The 7th Canon

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The 7th Canon Page 28

by Robert Dugoni


  The second dog barked, followed by the echo of another gunshot.

  Connor was coming.

  Donley fought against the urge to rush, maintaining a methodical pace. At the top of the fence, he grabbed the metal tube with his hands, but he lost his toehold in the chain link and, momentarily dangling, kicked at the fence. The rattle echoed in the empty yard, giving away his position. He regained his toehold, pushed up with his legs, and wrapped one arm around the top of the fence. He had to figure out quickly how to get over the barbed wire.

  He slid one leg over the top so he was straddling the metal pole. Carefully, he removed his leather jacket and flung it over the wire.

  He looked down into the yard. A shadow step from behind the rows of cars and started down the dirt path. With a full moon, Connor would see Donley atop the fence like a target in a carnival booth. Donley didn’t have time to climb over and down the other side. He gripped the metal pole with his hands and lifted himself up so that both feet were on the bar, like a swimmer bent over on the starting block. The fence swayed. He hesitated a split second when he realized he could see nothing below him but darkness.

  Then the big gun thundered, and Donley jumped.

  He had no idea how far he would fall.

  His heels jarred upon impact with the ground, splinters of pain shooting up both legs. Donley fell forward, like a board pitching end over end, his hands unable to break his fall, unable to stop his momentum. He tumbled repeatedly, the ground slamming hard against his chest, his legs whipping over the top.

  When he had finally stopped rolling, he slid headfirst. Sharp brush whipped against his bare arms and face. He grabbed a branch, but it ripped from his grasp. He reached again, failed, reached, gripped, and held on. His lower body slid past in a half circle, like someone clinging to a rope after falling over the side of a building.

  When his momentum stopped, Donley lowered his head to let the avalanche of dirt and debris pass. Stunned and dazed, he lifted his head to assess his situation. He lay on an incline pocked with scrub brush. The fence at the top of the hill looked like a toy model, but he could just barely make out his jacket still hanging from the barbed wire.

  Inside the pocket was the video and Bible.

  His only hope was that Connor didn’t see it or was too injured to climb up and get it.

  Donley rolled onto his back. He was in so much pain, he couldn’t be certain whether Connor’s final shot had hit him or not. He sat up and took a brief moment to catch his wind and assess his condition. When he tried to stand, the pain in his right shin felt like someone had stabbed it. He fell back to the ground. He didn’t have to be a doctor to know his leg was broken.

  That didn’t matter.

  Connor was still out there, and he would come. He needed to be sure Donley was dead. He needed the tape. He would come.

  Donley turned and faced up the slope, then slid downhill using his good leg to push through the thick brush. The process was laborious and slow. He tried not to think about how much time was passing or the pain radiating throughout his body. At the base of the hill, he got to his feet, balancing on his good leg. A cluster of corrugated-metal warehouses was visible in the near distance. It looked like miles across open desert. He picked up a discarded board and leaned on it like a crutch, making his way toward the warehouses, trying not to rush, afraid he would stumble and fall. He groaned with each hop forward, putting his weight on his good leg, propping the board in front of him, lunging.

  When he reached the warehouses, he was drenched in a chilled sweat, though his forehead burned. The pain in his leg caused tremors throughout his body. Suddenly nauseated, he lurched forward and vomited, then wretched again, dry heaves.

  When the nausea passed, he braced himself on the two-by-four and hobbled toward the back of one of the buildings. He tried a metal door, not surprised to find it locked. Near it were two smoked-glass windows reinforced with chicken wire. He leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead, feeling light-headed and weak. He picked up the board and used it to batter one of the windows. The glass cracked but did not shatter. He continued to beat at the glass until the chicken wire gave way. He punched through. When he’d busted out most of the glass, he put the board across the sill and struggled to lift himself onto it. He leaned forward, like on a teeter-totter, and slid. His right leg crashed against the top edge of the window, and this time, he could not swallow the pain. His screams and moans echoed throughout the warehouse.

