Twenty – Seven
With the muzzle flash, everything went into slow motion. The snorkel popped from Ben's mouth as he screamed. A torrent of bubbles rose to the surface. He sucked water, his eyes growing to the size of fried eggs behind his fogging mask. The bullet hit the rounded glass wall of the aquarium in front of him.
He expected an explosive thwack. He expected shattering glass and a thunderous deluge with an encyclopedia of exotic fish, and his silly dead ass, pouring out of the tank and onto the polished tile floor of the museum in a waterfall of horror and gore. But his nightmare failed to materialize.
The shot puckered the glass, with an oddly impotent tick, and the fish scattered. That was it. There was no shatter, not even a slow and sinister spidering crack in the glass, and he wasn't dead. Amazingly the tank held. The pucker, mostly heat and moisture, began to fade. The waters calmed and the fish returned to cruising. But Ben Court had damn near had a heart attack. And, through the water and glass, in the gloom across the museum, on the other end of the gun, to his horror, the paramedic saw the old guard grab his chest. He saw him grimace, and though it was muffled, heard him cry out in pain and fear. Walter Dunn was having a heart attack.
Ben scrambled up and out of the tank. He dropped the mask and snorkel in a puddle of salt water at his feet. Some adventurer he's turned out to be. He'd brought a knife to a gun fight, and dropped it at the bottom of the tank. He'd failed spectacularly in his hunt for a manta tail.
He examined the obviously bulletproof tank that had proved itself more impressive than him. It looked as solid as ever. He looked across the museum and forgot his worries that the old boy might take a second shot. Walter, collapsed on the floor, could not have looked less solid. Ben hurried over, slipping twice on the tile, and found the guard conscious but in respiratory distress. He lifted him to a sitting position and propped him against the nearest wall. Overwhelmed with guilt, Ben only felt worse when the breathless old man began pleading that he not hurt him.
“It's all right,” Ben assured him. “I'm the last guy in the world who's going to hurt you.”
He unbuttoned Walter's shirt and loosened his collar. He tried to assess his condition, but the guard was too frightened to answer questions. Ben saw he had no choice. He lifted Walter's portable from the floor. “Your radio,” he asked. “Who's on the other end?”
“My… dispatcher,” Walter replied breathlessly. “Just… my dispatcher.”
Ben wiped the river of sweat from Walter's eyes, then the river of sea water from his own. He keyed the transmit switch. “Dispatch?”
“Walter?” the radio squawked. “Walter is that you? The P.D. is on the way.”
“We need an ambulance as well,” Ben said.
“Who is this?”
“Did you get that? We need an ambulance at the river museum. Tell them it's a possible M.I.”
Several minutes of silence followed before the dispatcher returned to say an ambulance was coming. He called for Walter again, then hurled threats at the voice that wasn't Walter's. Ben turned the radio off. Walter, crying now, renewed his pleas that Ben not hurt him.
Ben knew plenty of cops, knew how and what they were thinking. Someone in the Port District would have heard the shot and phoned it in. And Walter's dispatcher was in hysterics. The police would question what there was to steal at a river museum, and they would seriously question the presence of militant criminals, but they would still be responding to a '2-11 in progress with shots fired' and they would arrive ready to rumble. There was no sense trying to hide anything. There was no time to dress and Ben was trailing water everywhere. He wasn't going to cover his tracks. The only two things to do now would be to ensure Walter did not buy the farm, and to show no threat when the cops arrived. God, he just hoped Erin was busy elsewhere.
He borrowed Walter's keys, unlocked, and blocked a front door open. Sirens were fast approaching. He returned Walter's keys, told him help would soon be there, then sat down to wait on the wide stairs. From there he could watch Walter, lit by a tank in the wall above his head, and the shadowed hall to the front doors, and wonder about his uncertain future. The sirens arrived and died as red and blue flashes stole into the museum hall. He looked to the tank, couldn't see the knife and hoped the cops wouldn't. The fish, including the manta, swam on, uninterested in the drama. Ben didn't care anymore either.
