Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  With her bag hanging from her left hand, Lee entered the complex through a high-arched gate. It was wide enough to allow two trucks to pass each other—and a sure sign of how busy the complex had been. A pigeon flapped its wings as it took to the air, and Lee had to resist the temptation to shoot it. She was in the arch’s shadow at that point—but emerged into sunlight as she entered the open area beyond. Zumin was standing near the center of the courtyard and looking her way.

  Lee felt silly at that point . . . What would Zumin think of the .38? It was too late to retreat however—so Lee planted a smile on her face and kept walking. But as Lee neared the reporter she could see fear on Zumin’s face. And where was the camera operator? Lee felt something cold trickle into her veins as she stopped a few feet away. “Carla? Are you okay?”

  By then Lee could see the sheen of perspiration on Zumin’s forehead. Her lips formed a single word: “Holby.”

  Lee let go of the bag, threw herself to the left, and heard the crack of a rifle shot. There was no impact, so Lee knew that Holby had missed. Lee rolled over and let the jacket fall as she came to her feet. The central loading area was surrounded by at least fifty windows, and Holby could be firing from any one of them. She turned and ran.

  There was a second report but Lee didn’t look back as she sprinted across rough cobblestones to an open door. Darkness took Lee in, and she hadn’t gone more than a few feet when she came across a body. A TV camera lay two feet away from it, and now Lee knew the answer to her question. Zumin’s cameraman had been shot.

  She knelt to check his pulse. There was none. Lee stood and returned to the door where she took a peek outside. Zumin was nowhere to be seen. The reporter was no dummy and, when Holby fired, had taken the opportunity to run. Was she hiding somewhere? Could she call for help? Lee hoped so . . . And would have made the call herself had it not been for the fact that her phone was in her bag, and it was lying in the middle of the courtyard.

  Something blew a chunk out of the masonry next to Lee’s head, and the sound of a report followed. So she stepped back, put the .38 away, and drew the Glock. But while the semiauto was more accurate than the revolver, it was still no match for Holby’s rifle. That meant she’d have to get in close, and thanks to the most recent shot, Lee knew the killer was on the opposite side of the complex.

  As Lee ran, she was conscious of the fact that she was passing doors and windows to her right. Could Holby see in? And fire on her? It quickly became apparent that he could. Because as she rounded the closed end of the U-shaped building, bullets pinged around her. Keep going, she told herself. Don’t give the bastard time to aim.

  And the strategy worked at first. But as Lee passed an open loading dock, a bullet slammed into her right leg and dumped her onto the cement floor. Rather than continue to play catch-up, Holby had sighted in on a spot out in front of the detective and waited for her to cross it.

  Lee rolled into the shadows where she went to work removing her tee shirt while swearing a blue streak. But all the F-bombs in the world weren’t going to help. She had to get pressure on the entry and exit wounds, and she had to do it fast, because Holby was in motion and coming fast! The .38 fell to the floor as Lee pulled her belt loose and made use of it to cinch the makeshift bandage in place. She paused long enough to pick the weapon up and stuff it into a back pocket before limping away. There were tanks to the left and right, and Lee passed between them. Cover, she needed cover, and they fit the bill.

  A bullet made a spanging sound and threw sparks as it glanced off steel. Holby was close, very close, and the thump of Lee’s heart was so loud she feared he might hear it. “Detective Lee?” Holby said. “I know you’re wounded. But don’t worry, ’cause I’m going to put you out of your misery. Unless you’d prefer to shoot yourself, that is . . . And that’s fine with me.”

  Lee was circling a tank and moving with great care lest she give herself away. As she edged around it, Lee saw Holby silhouetted against the outside sunshine. “LAPD! Drop the weapon!”

  Holby responded by swinging the rifle around and pulling the trigger. His bullet went wide but Lee’s didn’t. It hit Holby in the chest and knocked him down. Lee heard him say, “Shit,” as the long gun hit the ground. He was reaching for it when she put a boot on his wrist. “Hold it right there . . . You’re under arrest.”

  Holby stared up at her. “It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

  “Bullshit,” Lee replied. Her head felt light, and it was difficult to maintain her balance. “This is the best way for it to end. Asshole.”

