by A W Hartoin
“You should stay in here,” said the tech.
“Thanks, but I’ve got things to do.”
They looked at the note and then me.
“It’s fine. I think they got him at the loading dock,” I said.
They nodded. “They did. Shot him. He’s dead.”
“Damn. I was hoping they could question him.” I smiled and my lip began stinging anew. “You can’t have everything, I guess.”
They suggested I get a new ice pack and I left, walking out into the empty hall. The noise around the corner was pretty loud. It sounded like crime scene had arrived, but I didn’t hear Chuck’s or Sydney’s voices. They must have stayed at the loading dock.
I walked the other way, pulling out my phone. I had messages from pretty much everyone from Raptor in Sturgis to Spidermonkey. Uncle Morty was calling every thirty seconds. He’d logged twenty calls in the last ten minutes, a new record. I sighed and pressed Return Call.
As I put the phone to my ear, a hand came around my face, covered my nose and mouth, and yanked me back against a hard chest. I scratched at his arm. There was some kind of thin fabric over it and I dug in my nails. His other arm was around my waist. He dragged me backward. I saw a door frame. Alone in a room? No. I kicked and twisted. He grunted and hit the frame. I couldn’t breathe. There was a blur of beige and something hit my waist. Hard. Twelve pounds of hard. He screamed in my ear and let go. I fell to my knees and he stumbled over me.
“Help!” I screamed as I landed flat on the floor. I got a glimpse at a man running away down the hall in scrubs. He was stripping them as he ran around the corner.
Someone was at my side. “Oh, my god, Mercy!”
Pete rolled me over and patted me down. “I can’t find anything.”
“What about the face?” asked someone.
“She had that before.”
“It’s bleeding.”
Pete put a bandage to my chin. “Mercy, can you hear me?”
“I’m okay.” I flailed my arm. “He went that way.”
Someone ran past us.
Pete looked up. “Someone page Chuck Watts.”
The loudspeaker said, “Chuck Watts to Radiology. Chuck Watts to Radiology stat.”
“What did he look like?”
I struggled to sit up and Pete got me propped against the wall. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him. He got me from behind.”
“Where the hell is your bodyguard?”
“In the OR, moving Tiny to the table.”
“She shouldn’t have left you,” said Pete.
“I told her to. You’ve seen Tiny. Nobody else could move him.”
A wet something nudged my hand. I looked down and there was Wallace, doing her pug smile with a scrap of white fabric. “You were the blur.”
Bark.
I took the scrap from her mouth. Light tee material with some blood.
“Good work, Wallace,” I said, gathering her into my lap. “You really are The Wonder Dog.”
Chuck came running up with Sydney. They saw me and came skidding to a halt.
“What happened?” asked Sydney.
“Somebody grabbed her,” said Pete.
“Wallace saved me,” I said.
Chuck didn’t move and Sydney pushed past him, squatting next to me. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Before I could get a word out, Mr. Snyder ran up. “Mercy, where’s the note? Why are you on the floor?”
I stood up with Pete’s help and said, “The note’s in the control room. I thought it best to leave it there.”
Pete explained what he saw and Chuck sprang into action, running off in the direction that my attacker went. He didn’t say a word to me. Sydney whispered, “He’s upset.”
“It hasn’t been a great day for me either.”
Sydney took my statement. To nobody’s surprise, my guy was nowhere to be found. The other suspect was unidentified, except as a middle-aged Hispanic male. I was right. Something had happened. The something was Tiny. Weiss was the other cop on duty watching Mom. He said that when she was going in, the dead suspect said to her, “Sorry about what happened to you.”
Mom replied with, “Thank you.”
That was it. The tech rolled Mom inside the MRI suite and the guy walked away. Tiny said to Weiss and his partner, Spitz, “I’ll be right back.” He went off in the direction the suspect went, turned the corner, and a few seconds later, they heard Tiny scream. They ran to him. The suspect charged them, slashing Spitz’s throat and running off. Weiss gave pursuit through the hospital to the loading dock, where he cornered him. Chuck and Sydney arrived. They tried to talk him down, but he pulled a weapon and they shot him. All of them. Twice.