The cops, paramedics, and firefighters entered en masse, flashlights and badges, wheeled cot, stacked medical equipment, and turnout gear. With the exception of Traer's partner, Ben knew every last one of them by name. God, it was embarrassing. Still maybe the universe didn't absolutely despise him; Erin was not among them. Walter was their immediate focus of attention and Ben was grateful.
Eventually, of course, Traer made his way over and asked, “What were you doing in the tank?”
“What tank?” Ben replied.
“Okay,” the cop said with a shrug.
Ben wasn't doing himself a favor being an ass, he knew. But any charges, other than trespassing, would be based on Walter's statement. Ben didn't know what he'd said or seen. He could still hope they knew nothing of the manta, or the knife, and there was little sense confessing to crimes about which they were ignorant. All things considered, he didn't have a thing to say just then.
Then the universe spat in Ben's eye. Erin arrived, looking a thousand questions, and followed Traer's pointing finger. She recognized Ben at the same instant he recognized her. Two worlds crashed at once.
Ben watched as the paramedics loaded the security guard up, and with lights and sirens, started away. Then he went for a walk himself, in handcuffs, past the remaining engine crew. His colleagues stared back, some in confusion, more in amusement, as Erin wordlessly frog-marched him to the parking lot. She pushed on the top of his head, not gently, 'helping' him into the back seat of her cruiser. She got behind the wheel, with a wire screen separating them, and rolled into the night.
Ben felt like a caged monkey. The silence was deafening. His mind raced as he struggled for words, any word. “I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here tonight?”
“Don't.”
“Erin, I—”
“Don't say another word.” She didn't turn, just glared daggers in her rear view mirror while, Ben could see, fighting back tears. Another horrible minute of silence passed. “Do you know how many cops and firefighters have hit on me?” she asked. “More than I can count.”
“I never hit on you.”
“I know,” Erin shouted. “That's one reason I wanted you. Lucky me. I had to fall in love with a lunatic!”
“It's not that bad, you know.”
“It's worse,” she barked, so mad she was spitting the words. “It's way worse.” Erin's reflected glare was full of fire. “Haven't you noticed I've been sick, every morning? Even Nestor knew I was sick and he doesn't know anything at all.”
“I haven't seen you. You've been sick?”
“Morning sickness. I'm pregnant, you idiot. Your condom, like my life, apparently came apart. I didn't just fall in love with a lunatic, I made a baby with one.” She turned from the mirror, pleading to the heavens. “My God, I'm the idiot. I let you make me pregnant, then you're off to chase monsters. And I don't even know what to say about the grenade other than, if you took it, and we both know you did, give it back before someone finds out. Now this! Now this! Walter Dunn may die. You scared the poor old man… probably to death. And why? What the hell were you doing in that aquarium?”
“Erin, I can explain.”
“Shut up! I don't want to hear it.” The dam broke. “God! Oh, God, I'm scared to death to hear your explanation for this.”
Ben watched in guilty silence. Erin strangled the steering wheel with white knuckles, breathing deep, fighting a tremor trying to take control of her body. In through the nose, out through the mouth, without meaning to, putting on an exhibition of strength as she reclaimed a grip, on her emotions and the situation. She pulled the squad off of Iowa
Street into the municipal drive. At the bottom of the ramp, she dried her eyes as she waited for the always slow overhead door. Then she pulled the squad through and underneath the Law Enforcement Center. She parked and turned the cruiser's engine off.
“I…” Ben started uncomfortably. “I don't suppose… you could bail me out?”
“I'll call my brother in Galena,” she said, checking her face in the mirror. “See if he can come over.” Her reflection glared. “I don't think anyone here knows him.” Ben mouthed an 'Ouch' but said nothing, not even when she added, “Then I'm going to think up a legal way to kill you.”
Ben wasn't sure where they'd come from, but the cops from the museum, Traer and his partner, were suddenly beside Erin's squad. A third, a booking officer, wandered out to meet them wearing a shit-eating grin. Erin spoke to the trio then opened the back door of the squad.
