by Jack Hardin
____________________
Down the hall, the elevator doors opened and a tall, well-built man with a thick but well-trimmed red beard stepped out. He nodded at a pretty female nurse as he passed the station and offered a charming grin. He wore gray slacks and a blue dress shirt, open at the neck. He stopped at room 417, the door whose name card read ‘John Doe’. He removed his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it out. His badge glistened under the halogens.
“Detective Howell here to see the patient.”
The guard took a cursory glance at the badge and handed him a clipboard. “Sign in for me, please. You’ll need to wait a minute, Detective. He’s currently in the restroom.”
Trigg Deneford hurriedly scratched the pen across the sheet and handed it back. He stood to the side and waited. Finally, after running a hand through his beard, he said, “I see he’s listed here as a ‘John Doe’. Has he still not said anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even his name?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Thank you.”
Deneford waited against the wall in silence.
Chapter Nineteen
A million stars sparkled against the dark skin of the universe as a half moon rose slowly in the east. Chewy pressed the button on the special remote and a smooth patch of water suddenly became disturbed by large air bubbles breaking at the surface. Moments later, a large rectangular shape emerged from the water like a hibernating beast called up from ages past. Salt water cascaded off its slippery skin and swirled around the roots of the mangroves and the buttonwood trees. Chewy looked at the remote, then out to the dark object, and back to the remote. Impressed, his brows lifted, but he didn’t smile. The object stood five feet high and as many across.
Andrés, however, was smiling. “Hector,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He is very smart.”
“I don’t know how he did this,” Chewy said. “It’s admirable.” He slipped the remote into the pocket of his trench coat. He and Andrés stepped into ankle deep water and spent the next few minutes unraveling the waterproof wrapping from the dark block. Two hundred and fifty packages, over five hundred pounds of Colombian-picked, Mexican-processed cocaine, had completed its trip across the Gulf and was reborn on American shores.
A black panel truck was parked on the edge of the water. Its roller door was up, and inside sat over one hundred wooden customized crates stamped with the image of a mango.
Fifty minutes later, the drugs had been transferred to the crates. Chewy reached up and grabbed the door’s strap. He pulled hard and the door slid down with a rattle. He locked it and slapped the door a couple times. The truck’s red tail lights disappeared down the road and turned out of sight.
Chewy and Andrés got into their black Malibu and started the half hour return trip to the mansion. “How is your mother?” Chewy asked.
“I spoke with her this morning. She’s scared. Things have gotten much worse this last year. Sometimes, Chewy, I think maybe some of it is my fault.”
“How’s that?”
Andrés spread his hands out. “This. All this. What we just did.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The cartel wars are very bad in my home country. I sometimes think that Saint Michael has stopped protecting my madre because of what I do.”
“You can’t think like that,” Chewy said. “I don’t know about your saints, but you cannot be responsible for the actions of others.” He had learned that as young boy from Howard Hoffstetter. Chewy still had the original cassette tape that he had brought down from his granny’s attic. Hoffstetter had died a decade ago, but he was still one of Chewy’s favorites. “Those men who broke into your mother’s house, you didn’t make them do that. They made their own choices.”
“Those are good words, my friend. Thank you. You should come and visit her with me one day. You would like her. She also is a very positive person. She would enjoy you as well.”
“I would like that,” Chewy said.
Andrés came to the four-way stop at Pine Island Center. He turned left and continued east toward Matlacha and Cape Coral. Chewy pulled his trench coat tightly around his chest. Andrés fingered the climate controls and turned the heat on. It was September in South Florida, but Andrés didn’t mind feeling like a rotisserie chicken for the next twenty minutes. He would just drink a lot of water when they got back. Dry heat began to fill the car, and Andrés noticed Chewy relax into his seat. “Thank you,” Chewy said.
“Quinton called me this afternoon,” Andrés said. “He wants to have a meeting with us in the next few days.” He kept his eyes on the road and scratched his chin. “What do you think, Chewy? About the transition?”
Chewy stared at the dash. In truth, he felt as if, for the second time in his four decades, he was losing a father. “I’ll miss him,” he said quietly.
“It is hard. Ringo...there is no one else like him. He is especial.”
“It’s the right decision for him,” Chewy said. “Things are not as quiet for us as they used to be.”
“You know who would have liked this new change?” Andrés asked.
“Who’s that?”
“Scotch,” Andrés said, referring to the co-worker they had fed to an enormous python three months prior. “He was always a little scared of Ringo, I think. Scotch would have liked working for Quinton.”
“Quinton is a good man,” Chewy said. “He’ll do very well in Ringo’s place.” Even so, when they arrived back at the mansion Chewy couldn’t help but think that in a couple of weeks, it would always feel empty.
Chapter Twenty
Virgil sat on the toilet lid with his eyes closed, breathing slowly. His stomach was finally empty, leaving his body shaking, and his skin shining with cold sweat. Exhaustion lay heavily over him like a wet blanket. His mind, however, was clearer, and the nausea, while still there, was but a noticeable discomfort. No one had come rushing into the bathroom like he had expected. He still heard no one in the room, just the sound of the television.
