals. I’ll be happy to surrender to them. But no way in hell will I surrender to some asshole who’s shooting at me.”
“You’re not getting the chance to surrender now, boy. Next time I pull this trigger, you’re off to eternity.”
Move? Where? Stay? Make a break for the hall?
“Sikes, here’s the problem. I don’t trust you. You want information? Fine, work with me. When I surrender to the marshals, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. But only in a neutral place with my lawyer present. What do you say?”
Silence.
“Sikes?” McCarthy felt panic build inside.
“Sikes?”
A light flashed on, hitting the desk from a different angle.
Sikes said, “I warned you, boy. I’m coming now.”
McCarthy flattened on the ground, sighted around the desk in the direction of the voice, squeezed off another shot.
“That’s six. Only three left.”
McCarthy felt for the extra clip in his pocket, found it. “How do you figure?”
“Do the math, boy. It’s a custom piece. Clip holds nine. You discharged six.” Sikes’s voice came from the left this time.
Something slammed the wall behind his head. Shit! That shot came way too close.
“Still think it’s a Mexican standoff? I’m asking you once more. Where are those documents?”
Fear knotted his stomach. He regretted all the things he’d wanted to do but never gotten around to. Like the sailboat. Getting close to Sarah. Kids maybe. A thousand little things. He’d never have another chance. He sighted around the desk and aimed in the general direction of the voice, his hand shaking now. He tried to suppress the tremor but it only made it worse, so he timed it, concentrating on the rhythm, compensated for trigger pressure, and finally squeezed.
Thump.
“Only two left, McCarthy.”
McCarthy spun around. Sikes’s voice came from a completely different direction that time. And closer. He fired another round. The bullet hit something metallic.
“Only one left.”
Hyperventilating, he tried to slow his breathing but couldn’t and his right hand cramped, accidentally squeezing off the final round.
“That’s it, boy. Clip’s out. You’re panicking. Just like in combat. Sheee-it, couldn’t hit me now if you had a clip on full automatic. Weapon’s worthless, McCarthy, so get ready to meet God ’cause I’m coming now. Time to put an end to this.”
As fast as he could, McCarthy found the eject clasp, released the clip, yelled, “How can you be so sure I don’t have another clip, Sikes?”
“Because Elroy only had one.”
“Wrong. Fair warning, Sikes. I took Elroy’s spare.”
“Pigshit meter just pinged again, boy. My man didn’t have but one on him.”
McCarthy worked into the kneeling position. Sikes’s voice seemed to come from straight behind the desk, like maybe he was crawling toward him. McCarthy locked in the fresh clip and chambered a round. Heart pounding, he wiped his brow. With a two-handed grip, he aimed at where he figured Sikes would appear, knowing he’d only have one chance to get a shot off.
Suddenly Sikes said, “Hello, asshole” his head coming up above the desk, hand aiming his gun.
Exactly where Tom anticipated.
McCarthy pulled the trigger, fired again, and then once more. Sikes slumped, dropped behind the desk, and the room fell silent except for McCarthy’s gasping breaths and a pulse pounding in both ears like a jackhammer.
“Tom? Are you okay?” Sarah screamed from the hall.
“Sarah?”
The lights blinked on.
He pushed up on shaking legs.
A gray-haired man stood in the reception aiming a gun at him. The man yelled, “Toss the weapon to your left! Go flat on the ground. Now!”
NUMB, HEART STILL racing, McCarthy sat in the reception area as several police milled around. Sikes still lay in Wyse’s office as more cops arrived and other left. Sarah knelt beside him. “You okay?”
Tom sucked in another deep breath, trying again to calm himself. “Maybe in a few minutes.” That was a lie—it’d probably be more like several hours, a few scotches, and two years of therapy. Well, maybe a couple days, but still those scotches …
“How’d you get help so fast?”
“Pure luck. Wyse had security nail me downstairs. I convinced them of who I was and that you were up here. Once that happened, they called the police. And that’s when Detective Lange showed up.”
Tom exhaled a deep breath, wrapped her in his arms, and hugged.
Just then Lange approached. “McCarthy, you’re gonna have to come with me.”
Tom met his eyes. “Do I need my lawyer?”
Lange shrugged. “I’d prefer to take your statement without one, but your call.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet. Until this mess is sorted out you’re a material witness.”
“In that case, I need to call my lawyer.”
Lange nodded thoughtfully. “Might be good idea. Need a phone?”
56
SUNDAY, 4:41 PM, PUBLIC SAFETY BUILDING, SEATTLE
MCCARTHY YAWNED INTO his cupped hand and squeezed the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to relieve the fatigue-induced headache grinding away at both temples. He yawned again before asking Palmer Davidson, “How much longer you think this is going to take?”
He’d been sitting in the same drab, cramped interrogation room since Lange brought him here close to midnight Saturday. Tired and irritable, he wanted to scream. Just shy of seventeen hours in this fucking room.
