by Ilsa J. Bick
“He just sign right on up?” Ramsey grated.
“No. We worked on him.”
“You mean, sex.”
“I mean, whatever was necessary.” Kodza was unmoved. “Someone must do this work, and I do not apologize for our tactics. So. My agent was to establish who the members of the cell were. I do not know if she succeeded because she has been out of touch. But now Scott is in danger, and he has important information, perhaps more so than he realizes.”
Ramsey thought of something. “Oh, Christ, Amanda saw Boaz at Charlie’s, and Scott tended bar Sunday night. If Boaz is involved, and Scott’s involved . . .”
“Well, goddamn it, then,” Ketchum said. “Let’s go talk to Boaz.”
* * *
Ketchum reported in then asked dispatch to patch him through to Doc Summers’ place. The dispatcher came back, said there was no answer but that Bobby had called in earlier and told Ketchum to call Father Gillis.
Gillis, an older man judging from his voice, said that Summers had spent the better part of yesterday, the night, and most of that day at the rectory before going home around two that afternoon. “He’s taking these suspicions of that loose autocannon, that Jack Ramsey, pretty hard. Doc’s a proud man, Hank. Almost nothing worse than destroying his reputation. He’d rather die.”
“He use those words?” Ramsey asked.
“Who’s that?” Gillis asked.
“The loose autocannon,” Ketchum said.
“Oh. Well, Detective, I think what you’re doing is shameful.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you about it,” Ramsey said. “But we have to know: Did Doc Summers actually say he’d rather die? Because I’m Catholic . . .”
“New Avalon?” Gillis asked. He said New Avalon the way someone else might say horse turd. “Or Old Roman?”
“New Avalon. Lapsed, if that makes you feel better. But New Avalons believe suicide is a sin.”
“Hmmm.” Gillis was annoyed now, as if Ramsey had trumped him. “Well, no, actually, Bobby called in maybe a half hour later and he said that Doc was pretty upset and talking about how he’d rather die that see his reputation smeared.”
“You know something that Summers thinks is worth dying for?”
A pause, as if Gillis were debating something. Then: “Yes. But it’s privileged, told in the confessional, so don’t ask. But I can tell you that you’re going to want to hear him out. Doc just can’t stand the guilt he’s carrying. I told Bobby that, and he said he had the same impression. Said he was going to try and talk Doc into turning himself in.”
Ramsey blinked. Ketchum said, “Turn himself in?”
“Yup. So go easy, Hank. Doc’s a proud man brought low.”
* * *
And then Bobby did call. About thirty seconds after Ketchum punched out from the priest, dispatch was back, and said that Bobby had talked Doc into coming to the station house. “Round about eight. Bobby said that Doc had some things he needed to take care of but he’d bring him on down. Right around eight.”
* * *
As Ketchum turned the cruiser into Boaz’s street, Ramsey said, “Hunh.” He looked over at Ketchum. “What do you think?”
“Bobby’s been around a long time, and he knows everyone. He and Doc are Old Romans. So, if Bobby says Doc’s coming in, Doc’s coming in.”
Boaz’s townhouse looked quiet and the curtains were drawn. “Didn’t pick up his paper,” Ramsey said as they climbed out and started for the walk. This time, Ramsey clipped his holster to his belt because you never could tell.
“Maybe he’s waiting until dark so no one can see how nicely you rearranged his nose.” Then Ketchum’s expression darkened. “Be real interesting to hear what Mr. Boaz has to say.”
Kodza, bringing up the rear, said, “With Boaz, and now this Doc, things are going pop, pop, yes?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ramsey began, and stopped when he saw, through the sidelight waterglass, the fragmented but quite distinctive shape of a man’s naked foot.
Ramsey kicked in the door—and things didn’t just pop. Things exploded.
* * *
Boaz was in his boxers, a beer can in one hand and his brains splattered along the floor, banister, and front hall. Weapons drawn, Ramsey and Ketchum did a fast walk-through while Kodza backed out, leaned over the railing and puked her guts out.
By five-thirty, Amanda had come from the scene at Charlie’s to the townhouse. Ketchum sent Kodza to sit in one of two patrol cars that had arrived when Ketchum called in the murder on his command frequency.