He wanted to sleep, to close his heavy eyes and just sleep. But he couldn’t. If he knew anything at all he knew he couldn't do that. Failure to get out of here would surely mean Ellie’s murder. Then they would come for Dante, Darwin, and Voltaire.
He swirled fresh saliva around his mouth and spit onto the floor, trying to cleanse away the sour taste of vomit. He opened his eyes and sat up straight. A fresh resolve to notify his old teammates coursed through him.
Reaching out for the door handle, Virgil pulled himself up onto his good leg. He steadied himself and took his time peering into the room. The television was spilling out a late-morning talk show, and the privacy curtain around the bed was extended, preventing him from seeing the bed or the patient. He hopped out of the bathroom, over to the small closet on the far wall, and muttered a “please” as he opened the door. Hanging there was a printed floral blouse and a nightgown that looked like it might be too big for a hippo. He sighed and shut the door, then worked his way along the wall over to the privacy curtain. He peeked around it. A large, grandmotherly woman was asleep on the bed, her mouth open, her face turned toward the window. She was alone.
But not entirely alone. Sitting empty on the other side of the bed was a wheelchair, but to Virgil it looked like a king’s throne. He moved over to the bed and used the bed rails for support as he struggled around. He grabbed the chair and sat into it, then grabbed at his bad leg, lifted, and brought it up so his Achilles was resting on the edge of the foot plate. A sharp, protesting bolt of fire emanated from his bad knee. Virgil groaned and breathed loudly through his nose. Besides the knee, he could feel a distinct internal pressure around his collarbone that wasn’t there before he went over the wall.
He released the wheel locks and moved to the foot of the bed. Across the room the door handle clicked and swung down. Virgil froze. The door opened. An older gentlemen walked in. He wore large-framed glasses, khakis, a tweed sport coat, and
a paperboy hat. The man shut the door and took a few steps toward the bed before issuing a muffled cry as he noticed Virgil. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.
Virgil feigned confusion and looked around the room with wide eyes. He raised his voice slightly. “This isn’t the billiard room,” he said. “They told me the billiards were down the hall.”
“Billiards? Son, I think you might be a little confused. This is a hospital.” He took a step toward the bed. “Are you okay? I think you might have gotten lost.” The man raised his nose slightly, then wrinkled it. “What is that smell?”
“A hospital? Why am I in a hospital? Dad? Is...is that you?”
The man lowered his brows on him. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a nurse in here for you.”
“Okay. Hey, Dad. Before you do that, could you help me with this brake on my chair? It keeps acting up and I can’t move too well.”
The man glanced toward the door, and then looked back toward Virgil. “Sure, sure,” he said. He stepped over to the chair and squinted down on it. “Which one is giving you problems? This one here?”
“No, sir. It’s this one.” When the man leaned over, Virgil grabbed him with his good arm, and quickly turned him so the man was now facing away from him. Before he could protest Virgil had snaked his arm across his throat. As he settled back against Virgil, the man tried to cry out, but the pressure against his neck prevented it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Virgil said quietly into his ear. “Really am. Just relax. You’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The man tried to raise a protesting arm, but then, as his vision gathered up darkness, his arm fell back and he swam into unconsciousness. Virgil took the man’s weight into his good leg and carefully brought him around the chair before lowering him to the floor.
The old man would wake up soon. When he did, half his clothes would be gone.
____________________
Trigg Deneford busied himself watching the pretty nurse at the station. She smiled playfully at him. When he winked at her she blushed just before her attention was stolen by an approaching doctor. Deneford addressed the guard, who was standing on the other side of the doorway. “You have someone in there with him, right?”
“Yes. He’s in the room.”
“How long before I showed up?”
“I...five minutes.”
Deneford motioned toward the door. “I’m just going to peek in and make sure everything’s okay, if you don’t mind.” Before the guard could object, Deneford was no longer in the hallway.
Deneford flashed his badge to the second guard—Mr. White–who was standing casually near the bed. The bathroom door was shut and a thin line of light shone from the crack at floor. “The patient?” Deneford said. “He’s in there?”
The guard looked at him with mixture of amusement and irritation. “Of course he’s in there.”
Deneford walked up to the door, knocked on it. “This is Detective Howell. I’ll need to speak with you when you come out.” No reply. He tried the handle. It was locked. He knocked again, harder this time. “Hello?”
Nothing.
Deneford assessed the door. The frame was welded steel; the door itself, while outlaid with faux wood melamine board, would be made of aluminum honeycomb. That made it impossible to force open with his shoulder or a hefty kick. He didn’t have a shotgun to help him breach it. Shooting out door locks with a handgun only worked in the movies. That left the hinges.
