Dead on Arrival

by R. J. Patterson

  Oh, Chase, what did you get yourself into?

  Hugh parked his truck along the side of the house and snatched the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He knelt to pet his golden retriever Boomer that had come bounding up.

  “Are you hungry, boy?” Hugh asked, rubbing the dog behind his ears.

  Boomer barked several times, but he sounded different, not like the normal affirmative barks that Hugh was used to. Something was amiss—and Boomer was trying to tell him.

  Hugh placed his keys and the bag on top of his hood and then lumbered toward the barn where he kept Boomer’s food.

  “Come on, boy,” Hugh said. “I know you want some food.”

  Boomer looked at Hugh and then at the house before barking furiously.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Hugh asked. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  Boomer continued to bark, ignoring the fresh bowl of food that Hugh had just placed on the ground.

  “Well, let’s go take a look,” Hugh said aloud.

  Boomer led the way with a fast-paced trot, gliding across the yard until he reached the front steps. Hugh hustled after his dog, pausing only to grab the bag and keys off the truck’s hood.

  Stopping at the front door, Boomer scratched at it in an attempt to get inside.

  “Be patient, boy,” Hugh said. “I’ll get us in.”

  He fumbled for the right key until he located it and jammed it into the lock. With a slight turn, the bolt sprang clear and Hugh opened the door.

  There was nothing inside.

  “See, Boomer, nothing to be afraid of.”

  Boomer let out another series of barks, puzzling Hugh even further. He flipped on the light switch and saw the house exactly as he’d left it. Hugh crept around the corner, wondering if he might find the source of Boomer’s angst. But nothing.

  But that didn’t stop Boomer. The dog continued to bark, the time between each yelp rapidly shrinking. Hugh could tell Boomer sensed danger, but whatever the source, Hugh didn’t feel like harm was imminent.

  He knelt and patted Boomer on the head. “See, I told you everything was going to be fine.”

  But the sound of a hard footstep jolted Hugh out of his denial.

  He spun to look behind him and saw a boot raised above a man’s waist, poised to come crashing down on top of Hugh. Without giving his situation another thought, Hugh rolled to his left, avoiding the heel from crashing down on his face. When Hugh scrambled to his feet, he noticed that he was outnumbered.

  But Hugh didn’t have time for a rational conversation. These two men were after the money—and they looked like they might do anything to get it.

  Hugh cut his eyes to his left and noticed a poker near the fireplace. Grabbing the tool, he took a swing at the larger man on the left and connected, sending the assailant tumbling toward the ground.

  Hugh didn’t have any time to celebrate his knockout blow as he turned to deal with the other man, who was in midstride of a full sprint toward Hugh. The other attacker lunged at Hugh, who ducked low enough that the man went soaring by and slid to a stop in the corner of the room. Hugh rushed toward the man and delivered a couple of body blows, stunning him. After staggering to his feet, he raced outside. Hugh turned to see the other attacker following. Boomer barked loudly as he chased both men out the door.

  Still stunned by the attack, Hugh grabbed the rifle from the closet by the door and raced after them. He noticed their car parked along the road, just on the other side of his fence. Sliding a handful of bullets into the chamber, he squeezed off a few shots in their general direction. It was too dark for him to have a serious chance at hitting either of them, but it wouldn’t hurt to let them know that he was armed and next time the situation might be different.

  Boomer stopped at the edge of the fence and continued to bark until the men jumped into their car and sped away. He sprinted back toward Hugh and then stood barking as if to prove that the earlier ruckus he’d caused was justified.

  “Good boy,” Hugh said, patting Boomer on the head. “I knew you weren’t crazy.”

  On the other hand, Hugh had no idea what Chase had gotten himself involved in. And if everything Hugh had learned in the past few hours was any indication, it was something that Chase should’ve taken great lengths to avoid.

  Then a bullet ripped through Hugh’s shoulder, sending him staggering backward before he fell to the ground.

  CHAPTER 25

  CAL EYED THE CLOCK on the far wall as the secondhand ticked past. While most people would’ve never paid much attention to the noise, Cal was in a different frame of mind, locked away in an FBI interrogation room, biding his time until his arraignment the next morning. The afternoon had come and gone—and there was no message from Jarrett Anderson. Cal wasn’t so naïve that he thought Anderson was actually going to be able to talk some sense into Agent Linderman and help her see the error she was making. But Cal at least thought he might get a message relayed to him through his college buddy. Yet there was nothing.

  As the minutes marched on, Cal watched the large hand work its way around. For the first time in his life, he related to a Cher song, wishing he could turn back time. But that was a wish that would go unfulfilled. Judgment day was fast approaching—and all the while, his opportunity to get free and prove Agent Linderman was wrong equally dwindled.

  Even Cal’s lawyer, Kyle Edgefield, had been unable to get Cal out of his predicament, as evidenced by the fact that he was still stuck in the FBI’s Lincoln Building.

  The clock showed it was just shy of 6:00 p.m., and Cal concluded he couldn’t wait any longer. Drastic measures were in order.

  Cal took ten minutes to invent a cover story that could get him out of the constricting FBI interrogation room and into a more manageable facility. And there was only one place Cal considered he could get to without murdering or assaulting an FBI agent—the hospital.

