by Sara Reinke
“Get Richards in here now,” he said again.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Pierson said. “You know, I love that we’re sitting here, wasting our time and the taxpayers’ money to help you keep tabs on your wife, Frances, but frankly, I don’t give a shit if she’s here, there or on the goddamn moon. This has nothing to do with Nathan Gambit or the purpose of this task force, and I’m not going to let you―”
Paul whirled around, his brows furrowed. He closed his hand against the collar of Pierson’s shirt and shoved him forcibly backwards, slamming him into the wall with enough force to send framed images of employees-of-the-month crashing to the floor. Pierson uttered a sharp, startled yelp that was cut short as the back of his head smacked into the plaster.
“You’re out of here, Pierson,” Paul snapped, not loosening his grip on the other man’s shirt. “You hear me? I’ve had it with your bullshit and I’m taking you off this assignment.”
He shoved Pierson against the wall again and released him, leaving the other man to stumble, gasping for breath. “Get out,” Paul seethed. Pierson’s badge was clipped to his belt, and Paul reached out, snatching it. He grabbed the lapel of Pierson’s sport coat and jerked it open so that he could pull the other man’s pistol out of his holster.
“You can’t do that,” Pierson said, his voice hoarse and wheezing as he touched his throat gingerly. “You can’t take my gun and badge. You don’t have that authority.”
“Yeah? Well, Lieutenant Bishop does have that authority, and that’s who you can go see about getting these returned to you,” Paul said. “Get the hell out of here.”
Pierson looked around, his gaze sweeping the room vainly for any help from his fellow detectives. Finding none, he scowled, his brows narrowing as he limped toward the door. “You just bought yourself an early retirement, Frances,” he said, jabbing his thick forefinger back at Paul. “I’m going straight to Captain Brady, you son of a bitch, and I’ll see to that.”
“Yeah, get bent,” Paul muttered, shoving Pierson’s pistol down beneath the waistband of his pants.
“Detective Frances―he’s here,” one of the officers exclaimed. He’d been checking in over a hand-held radio with the various officers positioned around the hospital, and now he looked excitedly at Paul. “Nathan Gambit just stepped off the bus on Greere Avenue and is heading for the parking lot.”
Even Dan Pierson paused, pivoting to peer back into the room as the detectives scrambled to find Gambit with the video cameras. “South side of the building,” Paul said, pointing to one panel of screens. “These over here―Greere is on the south side.”
“Got him,” one of the detectives said, as a blurred and shadowy image of the parking lot appeared on screen. It was still dark outside, and the overhead lights in the lot spilled bright glares down across parked cars and asphalt. They watched a tall, brawny figure wearing a heavyweight parka cross into view.
“Are we sure it’s him?” Paul asked.
The officer with the hand-held nodded. “We’ve got a visual confirmation from Jenkins. He’s at the bus stop and damn near bumped into him, he says.”
Paul couldn’t help but smile slightly, pleased. He’d suspected possible car troubles when Gambit’s car had been found abandoned in the lot. He’d been keeping an officer on watch at the nearest bus stop at Greere Street, just in case Gambit decided to take public transit in to work. It was a decision that Pierson had deemed an unnecessary expenditure.
He watched Gambit look around the parking lot. The young man walked slowly among the cars, studying the backs of them, as if looking for a particular vehicle. The longer he watched, the more Paul found himself itching to draw his gun, go outside and confront him. If the son of a bitch has done anything to Vicki, I’ll shoot him dead where he’s standing, he thought. I swear to Christ, I will.
The seasoned police officer in him still managed to keep control, however. If he went after Gambit now, it was all over. They had nothing on him, and Gambit had no reason to suspect they had any inkling of his identity. If Paul confronted him, he doubted Gambit would admit to doing anything to Vicki, and he’d have nothing to even bring him in for questioning about, much less arrest him. It would all be ruined if he lost his cool, and so he struggled not to, closing his hands into slow, deliberate fists, and forcing his feet to remain rooted in place.
“What’s he doing?” one of the detectives asked, leaning over next to Paul, studying the video monitors. “His car’s parked in the east lot.”