Deneford got down on one knee, lifted up the cuff of his pants, and withdrew a Smith & Wesson 360 PD. The featherweight revolver boasted an alloy frame and titanium cylinder chambered for a .357 Magnum. Deneford had loaded it earlier this morning with five rounds of .38 Special. Next to the holster, tucked into his sock, was a 60cc syringe. The accompanying needle was in a hard plastic case in his pocket. His plan for Virgil had been simple: insert the needle into ‘Mr. Doe’s’ subclavian vein and inject a syringe full of air into him. An arterial gas embolism would ensue and that, as they say, would have been that. Deneford depressed the gun’s cylinder release, pressed the cylinder open, and pushed in the ejection rod. The bullets fell into his palm, and he quickly moved them to a pocket.
“What are you doing?” asked the guard.
Deneford ignored him and withdrew a metal pen from his shirt pocket. He set the tip of it beneath the door’s topmost hinge pin. He turned the gun on its side and slammed it into the pen. Nothing. He hit it again. It gave a little. He tried again. It gave some more. Both guards were now standing off to the side, fresh concern on their faces.
Nurse Linda entered the room. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Your patient isn't answering.”
“Well, just hold on a minute, sir,” she said. “He’s not going anywhere in his condition. He’s probably passed out.”
“You have no idea what your patient is capable of.”
“No,” she retaliated. “I don’t. He wouldn’t even give us his name. I’ll go track down the key.” As she hurried out of the room, Linda quietly chastised herself for letting her John Doe use the restroom at all.
____________________
Virgil grabbed the extra blanket that sat on the chair. He draped it around his legs to hide the nightgown and his baby blue hospital sock and single bare foot. His new wardrobe included a tweed jacket and cap. He decided that using the man’s glasses might help in some way, but he found that he just couldn’t take them. He couldn’t lie to the man, render him unconscious, steal his clothes, and leave him half-blind, only to wake up in a room with his hospitalized wife who was suffering from who knew what.
Using his only good arm, Virgil wheeled himself over to the door. His heart was thumping. He put his hand on the door handle and looked up. The door didn’t have a hydraulic closer, so it wouldn’t try to shut on him as he exited the room. Virgil took in a deep breath and, hoping against hope, opened the door. He kept his eyes on his feet and wheeled out of the room, immediately taking a right and moving as efficiently as he could, using his good foot to help him steer.
A nurse passed him on his right, and a room door swung open on his left. No one stopped him. Twenty feet later he got to the elevator at the end of the hall.
He pressed the button and waited.
____________________
Deneford continued working on the hinge pin. He hit it two more times before it finally gave and slipped up a half inch. Another whack and it shot out like a tiny rocket and clattered to the floor.
The guard who had been standing in the hallway with him gave a mocking sneer. “He just got out of surgery. He can’t even walk.” Then he added, as if it sealed the deal, “There’s nowhere for him to go.”
It took all Deneford had not to lay the man out right where he stood. “Go check the room next door,” he snapped. “Now.”
The guard’s sneer waned. He gave a nervous, hurried nod and left.
____________________
Virgil didn’t become unsettled very easily. But now, with his back to his room, and on the verge of what he considered to be a pretty epic escape, he found that his heart was pumping overtime. As he waited for the elevator, he heard a hollow, metallic banging from down the hall. The elevator creaked as it came up the shaft.
More loud clatter from behind him.
He stared at the steel doors.
Come on.
A nurse drew up and stood next to him, also waiting for the elevator. Virgil didn’t look up, but he caught a quick glance at a set of scrubs and a badge hanging off the pocket. The elevator creaked again, and Virgil saw through the crack between the doors that it was coming up from the previous floor. The nurse was busy on his phone, paying the man in the wheelchair no attention.
Unlike some elevators, there was no display to show what floor the car was on. Virgil’s eyes widened when he realized that the elevator car passed up his floor and came to a stop directly above them.
Come. On.
This was his only way out. The stairs were not an option. He didn’t have a crutch and what would he do once he left the stairwell? He’d be Peter Rabbit, hopping out of the hospital, that’s what. Might as well put a blinking red light on his head and yell to the lobby that he was escaping and could the officer at the front desk please detain him?
He realized that he was holding his breath when the elevator started moving back down. More clamor behind him, metal on metal. A momentary relief flowed through him as the steel doors opened. The nurse crossed in front of him and went in, still oblivious, still on his phone. Virgil got himself in and punched the button to the main floor. Then he managed to turn the chair around so he could make a hasty exit. He waited now, facing the hallway with his head down.
The elevator doors weren’t shutting. Virgil reached out and mashed the door close button. Down the hall, a flurry of nurses were gathered, coming in and out of his room.
Come. ON.
____________________
Deneford knocked the third pin loose and hurriedly slipped his gun into his waistband. He pulled down on the door handle and wriggled the door away from its frame. As he set the door against the wall, he peered into the restroom.
It was empty.
The guard came rushing back in, his voice in a high panic. “He’s not in there. Some old guy is…” He trailed off as he looked up at the missing ceiling tiles.
Deneford pushed past him and ran out of the room, scanning back and forth down the corridor as the other guard started barking orders toward the nurses’ station.