“Well, beyond the obvious that he’s dead, he was killed with one big bullet,” Amanda said. She was gloved, kneeling by the body, and now directed the tech where she wanted close-ups. “Judging from the rectal temperature, condition of the body and the extent of rigor, I’d say he was killed sometime last night.”
Ramsey looked at that beer can in what could now legitimately be called a death grip. “He clocked out of the station around twenty-one hundred yesterday. There was a pizza box in the other room where the holo’s still going. We checked with the pizza place, and they delivered at eight-thirty, and looks like he pretty much ate it. Only one piece left.”
“Unless you have a hungry killer,” Amanda said, dryly.
* * *
When she was done and they’d gone outside, Ramsey nodded toward Ketchum who was inside his patrol car, talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands. “Hank’s going nuts.”
“Wouldn’t you? You really think Scott Schroeder did this?”
“I don’t know. It sort of fits, but the thing is I can’t see how Scott could’ve known about Boaz being a suspect unless Scott was part of the operation to begin with. But then he’d have known about Noah way beforehand, and I think he’d have done something about it. Was Scott at the hospital when Troy came in?”
“I don’t remember. Let me ask the ICU nurses,” Amanda said, punching up her sat-link. Two minutes later, she punched out and said, “Scott visited the ICU, fought about something with his mother and then stormed out before Troy arrived. Unless he saw Boaz leave with Sandra, he couldn’t have made the connection.”
Ramsey nodded. Thought: But I can think of someone who did.
Amanda forked her hair from her face. “Well, I’d better get Boaz packed up. I swear, you’re keeping me so busy, I don’t have time to see my living patients. This keeps up I’ll have to close my practice.”
“Things will wind down soon. I’ve got this feeling. Then I’ll be gone, and things will get back to normal.”
She edged closer, took his lapel in one hand, leaned in, and kissed him on the lips. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “The time when you’ll be gone.”
56
Tuesday, 17 April 3136
1800 hours
Gabriel stood under a stinging hot shower, washing away all the sweat and grime and blood of the day. He felt wonderful, like he was being re-born. The worst had been the boys, but he’d prevailed. He’d even handled the Handler. Shut the fuck up and listen. He said it out loud now, standing in the shower. Felt good to say it. Felt the power.
He’d used the big gun, the 720, on Boaz. He shuddered deliciously as he remembered Boaz’s face the split second before: the dumb amazement. And then POW!
After he’d toweled off, he inspected his leg: healing nicely. Then, as he scrubbed his teeth, his mind bounced back to the police. He’d been monitoring the command frequency all afternoon, and so he knew they’d found Boaz. But no one had come, so he had to assume the Bobby ploy had worked. Dispatch had called in once, requesting that Bobby reconfirm, and he had because he had Bobby’s ID-link. Now that had been downright brilliant. The ID-link’s audio wasn’t that good, and bursts of jargon could fool anyone. Anyone using the ID-link had to enter a code, a kind of fail-safe—and Gabriel had been insistent Bobby tell him the code, just in case. He’d bought himself, maybe, an hour. Once they found Doc, Ketchum would know.
But he’d beat them, had
beaten them already. He’d listened as dispatch relayed Ketchum’s APB on Scott Schroeder, and then the general comchatter on the command frequency. People running around not knowing shit from shinola.
The Handler had been pleased. “I must confess. You are resourceful.”
“I told you I could handle it. Now we wait for Amanda to sequence that DNA, and we’re set. If I have enough time after the Schroeder kid, I’ll dump in another spy program to take pictures of her entire system every time she makes a change. That way, I can stay on top of anything she comes up with, under any file.”
“Do not become greedy. Your primary objective is to eliminate the witnesses. Then you will proceed to the rendezvous point. You are prepared?”
“I’m ready. I’ve already been out and put in a series of belays to get down the gorge fast and into the boat. They’ll be covering the roads and maybe the lake, but they’ll never think of the river, and even if they do, they won’t know which branch I’ll take. I’ll get out and be at the rendezvous in three days.”
In his bedroom now, pulling on his clothes. His cat was asleep on his pillow. His only regret was the cat, but he didn’t have a choice. So he’d hit upon a plan and thought it’d work. Once he was gone, only a creep would take things out on a defenseless cat.