Gambit paused behind a small, dark-colored hatchback. The detectives watched as he moved alongside of it, and began to try each of the doors in turn, checking to see if any were unlocked. “Run that plate,” Paul said. “Can you see what it is? He makes a habit of stalking―this could be someone he’s watching.”
One of the officers turned to a nearby laptop that was plugged in by wireless network to the city’s server. Less than thirty seconds after typing in the license plate number from the vehicle Gambit was inspecting, the officer looked up at Paul. “That plate’s registered to a Jobeth Montgomery,” he said. “Three fifty-two South Ormsby―”
He continued on with Jo’s address, but Paul didn’t need to hear more. With his heart nearly tangled somewhere between his throat and his balls, he darted for the door, shoving past police officers and sending Dan Pierson staggering gracelessly into the wall again, out of his way.
“What are you doing?” Pierson cried after him. “You can’t go out there now, you stupid son of a bitch! You’ll ruin everything!”
* * *
“Daddy?”
Emma rapped lightly, quickly against the bathroom door, and Jay looked up from the sink basin. Jo had left only moments earlier, and he’d limped into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, shocked by how gaunt and haggard he looked. He was in desperate need of a shave, his chin and cheeks covered in a heavy growth of three-day-old beard. Dark shadows framed his eyes, and his hair was dull, dirty and disheveled. Water ran in thin rivulets down the length of his forehead, following the lines of his brow and nose toward the taper of his chin.
“Daddy?” Emma called, her voice warbling with urgency.
She probably needs to pee, Jay thought, as he took a towel and blotted his face with it. He opened the door, expecting Emma to rush past him in a frantic dash for the toilet. “Sorry, lamb,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I was―”
“Daddy, shhhh!” Emma hissed, grabbing him by the hand. He blinked down at her, startled, and realized she was ashen with fright, her large, dark eyes threatening to swallow her entire face.
“What is it?” he whispered, genuflecting before her. He pressed his hands to her cheeks. “Emma, what’s wrong?”
“Listen,” Emma said, cutting her eyes toward to door. Jay turned, cocking his head, straining to hear whatever had distressed her so terribly. He could hear voices outside in the corridor, Jo speaking with a man.
At this realization, the tension that had suddenly seized him loosened, and he sighed. “Emma, it’s just Jo,” he said, rising to his feet again. He leaned heavily against the doorframe in the process, still feeling impossibly weak and weary. “She’s talking to someone in the hallway. She―”
When he heard the man speak outside, his deep, resonant voice drifting in through the door, Jay froze, his breath and voice caught in his throat, his eyes widening in sudden, bright panic.
She wouldn’t scream, the man had said, the Watcher―the serial killer who had attacked Jo and Marie. No matter what I did to her, she wouldn’t cry out. I think she didn’t want the little girl to hear and come running to help her. She’s hiding somewhere. I haven’t found her yet.
Jay’s kneels failed him and he sat down hard against the bathroom threshold, his chest hitching as he struggled for breath. He reached for his daughter, seizing Emma roughly by the front of her nightgown and jerking her against him. He embraced her fiercely, and scuttled backwards, kicking with his feet, pu
shing himself into the bathroom.
“Daddy…!” Emma whimpered.
“Shhh!” Jay hissed, covering her mouth with his hand. He couldn’t breathe; he could hear his heart hammering out a frantic, panicked cadence in his ears.
“It’s him,” Emma whispered when he moved his hand away, her voice small and filled with fright. She met his gaze, her eyes enormous and glistening with tears. “Daddy, it’s him―the bad man, the one who hurt Marie.”
He nodded. “I know,” he whispered. Why isn’t Jo screaming for help? he thought. What is she doing out there?
He stood again, using the sink to support him as he stumbled to his feet. “Emma, stay here,” he said quietly, limping for the doorway. He couldn’t hear any voices now out in the corridor, and alarmed, he moved to open the door.
“Daddy!” Emma mewled in protest, but she offered no more when he shook his head at her and touched his index finger to his lips.