The MRI suite door opened and the tech wheeled Mom out.
“I got it right this time.” Then Mom frowned. “Did you call the FBI? Is your father coming home?”
“Er…I got distracted,” I said, putting Wallace in her lap.
“By what? For heaven’s sake. Give me the information and I’ll do it.”
“No, no. I’ve got it.”
Mom looked around at the small crowd. “What is everyone doing? Don’t you have things to investigate?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sydney. “We’re on it.”
“Good. Now if Mercy can get her ducks in a row, we’ll be all set.”
“I will, Mom.”
“Now?”
“Absolutely. Let’s get you back up to bed. Aaron’s coming with dinner.”
Mom scratched Wallace’s noggin. “I haven’t been really hungry since it happened and now all of the sudden I’m starving. This has been such a weird day.”
Tell me about it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
WE GOT MOM back to her room and she was none the wiser. I knew I had to tell her about Tiny, but she was slurring so bad, I just couldn’t do it. The more tired she was, the more she slurred.
Aaron hadn’t shown up yet, so I gave her milk and applesauce. She ate it with no problem and fell asleep immediately. Two fresh uniforms were on her door and beyond them, pacing like an insane gladiator, was my bodyguard. To say Fats was scaring everyone who saw her was an understatement.
I closed Mom’s door behind me and said, “Please stop that. You’re freaking people out.”
“I almost got you killed,” she said, tearing at her sock bun and giving her hair a distinct Medusa vibe.
“No, you didn’t. You helped save Tiny.”
“I left you. I’m never supposed to leave you.”
“I told you to,” I said.
“I don’t listen to you. I listen to me. What the hell was I thinking?”
I took her arm and steered her toward the waiting room at the end of the hall where Grandad had holed up, feeling just as guilty as Fats, if not more. He’d gone to The Shaved Duck for beers with the respiratory techs and missed the whole thing. He was sitting on the sofa with Uncle Morty, surrounded by laptops.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Grandad said for the tenth time.
“It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.” I sat down, tucking my leg to my chest. I was a little shaky, I’m not gonna lie, but for almost getting kidnapped or whatever he was intending, I felt pretty good.
“You wanna hear this?” asked Uncle Morty gruffly, but I could tell he was shaken.
I didn’t, but I said okay. Uncle Morty told me that I was mentioned in the Unsub chats more frequently than was remotely comfortable. There was one guy, Nightmaster, who kept asking about me. He referred to Cassidy Huff and claimed her death as his own work, saying he’d buried her out at Shaw’s Arboretum. He gave an exceedingly disgusting rundown of what he did to her, but I asked for the laptop and read it for myself a couple of times. It stopped turning my stomach after the third read.
“That sounds weird.”
“No kidding,” said Fats. “He’s disgusting.”
“I mean, it sounds rehearsed. Like he read it in a book or something.”
; Grandad smiled. “You are getting good. That was my feeling as well. There’s no passion in what he’s saying. It’s a recitation of facts. Nothing more.”
“There’s plenty of passion when he talks about Mercy, but that ain’t the point,” said Uncle Morty.
“I’ll bite. What’s the point? I’ve got to call the FBI before Mom wakes up or it’s going to be ugly.”
Uncle Morty crossed his arms over his belly. “Read it again. If you don’t get it quick, I’ll think you’re a moron.”
“You already think I’m a moron,” I said.
“But now I’ll have proof.”
I rolled my eyes, put the fresh ice pack to my mouth, and read the kind of stuff that made your eyes want to bleed. I knew there were sick people out there, but this stuff was beyond what I’d seen in Dad’s files or my worst imaginings. It was a straight up horror show in print.
It took me about ten minutes and the feeling that came with it was nothing short of nauseating. “I got it,” I said.
Fats looked over my shoulder. “All I’ve got is the urge to vomit.”