  Over the years, Cal had been to Virginia Mason Medical Center on a number of occasions—and he’d lived in Seattle long enough to know that was the facility of choice for law enforcement. It was still a convoluted maze of rooms spread across a sprawling campus. However, it was also in the middle of a residential area that could make it easier for Cal to disappear—if he could just find his way outside without being detected. Yet, the execution of such a task wasn’t easy, and Cal knew it.

  He swallowed hard and grit his teeth before clawing at the large vein protruding from his left forearm. After a few swipes, it started bleeding. He then jammed his finger down his throat, triggering his gag reflex and inducing vomit. On top of it, he squeezed some blood. The concoction churned Cal’s own stomach and made him wonder if he would throw up again without having to induce it.

  Satisfied that he could sell his illness, Cal started banging on the window and yelling for someone to help him. Less than a minute later, the agent on guard unlocked the door and entered. With a furrowed brow, he stared at Cal.

  “What’s wrong?” the agent asked.

  Cal cut his eyes toward the mess on the floor.

  “Do you have some condition we don’t know about?” the agent asked.

  “It’s my ulcer,” Cal said. “It’s bleeding, and it’s pretty serious.”

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  Cal nodded. “And the sooner the better, too.”

  “Okay, give me a second to make a few calls, and I’ll be right back.”

  “Hurry,” Cal said, grimacing in pain as he doubled over.

  The agent hustled down the hallway, yanking his phone from his pocket as he ran.

  Cal was pleased with the chaos he’d just set in motion. He hoped the agent wasn’t going back to check the security footage.

  After a few minutes, the agent returned with a colleague.

  “Mr. Murphy,” one of the agents said as they entered the room, “please come with us. We’re going to take you to the hospital.”

  Cal wasn’t sure his plan would work, but the recent climate in the nation about
how detainees had been treated while in custody had changed some protocols. Instead of being cold and callous, the agents were more than accommodating. And that’s all Cal needed to achieve his end game.

  The agents led Cal downstairs and ushered him into a black Suburban waiting in the underground parking garage. Cal was handcuffed to the seat in front of him, while one of the agents joined him in the backseat.

  “You still feeling sick?” the agent driving asked.

  Cal nodded but didn’t say a word. He decided to let his sullen expression do all the talking for him.

  “In that case, let’s ride,” the agent said as he threw the car into drive and roared out of the garage and onto the road.

  The trip to Virginia Mason Medical Center didn’t take long, especially with a flashing light that resulted in other cars dashing and darting out of the way to allow the FBI vehicle to pass.

  Once they arrived on the medical facility’s campus, a handful of doctors and nurses met Cal and rushed him upstairs to a room where they could run a few tests before announcing any type of diagnosis.

  “He claims that he has a stomach ulcer,” the agent told the lead doctor. “Just let me know whatever you find. If this is some sort of stunt, I want to know about it too.”

  The agent patted the doctor on the back. “You can see everything we can through the window into his room,” the doctor said. “If there’s something amiss, we’ll let you know. But if it’s just an ulcer that’s acting up, we should be able to clear that up rather quickly and get you on your way.”

  “That’d be great,” the agent said. “This scumbag has an arraignment hearing tomorrow morning—and I’d hate for him to miss it.”

  An orderly eased Cal into a wheelchair and then chauffeured him up to the third floor.

  Cal looked the man up and down. “What’s your name?”

  “Quay,” the orderly replied.

  “Well, Quay, do you think you could help me out here?”

  Quay chuckled. “You do realize I’m not a doctor.”

  Cal nodded. “That’s not the kind of help I need. I’m being held against my will by these FBI agents. It might as well be a legal kidnapping as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” Cal said. “That’s just it. I didn’t do a thing, and they think they’re going to pin some murders on me just because I was in the vicinity when they happened. I wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “You sound just like my cousin, Trae,” Quay said. “He used to say the exact same thing.”

  “And what happened to Trae?”

  “He’s serving life without parole for his part in an armed robbery.”

  “Did anyone die?”

  “Well, yeah. Of course. But that wasn’t his fault. He warned those dudes not to move.”

  Cal sighed. “I’m glad you’re sympathetic toward my plight, but I do need you to help me by getting me some real food right off the bat. I think the stuff these feds were giving me is what agitated my ulcer. Have you ever had prison food?”

  Quay glared at Cal. “No way. I’m choosing a better path than you. The closest I’ve come to getting in trouble with the law was when I failed to pay my parking fine once.”

  “That’s it?” Cal asked. “Seriously?”

  Quay nodded. “Well, there was that time I almost got cited for jaywalking, but the cop was a family friend who just let me off with a warning.”

  “Well, you’ve eaten in a school cafeteria, right?”

  Quay nodded. “It was hard to get rid of all that weight after school. That stuff is nasty.”

  “Okay, so just imagine school cafeteria food that tastes three time worse—that’s prison food.”

  Quay recoiled and stuck his tongue out. “That sounds like cruel and unusual punishment to me.”

  “Exactly,” Cal said. “And that’s why I need you to get me some real food.”