He opened the door a brief margin and leaned out, peering into the hallway. At the end of the long corridor, just past the nurses’ station, he saw a bank of elevators. He saw two people dressed in white stepping onto an awaiting car―Jo, unmistakable with her long, auburn curls caught back in a ponytail, and a large, brawny man he’d never seen before. Jo seemed completely unafraid to be in the man’s company, and as the elevator doors closed, he saw Jo laugh and slap the man in the belly, as comfortably as if she’d known him forever.
What in the hell is going on? he thought, bewildered. That’s the guy―I know it’s him. I’d know his voice anywhere, but…
Jo had told him that Paul had set up a sting operation to catch the suspect, Nathan Gambit. It was supposed to happen that morning, any moment now, in fact. How could Gambit have made it inside the building? Jay wondered. And why in the hell would Jo be acting so friendly to him? He had her so shaken up the other day, she was jumping at shadows. She said she’s positive it was him; she remembers the way he was built, the way he smelled, everything. She said she’s positive.
Emma’s words from earlier in the morning whispered through his mind, making him gasp suddenly, sharply. What if Uncle Paul is wrong? she’d asked.
What if it’s not just Uncle Paul who’s wrong? Jay thought. Oh, my God, what if Jo is, too?
CHAPTER TEN
“Where is she, you son of a bitch?” Paul seethed, slamming Nathan Gambit facedown against the hood of Jo’s car. He had whipped Dan Pierson’s gun out of his waistband as he stormed across the parking lot, and now he shoved the barrel of the nine millimeter with lethal intent against Gambit’s brow.
“Jesus!” Gambit squealed, his eyes flown wide, his voice breathless with startled alarm. “Don’t shoot me! Jesus! My wallet’s in my pocket! Take it, man! Take it!”
“I don’t want your wallet,” Paul growled as he shifted his grip on Gambit’s coat, flipping him around to face him. He slammed him backwards against the car hood and leaned over him, keeping the pistol pressed against the younger man’s nose. “I want to know where my wife is, you son of a bitch. You have until I count to five to tell me. One…”
Gambit’s eyes widened even more. “What?” he gasped. “What are you talking about? Are you high? Jesus, man, I don’t…!” His eyes cut over Paul’s shoulder, just as Paul heard the rapid footsteps of other police officers approaching.
“Help me!” Gambit pleaded. “Somebody call the cops! This guy’s whacked on crack!”
“I am the cops, Gambit,” Paul said, leaning over, nose-to-nose with the younger man. “You’re on two, asshole. Where is my wife?”
“Detective Frances, let him go,” Pierson said from behind him. “Put down the gun and step away from the vehicle.”
“Here’s three, Gambit,” Paul said, ignoring Pierson completely and keeping his gaze locked on Gambit. He thumbed back the hammer, and heard a distinctive wet, spattering sound as Gambit pissed his pants.
“Oh, Jesus, what are you doing?” Gambit whimpered. “I don’t know anything about your wife, man. Somebody please get him off of me!”
“Four,” Paul said, pushing the gun barrel more firmly against Gambit’s nose. Gambit began to wheeze, nearly hyperventilating, as Pierson and another detective caught Paul from behind, grappling with him, hauling him backwards and away from Gambit.
“Where is she?” Paul roared, thrashing between the two officers. “You son of a bitch, if you’ve touched her, I’ll kill you, do you hear me? I’ll kill you!”
“He’s crazy!” Gambit wheezed, his face flushed bright red, glossed with a slick sheen of sweat. He stumbled clumsily, reaching into his coat pocket. As he did, all seven of the officers who’d followed Paul to the parking lot drew their pistols and thumbed off their safeties. Seven steady pistol barrels pointed at Gambit.
“Jesus!” he whimpered.
“Move your hands slowly out of your pockets! Do it now!” one of the officers shouted. “Put your hands up and get on your knees! Do it!”
“I…I’m asthmatic,” Gambit said, his voice strained now, his breathing quickly growing labored. “I…I can’t breathe…my inhaler…in my pocket…!”
Paul watched the young man pull a plastic inhaler out of his pocket. He took a long, loud gust from it and gasped deeply, struggling to get his strangled breathing under control. Paul quit fighting, and although the second detective turned him loose, Pierson kept a firm grasp on Paul’s arms.