  But Holby didn’t hear her. His eyes were open, but they were blank, and a pool of black blood was expanding around him. That was when Zumin appeared to wrap an arm around Lee’s waist. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” the reporter said. “He called and offered to surrender on camera . . . But only to me. I couldn’t resist. And once we arrived, he threatened to shoot Hal if I refused to make the call . . . So I did. Then he shot Hal anyway and forced me to help with the body. Cops are on the way, though . . . So hang on.”

  Lee couldn’t hang on. She was falling by then. The concrete came up to hit her, a deep well opened under her body, and Lee fell into it. The pain disappeared.

  FIFTEEN

  THE SIREN MADE a bleating sound as the aid unit continued to thread its way through heavy traffic. “Her blood pressure has improved,” an EMT named Brady said, “and I think she’s coming to.”

  “Good,” the ER doctor said over the radio. “We’re ready for her. I’ll see you shortly.”

  Lee opened her eyes. Everything appeared fuzzy at first. Then a man with a moon-shaped face rolled into focus. “Hi,” he said. “My name’s Brady. And not just Brady, but Brady Brady. My parents thought it was funny.”

  It was the medic’s icebreaker. The time-tested line he used to introduce himself and put patients at ease. Lee tried to reward him with a grin but produced a grimace instead. “I’m sorry,” Brady said. “We’ll arrive at the hospital soon, and the doctor will give you something for the pain.” Lee nodded and closed her eyes.

  She was floating in a nowhere land as the vehicle came to a halt, the siren died in midyelp, and Lee heard voices. She saw light through her eyelids and opened them long enough to catch a glimpse of the blue sky. Then it was gone as the EMTs rolled her into the emergency room.

  There was a stab of pain as they transferred her from the stretcher to a gurney. That was followed by a flurry of activity as one person took her vital signs and someone else examined her leg. A face appeared. The man had dark skin, ears that stuck out, and was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. “Hello there . . . I’m Dr. Wold. The bad news is that you were shot in the right thigh . . . The good news is that it looks as though the bullet went through without hitting bone. But we’ll confirm that with an X-ray. There’s some bleeding, though . . . So once the pictures have been taken, I’m sending you up to surgery. If there’s a bleeder, Dr. Gomez will find and seal it off. Do you have any questions?”

  Lee knew she should have questions but couldn’t figure out what they were, so she shook her head. The X-ray was followed by a mishmash of impressions. Lee was aware of being wheeled through a hallway, passing through double doors, and entering an operating room. A voice murmured something about going to sleep as a mask came down over her face. Then came a cessation of being, followed by a gradual return to consciousness. Lee’s eyes were closed but she could hear voices. “I’m sorry, sir . . . But you can’t enter the room without hospital ID.”

  The man had a raspy voice. “I guess I left it in my locker . . . How ’bout cutting me some slack? All I have to do is draw some blood, and I’ll be out of here.”

  Lee had heard that voice before, she was sure of it, but where? Her eyes felt gummy, but she forced them open. She was in bed and her head was elevated. A man in green scrubs stood next to the door where he was face-to-face with a uniformed police officer. �
��Why don’t you go get your ID?” the cop suggested. “Then I can let you in.”

  “Okay,” the man with the raspy voice said, “you win.” And that was when Lee recognized the voice. It belonged to Dr. Penn! No, the Bonebreaker pretending to be Dr. Penn . . . And as he whipped a towel off a roll-around cart, she knew what would happen next. Lee tried to shout a warning but heard what sounded like a croak. “He has a gun!”

  But it was too late. Lee heard a pop and saw the police officer’s head jerk as the Bonebreaker shot her. Lee ripped the IV out of her arm as the body crumpled to the floor. A momentary spurt of blood stained the sheets.

  The Bonebreaker had climbed up over the foot of the bed by then and was crawling up Lee’s body. Why? Lee knew the answer. To see the fear in her eyes, to make the killing last longer, and to savor the moment he’d been looking forward to for so long.

  She felt a stab of pain as the serial killer sat astride her thighs. “It was on the radio,” the Bonebreaker explained. “How you’d been shot and which hospital they were taking you to . . . So I came to say ‘Hi’ and send you straight to hell.”

