Keeper

by Greg Rucka

  Barry took a look at Bridgett where she was coming back up with her gun, then turned and went out the side door into the alley.

  “Bastards never finish what they start,” Bridgett said as she pushed me after him. Her voice was breathy and strained from the blow. I took the short stairs out to the alley in one jump, landing in time to hear garbage cans ahead of us clang and fall. Bridgett came out right behind me, her gun in her right hand, and we turned in time to see Barry start over the fence.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot,” Bridgett shouted at him, bringing her weapon up.

  Barry didn’t stop and he didn’t look back and she brought the gun back down as I tried to make it to the fence. I jumped at the last moment, and my ankle wailed in pain. Barry pulled his foot clear, and I got a handful of nothing, scrabbling at the blurred chain links on the fence. Barry dropped and sprinted through the common courtyard between buildings, then out the alley onto MacDou-gal.

  “This has not been a good night for chases,” Bridgett said.

  I went back to get my glasses.

  ——

  Barry hadn’t bothered with my apartment. Rubin had reconnected the phone in the kitchen while he had been home, so, while Bridgett dumped her coat and holster on the floor, then headed to the bathroom, I called Fowler’s cellular and told him the good news.

  “So he didn’t leave town,” Fowler said.

  “Very astute of you,” I told him, sitting on the windowsill and trying to work my sneaker off without causing my ankle any more damage.

  “You want somebody to come by?”

  “And do what?” I said. My ankle stabbed a pain up my leg and I decided trying to remove the shoe was probably a bad idea for now. “Bridgett and I both saw him. You pick him up, we’ll identify him. There’s no point. He’s not coming back tonight.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He’s not that dumb,” I said. “He’s crazy, but not dumb. I’m here, Bridgett’s here, we’ve both got guns. He’d have to be absolutely insane to want to risk it.”

  “Logan’s spending the night?”

  “Shut up,” I told him.

  “You could be receiving other visitors,” Fowler said. “If Barry found you, it can’t be that Hard for anyone else. You’ve been seen around the clinic.”

  “If somebody else was planning on coming by, they would have done it a while ago, Scott,” I said. “My exgirlfriend and I were photographed going into and out of the clinic on our first visit. I’m sure there’s a file on each of us somewhere.”

  “With your names, addresses, so on.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Why’s Barry after you?” Fowler asked. “Romero I understand, you don’t make much sense.”

  “I embarrassed him,” I said.

  “You embarrass a lot of people.”

  “Thank you, Scott. I know you mean that in the nicest possible way.”

  “What did you do to him, particularly?”

  “I scared him,” I said as Bridgett came out of the hallway from the bathroom. She was pulling on her shirt, and I saw another ring, this one through the top of her navel. The ring reflected with the same deep emerald green of her bra, making her skin seem delicate and radiant. I looked out onto the alley before I could see anything else.

  “You scared him enough to make him come after you?” Fowler asked.

  “The impression I get is that he’s blaming me for losing his job.”

  Fowler was quiet for a moment, and I risked looking back at Bridgett. She had finished with her shirt and was opening the refrigerator. “Beer?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  Fowler said, “Hate to say this, but if he’s after you, maybe that’s a good thing. That means he’s got less time for Romero.”

  “That still leaves the gentleman from earlier this evening.”

  “We’re running the prints. We should have something by tomorrow.”

  We said our good-byes, and Bridgett handed me a bottle of Anchor Steam, taking one for herself. I had some of the beer, then put the bottle on the table and tried again to get my sneaker off. It was easier to do with two hands and no phone. Then I limped to the sink and grabbed a dish towel. With ice from the freezer I made a pack, then went back to the table.

  “Elevate your foot,” Bridgett told me.

  I grunted and swung my leg onto the table, and she took the ice pack and set it around my ankle. I put the beer bottle against my left cheek, where Barry had connected below my eye.

  Bridgett slid her chair back against the wall, stretching her legs out in front of her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “The bat caught me smack in the middle of the breastbone,” Bridgett said, and indicated the spot between her breasts. “Missed my tits, which is good, but it’s going to be a lovely bruise. Nicer than the one you’re going to have.”

  “This will be a mighty fine bruise,” I told her, pulling the bottle back to give her a look.

  “Amateur stuff.”

  We finished our beers, and Bridgett said, “I should go. We’ve both got an early day tomorrow.”

  “You going to come by the conference?”

  “I’m going to the clinic first, look at those inactive files. I’ll try to come by in the early afternoon. Will you have any time if I find something out?”

  “Probably not, but we’ll see.”

  She rose and put her holster back on, not bothering to stabilize it to her belt. As she slipped into her leather jacket I got my leg off the table and stood up, then went with her to the door.

  “Be careful on your way home,” I told her.

  She gave me a look and then it softened, and she said, “Don’t worry about me, stud.”

  We looked at each other a moment longer, and I got that rush in my stomach, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation.

  “Good night,” Bridgett said, and she remained in the doorway.

  “Night,” I said. My pulse was racing faster than it had when Barry attacked in the lobby.

  Her mouth turned into a small smile, and for a moment she looked all of fifteen. Then she stepped into the hall, and I watched her go to the stairs, start down them.