“What are you doing out here?” Pierson asked Gambit.
“I…I work here,” Gambit replied, still flushed, but not wheezing as noisily now. “I’m a nursing aid. What the hell is wrong with you people? Why did you jump me?”
“Where have you been the past three days?” Paul demanded.
Gambit blinked uncertainly at him, obviously unconvinced that Pierson was enough of a barrier between himself and Paul. He also looked completely bewildered and surprised that Paul knew where he had ― or more specifically, had not ― been recently. “I…I went to my sister’s house,” he stammered. “To Lake Shores, about four hours north of here. I took the Greyhound. My car died on Tuesday. I think the starter’s gone out on it. It’s over there, on the east side of the building.” He pointed.
Paul felt Pierson’s grip tighten, and he shrugged himself forcibly loose of the other man’s grasp. “What are you doing sniffing around Jo Montgomery’s car?”
At this, Gambit flushed again. “I wasn’t sniffing around,” he said. “I…I was just…I was going to leave her something.” He reached into his pocket, and again the pistols leveled at him. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, breathless and wide-eyed. “It’s just a present, alright? A stupid, goddamn present!”
He pulled out a small, gift-wrapped box with a miniature red bow. He held it up cautiously. “It’s a pair of earrings from Clancy’s, some kind they only sell there at the mall. I noticed she likes to wear them, so I got her a set.”
“What’s your interest in her?” Pierson asked, and Gambit’s eyes widened.
“I’m not interested in her!” he exclaimed. “Jesus, it’s a Secret Santa gift, that’s all. We all drew names, everybody on the ward, and I got her!”
It’s not Santa Claus, Emma had told Paul. He blinked like he’d just been slapped, her words reverberating in his mind.
It’s not Santa Claus. You’re looking in the wrong place.
“Jesus Christ,” Paul whispered, aghast. He turned back toward the hospital, his swift stride quickly breaking into a full sprint.
“Frances!” he heard Pierson shouting after him. “Frances, goddamn it! Get back here!”
You’re looking in the wrong place.
His cell phone rang, and he shoved Pierson’s pistol back into his pants to answer it. “Yeah?” he barked, ducking and weaving between parked cars.
“Paul, it’s Jay.”
“Listen, Jay,” Paul said, as he darted through the main entrance doors and into the hospital lobby. “This really isn’t the best―”
“Listen, Paul,” Jay snapped, his voice so sharp with al
arm that Paul skittered to an uncertain halt. “Nathan Gambit isn’t the Watcher―he’s not the one who hurt Jo and Marie. He’s somebody else, someone Jo knows. He’s here in the building, and she’s with him right now.”
He didn’t bother asking Jay how he knew; it didn’t matter at the moment. Vicki was somewhere in the building, and Jo was with the person who knew how to find her. “Where?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know. She just got on the elevator with him, going down, I think.”
Paul hurried toward a small crowd of hospital employees and guests waiting before a pair of chrome-doored elevators. He could see the floor numbers alight, counting down as each approached the lobby. He heard a soft ding as one of them reached the main floor, and saw the doors part.
“Paul, Jo doesn’t know,” Jay said, pleading. “She was laughing with this guy, joking around. She doesn’t realize who he is or the danger she’s in.”
“You stay where you are, you and Emma both,” Paul said. He hurried forward, but a group of people getting off the elevator tangled with those waiting to get on. The second elevator arrived, letting more people off and adding to the confusion.
“Paul, you’ve got to―” Jay began just as Paul caught sight of Jo on the elevator car to his left. The arrow above it was pointing downward, so no one was interested in getting on. Jo moved as if to exit with the crowd, and spied Paul. He watched her register recognition; her brows raised, her mouth opened as if she meant to call out in greeting. Abruptly, a man dressed in nurse’s whites, thick, heavyset, and mustached, pulled her roughly backward, keeping one hand clamped around her arm.
Paul shoved forward, calling out, “Someone hold that elevator!” In that second, he met Jo’s eyes and the confusion in her gaze yielded to alarm as the doors slid shut. She was gone.
