The dog came after her arm!
Her fingers brushed the weapon’s handstock.
The jaws opened. White teeth. A dark throat.
She grabbed hold of the gun—she had it!
The dog took a piece of her arm.
The gun snagged on the wire and bounced back inside. Lost.
The vibration stopped. He was here!
The dogs circled their cages.
She had to hide!
She crossed over to the food pen. The guard dog would have to be released in order to return things as they were before.
The flashlight!
She retrieved the flashlight, placed the shovel back, and ran to the far cage where Felix was still feeding. From outside came the high-pitched whine of a car engine revving.
She swung open the cage door and ducked in behind it as the dog spun and charged out.
Sharon shook her cage savagely and briefly diverted the dog’s attention away from Daphne, who came around the door and pulled it shut, closing herself inside.
She switched off the flashlight and hid herself between the columns of stacked dog food bags.
There was a tremendous crash.
Edlen Tegg’s Trooper broke through the far end of the kennel, blowing a six-foot hole in the wall. He left the headlights on as he climbed out, carrying an oversized pistol that it took Daphne a moment to recognize as a dart gun.
The dogs went absolutely silent.
Daphne’s ears were ringing as Tegg said calmly to Sharon Shaffer, “I’m back!”
He glanced quickly and nervously around the structure, waving the dart gun before him. “I see we had a visitor while I was gone. Hmm?” He spun around and faced the Trooper and the headlights, worried that his adversary might attack him from the gaping hole the car had caused. “Off for reinforcements or waiting for me? Hmm?” He remained extremely distracted, jerking his head back and forth between Sharon and the Trooper. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked Sharon, inching toward her cage. “Come on, come on, come on,” he encouraged, waving her forward in the cage, clearly intending her for his hostage—for cover. “Hurry!”
He was forced to switch the dart gun to his right hand while he fished for the key, and this made him extremely nervous. He waved the oversized pistol around, attempting to cover both sides of the car. Paranoid.
He managed to get the key in the lock. “Stay!” he directed Felix as the dog edged toward freedom. “Heel!” he commanded. The dog obeyed, though cautiously. Tegg removed the lock, grabbed the collar’s remote wand, and shocked Sharon immediately.
Daphne lost sight of Sharon briefly as she fell back to the cement.
“Disconnect the I.V.,” Tegg directed, “needle and all.”
She obeyed. He shocked her again, apparently to weaken her; and she looked weakened, although Daphne had seen her take much more than this by grabbing hold of the fence. A ruse?
He shocked her yet again. “You’ll do exactly as I say,” he commanded. She nodded eagerly. “Good. We’re going to get in the car, you in front of me. You’ll be weak on your feet, but you must not fall. Hmm? I’ll punish you,” he said, tripping the warning button. She nodded.
He opened the cage.
Sharon moved tentatively forward.
“We’re going away,” he said. “It’s better this way, anyway,” he added.
Daphne glanced across at her gun: a second or two to get out of this cage, another one or two to cross the aisle. Yet another to go for the gun. Five seconds at the least, possibly longer—an eternity for that guard dog.
A lifetime, she thought.
Without that dog in the equation, she could take on Tegg by herself. Hand-to-hand if necessary. But the dog swung the equation heavily in his favor. Even so, if they made it to the car, Sharon was gone. Everything lost.
Sharon came out of the cage. Daphne could feel her pain as she forced herself to stand. She took one tentative step forward. Tegg, carrying the remote in one hand, the dart pistol in the other, followed her slowly. “Doing fine,” he said.
Daphne went for it.
She leapt forward, wormed her fingers through the chain link and opened the latch. She swung the door open and dove across the center aisle, shoving her arm beneath the chain link and straight into the opposing pen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tegg’s reaction. Her hand groped for the gun. The pit bull attacked, but this time she got the safety off and fired. The dog squealed and retreated.
Daphne freed the gun and turned in time to aim at the guard dog, who skidded to a stop as Tegg hollered, “Sit!” He had Sharon by the neck, using her as a screen, the dart gun aimed around her. He was at a disadvantage here: He had but one shot, and it wouldn’t kill her immediately. His only trump was Sharon.
That dog was aching to charge.
Tegg dragged Sharon toward an adjacent cage.
Two dogs? Daphne thought. “Don’t do it!” she advised, her attention split between the guard dog, only a few feet from her, and its master.
His hand groped for the latch—he too, knew that two dogs were nearly impossible to stop.
“Don’t!” she warned, switching her aim from Tegg to the dog in front of her.
“Would you actually shoot a dog?” he asked.
She shot Felix dead. Once to drop him. Once more to finish him off.
Tegg cried loudly in protest, “You killed him!” He stared down at the dog in disbelief and repeated it.
“Take your hand off that cage,” she instructed.
He obeyed.
Good, they were getting somewhere. She added up her previous shots—five outside, one in the pen, two for the guard dog: eight—only to realize she had but one bullet left. But Tegg didn’t know that.
She raised the gun and aimed it directly at Tegg.
Sharon wrestled to get free.
“No!” Tegg ordered.
