by David Hosp
“Not yet!” Jack took a deep swallow of air. “Sydney, you all right?” he called.
“I think so. My mother’s been shot, though. Where’s Amanda?”
Jack didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, this is Cassian. We’ve got shots fired and a potential hostage situation at 3507 Wisconsin Avenue. Request immediate backup.”
“Where is she?” Sydney screamed again. “Jack! Where’s Amanda?”
Jack crawled over to her and looked down at Lydia Chapin’s chest. Train was by his side almost instantly and gave Jack a questioning look. Jack shook his head in return. “She’s dead.” Just then, they heard the front door slam.
“Sydney,” Jack said. “He took Amanda. There’ll be people here in a matter of minutes, but we have to go after him. Will you be okay?”
She looked dazed, but after a moment she nodded. “Get her back, Jack,” she said in a voice so hollow Jack could hear the echo in her heart. “Please get her back.”
He held her eyes in his for another moment, squeezing her arm gently, unsure what to say. Then he looked at Train. “Let’s go.”
z
By the time they hit the front steps, Train could see the blue sedan peeling away from the curb. The man in the driver’s seat reached over Amanda, who was strapped into the passenger seat, and fired off two rounds in their direction, forcing them to take cover behind the large columns on the front steps, and then he hit the gas and sped off. Train and Cassian ran to their car.
Train jumped behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and threw the car into gear in one motion. They could still see the sedan ahead of them as it raced south on Wisconsin Avenue, picking up speed as it turned onto Massachusetts Avenue and headed down toward the city. Train took the police light off the seat beside him and reached out to put it on top of the car as he blared the sirens.
Cassian picked up the radio. “Dispatch, this is car 141, and we’re in a high-speed pursuit heading south on the 3200 block of Mass Ave, request backup!” He waited for the response to come back over the speaker. “Come on, goddammit!” he yelled at the radio.
“Calm down,” Train ordered. “We’re gonna get her back.”
“Unit 141, backup is on the way. Intercept at Dupont Circle.”
Train picked up the handheld. “Dispatch, make sure everyone knows we’re in a hostage situation here. I don’t want anyone to go in shooting.”
“Ten-four,” came the response.
Train looked over at his partner. Cassian’s gun was still in his hand, and he was leaning forward in his seat. “Calm down,” Train said again.
“You’re losing them.”
Train shook his head. “Are you hearing me?” He shot a look at his partner.
“We have to get her back,” Jack said, his jaw clenched. “I don’t care what it takes.”
Train turned his attention back to the road. “Okay, partner, I’m with you. Whatever it takes.”
z
Salvage sped down Massachusetts Avenue, pushing his vehicle to the limit. As they approached the city, the houses gave way to townhouses, and the streets, which had been nearly deserted farther up near the Chapin mansion, became crowded and more difficult to navigate. Twice he had to bump cars as he passed them, weaving in and out of congestion, nearly losing control of the car.
He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the flashing blue lights still behind him. “Shit!” he said out loud. The pounding in his head had grown steadily through the night as his blood alcohol level plateaued and then dropped steadily. He should have picked up that extra bottle of booze, he realized now.
He looked to his right, at the girl in the passenger seat. She seemed so small, drawn in on herself, like a hermit crab without a shell. He took his gun and put it under her chin, lifting her head up so that she was looking at him.
“I have nothing left to lose,” he said to her. “Do you understand?”
She looked at him, and he was surprised to notice how calm her eyes seemed. He’d expected abject terror, but instead what he saw more resembled determination. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded.
“Good,” he said, focusing again on the road. “Don’t forget it.”
z
Amanda was amazed at the clarity of her thought. She would have guessed that she would simply shut down in the face of the mayhem and tragedy that had swallowed her life, but that was not the case. Instead her mind seemed to quicken, and her focus seemed to sharpen, and a burning seemed to grow in her stomach as her anger spread.
She looked at the man with the gun as he spoke to her; the man who she’d watched kill her grandmother; the man who was, in all likelihood, responsible for her mother’s murder. He was talking to her, but she wasn’t listening. Her mind was focused on one thing only: killing the man. She determined at that moment that she would make sure the man beside her would not live through the night, even if it cost her her own life.
z
Salvage was flying as they approached Dupont Circle, one of the hubs of the city, with several main thoroughfares radiating out from it, an area that was constantly crawling with people. Up ahead he could see the flashing lights of the police cruisers converging on the circle, blocking off the sedan’s path. He stepped on the gas and increased his speed.
The cruisers had pulled into the circle at an angle, leaving no room for the sedan to go around. They had failed, however, to cut off the circle itself, and he decided quickly that that was where he was headed. A gap roughly the width of a car separated the front two police vehicles, and he made for that opening, increasing his speed. If he could just make it through, he might be able to cut through the circle and escape cleanly on the other side.
He gripped the wheel and held his breath as he braced for impact. The sedan clipped both police cruisers, sending them spinning in opposite directions like pinwheels as its momentum carried the blue car through the gap and into the small park at the center of Dupont Circle. He was through, and that meant he still had a chance.