“That, too, but I’ve got why the FBI wanted to keep my dad away from the Unsubs at all costs.”
She shrugged. “Because they dropped the ball.”
“That wasn’t enough. Dad works with the FBI. He wouldn’t go public and throw them under the bus even if he found out. He’d just go to work catching the Unsubs. It’s what he does.”
“Unless…” said Uncle Morty.
I pointed to my name on the screen. “Unless he found out that the FBI knew I was a target and said nothing. They were in those initial chats with Nightmaster. He said he wanted to rape me and literally skin me alive. Did they warn Dad, me, the local cops? Hell no, they didn’t. If Dad found that out, he’d throw them under the bus so fast, they’d never see it coming.”
“And there it is,” said Grandad. “Those bastards. They knew what was coming our way and they sat on it.”
Uncle Morty muttered curse words and pink tinged his cheeks. “Time to call the FBI.”
Hatchet Nose walked in. “No need. We’re here. Did you get something from Blankenship?”
“Hell, yeah, she did. Look at her.”
“I meant, besides the bite.” He walked over to the window and leaned on the sill, crossing his arms. It was an attempt to appear casual and it failed. He was so stiff I was surprised his joints didn’t creak. “What possessed you to do that? You know what Blankenship is.”
I lowered my ice pack and he winced. “Better than anyone, but it was worth it.”
“The consensus is that he passed you something. How about telling me what it was?”
“Oh, I will, but I want my father back and I don’t mean in a week. I mean tonight.”
Hatchet Nose smiled. “Fine by me, but you should know they’ve cut me and Harwood from the investigation in Kansas completely. We’ve been put on background checks that are supposed to have something to do with it, but they clearly don’t.”
“Are you asking me to get you back in?” I asked.
“Can you?”
“Possibly. Can you get through to whoever is making the decision to hold my dad?”
“Without a doubt. That is, if you’ve got something,” he said. “Concrete evidence would be a plus.”
“Tell your superiors that I’ve found what they’re trying to conceal,” I said with a slight smile. It hurt so much more since the whole hand over the mouth thing.
“And what would that be?”
“Oh, no. You get nothing right now. I want my father out of custody and on a spiffy FBI plane tonight. Preferably within two hours. I’m sure they can swing that.”
“A private plane? That’s a big demand,” said Hatchet Nose.
“Not a private plane. An FBI plane.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Trust me. There’s a difference,” I said.
“This had better be good,” said Hatchet Nose.
“It is. Tell them if Tommy Watts isn’t at his wife’s bedside tonight, I’m going to call everyone who ever interviewed him, from The New York Times to the Sacramento Bee, and give them my evidence. It’s in black and white and shit storm won’t begin to describe the fallout. There will be lawsuits.”
Hatchet Nose steepled his hands, rhythmically tapping his fingers together. “Why would they believe you?”
“Just tell them that the Nightmaster had plenty to say,” I said, putting my ice pack to my chin.
“The Nightmaster?”
“He’s an interesting guy. You’d hate him.”
The finger tapping got faster. “You’ve got evidence of more crimes and the Bureau knew about them?”
I just nodded.
“Shit.”
We all just looked at him. There would be no freebies.
“I want first crack, me and Harwood. This fiasco has done nothing for my career.”
“How much will it hurt you?” asked Grandad.
“I’m on background checks like I screwed something up. I could stay there indefinitely.”
Grandad stood up and began pacing. “That’s not my granddaughter’s concern. It’s your people who pulled this crap.”
“I’m aware, but if I’m in, really in, I can keep you in the loop. I’m sure that, from his reputation, Mr. Watts will want in.”
“If he decides not to drop the dime on your people.”
“Assuming that,” said Hatchet Nose.
My phone rang and it was Pete calling to say that Tiny was still in surgery. The damage was extensive. They had to resect his colon, remove a lobe of his liver, and inflate a collapsed lung. He lost three liters of blood. Considering it happened in the hospital, he absolutely would’ve died had he not been. Pete said everyone felt good about his chances.
