by L Jan Eira
“No!” exclaimed Sergeant Newman loudly as she heard the hushed click, click, click of the retreating hammer. This yell alerted all the officers, who reflexively looked at Al. So did the man. But unlike the others, the assailant seemed to remain clueless to the grave peril about to strike him.
“Don’t shoot,” commanded Sergeant Sanchez, taking long steps toward the young police officer.
• • •
Tony and Drew had gotten the call as soon as they parked the rig in the garage. They reentered the ambulance and rushed to Bell Road, little traffic in their way, given the time of day. They arrived at the scene, a beautiful home with an outsized driveway, and the two crewmen got out and began gathering their equipment.
“Where are they?” said Drew.
Tony pointed to the home’s backyard. “Behind the house.”
It was then both men reflexively ducked as the evening stillness was suddenly battered by the deafening sound of a gunshot.
“Shit,” said Drew. “Did they just shoot the son of a bitch?”
CHAPTER 57
“Claire, I found out where he is,” said Quentin, her car speeding as fast as she could through the streets of the affluent neighborhood just behind Memorial Hospital. “It sounds like he’s been poisoned with the Rat Poison drug!”
“I know, Susan. I know. Please hurry,” implored Claire.
“I will. I promise. We’ll take him to the hospital immediately.”
“I’m being realistic,” said Claire. “I’m prepared for the worst. You know, we have not seen anybody survive Rat Poison yet. But he’s young and strong.”
“Let’s remain positive, Claire.”
“Susan, who knew where we live and knew Jack was in his office tonight?” asked Claire, her words almost in a whisper.
Quentin said nothing. She took a deep breath, her brain churning with reflection. The cell-phone call in my guest bedroom. Quentin bit her lower lip. Mike arranged this attack! And she continued her rush to the scene.
CHAPTER 58
“Did you see today’s headlines?” said the man wearing a plush, multicolored robe. He was standing in front of a window, his gaze scanning the peaceful pond adorning the backyard. He sipped from his cup of coffee, his Bluetooth receiver hanging on his right earlobe. There was a short pause, and then he spoke again. “‘Young Doctor Shot Dead by Police.’ That’s the title. Apparently, he survived until he got to a neighborhood behind the hospital. Somebody called the cops. They found him under a tree agitated and frantic. He fought the law, and the law won. It says here they shot him when he attacked one of the police officers. Who said cops are good for nothing, huh? They thought he was drunk and on drugs.”
The man felt elated about what he was reading on the front page of the Evansville Courier & Press. “By the time they find out, we’ll be way gone, sipping on a cool red drink with a small umbrella.” He chuckled. “The bad news is, she lives. I don’t know what she knows. We’ll assume she knows enough.”
The man sipped from his coffee cup once more.
“Find out where she is and take care of it!” He put the coffee cup down on a nearby table. “And no screw-ups this time. Call me later and I’ll give you information about the flight. They should be picking you up around noon today.”
He got up and closed the suitcase on the bed.
“I’ll meet you later. In about a week. There are a few loose ends I need to take care of first.”
He hung up the phone and took another sip of coffee, overjoyed. It was going to be a good day, and it would be even better tomorrow.
CHAPTER 59
Victor and Raoul donned green scrubs and exited through the door labeled Doctors’ Changing Room. The two men were lanky with dark features. They first looked to the right and then left. Side by side, the two continued down the corridor to the right. A sign on the wall indicated the direction to the Post-Op Unit.
“First, we’ll make sure she’s asleep and quiet,” whispered Raoul.
Victor smirked. “Yeah, either by herself or with this stuff in the bag.” He raised his right hand, showing a small black doctor’s bag.
“Don’t screw this up.”
“I know, I know,” said Victor. “You worry too much.”
“I’ll take care of the anesthesia. Do you know your part?” asked Raoul with a wry smile.