Hefting his knapsack and feeling hungry, he headed for the kitchen. Had he boiled up the last of his eggs? An egg salad sandwich was all he had time for. He couldn’t be late to work. Until the end, he had to be the person everyone else thought he was, and that person was never late.
So he was thinking about mayonnaise and bread and lettuce when he turned into his kitchen—and stopped dead.
* * *
Scott Schroeder looked terrible, and there were crimson tracks gouged along his left cheek where someone had tried to scratch off his face. But his blue eyes were glittery and bright with hate.
Gabriel’s heart kicked up several notches, but his mind was working. He debated for a half second, decided on a strategy and broke silence first. “Michael, Jesus, man, put down the gun, man! What the hell? What are you doing?”
Scott’s face twisted. “Stop calling me that. I’m Scott. I’m Scott, you bastard!”
“Okay, okay!” Hands up, palms out, shaking, and no faking there. “Easy, man, easy, just calm down!”
“What the hell for?” The cords on Scott’s neck bulged. “My father’s dead, my brother might die, and you’re telling me to calm down?”
“I’m sorry, look, I’m sorry, man, but Jesus, Mi . . . Scott, you’re making me nervous, man. You don’t have to drop it, but just aim somewhere else!”
“No!” Scott’s hand floated to the scratches on his face. “Grace, I made her, I made her tell me, really tell me about my brother. About my dad!”
“Tell you what? Christ, she scratched you? Tell you what?” Good, good, lots of questions, a blizzard of nervous patter, that’s what a man who’s about to crap his pants does. At the same time, Gabriel was keenly aware of the knapsack slung over the hump of his right shoulder. Scott’s left-handed, gun’s in his left hand. “What, she thinks I had something to do with your brother? Come on. We can talk, whatever you—”
“You want to talk?” Scott jabbed the gun at Gabriel. “Then talk about what really happened to my father, and what you did to Noah!”
“Noah? Your dad? What, you think I killed your dad?” Gauging the distance to the knives, the heft of his sack. “That’s what Grace told you? Man, Scott, I’ve known you for years. I told you what happened.”
“Bullshit!” Scott was crying now. “You told me that he’d been ambushed by those Blakists! You said he wouldn’t listen to you or anyone about having someone with him. But it was you, you and Bobby—”
“Bobby?” Eyes wide with incredulity. “Bobby couldn’t find his asshole if you gave him a mirror and a flashlight. Is Grace handing you this crap? Let me talk to her. She’ll change her tune.” Good, that was just indignant enough. Turn the tables, confuse him. “I told you, man. They ambushed him. By the time we figured out what was going on, they already had him. I got there as fast as I could, but there were too many of them. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Yeah, yeah? You’re so good with a gun, why didn’t you shoot?” Scott wasn’t crying anymore—a bad sign because that meant he was angrier than sad and angry men killed you faster. “If there were so many, why aren’t you dead?”
“I . . .” Gabriel forced his eyes to slide away from Scott—from the gun—as if embarrassed. “Because I ran.”
“You ran?” Clearly, not what Scott had expected and when Gabriel looked back, he saw Scott’s mouth had dropped open. More important, his left hand unconsciously mimicked the gesture, and the gun barrel slewed down and left. “You ran?”
“Yeah. I guess I freaked out, man. I was terrified. I . . . I was so scared, I just ran, and I guess the noise, they started after me.” He felt his eyes water. Jesus, he was good. He let his shoulders slump and felt the strap slip to midbiceps. Just a little more. “I’m so, so sorry, I’m so . . . damn it, I was so ashamed, I . . .” Smearing away tears with his left hand. “Man, look what you made do . . . aw, God . . .”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Scott sounded uncertain, even a little concerned.
“I dunno.” He judged they were no more than five meters apart. “I didn’t want anyone to find out, and—” And then he saw that Scott’s gun pointed at the floor.
Now, now, go go go!
Gabriel sprang. He roared, a loud guttural hiyahhhh! Scott flinched, backed up a step, but Gabriel was moving, going fast, the strap of his knapsack in his hand now, the weight dragging at his palm, and he swung his right arm, put his weight behind it, used the heavy sack like a bolo. Scott, off-balance, surprised, saw the sack coming and tried bringing the gun to bear a fraction of a second too late. The sack smashed into Scott’s left shoulder and arm, a blow Gabriel felt as a bone-shudder rippling through his arm and into his shoulder.
