Backfire

by Catherine Coulter

  He said, “Come here, Emma, and give me a big hug.”

  She ran to him, drew up short. Was she afraid to touch him? Probably so. She studied his face as she reached out her hand and lightly laid her fingertips on his forearm. When she realized his eyes were clear and focused on her, she seemed to accept that he wasn’t lying to her because she was a kid. “If they’re going to move you away from all these machines, it for sure means you’re getting better.” She moved her fingers to hover over his whiskered cheek.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Daddy.”

  He grinned up at her. “Nah, no chance of that. Do you remember a long time ago when I told you I was tough and you could always count on me? Forever?”

  She swallowed, nodded.

  “Nothing’s changed, Emma. I’m still the same. There’s nothing here your old man can’t handle.”

  He knew even a small movement might hurl him into a well of pain, but he raised his hand to gently stroke her face. Slowly, Emma leaned down and hugged him. “Doesn’t it hurt to lie on your back?”

  “Not much. They wrapped me up like a mummy. Don’t be afraid, Emma. Everything is all right now.”

  But how could everything be all right? Emma wondered. Whoever had shot her father was still out there, and he might try again. Would there be guards around him forever?

  Emma said, “Officer Hughes told us he heard you laugh this morning. He said it was a good sign.”

  He’d laughed? He couldn’t remember. Ramsey had probably been riding the morphine express to LaLa Land and heard a nurse say something funny, or not funny at all, it wouldn’t matter.

  “There you go,” he said, looking over at Molly, who cocked her head toward Emma and nodded. She was pleased he was finally getting some alone time with his daughter. Emma’s fingers stroked his face, as light as butterfly wings.

  He said, “Your mom told me you’re keeping a close eye on Cal and Gage in case she gets so worried about me she forgets to feed them. I tried to think what Gage would do if food didn’t magically appear whenever he wanted some. It wasn’t a pretty picture.”

  Emma laughed. “They’d both go next door to Mr. Sproole’s house and out-cute each other so he’d clean out his refrigerator for them.”

  Ramsey laughed along with her and managed to hug her again, though the pain in the back of his chest spiked. Pain tasted foul, he thought, not for the first time, and how odd was it that you could actually taste pain? It wasn’t coppery, like blood. Maybe like rotted asparagus? He said, “I know Mr. Sproole is an ice-cream junkie; he’s always got some in his freezer. Do you think he’d break out his chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream for Gage and Cal?”

  “No, that’s his favorite. He’d give them an old carton of vanilla. They’d be happy enough with that.” She settled herself on the bed beside him, still clutching his hand like a lifeline. “Sean was over at our house this morning, playing with Gage and Cal while I was practicing. When I finished a piece he tapped me on the shoulder. He was real serious and polite, Dad. He said he wanted to marry me, and even though he would have three wives he could promise me that I’d be his number-one wife, since I was older than his other two. He said if I agreed, I couldn’t date any other boys until he grew up and came to fetch me.” Emma giggled.

  A laugh spurted out of Ramsey’s mouth. He couldn’t help it, though it made him groan. He breathed slowly in and out, and when the pain settled into a steady throb again, he asked, “So what did you say about being Sean’s number-one wife?”

  “Sean wasn’t done. He asked me if I wanted a big wedding. When I told him I probably would, he said he was going to have to get three jobs, since both Marty and Georgie wanted big weddings, too.”

  Emma looked thoughtful. “Maybe two other wives would be good, since they could keep Sean company while I was practicing, or away playing somewhere.”

  His practical girl. And that twinkle in her eyes. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to dismiss a five-year-old boy and make him feel small. Lucky Sean. Ramsey said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sean grew up to be as cool as his daddy.”

  “And his mama.”

  “And his mama. Trouble is, your Aunt Sherlock told me she doesn’t want her son to go to jail. Three wives could push him right into the slammer.”

  Again, Emma looked thoughtful. “That wouldn’t be good. Sean couldn’t work three jobs to support his wives if he went to jail.”