  He didn’t know how long he lay on the cold concrete floor. At one point, he was sure he’d passed out. When the forty-foot ceiling above him quit spinning, Donley managed to sit up. Rows of metal shelving filled with paint cans and paint supplies pulsed in and out of focus. He used one of the racks to pull himself to his feet and shuffled through the maze of cans of paint thinner and acetone, searching for an office and a phone. At the end of the row, he came to a long white counter in front of a glass-enclosed room. It looked like an oasis.

  The door was unlocked. Inside, he found a counter with a computer terminal, stools, desks with swivel chairs, filing cabinets, and a telephone.

  Ross went room to room, officers fanning out, yelling “Clear!” as they entered and exited.

  He flipped on light switches and entered what was presumably Dixon Connor’s bedroom. It looked like a storm had swept through it.

  “Holy crap,” one of the officers said, noticing the montage of newspaper articles tacked and taped to the wall, most yellowed with age. Ross felt sick to his stomach. Dixon Connor had indeed gone off the deep end.

  Chapter 22

  Donley could not move his arms. His shirt, saturated with sweat, stuck to his skin. His fingers and hands felt numb, and he was shivering uncontrollably. He didn’t know how long he’d passed out, whether a minute or an hour, but judging from the darkness inside the warehouse, he had not yet made it through the night. He remembered picking up the phone but couldn’t be certain he’d called anyone.

  When he sat, a sharp pain shot up his leg. He gathered his strength, gripped the counter, and pulled himself to his feet. A muted light streamed through skylights, casting shadows off the metal shelves and drums of paint, making it difficult to determine what was real and what was reflected in the office windows. Overhead, an automatic air-conditioning system hummed, pouring cool air through a grill, a strip of red fabric flapping in the breeze.

  Donley started for the phone on the counter but froze when a beam of light swept across the warehouse. Someone was coming. He slid open drawers, looking for a weapon. In one of the drawers he found a long pair of scissors. He grabbed it and pressed his back against the wall near the door.

  It was all he could do.

  The figure passed the counter and disappeared from view. Donley looked down and watched the doorknob turn. The door pushed in, but no one immediately entered. The beam of light swept across the room. Donley clenched his teeth and raised the scissors, not about to go quietly.

  The overhead lights in the office clicked on. Donley spun from the wall, scissors raised.

  “Whoa.” Frank Ross reached up, stopping Donley’s arm.

  “Ross,” Donley said, collapsing against the big man, feeling a sense of relief.

  Ross directed him to a stool and lowered him down. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I think my leg is broken.”

  “Connor?”

  “I don’t know. Still out there somewhere.”

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Ross draped Donley’s arm around his shoulders. One of two officers who stepped forward came to Donley’s other side.

  “How did you find me?” Donley asked.

  Ross gave him a concerned look. “You called your wife. She called nine-one-one. You don’t remember?”

  The retort of a big gun echoed, and the glass window of the office exploded not far from their heads.

  Ross acted instinctively, pushing Donley to the floor and slapping at the light sw
itch, plunging them back into darkness.

  Connor.

  From the trajectory of the bullet, Ross figured Connor had to be somewhere above them, on the catwalk.

  A second shot shattered another window.

  Ross crawled from the office on his hands and knees to the two officers who had taken cover below the counter.

  “Connor carries a forty-four Magnum,” he said to them. “It sounds like a cannon, but at that distance, it’s not very accurate.” He raised his head, looking for shadows and movement. “He’s somewhere on the catwalk. Give me some cover.”

  Another shot rang out, skipping off the Formica, causing Ross to duck again. The son of a bitch always was a good shot, but the shot had also given away Connor’s location.

  “He’s at two o’clock,” Ross said to the officers. “Take a broad range and provide me with cover.”

  On the count of three, the officers rose and fired, their guns echoing as if in a drum.