Bang! The gun went off, a deafening sound in such a small space that left Gabriel’s ears ringing. A searing pain striped along his left side—I’m shot, I’m shot—and he was falling now, letting go of the sack as Scott crumpled and they hit the floor together. The gun roared again, and this time Gabriel saw the muzzle flash, felt the bullet whiz by his eye. That was too damn close! He outweighed Scott by a good ten kilos, and had the advantage because he was on top. Stretching now, reaching for Scott’s gun hand and Gabriel was talking, too, not aware until he heard the words spilling out like water roaring over a dam: motherfucker, you motherfucker, you fucker . . .
Scott held on. He bucked and heaved, and Gabriel rode him the way a ranch-hand broke a wild horse. Scott was cursing, too, spittle flying: “Killed my dad, you killed my dad, you killed him!” So close, Gabriel felt Scott’s breath caress his cheek like a lover.
So Gabriel bit him. He clamped down on Scott’s left cheek, felt his teeth break through skin. Scott screamed, a sound that spiked Gabriel’s left ear. But he bit down harder, grinding his jaws, and now he tasted blood—salty and warm—and Scott was shrieking, trying to twist free, and Gabriel felt the flesh giving way, tearing . . .
And Scott dropped the gun.
Quick as a snake, Gabriel uncoiled, lunged, swept up the gun with his right hand, rolled. His back slammed against a kitchen cupboard, and the pain in his side roared to life, but now Gabriel was up, the gun in his hand.
Scott’s scream choked off to a dribbling repetitive moan: “Aw, Jesus, aw Jesus, aw Jesus!” Bright red blood sheeted his fingers. “Aw God God . . . !”
“You fuck!” Gabriel spat a mouthful of Scott’s blood and a chunk of flesh. “You want to know what happened, you want to know what happened? You want to know what your big hero dad did when I got him to his knees? He crapped his pants. He peed all over himself, and he started to cry.”
“No, no, that’s not true!” Scott screamed, his spit mingling with the blood soaking his collar. “Not true!”
“Ye
s,” Gabriel said, suddenly tired of the argument. “It is. And I killed him. Just. Like. This.”
He thrust the gun at Scott Schroeder’s bloodstained face, and pulled the trigger.
57
1930 hours
Kodza was out of the loop.
“If Scott killed Boaz, then Grace told him,” Ramsey argued. At last word, Kodza was in her hotel room, a deputy at her door, under protective custody, a euphemism that sounded better than shut down. “Isaiah was an agent, and he’s dead. Grace was one of Kodza’s agents, and now Grace is dead, Boaz is dead, and Scott’s missing. She’s out.”
“So did we make a mistake?” Ketchum asked. “Listening to her?”
“Man, I don’t know.” Ramsey blew out. “There are so many actors, I can’t keep track.”
“Yeah, well,” Ketchum said, “not at this rate.”
* * *
The press was in full gear. The air thrummed with the whop-whop-whop of a news VTOL, its spotlight playing over a milling crowd of reporters as if they were celebrities. Ketchum confirmed Boaz’s death then no-commented everything else.
Even though Bobby called in at seven and was given instructions to come in cold, no sirens, no light bar, he didn’t show at eight. At eight-oh-two, dispatch tried raising Bobby and couldn’t. They wasted about five minutes, dispatch fussing with various channels, and eight-oh-eight, they’d cranked up Ramsey’s unmarked, pulled out of the back lot while a deputy appeared on the steps as a diversion. Once out of visual, Ramsey dropped the accelerator.
Doc’s place was lit up like a Christmas tree. Then the car’s headlamps picked out one of the reflective decals of Bobby’s cruiser, and Ramsey said, “Uh-oh.”
“I’ll be damned, I’ll be goddamned,” Ketchum said, and he popped his door while Ramsey was still rolling, Ramsey yelling, “Easy, Hank, easy!” But Ketchum, weapon drawn, was already bounding up the steps when Ramsey slammed on the brakes and was out of the car, his hand automatically going for his Raptor: “Hank, Hank, Jesus, wait!”