The park erupted in panic. The appearance of so many police cars had already sent those hanging out there—primarily an unruly assortment of bicycle messengers, small-time drug dealers, and New Age hippies—scurrying in fear of a drug bust. But the entry of the sedan at high speed into the middle of the park sent people screaming in terror. Salvage spun the steering wheel wildly, and for a moment he thought he had lost control, but the wheels grabbed on the cement, and he smiled at the notion that he still had some luck on his side. He even allowed himself a brief moment of optimism, and as he steered his way through fleeing pedestrians he didn’t notice the small arm reach across and grab the steering wheel until it was too late.
The steering wheel spun to the right, ripped from his hands. He looked, bewildered, at the young girl next to him as she clung to the wheel, guiding the car toward the fountain. He let go with one hand and slapped her away, then turned back to try to regain control.
It was hopeless, though. The car, already the worse for wear for its collision with the two police cruisers and its climb over the high curb at the side of the park, careened off the solid park benches that ringed the fountain, and the body rode up the face of the stonework, separating from the chassis like a toy. The momentum was too much to allow any recovery, and the car gave in to the centrifugal force of the collision, flipping up and over, and landing top down in the fountain.
z
Train and Cassian followed the sedan as far as the curb at the edge of the park. There they screeched to a stop and leapt from their car, looking on in awe at the destruction. Cassian started running toward the wreck.
“Jack!” Train yelled, following him. “Take it easy, we don’t know whether he’s still armed.”
Cassian ignored his partner, picking up speed as he raced toward the fountain.
“Jack! Be careful!”
Train was ten yards behind Cassian when his partner reached the car. The windows were submerged beneath the knee-deep water in the fountai
n, and Cassian hurdled the fountain wall, diving under the water next to the passenger door, and disappearing for what seemed an eternity. Train was
wading in the fountain by the time Cassian came up, coughing and spitting as he tried to gain his feet.
“She’s not there!” Cassian yelled. “I reached in, but she’s not there!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s not there.” Cassian was doubled over, trying to catch his breath.
Train looked closely at the wreckage, which was pinned up against the statue at the center of the fountain. Water cascaded down from the giant bowl that topped the statue, roaring against the chassis. He grabbed his partner by the shoulder and leaned in toward him.
“What about Salvage?” he yelled over the din.
Cassian looked up at him, his eyes full of despair. “He’s not there either.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
SALVAGE ROLLED OUT of the broken window of his car. The water was only knee deep, but he’d been trapped briefly upside down in the car’s interior, and he was gasping for breath as he hit the surface. He was on the far side of the car from the police, where he couldn’t be seen, which was a blessing at least.
His head ached, and he was fairly sure that he’d smashed it on the steering wheel when they’d hit the fountain. He put his hand up to his temple and drew it away, the wash of deep red on his palm confirming his assumption.
Other than the head injury, he seemed intact, and his legs moved freely at his command. The real problem, of course, was that there seemed to be no avenue of escape. He could make a break for the far end of the park, but there was little likelihood that in his condition he’d manage to blend into the crowd and get very far.
He knelt down in the water behind the car to try to figure a way out. He had to come up with something quickly, he knew, because the cops would be on him any second. As he crouched there, considering his options, his left hand brushed against something soft and silky as it dangled in the water. He looked down and saw the girl’s head, and suddenly he had hope.
He reached down and grabbed her hair, pulling her head up out of the water. She hacked out a mouthful of water, and he thanked God she was still alive. He put the gun to her temple and his finger to his lips, ordering her to be silent. Then he pulled her around to the other side of the fountain so they were concealed from the police.
He held her there for a few moments, listening as the two cops searched the submerged car. Then when it was clear that he was out of time, he stood, grabbing the girl around the throat, and stepped out from behind the statue.
The two cops saw him instantly and raised their guns. He pulled the girl up so that she provided a shield for as much of his body as possible. “Drop your guns,” he ordered.
Neither of them moved, and he pressed his pistol harder into the girl’s temple. “I said drop your guns,” he repeated. “Otherwise the girl dies.”
It was the white cop who spoke first. “It’s not gonna happen. Where do you think you can go? Give it up, now!” he yelled.
Salvage moved around the statue at the center of the fountain, keeping the girl in front of him. “I said drop your guns!” he demanded again.
“Amanda, are you okay?” the black cop called to the girl.
She nodded, pulling against Salvage’s arm. “I’m okay,” she responded.
“She won’t be for long, if you don’t drop your guns,” Salvage said. “As I’ve already explained to her, I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“Sure you do,” the younger cop said. “You can cut a deal, and put Venable in jail forever. That should be worth living for.
For all we know, everyone back at the house is all right,” he lied. “You might get out of this with a few years in a cushy minimum-security pen.”
Salvage laughed. “You missed your calling, Detective. You should’ve been an actor. I’m not buying it; I’m walking out of here right now, and I’m taking the girl with me. Either that or we both die.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Amanda.” The enormous older detective was trying to reassure her.
“No it’s not,” the girl responded. “I don’t care anymore. Just make sure of one thing, okay?”