  I shut the door and set all the locks and got ready for bed. Before I turned off the lights, I put my gun beside my futon. It wouldn’t do anything to my dreams, but it would sure as hell slow Barry down.

  ——

  In my dream, we’re escorting Romero to the conference, Natalie on point, Rubin and Dale at each flanking position, and me on Romero. We’re taking her downstairs, to a panel, and as we get to the floor where she is to speak, the crowd surges in our direction. We try to fall back and keep our zone intact, but it fractures, and I pull Romero back behind me, pushing her up the stairs. I’m keying my palm button, shouting for assistance into the mike on my lapel, but there’s nothing; my radio’s dead.

  Romero is clear behind me, and I start to turn to cover the rest of her retreat, and I see a man with a gun.

  I’ve never seen this man before. He looks like Barry, but not quite. He looks like Crowell, but not quite. He looks mostly like the man in the hall, the one from Columbia.

  But not quite.

  The gun is a semiautomatic, a Browning, and I do the one thing left for me to do, the one thing it’s always been about.

  I put myself between the gun and Romero, and the pistol fires, and I feel the slug hit me dead in the middle of the sternum, feel the shock of impact rattle through my body. As I go down, Natalie, Dale, and Rubin all fall on the shooter, swarming and crushing him to the floor. He’s out of the picture.

  His threat, as they say, has been eliminated.

  I put my right hand on my chest, where I’ve been shot, and I’m afraid to look, but I do anyway.

  My hand is clean.

  Looking around, behind me, I see Dr. Romero. She’s fallen, sprawled over the steps, and there is a hole in her chest where there should be one in mine, there is blood spilling from her mouth wher
e there should be some in mine.

  We took Dr. Romero in through the service entrance at a quarter past eight in the morning, Natalie leading on point, Dale on the left flank, Rubin on the right, and me in the rear a half-step behind Romero to the right. We had been cleared all the way in, a marshal radioing me before we left the car that an escort would meet us at the end of the hall.

  Uniformed NYPD officers, holding paper cups of coffee and looking almost awake, had covered the entrance. Dale stayed behind the wheel while we got out, pulling out when we were clear of the car and then quickly backing into place. It would save us time if we had to leave in a hurry. But if things got that bad, it probably wouldn’t matter.

  I keyed the small button on my left palm and said, “Pogo is in.” All of us were wearing radios with roughly the same setup. The unit sat on my belt, black metal and plastic about the size of a pack of cigarettes, with three wires running off it. The first went down my left sleeve, my off hand, and ended in the transmit button. The second ran up the back of my shirt to my right ear, ending in the receiver. The third ran along the inside of my coat to the lapel, where the mike rested. The mike was small, and very sensitive, easily picking up conversation when the button was keyed.

  In my ear I heard the dispatcher announce our arrival to all units. “Confirmed, Pogo is on scene. ”

  Dale was back in the fourth position by the time we entered the hallway. The cops moved only to let us pass, and as we walked down the concrete corridor, more like a bunker’s than a hotel’s, we passed two other guards in the black and gold of Sentinel’s security uniforms. The hall ended with doors on the right, where two men in blue marshal’s jackets waited for us. One of them went to the door on the right, preparing to open it.

  The dispatcher said, “Pogo is clear through the Imperial Room. ”

  “That’s a negative,” I said. “Pogo will not, repeat not, enter through the Imperial Room. Pogo will proceed to the CP by an alternate route.”

  Natalie put her hand over the marshal’s, pushing the door shut again and saying, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  He looked confused. The second marshal pulled his radio and began speaking into it.

  The dispatcher came back at me saying, “South stairwell clear to third floor. ”

  “Ten-four,” I said. “Natalie, proceed.”

  She dropped her arm and looked at the man in front of her, and he looked at the other marshal, who was listening to his radio. The marshal on the radio nodded to his partner, and they opened the door ahead of us. We collapsed a little closer about Felice as we started up. The radio traffic as we moved was mostly minor. Our frequency was secured for just the protection detail, limited to my crew, the dispatcher in the command post, and myself. If there was news happening on another channel, it was up to the dispatcher to inform us.

  As we got to the third floor, the dispatcher came back on, saying, “Pogo is clear all the way in.”

  The marshals opened the door onto the hall, each stepping out on either side of us, and we went through, from the concrete to the carpet. The command post was two doors down on the left, and we passed two more guards in Sentinel uniforms on our way, and another NYPD uniform.

  One of the marshals opened the door for us, and we stepped inside. The large suite was quiet: that would II change once the conference got going. The curtains had been drawn over the windows, and all the lights in the room were on. A large table at one end of the suite was j covered with papers and maps, and copies of the Common Ground schedule were taped to the wall in four separate places.

  Fowler, Trent, and Lozano were all there, as well as two other men I didn’t recognize. A woman wearing a black headset over her short blond hair was seated at a desk, scribbling notes onto a pad. She was hooked to one radio via the headset, and had another at hand. She turned to look at us as we entered, then keyed her headset and said, “Dispatch to all units, Pogo is secure. ” A man in NYPD uniform and sergeant’s stripes looked at us when she did, then spoke into his radio, too.