Before leaving Wyse’s office, he’d called Davidson and requested that he meet him here, then made sure Lange understood he wouldn’t answer any questions until Davidson was there, sitting beside him. He couldn’t trust Lange. Especially without knowing if any of Sikes’s men were still unaccounted and hunting him. Then, before agreeing to answer any questions, he demanded that Davidson contact Colonel Cunningham to call off his dogs. But, so far, Cunningham wasn’t returning calls. He felt certain Sarah had been questioned also. Had she been released? Did she retain a lawyer too? Davidson couldn’t find out.
He realized Lange’s tactic was to separate him from Sarah to reduce their ability to coordinate stories. Didn’t matter. Their stories would match.
Davidson shrugged. “I have no idea. Long as they need you, I imagine. Seventy-two hours is the max, but I don’t think they’ll be able to make any substantive charges stick.” Davidson had come and gone, taking care of business, but made sure he was present when detectives spoke with McCarthy.
McCarthy picked up a lukewarm cup of overcooked coffee and cons
idered, for lack of anything else to do, sipping it. The sheen across the surface caused his stomach to flip, so set the coffee back down, knowing it’d taste like shit and wouldn’t serve any purpose other than giving him something to do. Besides, his stomach was acidic enough.
He wondered what else Tony Cassera had dug up.
The door opened, and Lange entered. Another man in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and maroon tie appeared in the doorway. Lange said, “McCarthy, someone wants a word with you,” and shot Davidson a pointed look. “Alone.”
The man, a tall, solidly built African American with closely cropped hair, slipped into the cramped room and flashed a Department of Homeland Security ID. “Agent James Robertson.” He shot Davidson a pointed look. “Excuse us.”
Davidson held Robertson’s eyes a defiant moment, then turned to McCarthy. “I advise you to not talk with him without me present. Let me do my job.”
Robertson ignored Davidson by speaking directly to Mc-Carthy. “What I have to discuss with you doesn’t concern him.”
“He’s my lawyer. Anything you need to say to me can be said in front of him.”
Robertson shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Believe me when I tell you that you want to hear what I have to say. Last chance. May we talk or not?”
With a sigh, McCarthy nodded for Davidson to answer for him. At this point he just wanted this to end. Davidson said, “What is it you want to discuss?”
Robertson pointed to the door. “What is it with you, man? You need a hearing aid? Out.”
Davidson pursed his lips, nodded pensively. “Give us a moment.”
Robertson said, “Thirty seconds. It’s cut-and-dried. I don’t have time to waste here.” He exited, pulling the door shut.
Davidson cupped his mouth with his hands and whispered directly into Tom’s ear, “This room is being monitored, so if you need to say anything to me, whisper in my ear. Understood?”
Tom nodded.
“Might be worth it to hear what’s on his mind. I suspect it’s something to do with Cunningham. Bastard still won’t take my calls, and it’s crucial we know where we stand with whomever he still has out there. Here’s what you do: Listen to what he says but do not—I repeat—do not offer any information or agree to anything, until you talk to me first, no matter how reasonable it sounds. Got that?”
Tom nodded again. Davidson patted his shoulder. “I’ll be right outside the door. Feel free to stop the conversation any time you want. Just call for me.” Davidson opened the door and waved Robertson in before leaving.
Robertson entered, shut the door, and eyed McCarthy with disgust. “Here’s the deal, you sorry motherfucker. There’s no doubt you took files from Wyse’s office.”
McCarthy looked away.
“We both know you were in Wyse’s office. We both know you shot and killed a government agent. Finally, we have the camera you used to copy classified documents.” Robertson raised his palms in a case closed, slam dunk gesture. “Those are irrefutable facts.”
McCarthy wanted to say something but remembered Davidson’s advice. They might have the camera but he still had the memory chip. Clearly no one had bothered to check that yet, giving him enough confidence to turn his fear to anger. Anger at Wyse, at Cunningham, at Sikes, and now this creep who was trying to intimidate him into a confession for something he hadn’t done. Fuck that.
Robertson said, “You’re in deep trouble, McCarthy. Breaking and entering is one thing. But stealing classified documents raises it to a new level. Think about that.”
Since the interview was being recorded, McCarthy decided to speak in spite of Davidson’s warning. “So prosecute.”
Robertson jabbed a finger at him. “I’m warning you. Be receptive. Listen to what I’m telling you. I’m the good cop, the one who makes you the offer. You don’t even want to meet the bad cop.”
“An offer?” McCarthy laughed.
“Understand something. You will be prosecuted for your crimes. There’s nothing we can do to change that. But if you tell us what documents you took and who your controller is, I’ll personally ask the judge for leniency.”
Tom sat back in the chair, arms folded. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.”
“Prove it.”