  Ross ran, firing the SIG over his head. When he reached the cover of the metal shelving, he slid down the aisle, staying close to the cans. A bullet skipped off the concrete floor a foot behind him. He returned fire at the catwalk, backpedaling down the aisle and around the corner. The front entrance was to his left. The broken window he and the officers had found walking the perimeter was about ten yards to his right, at the back of the building. The metal rack and paint drums, his cover, ended five yards short. As he slapped in a fresh clip, he noticed the labels on the cans.

  Flammable.

  Not good.

  Ross decided to go for the window. He took half a step from behind a row of cans, but had to draw back when another shot skipped off the cement.

  He pressed his back to the cans, wishing he’d given up the cinnamon twists a year earlier. He made the sign of the cross and bolted for the window, firing blindly at the catwalk. Nearing the window, he lowered his head and dove through the opening, hitting the ground outside and rolling onto his back.

  He scrambled to his feet and staggered down the side of the building, hearing additional shots being fired from inside. At the Cadillac, Ross climbed inside, about to start the engine when a loud explosion and flash of flames blew out windows near the roof, raining glass onto the hood of the car. Ross turned the key and threw the car into reverse. He drove away from the warehouse, made a sudden U-turn, and punched the accelerator. The Cadillac’s back tires spun in the dirt and gravel, gripped, and propelled the car forward across the dirt lot toward the building’s corrugated-metal doors. His instinct was to hit the brakes, but Ross suppressed it and pressed down on the accelerator. He pulled his seat belt tight, and braced his hands on the steering wheel.

  God forgive him, he was about to retire the Cadillac.

  The car hit a bump, bounced, and became airborne. The force caused Ross to lurch forward, straining against the belt, but he had the presence of mind to hit the brakes when the Cadillac impacted the doors. The car burst through with a metallic thud, landed, and skidded across the slick cement, toppling metal shelving and sending cans and drums flying. Paint splattered across the hood of the car as it shot forward. Another drum shattered the windshield.

  The car slid to a stop near the office.

  Ross reached for the SIG and fell out the door, gripping the gun in both hands, aiming at the catwalk, not seeing anyone. Flames leaped high over the metal racks. A second explosion launched a drum of paint like a depth charge off the back of a destroyer. It hit the counter, bounced, and crashed through the office windows.

  “Move!” Ross yelled to the two police officers taking cover.

  He put his shoulder under Donley’s arm, assisting him into the back of the car as a third explosion rocked the warehouse and a plume of flames and smoke shot toward the ceiling. One of the officers crawled into the back seat with Donley. The second jumped in the front seat. Ross threw the car into reverse as another explosion rippled toward them and the metal shelving overhead teetered.

  The Cadillac’s engine revved, but the car did not move, the tires spinning on the paint-slickened concrete, spewing a plume of white smoke. Another explosion sent a rolling ball of flames directly at them. Ross punched the accelerator, and the tires gripped and finally lurched backward as the shelving above them collapsed in a pile of twisted metal.

  For an instant, he saw nothing but the flames and smoke. Then it cleared, and the Cadillac shot outside, across the lot.

  Chapter 23

  December 30, 1987

  Frank Ross stood outside what remained of the paint warehouse. An ambulance had taken Peter Donley to the emergency room, but Ross had stayed to coordinate with the detectives and discuss the situation with Aileen O’Malley, who was en route. Though the fog layer had burned off, a stubborn morning haze and lingering smoke and ash particulates choked the air. The explosion and three-alarm blaze had burned out of control for hours, providing the news stations spectacular film footage and making for a busy night for San Francisco firefighters. The warehouse had been reduced to blackened rubble. Even the cement foundation had melted, leaving pieces of rebar sticking up like the charred remains of trees after a forest fire.