“Come on, Captain Ahab,” she said, too loudly. “All ashore that's going ashore.” She grabbed his arm and 'helped' him again, the cuffs biting his wrists like a mad dog.
They formed a parade, Ben in bracelets and damp trunks, the rest in dark blue. They were buzzed through the garage door, a few steps further on buzzed through a second door and, down a short hall, buzzed through a third door into the booking room where, Ben imagined, the fun would continue into the night. All kidding aside, the tiny part of his psyche that occasionally touched base with cold hard truth realized things were about to start tasting like hell.
The three blue goons stared holes through him. Erin went out of her way to avoid looking. “Traer,” she said, starting to shake again. “Can you… write this collar?” She hurried out.
Traer nudged Ben toward a wooden bench. “Have a seat.” It wasn't a request.
The occasional red light and siren did not a big city make. Neither did the sporadic bar or pizza joint staying open late. Despite the best efforts of Mayor Light, the City Council, and the Duncan Outreach (read that 'Marketing') Committee, the fact was, Duncan remained a mid-west farming community that rolled up its sidewalks at midnight. By one a.m., every hard-working, law-abiding human was in bed.
Vong, on the other hand, hungered with nagging lusts. And the Duncan Memorial Obstetrics Ward seemed a lovely place to fulfill them.
Known to the civilian world as Labor and Delivery, the ward was hidden away behind the second-floor surgery suites (and a sign reading: Hospital Staff Only), for two obvious reasons. One; logic and the law required staff and patients be free of unwanted traffic for security, sterility, privacy, and peace. Two; because, though advanced medicine had made childbirth as easy as breathing, it was still no cakewalk, and they needed surgery near in case things went pear-shaped during the blessed event. That meant, with the exception of nervous fathers (or whatever stand-in the expectant mother's lifestyle decreed), the public was not allowed. Family, friends and well-wishers could gush and snap pictures upstairs, through the viewing window of the fifth floor Nursery. Steps were taken to make that so.
Gaining entrance to the supposedly secure ward was child's play to Vong. She moved stealthily up an interior stairwell, without anyone being aware of her presence. She glanced through a door window, then sure she was alone, stepped through into the Obstetrics hall. With the late hour and the low hospital census, save for emergency lights, the wing lay in darkness. There came an echo of laughter from the nurses' station down the hall, a spot of light in the gloom. Otherwise, the floor was empty and quiet.
The elevator in front of the nurses' station pinged its arrival. Vong slipped back into a shadow to watch as the doors slid open and an Emergency Room clerk rolled a wheelchair, with a voluminously pregnant patient aboard, onto the floor. A nurse in blue scrubs, chewing the last of a bite, stepped from the station to meet them. The clerk introduced Theresa Meyers, the patient, adding the husband was in Admitting and would soon be up. The nurse took charge of the patient. The clerk recalled the elevator and vanished.
Vong moved to another shadowed doorway, nearer the station, and watched the new patient being rolled into Delivery Room Four. She watched the arrival of the disheveled husband, a bundle of jangled nerves at the prospect of daddy-hood. Vong leered, knowing she'd take care of that. He introduced himself as Scott Meyers and Vong watched as the nurse showed him to his wife's room. “You can have a few minutes,” the nurse told him. “Then we'll chase you out while we get her ready.”
Vong slipped into a dark and empty Delivery Room Three, immediately across the hall, leaving the door ajar. A few minutes, that was fine with her. Vong loosened the straps and let her dress fall to the floor. She could wait a few minutes.
Twenty – Eight
City protectors were a lot like family. Firefighters were brothers and sisters to all firefighters. Cops were brothers and sisters to all cops. Firefighters and police officers, while not brothers, were distant cousins and usually friends. At the very least, they tended to be on the same side. Most of the time, they had each other's backs. It was a benefit Ben enjoyed at that moment. Embarrassed and defeated, he'd been photographed and fingerprinted (there'd been no way around it), but afterwards, owing to the unspoken familial relationship, he'd been left relatively comfortable in the booking room with no immediate plans to toss him in the clink. It wasn't the Hilton, but it wasn't a cell either.