  A nurse appeared in the doorway beside Molly. “Judge Hunt, are you ready for your trip to your very own private corner room? It’s the same room the president would be given if something happened to him in San Francisco. It even has Monet reproductions on one of the walls. There’ll be room for half a dozen guards to buzz around you.” She frowned at him, seeing that he was in pain and guessing he hadn’t used the morphine pump recently. Then she sighed. She understood why. She smiled at Emma. “Your daddy’s so buff and strong he’ll be better in no time, so don’t you worry.”

  “My dad’s real tough, and he’s going to have my back all my life; he told me so.”

  ICU nurse Janine Holder hadn’t cried in the hospital for a long time because it never helped, but she felt tears come to her eyes. This beautiful young girl was hovering protectively over her father, and what he’d said to her, so simple, so heartfelt—Janine swallowed and smiled. “If you’re ready, Judge Hunt, I’ll call everyone in and get it done. Mrs. Hunt, you and Emma need to come with me.”

  Two days was long enough in the surgical ICU, Ramsey thought. Too much beeping and clanging and buzzing all day and night. At least he hadn’t heard any flatline whines, hadn’t heard anyone dying. He’d have some peace and quiet now, even if there would be half a dozen guards. If he wasn’t yet ready to be released into the wild, at least he would have a more comfortable cage.

  Ramsey heard Molly say outside his cubicle, “Emma, we’ll go get some sandwiches in the cafeteria, then go to your daddy’s new room and wait for him there. Did you know Uncle Dillon and Aunt Sherlock are outside? We can say hello.”

  Ramsey wasn’t stupid—he pumped in some morphine for the move. No matter how careful everyone was, he imagined there would be jostling, and it wouldn’t be fun.

  Officer Mancusso came to stand in the doorway. “You’re not to worry, Judge Hunt. Hughes and I will be accompanying you. Nothing will happen to you, sir.”

  Ramsey could only marvel at the odd mix of pride and promise in the young officer’s voice. He realized he didn’t know his first name, and asked him.

  “It’s Jay, Judge Hunt,” Mancusso said.

  It looked like an honor guard, Sherlock thought, when they finally got the bed wheeling down the hall toward the east elevators. Officer Eddie Hughes was on one side of the bed and Officer Jay Mancusso on the other side. Eve and fifteen-year-veteran Deputy Marshal Allen Milton walked at the head of the bed, and a muscular orderly with a big Fu Manchu mustache steered and kept an eye on the IVs dangling from the headboard and the chest tube pinned to the sheets. Ramsey had tried to smile at them as they wheeled him by.

  Sherlock saw Ramsey’s face was white with pain. At least Molly and Emma weren’t here to see him. But Ramsey would live, and they would catch his shooter. She wondered how she’d be holding up if Dillon had been the one shot and nearly killed. She gave him a fast kiss.

  Savich, Sherlock, and Harry got in the back of the line behind Ramsey’s bed. Eve stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She leaned over for a moment to say something to him and her ponytail swung down to lie against her face. Sherlock smiled. After the interview with Milo Siles, Dillon had told her, “I learn something new every single day. Do you know there appears to be power in the ponytail?” And he’d grinned like a bandit.

  When they reached the elevator, they looked up and down the now-empty hospital corridor. They watched the doors open, and five people squeezed
into the elevator around the bed. The doors closed behind them.

  An SFPD officer waited with them for the other elevator, which seemed to be tied up on the seventh floor, while yet another deputy marshal used the stairs. They stood quietly, watching the arrow of Ramsey’s elevator leave the fourth floor and hover at the fifth floor.

  They heard a loud clanging noise and the sound of muffled gunfire.

  Savich ran to the stairs door, yelling over his shoulder, “Sherlock, Harry! Find out where the shooter got access to the elevator! Get him!”

  When he burst out of the stairwell door onto the fifth floor, he was greeted with the yells of hospital staff and the screams and shouts of patients standing at the doors of their rooms, staring at smoke seeping out between the closed elevator doors. Half a dozen hospital personnel were trying to pull the elevator doors open, but no luck. Savich ran to the fire extinguisher case and pulled out the ax. He shouldered through and slipped the edge between the doors and pulled down across the safety beam. The doors sprang open.

