by Thomas Scott
“I just tried to call her. Cell and landline. She’s not answering.”
“She might be driving. She doesn’t like to—”
“Virgil, shut up. Listen…Decker is still on the loose. We found hundreds, hell maybe thousands of photographs in his trailer. Most of them were of Jonas, or of Jonas and Pam together. All the ones with the two of them together had Pam’s face scratched or blacked out. But there were a lot…a lot, Virgil, of Sandy and Jonas together. This guy’s done his recon. I think he’s making a run for Jonas. If he thinks Jonas is with Sandy…”
Virgil felt his heart sink. His breathing became rapid and shallow. He hit the switch for his lights and siren, then made a U-turn in the middle of an intersection, his tires squealing in protest. A car swerved to avoid him and sideswiped a telephone pole before running down in the ditch. “Murt—”
“I’m on my way, brother. How far out are you?”
“I’m fifteen minutes at best. You?”
“I’m a little closer than that. I’ll probably beat you there.”
“Don’t bet on it. If that motherfucker—”
“Bury it, Jones-man. You push it down and bury it. Get those thoughts out of your head, you hear me? Concentrate on your driving. We’ll get to her. She’s going to be fine. Jonesy?”
Sandy was young, in shape, in the prime of her life, and as a police officer had years of advanced hand-to-hand tactical combat training. She knew how to fight and she knew how to disarm an adversary with moves that often left them wondering if they’d ever had a weapon in their hand to begin with.
She was also exhausted, eight months pregnant and carrying over thirty extra pounds. The extra weight threw off her balance and her center of gravity left her unable to maneuver in any sort of meaningful way that might give her an advantage over her attacker. In short, she only had two things working in her favor: A mother’s instinct to protect her child and the element of surprise.
She waited until Decker was about six feet away. She moved to the end of the couch like she was going to try to make a run for it, then stopped, grabbed a table lamp by its base, yanked the cord free from the outlet and flung it at Decker’s head. He raised his hand to block the lamp and Sandy followed with the only other thing on the table, a hardcover book she’d been reading, a wonderful novel titled Feast Day Of Fools, by James Lee Burke. Decker raised the gun and fired, hitting the book and ripping it to shreds.
Sandy moved right at him. Decker was so surprised by her movements and her aggression that he found himself backing up to get some distance between them. When Sandy saw the fear in his eyes she pushed forward, her adrenaline kicking into what Burke would have called E-Major overdrive.
She grabbed the barrel of the gun, ignoring the heat that seared her palms and pushed the gun up, above her head. Decker squeezed the trigger again and the blast from the gun forced her to let go. A chunk of drywall fell from the ceiling and covered them both with dust and bits of pink insulation. She swung a hard right that caught him on the shoulder and sent him sidestepping away. She followed his movements but got tangled up in the lamp cord and fell to one knee. She was halfway up when the gun went off again and her eyes went wide before she collapsed on the floor.
The tower gave them clearance for takeoff. Cool’s instructions to Bell were simple and straightforward. “Keep your hands in your lap and don’t touch anything.”
Bell assured him he would. “Where are we headed?”
“Anywhere you’d like,” Cool said. “Within reason, of course.”
Bell smiled. “You know what would be really neat? Let’s go to Virgil and Sandy’s and land in their backyard. Is that allowed?”
“Of course it’s allowed,” Cool said. “I’m the cops. Besides, I flew the governor in there last week.”
“How long to get there?”
Cool laughed. “In this baby? From here? About six minutes.”
The sky was a bright blue, clear and free of clouds. The rotors chewed through the thick cold air with a forcefulness that Bell could feel in the seat of his pants and the soles of his feet. The tower handed them off to departure control and vectored them to the Southeast. Right into the storm…
Murton called Becky and told her what was happening. She assured him that Jonas was safe. They were in the office above the bar.