Robertson stood straight, jaw muscles rippling, face darkening with rage. “Fair warning, McCarthy. The DOD owns this case. Hand over those documents or—”
“Or what? For the record, Wyse and I go way back. We’ve been friends since med school. He invited me up to his office. If you doubt that, check the Verizon records. They’ll verify I called him about ten minutes before I arrived. Wyse says anything different, too bad. It’s his word against mine.”
“Before you play that card, McCarthy, I suggest you think things through. Like about all the ways we can fuck up your life. Things you haven’t considered yet. Like your practice. What happens if your Medicare number is suddenly revoked? Lose your Medicare number, you can’t bill for services. Same with your DEA number. Lose that, you can’t write prescriptions. See where I’m going with this? That happens and every insurance company in the country will drop your sorry ass. And I haven’t even warmed up. We’ll pressure your malpractice insurer to drop you. I’ll see how cocky you are when you can’t get insurance. I can keep going, but you’re a smart man and can understand. Am I right?”
“Got it. But you see,” Tom said, giving an innocent shrug, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Classified documents? If I knew what you’re talking about, I’d certainly offer to cooperate. Especially seeing how it’s the government.”
Robertson glowered. “That’s your final answer?”
“There is no other answer. I’m trying to be helpful.”
Robertson put his hand on the doorknob. “Man, you want a world of grief, go ahead, play your game. We’ll see who’s so smug when this is over.”
McCarthy held up his hand. “Wait.”
Robertson turned back to him, a smirk tugging the corners of his mouth. “What?”
“Know what? If I did have something like that—you know, like records that showed Wyse was conducting illegal in humane research on innocent people without their consent—know what I’d do with it?”
“What?”
“I’d probably share it with a good investigative reporter, have him expose it to the national media. That way the public would be the ones to judge if the contents were really a national security issue or not. And also they’d understand the government’s involvement in doing it. Know what I saying? Hypothetically, of course.”
Robertson stood rock still. “You threatening us, McCarthy? Because, if you—”
“Threat? No. Like I said, this is all hypothetical.”
Robertson spun around and was out the door.
Five minutes later Lange returned, Davidson on his heels. Lange said, “You’re free to go.”
McCarthy heard the words but had a hard time believing it. “Really? Just like that?” A ton of questions flooded his mind. What about the shootings in his office? What about what happened to Washington and Sikes? “What about Maria?”
“Case doesn’t hang together. The DA’s office agrees.”
“Why?”
“Several bits of evidence don’t fit Sikes’s story.”
“Like?”
“Like the ceiling tiles we found in the john with Washington’s blood on them. That sort of thing. Fits your story, not his.”
“What about the feds? Robertson just threatened me.”
Lange said, “Yeah, I heard. But if what you said is true, they’ll bury this case and not risk you going public with it. And if you do, well, Cunningham and Wyse will be toast. You’ll have to use your judgment on that.”
McCarthy glanced around the hostile interrogation room, a place he never wanted to see again. Relieved, he turned to Davidson. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
57
THREE DAYS
LATER: LAKEVIEW MEDICAL CENTER
HOW WEIRD.
Tom stood inside the heavy pneumatic double doors to the trauma center intensive care. At the far end of the hall, just outside a patient room, Bertram Wyse presided over an entourage of attentive students and residents. The students were in street clothes and short white coats, the house staff in knee-length white coats over scrubs. Surgical masks dangled around the necks of two residents. One of the residents played with a loose tie, winding and unwinding it around his index finger. Wyse’s mid-calf white coat, belted stylishly in back, covered purple scrubs. His scrubs were obviously custom tailored rather than medical center stock. Besides the distinctive color, they lacked the gray circular LMC logos randomly stamped on the hospital issue, as if defacing them would deter pilfering.
Wyse in his glory.
McCarthy’s dislike for Bert as a medical student had now morphed to hatred. Because of Wyse, he’d almost been killed. Even now, McCarthy wasn’t one hundred percent certain the threat had been completely removed. Unlike the camaraderie he enjoyed with other med students, his relationship with Wyse had always carried an abrading edge made worse by the competition of pursuing the same residency position. But their animosity had grown into far more than a simple testosterone-fueled rivalry. Wyse possessed an incessant need to one-up McCarthy. At everything. If Tom put in ten-hour days at the lab, Wyse did twelve.
McCarthy had always tried to resist being sucked into the competition. If Wyse scored higher on a test, so be it. If Wyse generated more publications, fine. But the one thing he did compete for was the prized residency position. And the joke was, their motivations for it were dramatically different. Wyse sought the prestige. Tom wanted the simple convenience of staying in the same city as the medical school: not having to uproot and move to an unfamiliar town, find an apartment, learn where to buy groceries or where to go for a hair cut, locate a new dentist. Especially at the start a grueling training program. What made it even stranger was when he tried to explain this to Wyse, Wyse accused him of lying.