  Thick black smoke billowed out. When it was cleared enough to see inside, Savich saw blood spattered everywhere.

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Fifth floor

  A shout came out of the chaos. “The shooter’s on the roof of the elevator! Officers down!” Officer Eddie Hughes stumbled out, panting and coughing, holding his bloody arm and trying to keep Deputy Marshal Allen Milton upright, blinded by the blood streaming down his face. Both men still had their guns in their hands.

  SFPD officer Jay Mancusso staggered out, his Glock at his side, his eyes tearing from the smoke, coughing. He wheezed out, “He threw a smoke bomb down through the top of the elevator and opened fire. Barbieri, she’s with Judge Hunt. I don’t know—” And he bent over in a fit of coughing. At least he hadn’t been shot that Savich could see.

  The orderly was trying to pull himself up, blood soaking his white pants.

  All of it had happened in seconds.

  Savich was coughing, fighting to see through the gray haze of smoke still clouding the elevator. A frantic voice came through the chaos, “Judge Hunt! How is Judge Hunt?”

  Savich managed to push his way in, and his heart stopped. Eve was lying stretched out on top of Ramsey, and she wasn’t moving. He was afraid to touch her. “Eve? Answer me!”

  Slowly, Eve raised herself off of Ramsey. She was in pain, obvious to Savich, but he didn’t see any blood. She turned to look at the myriad faces staring down at her, then settled again on Savich’s face. He helped her slide off the bed. She stumbled, and he helped her right herself. “Sorry, the bullets knocked me silly. I’m okay.” She pulled away from him and looked down at Ramsey’s white face. “Ramsey—talk to me.”

  He opened his eyes. “Hi, Eve.”

  “Are you all right?”

  A doctor and a nurse squeezed into the elevator beside them and eased them aside to tend to Ramsey. “Yes, I’ll live.” He coughed and moaned. “All the smoke and gunfire. How is everyone else? How are you, Eve?”

  “I’ll live, too. He shot me three times in my back, missed my head, thank goodness, or I’d be a goner. The impact knocked the breath out of me, that’s all.” She gave a wild grin, even though she felt like she’d been whacked by a two-by-four too many times. “Thank the good Lord for Kevlar.”

  A doctor tapped Eve on the shoulder. Ramsey gave her hand a squeeze, and reluctantly, Eve released his. They wheeled him out of the elevator. He said to all of them, “I’ll be all right, don’t worry about me.” Three doctors, including Dr. Kardak, panting from running from surgery to get here, hovered over him as they wheeled his bed down the hall, two SFPD officers and one deputy marshal flanking them.

  They heard Ramsey say, “You’d be wheeling me down to the morgue in the basement if not for Eve. I’m going to kick her butt for taking such a chance.”

  Eve waved into the elevator car. “It looks like a war zone in here.” She pointed up, nearly groaning at the pain in her back. “Would you look at the ceiling? Our guys shot the crap out of it. They fired nonstop, but I don’t know if we hit him.”

  She closed her eyes. It had looked like the end, but no one was dead. She sent a prayer of thanks upward. “Please tell me you got this idiot.”

  Savich said, “Sherlock and Harry are on it; they’ll be here soon.”

  Harry Christoff gently picked up an elderly man by his elbows and set him aside. He shoved two police officers out of his way and stood in front of Eve, panting from running down three flights of stairs. He took in her tearing eyes, her blond straggling ponytail, her smoke-blackened face. “Good grief, woman, look at you. You’re all right, aren’t you?” He saw that she was hunched over and touched her arm.

  Eve smiled at him. “I’m okay, thanks to the miracle of Kevlar. We all survived.”

  Sherlock burst out of the stairwell, panting.

  Savich said immediately, “Ramsey’s okay. Everyone’s alive. Is he still inside the building?”

  She started toward Eve, but Eve said quickly, “I’m in one piece. Did you get the guy?”

