Nick of Time

by John Gilstrap

  Even in the darkness, she could tell that she’d hurt his feelings. She turned so that she could better see his silhouette in the blackness. “It’s not you, okay? I swear to God, it’s not you. Jesus, I can’t count the number of times we’ve made love in my head.”

  “What, then?”

  Nicki didn’t want to answer. She knew how stupid it would sound. “It’s my mother,” she said, finally.

  “Excuse me?” Brad’s laugh came reflexively.

  Nicki hugged herself and stood, stepping away from the bed. “I made her a promise, okay? It was probably a stupid thing to do, but when she was in the hospital, I promised her that I would save my virginity for just the right guy—the guy I love more than anyone else in the world.”

  “And I’m not him?” Brad’s tone was hard to read without seeing his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Nicki confessed. “How can I know for sure?”

  With a huge, frustrated sigh, Brad stood and gathered his robe from the floor.

  “Are you mad?” Nicki asked.

  He made a sound that might have been a growl. “Mad? No. Horny and frustrated, but not mad.” He walked to her and kissed her on the forehead. “What’s to be mad about?”

  “I’m sorry I’m such a prude.”

  “We’ve got a long trip ahead of us, Nicki. All I have to do is convince you that I’m the guy.” He took a step toward the door.

  “Are you leaving?”

  He looked back at her. She could see his smile, even in the dark. “You need your rest, and I think it’s probably best if I sleep in the living room. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nicki whined.

  “No,” he said, with a firmness in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. “Don’t apologize. I made assumptions that I shouldn’t have. That’s my fault, not yours. I’m the one who should apologize.” He walked as he spoke, heading for the bedroom door and the living room beyond. He paused at the threshold. “I’m sorry, Nicki,” he said. “Really. Good night.”

  Nicki heard the door click as Brad closed it behind him.

  April 11

  He told! I don’t believe it! Derek ratted out the Posse. He told Georgen. You’re supposed to get transferred out if you rat out an inmate, but Georgen put him back into GP. Derek is terrified. When the Posse finds out, he’s dead.

  Christ, how could he have been so stupid? Everybody knows. Derek’s begging Georgen for isolation, but I don’t think he’s going to give it to him. Georgen’s having too much fun to give it to him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Warren turned on the overhead light and smacked Carter’s shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Carter, wake up. We’ve got a lead.”

  Carter didn’t even know that he’d drifted off. He came awake groggy and confused. “What? Where?” He checked his watch. 3:04 A.M.

  “The Ritz-Carlton at Mason’s Corner.” Carter’s eyes cleared enough to see that Warren was wearing boxer shorts and a Nike T-shirt. “I just got the call from a patrol unit who got a hit off the picture we sent around.”

  “Nicki is there?” Carter asked. It seemed almost too simple.

  “We’re leaving in two minutes to find out.”

  * * *

  Brad needed a drink. And a cold shower. Jesus, what had he been thinking? He never should have moved so far so quickly. But after such a long stretch without being close to a woman, nature was a tough beast to tame. He thought about that as he re-dressed in his khakis and polo shirt, being particularly careful as he zipped his trousers.

  He hated the look he saw in her face after he walked into the bathroom. At first, it was shock—he’d expected that—but then it looked like fear, and that was when he should have left her alone. He’d thought that she would get a kick out of seeing him parade naked in front of her. In their e-mails, she’d told him how she used to fantasize about that when she was watching him mow the lawn.

  A part of him wondered if it had been a mistake to tell her so much about his past. Maybe he should have made something up that wouldn’t have made him look like such a criminal.

  No, he decided, that would have been a mistake. There’d been too many lies in his life, told by too many people, and he had way too many sins on his soul as it was.

  When Brad saw that clerk in the gas station fall with a bullet through his head, he knew that he’d crossed a line from which there was no return. He understood that every good thing he’d ever done in his life had become meaningless. It had all been wiped out at a muzzle velocity of a thousand feet per second. As he watched the lights go out in that kid’s eyes, he realized that he really did care.