  One of the fire units continued to pour water on the smoldering debris. Others shoveled through it. The flames had been so intense, the firefighters initially could not get near the building and hadn’t been eager to do so. Ross still did not fully understand exactly what had happened. Donley had been in no shape to talk. His pain and shock had made him delirious. The one thing he’d kept repeating was that he needed his jacket, even after paramedics had covered him with multiple blankets.

  Then he’d passed out.

  Ross looked up at the sound of footsteps. Aileen O’Malley approached.

  “He is one crazy son of a bitch,” she said, surveying the damage.

  Ross nodded. “That he is.”

  “You OK?”

  Ross shrugged. “I could use a cinnamon twist and cup of coffee, but yeah, I’m OK.”

  She smiled. “How’s Peter Donley?”

  “Don’t know. They’re working on him. He’s pretty banged up—broken leg and a lot of bumps and bruises. They’re monitoring him for a concussion. Slipped into shock, but physically, I think he should be fine.” Ross paused. “Mentally, I think it’s going to take longer to heal.”

  Ross watched a fireman turn off the final stream of water. Others had begun to stretch their hoses, preparing to roll them up. “Any word on Connor?”

  O’Malley shook her head. “No, but he won’t get far. Where’s a guy like Connor going to run? Can’t imagine he has any friends left.”

  “Don’t count on him making it easy on you,” Ross said. “He won’t do it himself like his old man.”

  “I know,” O’Malley said. She took a deep breath. “There’s something bothering me about this one, Frank. My stomach’s been bothering me from the start.”

  “Never knew you to have a queasy stomach, Aileen.”

  “I made some telephone calls to try to find out what happened with Father Martin on Christmas Eve.”

  “The blood test?”

  “I haven’t been able to get anything concrete, but from what I can tell, the sheriff didn’t act on an order from the district attorney’s office.”

  Ross gave her a look. “So, who gave the order to have it done that night?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t know, but it had to be someone with some pretty good credentials.”

  Ross contemplated the information. “What does Ramsey have to say?”

  “Haven’t spoken to him yet. He’s been stumping down south for votes. Last I heard, he was in Orange County. I was hoping you might have some insight.”

  “Into that specifically?” Ross shook his head. “No.”

  O’Malley leaned against the police cruiser, the two of them side by side. “At least it looks like this nightmare is over for Father Martin.”

  “The kid came clean?”

  “About everything.”

  Ross
shook his head. “I’m not sure it will ever be over for Father Martin. Something like this . . .”

  “How about you, Frank? How’re you doing?”

  Frank Ross tilted his head and looked up at the sky. For the first time in nearly two years, he thought he just might be OK. Never the same. But OK. He really couldn’t ask for more than that, not with his son gone.

  “Sober for more than seven months now and plan on staying that way. I miss my son and know I’ll always be a little crazy as a result, but I’m OK with that. Maybe I can make some good come from it.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Ross looked at her.

  “I’ve put in a request for state and federal funding to form a child-exploitation detail. San Jose’s had a pilot program that’s showing success. They work with local FBI, Customs agents, US attorneys. I need somebody committed.”

  Ross shoved his hands in his pockets, giving it some thought. After several seconds he said, “I’ll think about it. I have to discuss it with my wife. We’re talking about starting a family again.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Adopting.”

  “Good for you, Frank.”

  Ross looked down the street at the police barricade and saw Sam Goldman waving to him. “Thanks. I’ll get back to you, but yeah, I think I’d like that. Right now, I have to keep a promise to a friend.”

  Donley awoke to the glare of bright fluorescent lights that hurt his eyes and made him squint. When he stirred, his leg felt weighted. He looked down at a robin’s-egg-blue cast that extended to just below his right knee, elevated in a stirrup. As more of the room came into focus, he saw Father Martin sitting in a chair by the bed, a bandage still around his head, but he was dressed in civilian clothes. Father Martin stood and approached.

  “Well, this is a switch,” Donley said, his voice rough and his throat so dry.

 

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