Victor nodded his head. “Yeah. When she’s asleep, I inject this stuff in her IV.” He tapped on the back pocket of his scrub pants.
“Do you push it in slow or fast?”
“Fast. Don’t worry. I know what to do.”
Raoul tossed a wan smile. “What if she doesn’t have an IV anymore?”
“I help you find a vein and inject the stuff directly. This isn’t my first rodeo, man.”
“Good,” said Raoul. “I have a tourniquet in the bag.”
“What about the cops outside the door?” asked Victor.
“The most important thing is for her not to make any noise. When we get in, you distract her. I’ll come from behind with the anesthesia.”
Victor grinned. “Pretty easy work for five thousand bucks, huh?”
The two men walked several more yards in silence as they entered the nursing unit. Having taken a corner to the left, they could now see the door leading to the room down the hall. A police officer sat at the entry reading a magazine. Hospital personnel were busy going in and out of patient rooms, a clear sign that business was again booming at Newton Memorial Hospital.
“She recuperated well from the surgery and will be discharged later today,” said Victor, his voice pretentious and loud. They approached the cop. They nodded at the officer politely as Victor reached for the doorknob.
The officer suddenly got up from his chair. “Hey, Doc? Are you going to be in there a few minutes? I gotta take a leak so bad.” He pointed down the hall. “Can you wait for me to come back? I ain’t supposed to leave my post.”
“No problem,” said Raoul. “We’ll wait. Take your time.”
“You gotta go, you gotta go, right?” agreed Victor.
Both men beamed at the cop and then at one another. The officer scrambled down the hall toward the men’s room.
“It must be our lucky day,” whispered Raoul. Both men entered the hospital room.
Inside, the two assailants ceased talking, surprised not to find Claire in bed. She was nowhere to be found. On the bedside table, papers with discharge instructions declared the patient ready to go home. Walking toward the closed door into the bathroom, Victor craned his neck to listen. Assured that she was in there, he thumbed toward the door, gazing at Raoul. “She’s taking a shower,” he whispered ever so softly.
“We’ll wait,” said Raoul. He opened up his black doctor’s bag and placed it on the unmade bed.
• • •
Claire was taking a much-needed, steamy hot shower. The surgeons said earlier the bullet missed all the important parts. Unfortunately, the slug had traumatized enough unimportant parts that her shoulder muscles throbbed in pain.
Well, at least everything still works, she pondered, wincing as she slowly moved her left arm and shoulder, a shot of agony reminding her she was recently shot there.
“This too shall pass,” she affirmed to no one else. Slowly and gently, she soaped up her body. Alone. She was not about to have a nurse help her through it, as had been suggested by the medical staff.
The events of the last few days had been torturous and extremely nerve-racking. Dense steam now emanated from the shower stall. The water stopped running, and the shower door opened. Claire slowly grabbed a towel and put it around her wet body. She wiped the mist off the bathroom mirror and gave herself a reassuring wink. Slowly she dried off her body and hair, stabs of sting retelling the events leading to her shoulder and upper-chest injuries. She put her fresh pajamas on and then the hospital robe over it. She opened the bathroom door, causing dense vapor to escape into the hospital room. As she walked into the room, she saw the two men dressed in s
crubs.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “Did somebody change his mind about letting me go home today?”
“No, nothing like that. We’re here to give you instructions,” said one of the men turning to his right, while the second one conspicuously went the other way.
Clare wrinkled her forehead and spoke with a suspicious tone. “But I got all my instructions earlier from Dr. Watson.” She had not met these doctors before, and something inside told her they were not who they appeared to be. If the last few days taught her something, it was not to be so trusting.
Rapidly and without warning, the second man advanced toward Claire, who barely caught his movement in the corner of her eye. In his hand he cupped a small towel. A small bottle labeled Chloroform leaned on the doctor’s bag on the bed. Before Claire could scream or before the towel could make contact with her nose, four undercover police officers forced the door open and entered the hospital room, guns drawn. One of the cops was Detective Susan Quentin.