  Sherlock ignored the god-awful mayhem in front of her and forced herself to calm. “He made it out of the elevator shaft. We started a search, but we can’t lock down the whole hospital. He’s probably out on the street by now.”

  “How could he have pulled this off?” Eve asked.

  Sherlock said, “Okay, he had to case out the elevators and hang out close enough to the ICU to find out when Ramsey was going to be moved. It looks like the shooter called both of the east elevators to the roof. There’s an access hatch up there for servicing. He immobilized one of them and settled himself on top of the working elevator when it was called down. He loosened the ceiling hatch and waited. We don’t know how long he was up there, but he must have cut this pretty close, otherwise someone would have called for service on the immobilized elevator, and he didn’t want that.”

  “But how did he know?” Eve smacked the side of her head. “Am I an idiot or what? I’ll bet even the dishwashers in the cafeteria kitchen knew when Ramsey was being moved.”

  Sherlock said, “It’s even better than that. He didn’t even have to look in. The shaft acoustics are incredible, so he could hear Ramsey being pushed into the car, got himself set. The moment the car started up, he shoved the hatch aside, dropped the smoke canister in, and started firing. He couldn’t see any better than you guys could through all the smoke, but he must have seen where Ramsey’s bed was, focused his fire there. Eve, what happened inside?”

  Eve tried to straighten, but a jab of pain punched her ribs. She felt Harry’s hand tighten on her arm. She said, “I didn’t think; I threw myself on top of Ramsey, and right away three shots hit me in the back—in the blessed Kevlar. He kept firing, but our guys were firing back, so his shots were pretty wild. Whatever he hit was random after that. I’ll tell you my heart nearly stopped while I was lying there, thinking of how helpless Ramsey was.” She paused for a moment. “You know, I’m betting the shooter thinks he killed Ramsey.”

  Sherlock stared at the blood splattered on the elevator walls, stared at Eve and at Harry standing behind her. She knew that three close-range shots in the back, even through Kevlar, would make you feel like you’d been beaten with a baseball bat. “If you hadn’t been wearing the vests, he’d have killed all of you.” She felt such rage she was shaking with it.

  Sherlock asked Officer Mancusso, “What about Hughes and Milton? How badly are they hit?”

  Officer Jay Mancusso said, “Deputy Milton’s head wound looked bad, but they always do. I heard one of the doctors say it was only a scalp wound, though. Eddie Hughes—he got it in the arm, through and through. The orderly who got shot in the leg went right off to the ER.”

  A nurse, still looking on, called out, “Doug was pressing on his leg wound himself. You’d better believe he
was hollering for the trauma team. He’ll be all right.”

  Jay said, “Both Eddie and I got two shots in the Kevlar, but we’re okay. We didn’t get hammered like Deputy Barbieri.”

  Savich said, “Eve, tell us what else you remember.”

  “Jumping on Ramsey, covering him as best I could, screaming at the orderly to take cover. There was so much gunfire after a second or two, most of it from our guys, shooting wildly upward through the thick smoke, and then there wasn’t any more return fire. The shooter was gone.”

  Sherlock patted her arm. “Yeah, he got out, but guess what? I’ve got some good news I haven’t told you—one of you wounded him. I saw some blood drops on the top of the elevator car, bloody handprints on the shaft ladder, and a couple of drops on the roof and in the stairway. Then he must have managed to get himself bandaged enough so he didn’t spill anymore. That means we can spot him on the security cameras, see how badly he’s hurt, but best of all, we’ll have his DNA.” She cocked her head to one side. “Or Sue’s DNA.”

  “Excellent,” Savich said. “At last we’ve got a break.”

  Harry cupped his elbow around Eve’s arm and said without looking at her, “You think you got any broken ribs?”

  “They feel like they’re in splinters. Don’t worry, I’ll get it checked out.” She knew she wouldn’t be up for smelling the roses for the next couple of days. Bruises would cover her back. She prayed no ribs were cracked. She wondered who’d managed to nail the shooter. DNA. Dillon was right, at last they’d caught a break.