None Shall Sleep

by Ellie Marney

  “Yeah, they’re set up on comms.”

  “The girl really kept her cool about that stuff in the letter.” Martino keeps a steady log, watching through the tripod camera and the small Betamax video camera.

  “She’s good.” Cooper has worked with Martino a number of times before, shared some war stories. “They’re both good. They’re pretty much the reason we’re all here right now with a solid lead, instead of chasing our tails in Berryville.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “Mike, do me a favor. If I’m caught up elsewhere and Raymond starts pitching curveballs at the kids, you and Carter follow up with them, okay? I don’t want them to get rolled.”

  “No problem.” Martino squints. “They’re really that good?”

  “I think they’ve got a lot of potential. They’re young as hell, but weren’t we all?”

  “True enough. I’ll keep an eye out.” Martino adjusts the camera focus. “Two nurses moving south from our twelve o’clock and a jogger turning in from Woodburn One. And a vehicle coming through from Woodburn Three.”

  “Have we got a visual on the vehicle?”

  S2, their jogger, comes through with a visual. “Solo driver occupant. Coming around the corner now.”

  “This is S1, has CP got a make on arriving vehicle?” Dewey, ever alert.

  “This is S5, I have a brown Valiant pulling up at the target building, over.” Trust the sniper on the roof to get a make.

  “Acknowledged, S5, stand by.”

  Bell has been watching everything, listening to everything. He knows he’ll never get such insight on field undercover work again, unless he goes in that direction after his training. He’s impressed and reassured by the level of professionalism among the men on the ground. It makes him feel like they have a real chance today, but he can tell from Emma’s face that she doesn’t want to believe it.

  He indicates with his chin and rolls his swivel chair away, so they can talk in low whispers without disturbing Medhurst.

  “Question.”

  “What?” Emma’s standing, like her legs are restless.

  “What will you do to celebrate, when this is over?”

  He kind of expected the glare from her, flaring hot. He’s not expecting her to press her fingers to his lips to shut him up.

  “Don’t say it,” she hisses.

  He moves her hand aside. “Are we not allowed to hope now?”

  “Hope. But be sensible.”

  Then he realizes he’s still holding her hand, and it’s trembling. This case has taken its toll on them both, but he hates the effect it’s had on her. “What do you think will happen? If they nail him?”

  When he releases her, she leans back against the wall. “I don’t know. Cooper will probably get a promotion. Every teenager in Virginia will let out a big goddamn sigh of relief.”

  “And then we go back to our regular lives,” he muses.

  “Yep. Just our regular old teen serial killer interviews.” She closes her eyes, opens them. “And I’ll feel happy.”

  “You will, huh?” His lips are still tingling from her fingers.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You think so? Hard girl to please.”

  That coaxes a smile out. “You know it.”

  And for a moment, it’s perfect, just the two of them. Just a guy who wants to go into law enforcement, and a smart girl with a beautiful smile. Emma looks down and kicks her heel against the base of the wall, opens her mouth to say something else.

  “Break, break, this is CP1, all teams, we have a party exiting a brown Valiant and approaching the target building, possible sighting of suspect, over.”

  “Listen up, guys,” Medhurst calls. “We might have something.”

  Surveillance is like this, too: a sudden rush of adrenaline and the promise of action.

  Cooper leans over the tiny desk. “CP1 to S5, what is the status of the party, over.”

  “S5 to CP, I have a visual on a white male, five and a half feet, beige trousers and white shirt, walking toward the building entrance, break—”

  “Go ahead.”

  “He’s wearing a dark hat, no visual on hair color, carrying a grocery bag. Getting out his keys now, over.”

  “Stay alert, people.” Cooper switches focus. “CP1 to P2, we have a possible target coming your way, do you copy?”

  “Roger that, I have a visual on target.” Closse on the stairs, watching through the glass front door and talking quiet.

  A voice out of nowhere. “This is S4, I have a jogger passing my position, white male, ball cap—”

  “S2 to S4, have you checked my position? I’m jogging in your area, over.”

  “It ain’t you, Farnsworth. Jogger is a white male, black training pants—”

  “I’m wearing black, you fucken Barney.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Cooper barks. “P2, go ahead.”