“Cuff them and read them their rights, boys,” she said, winking at Claire.
One of the detectives holstered his weapon and approached one of the men in scrubs. With the speed of lightning, he grabbed the man’s hands, forced them behind his back, and placed the handcuffs around them, a well-rehearsed practice. Another cop repeated the process, cuffing the other criminal.
A quick search of the criminals produced a syringe with a capped needle. Inside the doctor’s bag, a small, nearly empty medicine bottle was labeled Potassium Chloride.
“Get CSI. I want all this bagged and inventoried as evidence,” said one of the officers.
Two police officers escorted the detainees out of the hospital room, while another read the Miranda rights: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
Claire was stupefied and stunned. Her heart pounded in her chest. When Quentin came to her and hugged her tightly, she found the solace she needed at that moment. Claire broke down and commenced to sob incessantly.
“It’s all over, now. You’re OK,” repeated Quentin, her words reassuring as she patted Claire gently on the back. Claire wept but remained motionless for a long moment, not sure of what to say. She hugged back, tears flowing onto Quentin’s shoulder.
“What will happen now?” sobbed Claire, barely able to form words, dabbing yet again her tear-soaked eyes.
“We’ll take these two to police headquarters and interrogate them. We’ll get them to tell us who’s behind all this!”
“I want to go see him now,” said Claire. “I need to be with him.”
“I’ll take you,” said Quentin, helping Claire amble, and slowly, they exited the hospital room.
CHAPTER 60
The cops and the two criminals arrived downstairs and exited the back of the hospital. Multiple marked and unmarked police vehicles were parked in disarray, red-and-white emergency lights still revolving and law enforcers loitering in the area.
Agent Ganz showed his FBI badge and spoke. “Good work, guys. Detective Quentin asked me to take these two to headquarters; you can go back to patrol. I’ll book them and start the interrogation.”
With a nod, the officers helped place the two crooks inside the backseat of the unmarked car. The officers gathered around, detailing the adrenalin-rich incident they just experienced to those unlucky enough to not have partaken. Ganz got in the driver’s side and drove off.
“You assholes,” yelled Ganz once the car was far enough away from the crowded parking area. “You’re such imbeciles. Incompetent assholes!” Once out of sight of the hospital, he turned off his emergency light, previously stuck on the roof of the car. He brought it in and placed it on the front passenger seat. “Can’t you do anything right?”
The assailants remained silent. He drove twenty minutes out of town and stopped the car on the side of the road alongside dense woods.
“Why are we stopping here?” asked Victor, his eyes scanning the area outside the car.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Ganz commanded.
“Mike, what are you going to do? Don’t be crazy, man. We can still fix this,” begged Raoul.
“Mike, don’t ruin everything, man,” said Victor. “Give us a chance to fix everything. We can do it!”
Once out of the car, Ganz pushed the two men down an embankment and into the heavily forested area. Realizing their fate, the two men started to run, their hands and feet shackled. Ganz reached underneath his jacket and produced his weapon. Effortlessly, he fired double tap once and then again in rapid succession.
He approached the fallen men. Each had two bullet holes in close proximity on their skulls; blood and brain matter spurted onto the mattress of fallen yellow leaves of autumn. Unperturbed, Ganz returned to his car and drove off.
CHAPTER 61
Evansville Airport was quiet, which was not atypical for this time of day. Steve Peski sat with his feet up on his desk, reading the September issue of AOPA Pilot Magazine. An article on short runway landings caught his eye, and he was now engrossed in its message. Not so engrossed that his heart didn’t skip a beat when the radio squawked, ending the hush of the late lazy morning. Steve immediately stood up and monitored the conversation.
“Gulfstream, four-two-tango-juliet, visual runway one-eight.”