  “Bro, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re in a hospital. And that’s only about a half step better than your school cafeteria.”

  “Which is way above prison food. You gotta help me out. I’m starving.”

  Quay shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do, but I ain’t making you any promises.”

  Cal glanced behind them and noticed the FBI agent still trailing, looking up periodically as he hammered away a message on his phone. Getting an orderly to go on a quest for food was one thing, but slipping an FBI agent in the hospital in plain sight would require a little more stealth. And at the moment, a legitimate exit strategy escaped Cal.

  Quay eased Cal onto the bed and told him that a physician’s assistant would be in shortly to do a preliminary exam. The FBI agent entered quickly and cuffed Cal to the bedrail. Cal gave him a nasty look before the agent smiled mockingly.

  “I love ribs, Quay,” Cal said. “If there’s any chance you can find me some good ribs—”

  Quay tapped Cal on the leg. “Say no more, brother. I’ll take care of you. I know this little joint around the corner.”

  Cal reached into his pocket before realizing that the FBI had confiscated everything he had. “I’ll have to pay you back later. Is that okay?”

  Quay smiled and nodded. “This one’s one me.”

  Cal repositioned himself to get more comfortable on the bed. He took a deep breath, drawing in the sterile smell of bleach and other nose-burning chemicals. Interlocking his fingers behind his head, Cal leaned back and cast sideways glances over at the agent seated just outside his door. Every so often, the agent would look over his shoulder and make eye contact with Cal. The routine felt creepy, which was why he scrambled out of bed and tugged the privacy curtain along its track to prevent from being seen.

  Seconds later, the door flung open and the agent stormed into the room before sliding the curtain back.

  “You do understand you’re invading my privacy by being in here?” Cal asked.

  “You forfeited your right to privacy when you killed those three people,” the agent fired back.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Cal said. “And I think you know it, too.”

  The agent smirked. “You’re just like everybody else we arrest. Nobody ever does anything. It’s all a conspiracy. It’s all a mistake. It’s all a misunderstanding. I’ve heard every one of these excuses before. And I’ve even taken prisoners to the hospital who are faking an illness. Let me tell you that the return trip won’t be pleasant if you were trying to trick us. It’ll all be even worse if you attempt to escape.”

  “You saw the blood,” Cal said, narrowing his eyes. “You know I have an ulcer.”

  “I know you’re acting like you have an ulcer, but I’m going to leave it up to the doctor to tell me the truth about what’s really going on inside you.”

  “When I get out of here, I’m going to sue you for invasion of privacy.”

  The agent laughed. “I’ve heard that one, too. But you keep it up with your imaginative ways to strike back at me. The bottom line is you’re the one who’s running across the country murdering people, not me. That’s why you’re in this position. So, don’t try to lash out at me because I’m the only person making sure that your time in custody isn’t completely miserable. Choose wisely.”

  The agent returned to his post in the hallway, closing the door as he did. After he slammed the door shut, Cal noticed a mask and scrubs hanging from a hook on the back of the door. He sized them up, guessing that they would fit him well enough. He didn’t need to sell anyone on the fact that he was a doctor—he just needed to fool the agent long enough to escape.

  A half hour later, Quay returned with a brown paper bag already stained with grease spots.

  Cal took a deep breath and then smiled as he sat up in bed.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  Quay grinned and nodded. “It’s from Bitterroot.”

  Cal clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “You are the best.”

  “A man should never be denied a request for good
barbecue, criminal or not,” Quay said.

  “I’m not a criminal, man. I’m being framed.”

  “If you say so—though you wouldn’t be the first criminal to tell me that here.”

  “But I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Just shut up and enjoy your barbecue,” Quay said. “You don’t need to prove anything to me—just to the judge.”

  “Thanks,” Cal said, raising the barbecue pork sandwich in the air as a gesture of appreciation.

  Quay was about to exit the room when he stopped. “Hey, aren’t you that sports reporter who covers the Mariners for The Times?”

  Cal nodded as he licked sauce off his fingers. “Did you see that horrible billboard they made me pose for?”

  Quay smiled. “I’ve driven by it once or twice.”

  “You a baseball fan?”

  “I’ve enjoyed following the Mariners this season, which is the first time in a long time.”

  “Got a favorite player?”

  Quay shrugged. “I don’t know that anyone will ever replace Jackie Robinson for me. Number 42 was my grandfather’s favorite—and eventually he became mine too once I started watching footage of him from years ago.”

  “He was amazing, wasn’t he?”

  Cal was in the process of chomping down on his first bite when the FBI agent rushed into the room and snatched the food away from Cal.

  “What are you doing?” Cal asked incredulously. “That’s my food.”

  “That’s not hospital food, and you’re not authorized to eat anything that came from outside this hospital.”

  “Not authorized? Not authorized? I bet you’re a bore at parties.”

  “Nothing personal, Cal. Just doing my job.”

  Quay stood in the corner and shook his head. He remained quiet until the agent exited the room.

  “That’s just not right,” Quay said.

  “See,” Cal said. “They’re torturing me with a cruel and unusual punishment, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, bro, but I know if I were you, I would want to get out of here as soon as possible.”