  “This is P2, target’s key is in the door. I’m taking up position, over.”

  Silence. Cooper watches the monitor. Martino squints through the viewfinder. Cooper hears the imagined sound of a dozen men breathing soft.

  Closse’s voice breaks through. “That’s a negative, CP, repeat, negative. The party has bypassed the mail area and entered Apartment Two. Looks like a resident.”

  “Fuck.” Cooper says it off radio, then clicks back on. “Copy that, P2, stand down—”

  “Break, break, this is S4, I have a white male jogger approaching target building from rear—”

  “S4, are you yanking my chain?”

  “Nossir! Jogger approaching the target building fast, sir!”

  “What’s happening?” Emma whispers.

  Bell’s face is intent as he listens. “Is he seeing the SWAT guy? Sounds like they’re both wearing black—”

  A sharp burst of static from the comms and Medhurst winces, holds one headphone away from his ear.

  “Target is coming up fast, CP, he’s wearing black training gear, green-and-orange ball cap, break—”

  Cooper swivels toward the monitor. “P2, find your position now. S4, go ahead.”

  “—blond ponytail, white shoes—”

  “P2 in position,” Closse says in a whisper. “Target is in the building.”

  “Give me that visual, P2.”

  “Target has the letter! Repeat, target has the letter—oh shit—”

  Cooper doesn’t know exactly what goes wrong in what order, but it feels like everything fucks up at once.

  Closse is young. When the target grabs the letter—from what they will later realize is an unlocked mailbox carefully propped to look shut tight—Closse starts down the stairs and gets the fright of his life when the target charges in his direction. Jumping back, all training forgotten, Closse trips over the step behind his feet and nearly knocks himself out on the banister. His headset flies free. By then the target has bolted.

  The lack of clarity about which door the target is exiting from acts like a flashbang burst: Men positioned to cover the rear grounds converge at the back of the building, police at each end of Woodburn 2 sprint closer. Paziewski’s cruiser team turns onto Woodburn 2 with a disorienting whoop of sirens.

  The SWAT group bursts from the back of the van, one man deploying south and another north, a third heading for the rear of the building. Dewey revs the engine to reverse the van: a squeal of rubber. The movement of the vehicle, the rapid motion of men on the ground, tree trunks obscuring lines of sight—it’s like a street tornado. When a black-clad jogger vaults a low fence in front of the building, the newly arrived cops draw their weapons fast.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire, it’s me!” The SWAT jogger’s hands are raised, his face pale.

  “This is S5, I do not have a visual on target, say again, I do not have a visual—”

  “Where’s the goddamn target?” Dewey roars over comms. “CP, we do not have eyes on the target!”

  Far left of the throng, a black-dressed figure breaks away from the side of the
building, weaving through trees and sprinting for the road.

  “S5 has the visual! Target heading east—”

  “What the fuck is going on out there?” Cooper yells into his mic. “Somebody grab this guy!”

  “Get the fuck out of the way!” Dewey’s going ballistic.

  “CP, no clear shot, too many bodies—”

  The target flies past the Dodge Ram, close enough to skim the paintwork. He jumps through the bushes in front, dodging tree trunks, and disappears onto the pedestrian pathway on the near side of the hospital’s front parking lot.

  “Fuck!” Martino yells. “He ran right by us!”

  “We’re losing him,” Cooper says. In that moment, his instinct overwhelms all his higher intelligence. He snatches up a handset, flings open the van door, and for the first time in nearly thirty years of distinguished military and law enforcement service, Ed Cooper breaks cover.

  Taking the same route as the target, bolting through underbrush and past trees, swapping the handset to his left hand, and drawing his weapon, Cooper spills onto the hospital’s concrete pathway. The Butcher has a lead of twenty yards, running left, Cooper’s ten o’clock, heading for the shaded side of the hospital wall, the secondary delivery area and a service door.

  “Stop right there!” Cooper aims, realizes he can’t guarantee an accurate shot with the target weaving like that. He runs and yells into the handset at the same time. “CP1, I have the visual. Target on hospital grounds, hospital grounds west service side, CP1 in pursuit.”