Gulfstream jets were not exceptionally rare in Evansville, but the G550, la crème de la crème, was not one Steve spotted frequently in these parts. The expensive business jet was too rich for the small industry that abounded in the area. Steve knew exactly who that plane was carrying. He hoped this didn’t mean trouble. Trouble for Dr. Jack Norris. Trouble for Newton Memorial Hospital. He searched in his top drawer for a business card and sat back down at his desk. He dialed, all the while spying outside his window, tracking the beautiful jet now taxiing toward the tarmac.
To Steve’s surprise, a woman answered the phone. “Who’s this?”
“Claire Norris,” she told him. “I have Jack’s cell phone. Jack’s been involved in a terrible…accident. He’s…” Steve heard the woman weep.
He lowered his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He closed his eyes. “He wanted me to notify him if the Gulfstream jet ever returned to Evansville. And it just did.”
• • •
Steve didn’t know what to think. He strolled outside to supervise his linemen as they serviced the newly arrived luxurious jet. Three of his best employees were on the job.
The stairs from the main exit of the jet deployed, and the two pilots deplaned. They were dressed in their blue-blazer pilot uniforms and caps. They requested fuel, but no luggage needed to be fetched. “We’ll be departing momentarily,” Steve heard one of the two pilots say. “We’re just here for a quick pickup.”
They nodded pleasantly as they walked by Steve, who acknowledged them with a wave.
At the pilot’s request, the airplane was readied for quick departure by the ground crew. The aviators entered the welcome center but soon returned to the aircraft with a man who Steve had seen earlier drive in by himself and had been waiting about thirty minutes. He was wearing an expensive suit and carrying a briefcase.
Steve watched the men walk toward him on their way back to the airplane.
“I’m Agent Mike Ganz,” the man told the pilots. “We need to get out of here quickly.”
Steve noticed that one of the pilots offered to carry his small suitcase, but he vehemently refused.
“We should be able to depart in a few minutes,” said one of the pilots. “Just as soon as we get fueled up.” Ganz nodded, his face stern. Unsmiling. Anxious.
The three men boarded the plane, and soon the door was retracted and locked from inside the aircraft.
About fifteen minutes later, Steve gave the head pilot thumbs-up, a sign indicating the fueling process was completed. The vicinity of the jet was vacated in anticipation that the crew would soon be firing up the engines with a noteworthy increas
e in decibels. Before long, the jet engines came alive.
“Gulfstream, four-two-tango-juliet, ready to taxi for immediate takeoff,” announced the loudspeakers mounted outside the building, echoing the conversation between the cockpit and ground control.
“Gulfstream, four-two-Tango-Juliet, negative on taxi; it’ll be just a few minutes. We’re awaiting IFR clearance for your flight.”
The two pilots looked at one another, perplexity painted on their faces. An airport of this size would rarely delay taxiing to the runway. Clearance for a flight from here would inevitably take a few computer keystrokes and a few seconds.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t we moving?” asked Ganz after a minute.
“They’re asking us to hold here until we get clearance, sir. It shouldn’t be long,” said the pilot in command, sitting on the left seat in the cockpit.
A few more tense moments passed. By then, Ganz began rubbing his hands on his knees. “What’s going on? Let’s go. Now!” he commanded.
“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot taxi without instruction from—” The pilot stopped talking as he felt the barrel of the pistol touch his right temple.
“Let’s go, dammit. Now!” screamed Ganz.
The pilots glanced nervously at one another. “You heard the man.”
The jet began moving forward as the throttle lever was advanced slowly.
“Gulfstream, four-two-tango-juliet, you do not have permission to taxi,” warned the ground traffic controller. “You are violating FAA regulations. Stop taxiing immediately.”
Petrified, the pilots spoke into the microphone. “Ground control, Gulfstream four-two-tango-juliet, I am being forced to taxi. We are taxiing to runway one-eight.”
The jet slowly made its way to taxiway A, then B, and finally taxiway E. Another right turn and they would take the runway marked one-eight.