  And because of what he’d done, nobody would ever care back.

  Except for Nicki Janssen. She was the single exception. Back when he was in prison, lying on his bunk at night, listening to the sounds of men snoring and fighting and jerking off, he used to imagine what Nicki would look like as the years passed. In his mind, she’d become a cheerleader, or maybe even a model. So beautiful a girl had to grow up to be a beautiful woman. She had to.

  After his escape, when he had five states under his belt and he felt that the heat of the search had cooled a little, the first thing he set out to do was find Nicki. He never dreamed that the Internet would make it so simple. Once they started up their dialogue, he discovered the good deed that might balance the accounts for his soul.

  He’d find a way to make her final days livable, while doing the same for himself. There was one certainty that they faced together: that neither of them would likely see another Christmas—Nicki because her body would kill her, and Brad because he knew how pitiful the odds were of staying ahead of the law in the long run. When they caught him, he would die; he would see to that. He’d never allow himself to be taken back to jail.

  This knowledge of impending death was liberating in its own way. It took all the pressure off living. With a future that you could measure in a thimble, and a past that didn’t matter anymore, he and Nicki were left with only the present, and the freedom that brought made his head swim.

  When he was dressed, Brad stopped at the minibar long enough to slip two miniature bottles of scotch into his pocket. That done, he opened and closed the door to the suite as quietly as he could, and slipped out into the hallway, checking to make sure that he’d remembered the plastic card key.

  What were the chances that the bar might still be open at this hour? At three-thirty in the morning, not likely. Still, he needed a walk in the fresh air. Ever since he’d stepped clear of those concrete walls, he couldn’t get enough fresh air. Even the palatial digs of the Governor’s Suite seemed too small and stuffy for him. And on top of all that, he had to do something to distract himself from the pressure in his crotch.

  The elevator took him to the ground floor. As the door opened on the lobby, he stepped out onto the polished floor. The place seemed busier than he would have expected for so late an hour. Not crowded by any stretch, there were still six or seven people clustered near the front desk, and a couple more milling about the main entrance at street level. Two of the men near the front doors were cops, dressed in gray and black polyester uniforms. They didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, yet they seemed to be a bit on edge.

  Something wasn’t right here. Of the people who weren’t in uniforms, all were fully dressed in a way that didn’t jibe with the hour. Three in the morning is the end of anybody’s work day, yet these guys all looked fresh. One wore a well-tailored suit, and he stood with his hands on his hips, talking with someone behind the front desk. When he turned at just the right angle, Brad caught of flash of steel on the man’s belt.

  He was a cop, too.

  Holy shit, they were all cops, and they were clearly waiting for something. Or someone.

  Okay, don’t panic, he told himself, but the panic didn’t listen. They couldn’t possibly have caught up with him this quickly. They couldn’t have traced the credit card—not yet, anyway—nor could they have trace
d the car. It was too soon. Vinnie Campanella was just learning to find his way around a foreign country, for heaven’s sake. He should be too busy to be worried about a robbery that happened the day before and an ocean away.

  Nicki swore she’d followed the instructions he’d given her. She said she’d paid only cash and kept a low profile.

  Yet, here they were, and what were the chances that there’d be more than one cop-magnet staying in the hotel tonight?

  The answer came a moment later, as activity beyond the glass doors drew everyone’s attention to the front of the building. Just from the way people snapped to, Brad got the impression that the person they’d been waiting for had arrived. Maybe this was just the protection detail for some visiting dignitary.

  One of the uniformed cops opened the door for a man who looked like he was probably a cop, but who walked like he needed rest. Two steps behind, he saw a face that looked vaguely familiar to him.

  It took only a few seconds for him to recognize the second man as Carter Janssen.