  There’s a squawk in reply and Cooper sees the Butcher wrench open the service door, thrust straight through.

  Not wasting his breath in curses, Cooper sprints harder for the door. He shoves his left hand with the handset into the shrinking gap, his fingers almost crushed against the doorframe but not quite—he’s caught it.

  The brick that had kept the door cracked open for lunchtime smokers has been kicked aside—if he hadn’t caught the door, it would’ve been all over—and Cooper realizes that the Butcher knows the hospital. That awareness flicks his training synapses back on. He yanks the door open. Diagonal entry, check the corners, one-two, gun forward and aimed, left hand with the handset supporting from beneath.

  No Butcher in the cement stairwell foyer. Noise from the stairs above—Cooper flattens himself against the wall. Running footsteps ascending, ascending, and the sound of the fire escape door bouncing open and closed—the third floor. Cooper starts up. The handset squawks again.

  He thumbs the button, brings the radio to his face as he takes the stairs two at a time, exertion making his breathing messy. “CP1, inside the hospital, repeat, inside the hospital. No visual, target is running loose and he knows the location. S1, secure area, P1—”

  “S1 to CP1, you’ve got people coming your way.” Dewey’s voice crackles from the radio interference inside the building.

  “Copy that—P1, deploy into the hospital. Eyes out for a WM, six feet, black jogging suit, blond hair in a ponytail, green-and-orange ball cap. He’s gone up to the third floor—”

  “P1 to CP1, support is nearly at the building, I say again, men will be going floor to floor—”

  “CP1 to P1, tell your men to watch themselves inside, there’ll be civilians everywhere.”

  “Roger that. Hang tight, CP1.”

  Cooper reaches the third-floor door, flings it open, another corner check. He’s in a hallway. His breaths are heaving. Shiny linoleum and white walls, too many doors—a service area, no foot traffic. Sweat stings in his eyes. Which way? Right, left—he sees a flash of black, cornering far down on the left. He sprints in that direction, keeping his weapon free.

  Corner check at the T-junction—which way? His memory replays the flash of black motion. Left. He turns left again into the empty corridor. Doors on either side. Stay in the middle, weapon extended. Farther down, a set of blue flap doors. Rear check shows nothing. Gun close to his chest, he thrusts through the doors.

  An empty corridor. Big, light-filled windows at the end, showing views onto the service-side grounds of the hospital. No movement, no swinging doors. Zero. Like the target has disappeared into thin air. Fuck.

  He raises the handset. “This is CP1, I’m in a west-side corridor, third floor. No visual. No visual on the target. I got—”

  Sound behind has him spinning fast.

  A surgeon has just come out of one of the service areas, bumping the door open with his butt. A blue paper surgical cap, blue gown over his clothes, no mask yet. The guy’s hands are high, fingers open, blue latex gloves, newly gloved for surgery. Brown hair, older, too old—Cooper clocked those details immediately—and a look of horror that the barrel of Cooper’s Model 13 is pointed right in his face.

  “Heyyy…” The surgeon blinks, swallows hard. “Uh, look. I got—”

  “You’re a doctor here?” Cooper doesn’t lower his weapon yet.

  “Yes.” The surgeon answers and nods at the same time. His breath comes out shaky. “Dr. Clive Ross. Sir, I’d appreciate if you could put that gun down. I can help you. I’ll do everything I can—”

  Cooper releases his breath slowly, lowers his weapon. “Dr. Ross. My apologies. I’m Special Agent Cooper, with the FBI. We’re pursuing a suspect here in the hospital, and when I saw you…”

  “Oh. Oh shit.” Ross’s exhale is explosive as he drops his hands to half-mast. “Oh man.” The release of tension as he laughs.

  “I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Am I…” Ross is still laughing a little. “Oh man. No, I’m fine. It’s okay. Oh wow.”

  “Again, I apologize.”

  “Geez, no! It’s all… it’s all okay.” Ross looks sheepish. “I mean, I nearly wet my pants, but it’s fine.”