Then Pete said he’d put in a painkiller prescription for me. I protested, but he said I should take it or sleeping would be difficult. I agreed just because it was easier than arguing. I wasn’t the fan of painkillers that the rest of the world seemed to be. I could get by with Motrin.
Everyone watched me, tense and fearful as I hung up. I gave them the update as cheerfully as possible, but it didn’t seem to help.
Fats sat down beside me, her face unreadable. “When can I see him?”
“When he comes out of recovery. He’ll go to the ICU. You can see him there.”
“I’m not family,” she said, a glint of tears in her amber eyes.
Uncle Morty looked up from his screen. “This mess is a lawsuit waiting to happen. They’ll make a damn exception.”
“You think so?”
“I’ll make sure,” he said, more kindly than I’d ever heard him.
“I guess I’d better call Aunt Willasteen,” I said. “She and Tiny’s mom might not be on a plane yet.”
Aunt Miriam marched in. “I’ll call Willasteen. How is Tiny?”
I told her and she dialed her phone, getting the wrong number three times. I knew she couldn’t answer the phone half the time, but the dialing problem was new. I got up, dialed the phone, and waited with a wince for Aunt Willasteen to answer. Nothing was easy when it came to Tiny’s aunt.
“Willasteen Plaskett,” she said stiffly.
“Hi, Aunt Willasteen, it’s Mercy. Tiny’s doing well in surgery. It’s looking good. Here’s Aunt Miriam.” I pushed the phone at Aunt Miriam as Aunt Willasteen protested, “Don’t give me to that old bat.”
“Old bat?” asked Aunt Miriam. “You’re six months older than me.”
She walked into the hall, arguing about how premature Aunt Willasteen really was and how it didn’t make a difference in their respective ages in any case.
Fats’ eyes had grown large. “Tiny said Aunt Willasteen’s his favorite relative, aside from his mother.”
“She is,” I said.
“But she sounds…”
“Like a nightmare? She is. Think of her as another Aunt Miriam, just with an accent and superior cooking skills.”
“Whoa.”
“Tell me about it. Having them in the same room again is going to be interesting and possibly bloody.”
Hatchet Nose waved at me. “Are you going help us get back on the case or not?”
“Not,” said Grandad. “Why should she?”
“Actually,” I said, “I don’t mind giving him first crack. Somebody has to get the info and I’d rather have him than some douche, who might bury it. I have one condition.”
“Your father coming home. I know,” he said.
“Yes, but I want Gansa and Gordon on it with you.”
He blanched. “They’re practically rookies with zero experience. They might be morons.”
“The FBI doesn’t hire morons and I kinda want to help them.”
“Why, for crying out loud?”
I shrugged. “It’s a Watts thing. You wouldn’t understand, because even I don’t.”
“Alright. Me, Harwood, and a couple of wet behind the ears rookies,” he muttered, leaving the room with his phone to his ear.
Grandad shook a prescription bottle at me. “When do you take these again?”
“I just took it.”
“The swelling is worse. Maybe you should take another for good measure.”
“That’s not how it works, Grandad,” I said. “Every six hours will be fine.”
He wasn’t convinced and looked to Fats for backup. “It is worse, right?”
Fats glanced at me. “I don’t know. I guess.”
I sat down and asked, “What?”
“You were right and I didn’t believe you,” she said.
“I don’t get to hear that very often. Right about what?”
“The cat. You said something terrible would happen and it did—to Tiny.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but of course, she was right. Tiny was family, not to mention from New Orleans, the origin of the cat. It made sense that he would be included in the feline warning system.
“What cat?” asked Uncle Morty.
I rolled my eyes and told him about the latest appearance of Blackie, not an hour before Tiny was nearly stabbed to death. Grandad and Uncle Morty claimed it was a coincidence and I was so tired of people denying things that I’d seen with my own two eyes that I didn’t bother to argue. The cat wasn’t real. Fine. Whatever.
