by Scott Blade
After another moment, I dropped to my knees and then fell flat on my face.
I blacked out for the third time.
CHAPTER 40
I HEARD A BUZZING SOUND.
I woke up in a place that I didn’t know, but recognized immediately. I was in a hospital room.
I wore the white gown, and the ID bracelet, and the IV drip—the whole nine yards.
I looked around and saw that the room was empty. There was another bed, next to mine. But it was empty.
My vision had come back, which was good news.
My hearing was better, but the buzzing was annoying. Still I could hear sounds. It was just like having bees live in my ears.
I saw my clothes were draped over the back of a chair. My shoes were on the floor. The hospital staff had even left Marksy’s Glock in my pants pocket. I saw the bulge.
They must’ve thought I was an FBI agent like Talbern.
Where was Talbern?
I looked near my hand and found one of those call buttons. I pressed it a couple of times. And a doctor showed up, instead of a nurse.
She wore a white lab coat instead of scrubs. She was younger than me, shorter than Talbern, and had short brown hair.
She wore obvious contacts. They were bright blue.
She said, “Mr. Widow. How are you feeling?”
“Where’s Talbern?”
“She’s fine. But let’s talk about you,” she said. She walked to the end of the bed and picked up my chart, looked at it. She flipped a page, looked over whatever information was there, and then flipped it back.
I said, “My hearing’s not great. I hear a buzzing. I feel like I busted my eardrums?”
“No. They’re not busted. Just overly sensitive right now. I suggest not going to any nightclubs anytime soon.”
I nodded, reached down and pressed a button on a remote that controlled the bed. I sat up as far as I could in it.
“Now, I want to talk about your head. You got hit pretty hard with something. Looks like a baseball.”
“It was a beanbag round from a shotgun.”
She nodded like that was what she expected me to say.
I asked, “What’s the damage? Concussion?”
“That’s the strange thing. The force of the blow and the impact of the beanbag, must’ve been very, very hard.”
She paused there and scooped out an X-ray that was stuffed in an envelope on the chart. She walked over to a table lamp, near the bathroom door. She flipped it on and tilted the shade so that there was a lot of light coming out.
She held the X-ray up to it.
“This is an X-ray of your skull we took while you were out.”
I stayed quiet.
“The beanbag hit your skull with enough force to cause a major concussion and even brain damage.”
“I got brain damage?”
“No. That’s what I’m saying. Normally, that’s probably what would’ve happened. But see how your skull has all these signs of older abrasions?”
She pointed at all these older-looking shadow areas on my skull.
“I guess.”
“Those are signs of injuries that happened in the past. They healed but they changed the circumference of your skull. See, human bones don’t heal in a perfect, smooth way. They scar kind of like skin, in a way.”
“So?”
“When bone heals it usually heals to be rugged and thicker, like building up calluses.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your skull is thicker than most people because you’ve had a lot of injuries. If I had to guess I’d say either you’ve spent your life as a professional motorcycle daredevil who has never worn his helmet or you hold the world title for a heavyweight boxer, because you’ve been hit in the head—a lot.”
“Am I going to be okay?”
“Just don’t go getting hit in the head anytime soon. Got it?”
I nodded.
“I want you to take it easy and rest for at least two more days.”
I asked, “More days? How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been asleep for two whole days.”
“Two days?”
“Yeah. That’s why your FBI friends are gone. They went home.”
I nodded, watched her walk to the door. She stopped and turned back to me.
“You have some stitches back there. If you feel any discomfort when you lie down, turn on your side.”
I nodded again and she left.
I turned and picked up a telephone that was next to the bed. I got a prerecorded voice for the hospital’s internal network. I dialed nine, which got me an outside line like it almost always does.
Then I froze. What number was I going to dial?
I tried to remember Talbern’s number, but I don’t think she ever gave it to me.
I hung it up.
My first thought was to get dressed and get out of there. Maybe if I got to a computer I could look up the FBI number in New York.
Then I remembered I had a card from Clayton. I moved my legs and swung them out and got up out of bed.
I felt okay, just a little slow.
I walked over to my pants and sifted through the pockets. I found my passport and bankcard and the business card from Clayton.
I went back to the bed, sat down and dialed the number.
It rang and rang. I almost gave up when a voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Clayton?”
“Yeah, who is this?”
“It’s Jack Widow.”
Silence.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m in the hospital in Portland. I woke up here. Apparently, I slept for two days.”
“Yes,” Clayton said.
“Can you tell me what happened? No one is here from the FBI.”
Silence again. I heard voices in the background.
Clayton said, “You guys found the killer. Apparently, John Jr.’s body was discovered at Mr. Dayard’s boat, which you blew up.”
“What about the FBI agents?”
I heard more voices. It sounded like a celebration.
Clayton said, “Yeah. One of them was okay. The other died. I’m sorry.”
“What about James?”
“That’s good news. He’s out.”