Two years ago, Daphne had been in the clutches of a madman, Boldt with the gun. Now the roles were reversed. She faced up to the reality of killing Tegg. She glanced down at the poor dog. God! It was still alive! Its paw twitched.
“What’s the use?” she asked Tegg. She had to get him talking now. She resorted to negotiation, the only solution she knew to such a standoff. “What if my partner’s outside?”
The headlights almost blinded her. Could she get off a clean shot?
“Then he’s a little bit slow,” Tegg said.
“Slow?” she asked. “How long for whatever’s in that toy to take effect?” she asked, indicating the dart pistol. “This is no toy,” she said, placing her other hand onto the Beretta, prepared to risk a kill shot to the head. It was a tricky shot, easy to miss even in the best light, the most controlled environment. But no matter what, he wasn’t going to put Sharon into that car with him.
“The dog is still alive,” she said, “you can help him.”
“You’ve struck a lung. He will suffocate on his own blood. Finish him.”
“You can still save him, Doctor. Let Sharon go,” she advised. It was a good distance for a head shot—the light was bad, but the distance good.
She couldn’t hold the gun up like this much longer. It grew heavy quickly. But with it lowered to her side, she’d have no chance of hitting him cleanly. She kept it elevated. “Tell me about Thomas Kent,” she said, using the name of the man he had killed on the operating table in medical school.
Stunned, he loosened his hold on Sharon.
Daphne took another step forward. Another few feet and she could risk the head shot.
“You’re a wicked little woman, aren’t you?” he said, raising his own weapon. “It was you with Pamela, wasn’t it? Of course it was. You killed her, you know? Without you, she would still be alive.”
The news of Pamela’s death shocked Daphne, and his attempt to stick her with guilt worked, for she understood she had pushed Pamela hard—too hard?—knowingly.
She was going to lose the gun—she couldn’t hold it up any longer. If she lowered it, he wo
uld shoot her.
Sharon winked her one good eye and looked down.
Only then did Daphne notice the needle in her hand.
Sharon leaned her head back against Tegg and looked up at him. Briefly, he glanced down at her.
She grinned through the leather muzzle and drove the needle into Tegg’s eye. Sharon broke loose.
Daphne fired, but missed wildly, as Tegg dropped the dart gun and reached for the needle. He extricated it with an ear-piercing shriek and reached for the shovel. He leveled it once onto Sharon, who had fallen and was crawling toward the car. She buckled with the blow.
Daphne dove at him. He swung the shovel at her and caught her sideways, splaying her against the cage, but lost his balance. He raised it again—this time aiming to come down on Daphne’s head.
Daphne seized hold of the dart gun.
The shovel reached its apex. Next stop … He was sure to crush her skull.
Summoning the last of her resolve, Sharon sprang the few feet across the cement, going for his legs—one hand slid under his pant leg as the other groped for, and found, the electric fence.
The charge surged through her—through them both—and she would not let go. The buzzer on her collar cried out. Tegg went rigid and with the pain, the shovel suspended above him. Eyes white. Jaws locked open in what began as a silent scream and then turned deafening.
Daphne squeezed the trigger and fired.
The dart gun went off with a dull pop. The white cottony rabbit’s tail protruded from Tegg’s chest where the dart lodged.
“No!” he screamed, scooting backwards on the cement, as if he could get away from it. Escape it. Only he knew what drug that dart contained. He pulled it out and dropped it onto the cement prior to the first convulsion. “Too much!” he said frantically, knowing the dosage, terrified, staring into Daphne’s eyes as if she could help him. “Too much! Too much!” His whole body jumped. Waves of the convulsions passed through him. “Too much!” he repeated, jolted again. But then his mouth wouldn’t move. His eyes remained fixed open. Dead? or a result of the drug? His body went limp, then rigid, in an increasing series of convulsions. It stopped completely.
Daphne dragged herself over to Sharon and rolled her over.
She was hemorrhaging.
60
Daphne rode with her in the helicopter, though the paramedic protested against it, claiming there were rules to follow. Once airborne though, he kept trying to treat Daphne as well, but she wouldn’t have any of it.
Daphne held Sharon’s hand. It was cold, and she worried she knew what that meant.
Several times, a strange weightless feeling passed over Daphne and she wondered each time whether it was the helicopter or Sharon’s spirit leaving her body. She would glance at the medic, and he in turn at the various monitors, and he would offer a thumbs-up, and again she would wonder: Does that mean she’s gone up, or she’s okay?
She wasn’t sure exactly what Sharon hoped for in life, and she thought that tragic, because she would have wished it for her if only she knew. What do any of us wish for that really matters? She mused. And she answered herself: another day.
“One more day.”
“What?” the paramedic shouted over the roar of the blades.
Daphne waved him off.
He gave her another thumbs-up. She wanted to break that thumb off.
She leaned in closely and whispered words she knew Sharon was certain to understand: “One day at a time.” She waited to feel some kind of response. A squeeze on her hand perhaps. But there was nothing.
Did these monitors know what they were doing? she wondered. Just what exactly were they monitoring?
“Almost there,” he shouted at her.
I know, Daphne thought, looking at Sharon’s face. She pulled Sharon’s hands to her lips and kissed them.