There he sat with hundreds of plaques, trophies, patches, badges and photographs glaring down at him from the sterile white walls, the history of law and order in Duncan, Iowa. Every new toy, every department innovation from the turn of the century on: the jump from horses to motors in 1922 with a motorcycle, two cars, and a paddy wagon. Eighteen Gamewell Telegraph call boxes, with lights and bells, to replace the original seven. The first machine guns to fight the Prohibition gangs of the 1930's. The rank designated uniforms, with threatening patrol officers wearing guns on their hips while the sergeants, captains, and chief wore long coats to hide them. The photographs changed from black and white to color in the 1970's. All of them, like history, like the exhausted firefighter returning their stare, fading rapidly. The department's first chief seemed to glare with disapproving eyes. Ben didn't blame the old boy. Who in 1901, when the city hired its first police matron, could have conceived of the day when a female police detective would haul her nutty boyfriend, a city firefighter no less, in on charges. Ben smiled sadly. You've come a long way, baby.
The door to the booking room came open and Ben did a double take as Art Blackmore walked in. To say he was surprised by the Union president's appearance was to put it lightly. He hadn't seen him since he'd called Art a prick with ears at the Garfield explosion, and hadn't missed the company. He had no clue what Blackmore wanted but knew he'd find out in short order; a friendly chat wasn't likely.
Blackmore sneered. It took Ben a full second to tire of that. “Art,” he said. “You're the last person on earth I expected to see.”
“I'm not here by choice.” He didn't spit, but it was close. “If it were up to me, you could rot.”
“That's plain enough. Why are you here?”
“As long as you're a Union member, you're entitled to legal representation. As long as I'm the Local president, it's my responsibility to make sure every member gets their entitlements.”
“Well, aren't I the lucky one?”
“I don't know what you are; I never knew. Tonight hasn't cleared up a thing.”
“I appreciate your coming down.”
“Keep your appreciation. I told you, I'm not here by choice. If you need an attorney, I can put you in touch with one. The initial consultation, at least, will be paid by the Union. What happens after depends on a number of things we don't know yet.”
Ben smiled. It was a pleasure watching Blackmore do his duty.
“Tomorrow morning,” the president continued. “I intend to do all I can to have you suspended and, as soon as possible, fired.”
“You consider that your responsibility as well?”
“I certainly do. I owe it to the Union I run and the city I serve
. Once you're out on your ass, your legal problems are your own.”
“I really don't know what to say,” Ben said. “Other than fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
“That's clever. Well worth getting out of bed in the middle of the night to hear. While you're thinking up your next clever bit, maybe it will occur to you to do the decent thing and refuse our help. What the hell, Court, you don't need it. It's a criminal case and they'll appoint you an attorney if you can't afford one. If you had any decency, or a set of balls, you might even go a step further, quit the department and save your Union brothers the embarrassment of being associated with you.”
“Thanks, Art. I'll give your offer and commentary all the consideration they deserve.”
At the door, Blackmore paused for a parting shot. “As you never come to meetings,” he said. “You may not be aware Sandy Cooper is our secretary. Let her know if you want our legal assistance. For myself, I've said all I have to say to you.” Blackmore disappeared.
Ben tried to think, but nothing came to mind but expletives. Outside of fire suppression, he knew little about physics but, really, how black could a cloud over your head get? What Art Blackmore said, did, or thought didn't matter, he was merely another straw for the camel's back. But Ben's life was quickly unraveling, in regards to those he cared for, and that mattered a lot. Erin was pregnant. God, Erin was pregnant with his child. And she wanted to kill him. She had every right. And, if anything Ruzicki, or Poni, or Nestor said was true, Erin was in more danger now because of him. Could it be true? The whole damned monster thing, could it be true? If he didn't think so, why was he here, under arrest for… what he'd done? But they didn't know what he'd done. They weren't going to find out. Not from him. Because he was done talking about demons. Yet, he knew he wasn't done with monsters. He had no choice now but to find and kill aswang by himself. If he ever got out of jail.
When The Tik-Tik Sings Page 18