I paused, looked up at the door to the hallway.
“He’s out?” I asked. “That quick?”
“Yeah, well we found a judge that granted him a stay of execution and because of the evidence that his brother wasn’t dead, they granted him bail until a new trial could be set. But we feel he’ll get acquitted.”
“Well, that’s good news. Congratulations.”
“Yeah, thanks. We couldn’t have done it without you. The secretary would love to thank you personally, but he’s spending the evening with his son.”
“He’s there?”
“Yeah. John just got here a few hours ago.”
I paused a beat.
“Widow?”
“John?”
“What?” Clayton asked.
“You said John.”
“I meant James. Slip of the tongue. Lot going on here tonight. Can I help you with anything else?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Okay. Have a good one,” Clayton said and he hung up. The line went dead.
I hung up the phone and stood up off the bed. I went to the bathroom, opened the door, and stared at myself in the mirror.
I looked like a man who slept for decades. I had serious bedhead and stubble on my face.
I ran the water and cleaned my face, turned off the faucet.
Clayton had said John. I thought about the Dayard family home again.
Why did Dayard need all that security?
My animal brain wouldn’t let it go.
Then it hit me. John Jr. A part of me had thought that the security wasn’t for the secretary, but was really to protect John Jr. I had thought that maybe they were hiding him.
But the guys that I had seen weren’t just there to protect the secretary. They were there to do what he said. They weren’t sentries. They were mercenaries.
I closed my eyes, tried to remember the boat. There was that black car in the parking lot. And the masked man. And his guns. He had Secret Service weapons. The Remington 870 and the SIG SAUER were both used by the Service.
And the bones. They found John Jr.’s body, Clayton had told him.
I remember there were human bones on the kitchen counter.
Secretary Dayard wanted me to help his son. He flew me out there and gave me that whole story about the prodigal son who was a failure. He told me about the suicide. Painted that picture of how he was just a dying old man surrounded by photographs of a family he had lost.
The Dayards were evil. Father and son.
I needed Talbern.
I got dressed and ditched the hospital gown and ID and the IV.
As I was putting on my shoes, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Widow. It’s Pawn,” a voice said. I recognized it, but there was something wrong. Something was off.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m glad that you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah,” I said. I was tying my shoes at the same time.
“Listen, we have a little problem.”
“What’s up?”
“Well, look, I know that you and Talbern have grown close over the last couple of days.”
I didn’t like where this was going.
“I know she’s done a great job. You both have.”
“Okay,” I said. I was confused.
“She deserves to take a little sabbatical. I’ve got no problem with that.”
I stayed quiet.
“Listen, you don’t have to put her on the phone. I just wanted you to tell her that she can take as long as she wants. Tell her to call me when she’s ready to come back to work. You both did a good job, Widow.”
I froze. I felt my skin crawl.
Pawn had no idea where she was. He thought Talbern was with me.
He asked, “She is with you, right? She left here yesterday and said she was going back to wait for you to wake up.”
I thought for a moment. Talbern had left the FBI and come back to Portland to wait for me to wake up. He said that she had left yesterday. Therefore, she would be here already.
Dayard had her. James had eyeballed her at the prison. He took her. Had to be. Maybe he had wanted to kill Marksy, but one of his father’s guys had beat him to it. The masked man wasn’t Clayton, that was obvious, but he had been one of his guys.
“Widow?” Pawn asked.
I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell him because Dayard had eyes and ears in the bureau. Plus, I didn’t want FBI red tape.
“Yeah. I gotta go,” I said and I hung up the phone.
I pulled Marksy’s Glock out of my pocket. I ejected the magazine and checked it.
I dry fired the weapon. It worked as advertised.
I slipped the magazine back in and chambered a round.
I had only been to Dayard’s house by air, but I knew where it was. It was less than an hour out of the city in the hills and on the coast.
Now, I needed a ride.
CHAPTER 41
THE THING ABOUT POLICE DEPARTMENTS, especially for major cities, was that they are operated by two opposing forces. The first is to maintain law and order. Which means solving and preventing crimes. It means going to nine-one-one calls. It means risking life and taxpayer property to keep the peace.
The second thing that runs a city police department is the budget.
Police departments across the country were all facing tight budgets. I read that in newspapers across the nation.
Places like hospitals caused these two forces to clash because hospitals were natural targets for crime. But anything hardly ever happens at a hospital to cause the need for police to be present. So what do most police departments do to make people think that they are present?
They park their police cruisers out front or near the emergency room. They want people to see them.
I walked out to the parking lot of the hospital, passing nurses and staff who barely gave me a second glance.
I walked around the parking lot for less than two minutes before I found a parked Portland police cruiser. When I saw it, I smiled because I was banking on the budgetary constraints stopping the police from parking one of their newer models. And they hadn’t.
Parked out front was an older model Dodge Charger. It was all black, which I had no problem with.