FRIDAY
February 10
61
Dr. Ronald Dixon, cloaked in a surgical smock, recited his actions as he worked on Tegg’s dead body.
Boldt tuned out the autopsy details. As lead detective, his presence was required by law—but no one said he had to pay attention.
It was three in the morning, an unusual time for such a procedure, but Dixie had rallied without complaint. There were six people in the Medical Examiner’s waiting room, more expected. Boldt felt thrilled at such a turnout. The world wasn’t such a bad place when you knew the right people.
The heat from the overhead light felt like that of a hot sun. It shone down on the naked body. There was nothing pretty about this sight. Bleached skin, pieces of it folded open. Technical words spoken in an unbroken litany. Death reduced to detail.
He had found the three of them in the Quonset hut only minutes after the shooting.
There were more ambulances, a coroner’s wagon, crime scene crews—even a fire engine, though no one knew why. The road became impassable. Two tow trucks had been called into service.
Sharon Shaffer had suffered not only a hemorrhage but a ruptured kidney from the blow of the shovel, leaving her without a backup. She had lost a great deal of blood.
A sticker on the back of Elden Tegg’s driver’s license indicated he was an organ donor. Blood type: AB-negative.
Of the people in the waiting room, one was a woman from the Lion’s Eye Bank. Two were part of a lung team that had flown up from Portland. But to Boldt’s thinking, the most important was the kidney specialist from the U—Tegg’s kidney was destined for Sharon Shaffer.
A cardiac crew was en route from Spokane.
Over the next three hours, Elden Tegg would make his final contributions.
“I hate autopsies,” said Boldt.
Dixie said, “Just wait until we open those plastic bags.”
“Me? No way.” Boldt found his first smile in a long while. “I’ve saved that for LaMoia.”
TUESDAY
February 14
Valentine’s Day
62
Daphne suggested lunch on Bainbridge Island and Boldt agreed, with Liz’s blessings, in part to try to talk her out of quitting. He brought Miles along in a stroller. She accused him of bringing his child as a chaperon, and he allowed that this was partly true. She limped from her bad leg. She wore a blue rain jacket, the kind a backpacker would wear, blue jeans, and two-tone leather deck shoes with rawhide laces. She wore no scarf around her neck, allowing the scar to show, and Boldt knew this was a different woman.
“What’s this about a job offer? I thought we were a team.”
She didn’t answer that. The ferry horn sounded. Miles started crying. Daphne walked over to the rail and looked out across the textured expanse of gray-green water. The city grew progressively smaller behind them. A beautiful skyline and rolling hills covered in toy houses. Boldt and Miles joined her at the rail.
She watched the horizon; he watched her. Miles played with some plastic balls attached to the stroller. This thing was the BMW of strollers. Liz had picked it out after exhaustive research.
“We bought a piano,” Boldt said, though he didn’t tell her why, not exactly. That reminded him that there were things they hid from each other now, and that was okay. He said, “You get me on the force, and then you quit. That’s hardly fair. Shoswitz would cry foul.”
She spoke just loudly enough to be heard above the wind and the constant vibration of the engines. “She rejected the kidney.”
“Considering the source,” he joked, “can you blame her?”
“She’s on a list now. Number five on a list.”
“I know that,” he said soberly.
“What if she’s too far down the list? Did she live through all that, just to die?”
“Her? She’s a fighter, Daffy.”
She nodded faintly and whispered, “This was why he was in business in the first place.”
“If anyone can beat this—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupted. “You sound just like Dr. Light Horse.”
“Well, maybe she’s right.”
Five seagulls flew just off the rail. Miles pointed. One of the passengers threw a piece of a Hostess Cupcake at them.
“Even seagulls are subjected to junk food,” Boldt said to her. But she didn’t smile. She didn’t even seem to notice. “I brought a kite along,” he tried. She stared off.
He said, “Did Einstein tell you about the fish for the kite?”
“He didn’t have to. I can smell it.”
“It’s an old trick of mine. I’m full of tricks. Mostly old ones.” She didn’t smile at this either. So he had lost his touch. Another sign of change. Or age. Or both. “Even if we should lose her, Daffy, she’s made a difference. She has touched hundreds of lives at The Shelter, more since this story broke. Organ banks have been flooded with donors. With more organs, people like Tegg are out of business. That was her doing. You can’t knock that. We should all have that kind of effect.” He added, “Not that we’re going to lose her.”
“I love you,” she said, still looking at the horizon. “As a friend,” she added, smiling for the first time.
“Likewise. Always will.”
“Think so?”
“Know so.”
“Once she’s better,” she said strongly, “I’m off to London for this new job. Hostage negotiator.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I may stay over there. I don’t know. Have you ever been to London?”
“The way it works,” he said, bending toward his bag and hoping that she hadn’t heard his voice catch, “is that you get the kite up good and high. You get it way the hell up there. Then you tie the fish to the line and take up some slack and toss the fish overboard. The drag on the fish in the water supports the line and flies the kite. The kite sails out to sea all by itself. Sometimes for hours. Maybe for days.”
“I know you’re mad about me quitting,” she said.
“We can try it off the stern. The wind is best there.”
The Angel Maker Page 35