  * * *

  Carter was impressed by the level of deference shown to Warren Michaels as he passed his troops. He sensed in them a great desire to please, tinged with just a touch of fear about getting on his wrong side. They hadn’t taken five steps into the lobby when a well-dressed man stepped forward to greet them. Carter’s first instinct told him that the guy had to be the manager of the hotel, but then he saw the badge clipped to his belt.

  Warren took care of the brusque introductions. “Sergeant Jed Hackner, Counselor Carter Janssen.” The men shook hands even as Warren continued to speak. “What do we know?”

  Hackner said, “Not enough. The clerk says that he recognized the face on the news as a guest in the hotel, but that he doesn’t know the guy’s name.”

  “Are we talking about the eleven o’clock news?” Warren asked, incredulous. “Why are we just hearing about it now?”

  “They rebroadcast the news at two-thirty. That’s when the guy caught it.”

  Warren led the way to the front desk, where a clerk in a gray vest looked scared to death standing next to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to Queen Elizabeth. “This is Missy Thompson, the night manager,” Hackner said, introducing the woman. “And this is Gary Vaughan.” Nodding to Warren, he added, “This is Lieutenant Michaels, my boss, and Carter Janssen, the father of one of the people we’re looking for.”

  No one bothered to shake hands. “Which one of you saw our fugitives?” Warren asked.

  Gary raised his hand sheepishly. “That was me,” he said. “I just saw them for a few seconds. It was late. They were all dressed up.”

  “Dressed up?” Carter asked.

  “Yeah, tuxedo and gown, like they’d been to a dance or something. I assumed they were at the big ball we had tonight. Some society of cops.” For an instant, Gary looked worried that that last part might have offended someone.

  Warren looked to Carter. “That make sense to you?”

  “Not a lick.”

  “There are two Wards registered in the hotel,” Jed Hackner explained, “and one Dougherty.”

  “Your storm troopers woke those people up,” said Missy Thompson. “They were the wrong people, of course, but that didn’t seem to bother any of you.”

  “You’d rather have a couple of murderers running loose in your hotel?” Jed asked, obviously not for the first time.

  “My daughter is not a murderer,” Carter said. “Let’s not get that tidbit confused, okay?”

  Jed looked embarrassed. “Of course. We did talk with the Wards, though, and with Dougherty, and none of them were our guy.”

  “They must have registered under a pseudonym,” Carter said. “How many Smiths and Joneses are registered?”

  The night manager turned red. “You are not going to randomly interrupt people in their sleep on some wild goose chase. I agreed to cooperate, but this is ridiculous.”

  “He’s a mur-der-er,” Jed said, emphasizing the syllables as if she were hard of hearing.

  “Then catch him,” she said. “But do it without waking the whole hotel.”

  “We can get a warrant,” Jed said.

  “Then do it.”

  Warren stepped into the fray. “Look, folks, let’s not get all pissy, okay? Ms. Thompson, we’re not trying to make life difficult for you. Honestly, we’re not. And Jed, we can’t just go room to room, waking up everybody on the off chance that our guy is here.” He turned to Gary. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being absolute certainty, how sure are you that the guy you saw is the guy on the news?”

  Again, the attention made the kid shift from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. Seven, maybe?”

  Warren shook his head. “We need more than that. Who was working the desk this afternoon? Who would have checked them in?”

  Pleased by her nominal victory over Jed Hackner, the night manager nearly smiled as she walked to the computer screen and tapped the keys. “What time are we talking about?”

  “I’m guessing about five o’clock,” Carter said.

  “Okay, well, that shift started at four, and that would have been either Sam Shockley or Patrick Barney.” She looked up for the screen and asked Warren, “Do you want to call them?”

  Warren smiled. “You read my mind.”

  Carter noted with some amusement that the manager didn’t think twice about waking fellow employees. What a peach. “There’s got to be something we can do in the short term,” Carter said. “How about people who paid with cash? Can you track that down through the computer?”