  “Ah hell—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. You’re chasing a suspect, I get it.… You mean there’s someone in the hospital? Should I be warning the—”

  “Uh, no, not yet.” Cooper scans the hall behind Ross. “Can you tell me where exactly I am?”

  “You’re on the third floor, west wing. Oncology department.”

  “Okay.” Cooper’s radio buzzes.

  “I mean, this is an older part of the wing. It’s mostly just equipment storage and surgery prep now.”

  “Got it, thank you. Excuse me a minute.” Cooper angles toward the windows, lifting the handset. “This is CP1, can I get a—”

  “Which made it easy to find all the things I needed,” Ross says, and he steps forward and thumps his gloved fist against the right side of Cooper’s neck.

  Cooper feels it like a punch, and the force and angle of the strike send him off balance, stumbling against the wall when he should be lifting his weapon. The radio handset spills out of his grasp and bounces once, twice, exploding into parts that skitter away. Cooper swivels to face Ross, knowing he should be angry, but mainly angry at himself for being taken by surprise.

  “You’re not—” Distracted by the feeling of wet on his shirt, Cooper falls to his knees.

  “No,” Anthony Hoyt says. He tosses the concealed scalpel blade onto the linoleum, so Cooper understands fully.

  “Fuck,” Cooper says, but the word sounds fuzzy. His vision, too, is fuzzy. He claps a hand against his neck, knowing it’s pointless.

  “It’s a shame to waste all this,” Hoyt says, gesturing at the widening red pool, “but you’re no good to me. Too old. Already decaying from all those years of memory and regret. I’m right, aren’t I? I’m sure you can feel it.”

  Cooper has memories, and he does feel regret. But he’s always made his own choices, and they play before him now like a beautiful, unspooling thread of gold.

  “I’ve spared you, you know,” Hoyt says. “Aging is an indignity and mortality is a prison. Think of this as a liberation.”

  “We’ll catch you,” Cooper whispers, remembering his promise.

  “No, you won’t.” Hoyt is stripping off his gloves, removing the surgical cap. “The venerable FBI—grizzled old m
en doddering along the same predictable paths of investigation. You don’t stand a chance against someone like me.”

  Cooper finds gravity bearing him down, until the cool linoleum rests against his cheek. The man before him steps in. That’s right, come closer, Cooper thinks, before realizing he doesn’t have the strength to do anything about it.

  Hoyt kicks Cooper’s gun aside and hunkers down. “Don’t feel bad. It’s really not your fault. Not everyone can be what I’m becoming. I have the advantage of medical training, I know, but it’s not just about longevity and being well—it’s about being whole. I’m still in transition, but I can feel it. I’m getting younger all the time. And I’m so fast now. It’s like… a burning inside, you know? There’s no one who can keep up.”

  The mention of burning stirs behind Cooper’s eyes. Miss Lewis wants to burn down the world.

  “There’s one,” Cooper whispers as his murderer stands up.

  But his vision is going dark, and Hoyt is already walking away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Emma stares out the window of the Fairmont and the world seems to be glazed over, moving very slowly. She’s stopped crying. The sense of being in a tailspin is dissipating; now she just feels dazed. Mike Martino is driving, and she and Bell sit in the back seat, and nobody talks on the hour-long trip back to Quantico. It’s five thirty in the afternoon, the sun outside making everything look sepia-toned. The car radio is playing “More Than This” down low, and Emma will forever associate the song with this moment.

  It’s hard to fathom, as Martino slows the car to get the nod from MPs at the gate, that it’s still Friday. It’s the same day as it was this morning, when she and Bell and Cooper screeched out of the base. Bell hit his head when they went over a speed hump, she remembers. She looks over and he’s gazing out the window now, fist against his lips. While she feels like she’s been anesthetized, Bell’s whole body is shimmering with distress and controlled fury.

  Martino takes the car down to the motor pool, and they come to a stop in the cool, dark garage. Bell supports himself with the car door as he exits, like an old man. Emma’s reluctant to leave the car. She’s not sure where they’re supposed to go, what they’re supposed to do. She’s going to reach the Cool Room and expect to see Cooper waiting for them there. She’s not sure if she can handle the feelings she knows will come when she opens the door and finds only empty space.