“I need two things,” Murton said. “First, tell Delroy to get everyone who isn’t a cop out of the bar. There’s a chance that Decker might show up there. It’s small, but I don’t want to risk it. He’s after Jonas and I don’t think he’s going to stop until he gets him.”
Becky wheeled her chair over to the window that looked out across the bar from the upstairs office. “It looks pretty busy down there.”
“I don’t care. Tell Delroy he can hand out vouchers for free drinks, just get them out. How many cops are there?”
Becky looked around. “No uniforms, but I see four…no wait, five guys that I know. One county, four city.”
“Good. Go take their drinks away and tell them to stay put. Drinks on the house for a month if they cooperate. Send them away with the civilians if they don’t.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“Get into the phone company. See if you can get a ping on Decker’s phone.”
“That’s going to take a subpoena and that takes time, Murt.”
“Get Cora on it. Tell her what’s happening. She’ll get it done. But why not get started in the meantime?”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. What’s Jonas doing?”
“Napping on the sofa.”
“You know what sits on top of the bookcase, right?”
Becky did. It was a Mossberg 12-gage pistol grip shotgun. “Yeah, I do.”
“Keep your eye on that window. If Decker shows up, remember what I taught you.”
“We’re good,” Becky said. And she was. Her voice was calm. She sounded like they were talking about the weather or their dinner options. “Go get this asshole, will you?”
Sandy was confused. She couldn’t piece together what had just happened. She was on the floor, her feet tangled in the lamp cord. Her side burned like someone was holding a blowtorch against her skin and she felt a wave of nausea that made her gag, biliousness fluid filling the back of her throat. She coughed and spat the fluid out and when she did her side flared with a type of pain she’d never experienced. When she touched her left side, her hand came away bloody. When she tried to stand she only made it as far as her hands and knees before the pain and dizziness overcame her and she collapsed back on the floor. She felt a wetness between her thighs.
She’d been shot. It came back in an instant, like a slap in the face. Then she heard the sounds in the house…the ranting and raving. She was going to try to get up again when she saw him come around the corner.
He stood over her, his face a twisted mask of hate and rage. “Where’s my boy?”
Sandy swallowed. She felt Wyatt move inside her but the movement was wrong. It was…off. She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did. She felt it again and began to cry.
Decker pointed the gun at her head. “Where’s Jonas? Where’s my boy?”
“Not here.” Sandy said. “The county took him away.”
“Don’t lie to me, bitch.” When Sandy didn’t speak, Decker squatted down next to her and put the barrel of the gun under her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Where’s my boy?”
“Please. He’s not here. I’m pregnant. I’m hurt badly. I need help.”
“Have it your way then. I think you know where my boy is. That means you’ve decided to hold out on me. Now you’ve got another choice to make. Which child do you want more? Mine, or yours?” Decker kicked her in the stomach, hard, three times. One for every word. “Where’s…my…boy?”
Sandy curled into a ball and felt the unnatural movement from Wyatt again, this time much weaker than before. More like a tremor than any kind of actual moveme
nt. The last thought she had before she passed out was, boaf. I want boaf.
Decker slipped on the last kick, his prosthetic leg giving way. He landed in the puddle of blood that surrounded Sandy and when he did his leg came loose. He was rigging it back in place when he felt the windows start to rattle. When he looked out the window he saw a blue and white state police helicopter circling the pond in back, its nose turning into the wind as it crept forward, ready to land in the backyard. He kicked Sandy one more time, And his leg came loose again and he fell back down, cursing.
The two men from the helicopter were headed his way. Decker got his leg reattached, fired three quick shots out at the men through the back window, then ran out the front, pulling the door shut behind him.
33
Cool brought the helicopter in with a dramatic flare, a little hot-dogging for Bell’s benefit, then touched down softly in the grass by the pond.
“Man oh man,” Bell said as he unhooked his harness. “Wait till Sandy sees this. She’ll be so excited she’ll probably pop her water bag on the spot.”