  Elliot Trent turned from where he was standing behind the dispatcher and said, “This way,” then led us into a bedroom on the side.

  “Five minutes until the briefing,” he said. “I’ve ordered coffee and Danish.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  Trent nodded and went back out, shutting the door behind him.

  Felice dropped her briefcase on the bed, then went after the buttons on her overcoat. The overcoat looked like a Burberry, but was layered Kevlar, much like the blouse she was wearing, but stronger. With the coat and blouse, she would survive just about any shot, if the blunt trauma didn’t kill her.

  No guarantees.

  Felice put the overcoat on the bed, then sat down, smoothing her skirt and looking at me. The skirt was light brown, and fell to just above her ankles. She was wearing flats, and the blouse that Natalie had found was pearl white and looked quite nice on her.

  “Now what?” she asked. Her face was drawn, and her makeup did nothing to hide her fatigue.

  “Now you wait,” I said. “We’ll have a general briefing that you’ll want to attend, just so everyone can identify you. Otherwise, there’s nothing for you to do but try and relax.”

  Dr. Romero nodded, then reached for her briefcase and opened it, returning to her papers.

  People began arriving for the briefing about five minutes later, Veronica Selby and Madeline among them. Selby and Romero spoke quietly to each other for a few moments before we actually began, Selby holding both of Felice’s hands in her lap while the two women talked.

  By the time we were ready to start, the main room of the command post was crammed with people, among them several federal marshals, FBI agents, NYPD brass, and Sentinel personnel. Elliot Trent made a brief welcome, then introduced Selby. She didn’t speak for long, mostly thanking everyone for their assistance and participation thus far, and emphasizing the need for the conference to be peaceful. Then we went around the room, introducing ourselves and stating our agency.

  There wasn’t a whole lot more to say. Everyone present knew that the threat against Romero was legitimate. Everyone present knew that Barry, Rich, and Crowell were all to be considered possible trouble. Fowler circulated a description of the man Bridgett and I had encountered the night before, saying that if anyone matching the description was seen doing anything suspicious, he and I were to be notified ASAP.

  By the time we were finished, the coffeepots were empty, and there wasn’t a Danish to be seen.

  I took Romero back to her room, accompanied by Selby and Madeline, then told Rubin to stay with them while I went back out to finish speaking with the others.

  Fowler was speaking to his supervisor, who shook my hand and then, after looking around, nodded once and said, “Looks like things are well in hand.” Then he headed for the door, stopping to chat with the two NYPD captains who had attended the briefing. Lozano was with them, and he backed off when the new arrival came.

  “Christopher ‘Big Man’ Carter,” Fowler told me. “Special Agent in Charge, Manhattan. Wouldn’t know it to look at him.”

  “As long as he stays out of the way.’

  “Come on,” Fowler said. “You should meet Pascal.”

  He led me to a substantial tower of a man who hadn’t spoken during the briefing. His hair was gray and cut neatly and close, and his eyes were brown, and very hard. He had his marshal’s badge hanging from a chain around his neck.

  “Burt Pascal, this is Atticus Kodiak,” Fowler said.

  “When do we take over?” Pascal asked me, gripping my hand.

  “When Dr. Romero says so,” I said.

  He shook his head, saying, “Poor woman.” He gave a polite smile to both Natalie and Dale, then moved on to talk to more of his people.

  As Pascal left, one of the two captains detached from where he had been cornered by the SAIC, and came over to us. Lozano came with him.

  “Captain Hamer,” he introduced himself. “Donald Hamer, Midtown Nort
h.” He wore glasses, and was almost entirely bald, with worry lines etched from his mouth to his forehead. “SOS sent us a copy of a press release they’re going to deliver when this thing starts. They’re boycotting, claiming that the whole conference is a sham.”

  “What a shock,” Natalie said.

  “I’m going to have my people stay outside mostly, deal with the protesters. They’re already gathering out in front of the hotel,” Captain Hamer said.

  “Keep an eye on them,” I said.

  “Peaceful protest,” Hamer told me. “We won’t be able to move them if they follow the rules and behave.” Then his radio went off and he excused himself.

  “I’m going to do a walk,” Natalie told me, adjusting the wire that ran to her palm. “See how it looks down there.”

  I grabbed Dale and told him to double-check our egress routes. “Make sure the guards know what’s what,” I told him. “Anybody comes running down those routes not shouting the password, they’re to stop and detain them.”

  “And the password of the day is?” Dale asked.

  “Wolf,” I said.

  He repeated it. “You sure that’s not too hard for them?” Dale asked. “I mean, if they’re given the chance they’ll totally fuck it up.”

  Trent, who was listening, said, “My people know their job.”

  “Take Rubin with you,” I told Dale.

  I waited in the bedroom with Dr. Romero. Selby and Madeline had left shortly after Dale. Selby said she wanted to make certain things were proceeding well at the registration desk.

  “I’ll see you in about two hours,” she told Felice before she left. “We’re really going to do this.”

  “We really are,” Dr. Romero said, and the two women hugged.