“What is it, sweetheart?” The younger cop tried to make his voice calm, but he was clearly scared. “Tell me.”
She shifted her head against Salvage just slightly to the left as she stared at the white detective. “Don’t miss him,” she said.
And then, without warning, she was in motion.
“No!” Salvage heard both of the other men scream, but it was too late. She ducked as she swung her elbow in back of her, connecting with the soft spot at the bottom of Salvage’s rib cage. The gun went off, and Salvage saw her head snap back as she dropped into the water, motionless at his feet.
Salvage hardly knew what was happening. He looked down and saw the dark red spreading out from the small figure in the water below him. Then he looked up and saw the two cops, their guns still pointed at him. He stumbled back toward the statue, raising his gun as his feet slipped from beneath him. He thought he might get off one good shot at least. He was wrong.
The hail of bullets took him instantly as the smoke rose from the two detectives’ guns. Salvage felt his body lifted off the ground and thrown back into the statue.
He lay there for a moment, looking up at the sky as the life drained out of him, mixing with the water as it swirled in the fountain. The two detectives appeared above him, hovering. They were shouting at him as they pulled the girl from the water, holding her to their chests, applying pressure to her wound as they worked furiously to keep the life in her. But he was beyond hearing. Sound went first, and then his sight began narrowing, until the only thing he could see was the white cop’s face. He was yelling at him, and, stripped of distractions, Salvage could read his lips clearly. “Give us Venable!” he was shouting over and over.
If he’d had the strength, Salvage would have laughed, but as it was, all he could do was smile wanly as the blood belched up in his throat and out through his teeth. It was nice, he thought, at least to have the last laugh.
Chapter Fifty-nine
CASSIAN SAT ON THE COUCH next to Train in Amanda’s hospital room. He kept a watchful eye on Sydney, who hadn’t left her niece’s side since they’d wheeled her out of surgery. Sydney’s head was down, and her eyes had the glazed look of someone whose system was shutting down bit by bit, but she refused to budge.
Captain Reynolds walked in and motioned to both detectives. Train got up and left the room; Cassian walked over behind Sydney and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Go,” she said. “You still have work to do. And you know where I’ll be.”
He walked out and found his partner in a conference room down the hall. Reynolds was there, too, sitting grim-faced as Chief Torbert stormed back and forth across the room. “Do you know how many calls my office has gotten about this mess?” he was shouting.
“How many?” Train asked dryly. Reynolds shook his head, clearly of the opinion that sarcasm wouldn’t improve anyone’s situation.
“A lot!”
Reynolds looked at Cassian. “How’s the girl?” he asked.
Cassian shrugged. “In a way, she was lucky. The bullet missed her head and hit her in the neck. A little higher and there wouldn’t have been any point. It severed an artery, though, and she lost a lot of blood. It’s gonna be touch and go for a while.”
Reynolds nodded. Then he turned back to Torbert. “I understand your frustration, Chief,” he said. “But there’s nothing else that could’ve been done, and any suggestion you have to the contrary is pure fantasy.”
Torbert stopped pacing. He seemed to consider this, and then said, “Okay, I suppose you’re right. But I want this thing wrapped up by the end of tomorrow.”
“What?” Cassian moved toward Torbert menacingly. “You want it wrapped up by when?”
Torbert shrunk back, but held to his edict. “To—mor—row!
That make it clear enough for you?”
“And how do you expect us to conclude our investigation by then, Chief?” Train asked.
“What’s to investigate, Detective?” Torbert asked, ignoring Train’s tone. “All your goddamned suspects are dead. From what you’ve told me, it looks like Elizabeth Creay’s ex had her killed to blackmail Mrs. Chapin over custody of the granddaughter. Mrs. Chapin took it on herself to off the ex, and then this private detective killed her. Who’s left?”
“We still need to figure out who Salvage was working for,” Cassian seethed.
“Who the fuck cares?” Torbert yelled. “What does it matter whether he was working for Creay or for Chapin? They’re both dead!”
“Beg your pardon, Chief,” Train interrupted, “but if he was working for Creay, why would he hang around after he was killed? And if he was working for Chapin, why would he kill her?”
“Same answer: who—the—fuck—cares? Maybe he was working for Creay, and he was pissed that Mrs. Chapin had killed his meal ticket. Or maybe he was working for Mrs. Chapin and he killed her by accident when he was trying to kill the daughter. We’ll never know now, will we?”
Cassian shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “He might have been working for someone else. We need to at least check it out.”
Torbert’s sights lasered in on Cassian. “Who else could he possibly have been working for?”
“I’m thinking Venable,” Train offered, taking the bullet for his partner.
Torbert turned on him. “And I’m thinking, Detectives, that if I hear anyone suggest that again, I’ll have them up on charges.”
“Charges of what?” Cassian demanded.
“Don’t fuck with me. You’re talking about one of the most powerful men in the country—quite likely our next president—and you want to tar him with this shit?”
“His father ran the Institute for years. Willie Murphy was killed up there, Elizabeth Creay visited there, and Sydney Chapin was attacked up there. He’s the only person who connects the dots.”