“Let’s hope not,” Cool replied. “The governor wasn’t too happy with me about the fish smell. I don’t want to even think about what he’d say if we have water-popping fluid or whatever you call it all over the carpet back there.”
“Relax, I’m just messing with you. She’s still got another few weeks yet. Come on, let’s go say hello.”
They were walking across the grass when one of the back windows of the house shattered, followed by three loud pops. Cool recognized the shots for what they were right away and pushed Bell to the ground. “Stay down,” he yelled. “Get back. Take cover behind the chopper.”
Bell wasn’t hurt, but he was confused. Who was shooting at them, and more importantly, why? Cool stood in a crouch, pulled a gun from an ankle holster and ran around the corner toward the front of the house. He saw Decker hobbling toward his vehicle. He brought his gun up and yelled, “Freeze. State Police. Drop your weapon and get on the ground.”
But Decker had already made it to the relative safety of his vehicle. He spun, fired once, and yanked the car door open. Cool, who knew how to live up to his name didn’t duck or even flinch at the shot fired his way. He took careful aim and returned fire just as Decker was lowering himself into the car. He saw a spray of blood and knew he’d hit his target. Nevertheless, the car pulled away with a squeal of rubber, cutting through the grass before finding the driveway.
Cool ran back around to the rear of the house. Bell was nowhere to be seen. He jumped into the chopper and fired it up. He’d be on top of the car within seconds. He’d just lifted off when he saw Bell come running out of the back of the house, frantically waving his arms. Cool put pressure on the right rudder pedal and moved the stick to the left. He crabbed the chopper in sideways right up next to the house and set it back down.
Bell yanked the door open and yelled, “Get inside. I need you.”
Cool shook his head, the rotor still beating away. “Can’t. He’s going to get away.”
“It’s Sandy. She’s hurt badly, Cool. Follow me.” He turned and ran back into the house. Cool shut everything down and climbed from the chopper. When he got inside, he felt his heart begin to break.
Decker took off down the long driveway, barely keeping the car under control as he turned out on the gravel road. He had his hand on the top front of his left shoulder and blood was seeping through his fingers. He’d been shot, he realized. He pulled his hand away and looked at the blood. It covered his entire hand. He reached up and pulled the rearview mirror into position for a better view. The bullet had ripped out a chunk of meat and based on how it felt, it might have clipped a bone. He was going much faster than he should, the car bouncing on its springs, the gravel pinging away at the underside of the vehicle. He turned north on 37 back toward the city. He needed to get out of sight…get somewhere to patch himself up. The boy…his son…that was a lost cause now. He’d left too big a footprint.
There was only one place he could go to get the supplies he needed. He hoped they were still there. He was almost sure they were. The army, the National Guard in particular never did anything with efficiency.
He was five miles north on 37, his shoulder barking at him and barking louder by the mile when a black Ford Raptor went screaming by, its siren blaring, blue and red lights flashing inside the grill. He watched it in his rearview mirror until it was out of sight.
Murton beat Virgil by three minutes. He turned into the drive, fishtailed through the grass and skidded to a stop right by the front porch. Cool yanked open what was left of the front door, and for the first time in his life, didn’t live up to his name.
“Murt…” That was all he could say. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Murton looked past him and saw Bell working on Sandy. He was covered in Sandy’s blood. She was flat on her back and Bell was giving her CPR and tending to her bullet wound all at the same time. Every time he compressed her chest blood spurted out of the bullet wound. She was bleeding from her genitalia as well. Pools of blood were everywhere. Murton felt his knees start to go. He grabbed the side of the door jamb to steady himself and took out his phone. Virgil answered on the first ring.
“What?”
“How far out are you?”
“Ninety seconds. I’m almost there.”
“You better hurry, Virgil.”
Virgil gripped the wheel so tight he thought it might break in half. The last time he’d heard those words his father had died in his arms.
“Where’s Sandy? Is it Sandy?” He was screaming at the interior of the truck. Somewhere in the back of his brain he wondered where, exactly, was the microphone that let him speak without taking his hands off the wheel.