  That was when Lee brought her left hand up and stabbed the Bonebreaker in the neck. The 22-gauge needle went in all the way. “God damn you!” the Bonebreaker screamed shrilly, as he reached up to jerk the IV needle out. “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands!”

  Wires connected Lee to the machines stationed next to her bed. There was a chorus of alarms as she ripped them free. Then Lee tried to capture the killer by sitting up and wrapping her arms around his waist. Her strategy failed. The Bonebreaker knew that the beep, beep, beep would bring people on the run and managed to break free. So he stood and made use of a side rail to vault over onto the floor. The door opened as he landed.

  A nurse entered, saw the body on the floor, and began to back out of the room. The Bonebreaker was on her in an instant. He grabbed the RN’s hair, brought his right knee up into her stomach, and used both hands to club the back of her head. She collapsed in a heap.

  It was impossible to roll off the bed because of the side rails. So Lee was forced to wiggle her way down. Each inch of progress incurred a stab of pain.

  The Bonebreaker had recovered his pistol by then and fired a shot at Lee as he backed out into the hall. Lee heard the bullet zing past her left ear as she cleared the foot of the bed. Her leg was on fire, but she had to put weight on it in order to reach the spot where the policewoman lay, to see if she could help. Lee winced when she saw the blue-edged hole at the center of the woman’s forehead. There was no need to check the woman’s pulse.

  Lee bent over to jerk the Glock out of the cop’s holster. A pant leg was pulled up, exposing the policewoman’s ankle holster. The backup gun was a Tarus .25 semiauto. Not the weapon Lee would have chosen but better than nothing.

  There was no time for holsters, so Lee left the room holding a pistol in each hand. She was wearing a patient gown and one of the ties had come undone. Fabric flared around as she limped down the hall. “Police!” she shouted. “The man with the pistol . . . Where did he go?”

  A middle-aged male stood frozen in place. He was holding a bouquet of flowers. “That way,” he said, and pointed to his right. Lee thanked him as she shuffled past, butt exposed.

  • • •

  The Bonebreaker was no longer trying to kill Cassandra Lee. All he wanted to do was to escape the hospital. Now, having descended to the second floor via a stairwell, he opened a fire door and stepped out onto the walkway that opened up onto the lobby below. Two policemen, both with weapons drawn, looked up at him.

  The Bonebreaker turned and began to hurry toward the bank of elevators. A woman with a little girl blocked his way. The Bonebreaker gave the woman a shove and scooped the girl off the floor. She was a prop . . . A way to change his appearance as he forced his way onto an open elevator. “Sorry,” he said, as the other passengers stared at him. “We’re late for an appointment.” But they were still staring at him. That was when the Bonebreaker saw that drops of his blood were dripping down onto the little girl’s face! The doors opened, and he stepped out.

  • • •

  There were spots of blood on the floor . . . And Lee followed them to a stairwell, down to the second floor, and out onto the walkway that looked out over the lobby. Her leg ached, and a single glance was enough to confirm that she was bleeding through her dressing.

  The commotion in the lobby should have claimed Lee’s attention, but she was distracted by the woman who was beating on an elevator door and screaming at the top of her lungs. “He took my baby!”

  Lee didn’t have to ask who “he” was as she limped down to the elevators. “LAPD, ma’am. Did he go up or down?”

  “Up!” the woman said urgently, apparently oblivious to the way Lee was dressed.

  Lee looked, spotted another EXIT sign, and limped toward it. It was necessary to shove the .25 in a side pocket in order to open the fire door. It seemed to weigh a ton. And that was the first sign of a larger problem. The initial surge of adrenaline had worn off, and Lee was losing strength.

  Climb, she told herself. Climb. And she did. Step by painful step, using the metal handrail to pull herself up. A fire door slammed up above, and Lee caught a brief glimpse of a man carrying a child. Then the Bonebreaker was gone as he turned and continued up the stairs.

  Lee swore under her breath. He had a hostage, and that would make an already difficult situation even worse. She redoubled her efforts. There was a sign. It said, ROOF, and an arrow pointed upward. Got ya, Lee thought to herself, as she dragged herself upward. Her feet felt as if they were lumps of lead, her vision was blurred, and Lee was dizzy as she arrived on the top platform.