Hopefully, they didn’t have any antitheft software installed. And even if they did, it would be a long time before they realized it was stolen.
I looked around the parking lot. Saw no one. No one watching.
I took out the Glock and reversed it in my hand. I half swung it to the window to break it, but then I stopped.
Instead of breaking the window, I tried the handle first. It wasn’t locked.
Then I thought, why would it be? They didn’t expect someone to steal it.
I opened the door, dumped myself down onto the driver’s seat. I reached down and racked the seat all the way back, pulled my feet in and shut the door.
I tossed the Glock on the seat next to me and I reached down, pulled the ignition column off and tried to remember how the hell to hotwire a car. It had been a while.
I tore open some wires that seemed right and I clicked them together. Nothing happened. I tried a different wire and they sparked and the engine roared to life.
I gassed it and tied the wires together.
Sometimes you just get lucky, I thought. Then I thought about Talbern and I thought about Karen Dekker and I thought about Marksy.
I reversed the Charger and flipped the headlamps on. I drove out of the parking lot, followed the signs to the interstate and headed north.
CHAPTER 42
I DROVE FOR NEARLY AN HOUR, following the winding interstate north. I basically drove by a vague sense of where the Dayard house had been located. I knew that it was on a dark coastline and it wasn’t far from Portland.
Luckily, the skies were clear and the stars were out.
I drove until I saw a sign for a wealthy-sounding community called Trident Coast. There was an advertisement for new homes coming soon on a billboard not far from the interstate. That had to be it. The land looked dark and rural, yet wealthy.
I drove onto an off-ramp and followed signs that pointed to a beach.
I followed the main road and curved around numerous bends until I started to see what I was looking for. The trees thinned and I saw the skyline. It was identical to the skyline I remembered over the Dayard house.
It was here somewhere.
I slowed the car and tried to imagine what I had seen the other night from the helicopter.
I remembered much of the topography. I drove until I saw houses that looked similar. They were far apart and old and Victorian. There were long drives and high fences.
I drove until I came to the end of the street. There was one drive at the end. I couldn’t see the house, but I knew it was the right one.
I knew because there was a high brick wall with a security camera on the gate. And I saw floodlights mounted on the tops of the walls. This was either the right place or it was a high security prison.
I rolled the car up to the end of the road, which led down to a private beach. And then I saw the water. The Atlantic Ocean was beautiful in the moonlight.
I left the engine running because if I killed it, I wasn’t sure that I would be able to hotwire it again. But I killed the lights.
I left the car in park and got out, took the Glock with me.
I tucked it into my front pocket and reached back down into the car and popped the trunk. I figured that the cops probably wouldn’t leave weapons or live ammunition in the trunk, but there might be something valuable in there.
I shut the door, walked back to the trunk
, and lifted it.
The sounds of low crashing waves washed up from the beach.
A small light flashed on and lit up the trunk. I sifted through it. It was one of the more cluttered police trunks that I had ever seen. I found a lot of basic equipment like traffic cones and road flares. No shotgun. No ammunition. No weapons of any kind.
I did find two items that I could use. One was a small Maglite, which isn’t actually small; it was just the smaller size. I left it.
The second thing was a cheap-looking, police bulletproof vest.
It was dark blue, and had the word: POLICE written on the front in huge white font.
I inspected it. It looked worn, but never used as in it had no bullet holes in it.
I slipped it on. It fit well enough and gave me a slight advantage. I doubted that Dayard’s men wore vests.
I shut the trunk and looked at the gate. I wasn’t getting in that way. I ran down to the beach.
The wall was high, but not impossible to climb. I ran down the length of it for a good five minutes until the beach ran out and there was nothing left but ocean and the edge of the Dayard’s property.
The wall stopped there because there was no more need for it. If I wanted to go any farther, then I would have to swim. But now I could see the house. I saw the back of it and the huge garden and the helicopter pad.
The chopper was there. It was parked under white spotlights.
I crouched down and scanned the property. I still heard the buzzing in my ears, only now it was more like a ringing. But my eyes worked fine.
I saw no sign of anyone outside. There were lights on in the house.
I stepped back to the wall and jumped up, grabbed the top ledge and pulled myself over.
I landed on the other side and smiled. I smiled because I realized that I was grateful the Dayards didn’t have any dogs. Then I wondered why they didn’t?
I wasn’t sure about the lights they had placed everywhere. They probably had some lights that were motion-sensor. I stayed low and took it slow and steady.
It took me a while to make it close to the house.
As I neared the back door, I slowed and took out the Glock. I pointed it downward, I didn’t want to shoot the wrong person. I looked around and saw no one.
I ran to the back door and put my back to the wall, next to it.
The back door was mostly glass. I edged to the side of the door and peeked in. No one was standing there. Then I heard a sound. Footsteps. But not from inside the door. It was from the other side of the house from me. I ran straight and out and ducked down near the helicopter. I waited.