“Yeah, it’s Sandy. Come home, brother. Come home right now.”
“You’re supposed to call her Small,” Virgil shouted. He was banging his fist on the steering wheel. “Why aren’t you calling her Small, Murt? Why aren’t you calling her Small?”
Murton didn’t answer. He’d gotten past the shock of what he saw, jammed the phone in his pocket and ran over to Bell. “Tell me what to do.”
Bell wiped the sweat from his face and left a bloody smear that made him look like an Indian warrior. “In my bag…there’s packages of quick-clot. Pack as much as you can into the wound. She’s bleeding out.”
Murton dumped the bag out and grabbed the packages of hemostatic agents. He ripped them open and began packing the wound. Bell continued with the CPR. Murton looked over at him. “Bell, trade places with me. Let me do the CPR. You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”
Bell nodded without speaking and finished packing the wound while Murton continued compressions. He stopped every tenth time, pinched Sandy’s nostrils closed and breathed into her mouth. “Keep her head tipped back or you’ll just fill her stomach with air.”
“I know, I know.”
Bell packed the last of the clotting agent into the wound then covered the bullet hole with multiple layers of gauze. Murton was breathing into Sandy’s mouth when she coughed once, weakly, then moaned. Bell put his stethoscope over her chest and moved it around to three different places. “Okay…we’ve got a rhythm, but it’s weak. Her pulse is thready. She’s lost a lot of blood. She’s right on the edge.” He moved the stethoscope to her abdomen, frowned, then moved it four more times. On the last movement he bent forward as if the act of doing so might help him hear better.
Cool was standing over them. He turned and looked out the front door. “Here comes Virgil.”
Bell looked him. “Cool, go get that chopper fired up and ready to go. Do the back seats come out?”
“Yeah, I can have them out in thirty seconds. You want them all out?”
Bell didn’t look up. He still had the scope on Sandy’s abdomen. “Yes. Go now. Get the seats out and get it ready. We’ll be running hard.”
Cool ran out the back and went to work on the chopper. Bell looked at Murt. “I’
m going to need your help with Virgil.”
Virgil was flying up the driveway and almost there. “What do you mean?” Murton said. “Help with what?”
Sandy coughed again, a touch stronger than last time. She reached out and took Murton’s hand.
“I think the bullet ruptured her uterus. She’s bleeding internally and she’s losing her amniotic fluid. That means the baby isn’t going to make it unless we get him out of there right now.”
“You’re talking about a field C-section?”
Cool had the helicopter started and the wine of the jet engine and the beating rotor blades were growing louder by the second. Bell had to shout at him in order to be heard. “It’s the only way to save one of them.”
Virgil flew into the room just in time to hear Bell. “What do you mean save one of them?”
Virgil got down on the floor, down in the blood. He put his hands on his wife’s face. “Sandy. I’m here baby. Everything is going to be okay. Come on, sweetheart. Hang in there with me.” He looked at Murton. “What happened? What the hell happened?”
Sandy’s eye’s fluttered, then opened part way. She tried to speak but coughed up blood instead. Virgil leaned close and she got the word out on her second try. “Decker.”
Virgil turned and screamed at Bell. “Do something, goddamnit.” Spit flew from his mouth when he spoke, the tears rolling freely down his cheeks.
Murton had both hands on Virgil’s shoulders. He pulled him back. “Listen to me now, brother. Your baby is dying as we speak. We’ve got to get him out or you’re going to lose him.”
“But…Sandy. Bell, what about Sandy?” They were all yelling at each other, partly to be heard, mostly in panic.
Bell shook his head. “She’s losing too much blood, Virgil. If we don’t do something right now we’re going to lose them both. If we put Sandy on that chopper she might make it, but you’ll lose your son. If we deliver Wyatt right now via C-section he’ll probably be okay, but Sandy won’t survive the surgery. I don’t have the blood for a transfusion.”