  Missy Thompson returned her gaze to the computer screen and resumed her tapping. “I can pull up the information, but I’m not going to let you wake those people up, either. There are a thousand perfectly legitimate reasons why people pay in cash. You can’t just assume—”

  Warren showed his palm in a gesture for silence. “Ms. Thompson, please. I assure you that we don’t want to bother people any more than they want to be bothered. But under the circumstances, we have a right to know who is here in the hotel, and we have the right to sort that information by whatever parameters we wish. It’s your business if you wish to obstruct justice, but it’s mine is to arrest you if that’s your choice. Now, please. The clock is ticking. Decide which way you’d like it to be.”

  Missy Thompson looked as if she’d been slapped. Warren answered her look with a smile, and she went back to her keyboard.

  Warren turned to Carter. “If push comes to shove, we can get officers stationed at all the exits in the morning, and watch every person who passes by. There are also security tapes.”

  Carter did his best to look interested, but this snail’s pace was killing him. With his daughter’s life in the balance, he really didn’t give a rat’s ass about constitutional protections. If he had to pound on every door himself, he was—

  “Hey, now, this is interesting,” said Missy Thompson.

  All eyes turned toward her.

  “Well, I can’t actually sort by cash payments, per se, but I can separate out by different credit card companies, and then whatever is left would be cash, check, money order, that sort of thing.”

  Carter and Warren exchanged glances. How was this interesting?

  “Well, here in the Visa accounts, I see a note in the file where a Vincent Campanella called to allow his son to check in without showing a credit card. Something about the boy not being trustworthy. But he did allow the son—named Bradley, here—to charge any and all expenses to his room.”

  Okay, so it was interesting, after all. Carter and Warren led a parade of cops around the end of the counter to get a look at the computer screen.

  “Can you call up the file?” Carter asked.

  Missy’s fingers flew on the keys, and an instant later, there was the voluminous file. “Oh, wow,” she said. “They have been busy. Goodness gracious, look at all the room charges.”

  Carter had to squint to see that far. He pointed to the screen. “Does that say tuxedo
?”

  * * *

  Brad slapped every light switch he could find as he threw open the door to the Governor’s Suite and charged through the foyer and living room and on into the bedroom. “Nicki, wake up!” he said, loudly enough to wake people in the next room.

  She didn’t move.

  “Nicki, come on. Now. We’ve got to go.”

  She stirred and moaned something about going away.

  Brad turned the switch on the nightstand light. “Seriously now, we’ve got to go. I saw your father downstairs. He knows we’re here.”

  Nicki bolted upright in the bed. “What?”

  “You heard me. He’s downstairs in the lobby. I went down to take a walk, and there he was.”

  She was still sleep-addled. “My father is here in the hotel.” She said it as if confirming that she wasn’t stuck in a dream.

  Brad gathered her clothes. “Yes, Nicki, he’s here in the hotel. I don’t know how he found us, but he’s not alone. He’s got a dozen cops with him.”

  “Cops?”

  “For me. If we don’t hurry, it’s getting real ugly real fast. Now, are you coming or not?”

  “Could I have a little privacy, please, to get dressed?”

  He gaped at her, as if she’d grown another nose. “Nicki, we don’t have time—”

  But he didn’t have time to argue, either. “Fine. But hurry.” This was a complication he hadn’t thought of. If he’d been traveling alone, he’d have been blocks away by now.

  He stepped out into the living room and looked out the window at the Mason’s Corner skyline. Nine floors below, he could make out the emergency beacons on police cars painting blue and white patterns on the street. In the distance, he could see more vehicles on the way.

  They know. Dammit, how had he screwed up?

  Forget that. How was he going to get out of here? Come to think of it, why hadn’t they broken down the door already?

  “Nicki, come on!”

  “I’m right here.” The voice came from just a few feet away. She was in her shorts and T-shirt again.

  “Jesus, you scared me. Look at that. They’re all over the place down there.”