  A steel door blocked the way, and it took every bit of her remaining strength to push it open. Bright light stabbed her eyes as she stumbled out onto the flat roof. A helicopter was hovering above, which gave Lee reason to hope. Maybe the SWAT team was going to fast-rope down! But no, she was looking at a Channel 7 News copter, and its rotors were blowing dust in every direction. It swirled around the Bonebreaker, who was holding the child in front of him. “The Lord is with me!” he shouted. “And the devil is waiting for you in hell.”

  Lee squinted into the glare, and was about to raise her weapon, when the Bonebreaker fired. The bullet hit her right bicep and lodged there. The .22 didn’t pack much punch, but it hurt like hell. The Glock fell free and hit the roof. The Bonebreaker laughed gleefully. “How does it feel, bitch? How does it feel to be the one who takes a bullet?” Then he shot Lee in the left leg.

  Lee heard herself cry out in pain as the roof came up to meet her. She could feel the heat radiating up off the asphalt and blinked her eyes in an attempt to see. Time seemed to slow. The long-barreled pistol was up and aimed Lee’s way as she felt for the .25. What kind of woman had the dead cop been? Did she keep one up the spout? Or did she figure that safety was more important than speed?

  Lee prayed for the first possibility as she thumbed the safety and brought the weapon up. Her head was swimming, the child was blocking the Bonebreaker’s chest, and she would have to fire left-handed. But Lee had a talent . . . She could “see” in a way that others couldn’t . . . And the talent knew when to fire. Lee pulled the trigger, felt the recoil, and let the darkness engulf her.

  • • •

  The Channel 7 cameraman got it all—and the station carried the confrontation live. That meant people all over the city saw the way Detective Cassandra Lee was gunned down. And then, lying in a pool of her own blood, fired one last shot. It could have gone wide. Or, worse yet, killed little Cindy Miller. But somehow, by the grace of God according to some, the .25 caliber bullet pulped the Bonebreaker’s right eye and traveled up into his brain.

  The Bonebreaker swayed like a drunk struggling to maintain his balance before toppling over backwards. That was the scene as the chopper circled above. Two bodies lying o
n the roof, with a distraught child sitting between them. Cindy was crying when a policeman dashed out to snatch her up, and medical personnel entered the swirling dust. And that was when Channel 7 cut to a commercial.

  • • •

  Lee was afloat on an ocean of pain. Her eyes were closed, but she could see light through her lids and hear voices. One of them belonged to Jenkins. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine for someone with multiple gunshot wounds,” a woman answered.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Doctor . . . Is she going to make it?”

  There was a pause followed by, “Yes, she’s going to make it.”

  It felt as if her eyes were glued shut, but Lee forced them to open. She could see Jenkins standing at the foot of her bed talking to a woman in green scrubs. Lee’s mouth was dry, and her voice emerged as a croak. “What happened? Did I kill the little girl?”

  There was no mistaking the look of pleasure on Jenkins’s face as he came to stand next to her. “She’s fine, Cassandra . . . Thanks to you.”

  “And the Bonebreaker?”

  “You killed him. One bullet through the right eye. The whole thing was on TV.”

  Something gave way inside her. It was as if a dam broke, resulting in a flood of emotion. All of the pain, and all of the sorrow, was released at once. Lee began to cry. A series of sobs racked her body as she remembered her father and the rest of the Bonebreaker’s victims.

  “This isn’t good for her,” the doctor said firmly, as she injected something into Lee’s IV. “She needs to rest.”

  Lee said, “No, I don’t want . . .” Then her vision began to fade, and darkness rose to envelop her. The Bonebreaker case was closed.

  EPILOGUE

  THE SAILBOAT WALLOWED slightly as a northerly breeze swept across Sucia Island to nudge the boats anchored in Echo Bay. Something rattled up in the rigging, and Lee could hear water sloshing around the stern. She knew next to nothing about boats. But Kane did and had been able to sail the twenty-seven-foot sloop up from Bellingham with very little help from Lee. And that was good because even after a month of painful rehabilitation she still felt creaky. But now, sitting on a cushion in the stern, Lee was nearly pain-free. And judging from the sounds coming from below, Kane was preparing dinner.