Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  “Please, ma’am. We drove all the way from Davenport in this weather, and the only reason we’re late is because many of the roads are so bad. I know it’s an inconvenience, but it’s very important we see our aunt today. We understand her condition is quite serious. We’re her only relatives. I know it would mean so much to her recovery if she could chat with us for a while. Couldn’t you let us in? Please?”

  While Jennifer kept the nurse occupied, Kearns checked the monitors. Listed by room number were patients in varying conditions of medical distress. Under the monitor labeled ICU #3, he saw Elizabeth Slocum. She lay propped up in bed with an oxygen tube in her nose and a drain tube extending from one side of her chest. She appeared asleep.

  Kearns left Jennifer to argue with the nurse and scanned the corridor. Room #1 was to his immediate front. Two doors down, he saw a tall man in his late thirties. The man had a military haircut and was wearing a blue suit and tasseled loafers. His right hip bulged only slightly under the fabric of his coat.

  Kearns recognized the man immediately as a federal agent. He saw no others, but wondered if the agent’s partner lurked nearby, out of sight. Though not perfect, it was better than he’d hoped.

  Turning back to the nurse’s station, Kearns looked at the video monitors again. In the room adjacent to Elizabeth Slocum’s was an extremely old woman. She looked at least ninety. Her mouth was slightly parted and her eyes were closed. Like Elizabeth Slocum, she had an oxygen tube in her nose and appeared to be asleep.

  He turned his gaze quickly to the wall behind the nurse’s station. Jennifer was still pleading with the nurse. On the wall was a series of clipboards. These were arranged in order by room number. At the top of the chart labeled Room #2 was the name Hapworth, Margaret A.

  He interrupted Jennifer. “Ma’am, we’d sure like to see Aunt Hapworth. We don’t want to be a bother, but it would mean so much to the both of us.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened and she kicked him under the desk. Turning to Kearns, she said, “Edward, can I have a word?”

  Kearns smiled at the nurse and said, “Excuse us a moment.”

  Taking him aside, Jennifer asked, “What’s the matter with you? We’re not here to see anybody named Hapworth. We’re here to see Elizabeth Slocum. Dad was very specific about that. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Take a look,” he said, pointing down the corridor. “You see that sharp-dresser at the end of the hall, in front of room three? He’s not there to deliver flowers. He’s FBI, and he’s obviously been posted to guard Slocum’s room. We’re not going to get past him with any sob story about visiting our elderly aunt. I’ve got an idea. Trust me, OK?”

  “The hell I will. Dad calls up and begs for a favor. I haven’t seen him in over a year. So I drive from Lincoln to Omaha in the middle of final exams, to see my dad, and what does he want? What’s the favor? He wants me to break you out of jail. Then he wants me to break into a hospital. And now I’m apparently about to get arrested by the FBI. I won’t do it. I’m not going along with any more of these crazy schemes. Now I know why Mom divorced him.”

  “Honey, it’s OK,” Kearns cooed, trying to keep her voice down. “If we can’t see Aunt Maggie, then we can’t see Aunt Maggie. That’s all there is to it. This nice nurse has done all she can. There’s nothing more we can do. Let’s not get upset, OK? C’mon, let’s go get a hotel room and come back in the morning.”

  He led Jennifer by the arm towards the elevator. They’d taken only a few steps when the nurse called out to them.

  “Hold on, folks. I can let you see your aunt, but only for a few minutes. I could get in big trouble for this.”

  “Thank you,” Kearns said sincerely. “You don’t know how much this means to us. We’ll only be a minute or two.”

  “She’s in room number two,” the nurse said. “Down the hall to your right. Only a few minutes, OK?”

  “Thank you very much,” Kearns repeated. “C’mon honey; aren’t you anxious to see your aunt?”

  Jennifer smiled pleasantly until out of the nurse’s view. Then she scowled at the deputy and snarled, “Don’t honey me, you jerk. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Of course I know what I’m doing. Your old man taught me.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  They walked into Critical Care Unit room number two and approached the bed of Margaret Hapworth. Kearns whispered into Jennifer’s ear.

  “Listen carefully, because I haven’t got time to say this more than once. I want you to act like you’re crying, and then go down to the elevator and get in. I want you to go to the first floor. Wait exactly five minutes, and then pull the fire alarm. Then go outside, get the car, and be ready to scram when I come out.”

  Jennifer stared at him in horror. “You want me to pull the fire alarm in a hospital? In December? Are you mad? They throw you in jail for that! It would endanger the patients! I won’t do it.”

  Margaret Hapworth snoozed on her bed, oblivious to the argument raging in her room. Kearns grabbed Jennifer by the arms and forced her to look into his eyes.

  “Listen to me. I appreciate you getting me out of jail, but you’d better grow up. I don’t like pulling these stunts any more than you, but somebody has to. Vernon Slocum has got to be found and stopped. He kills little kids and hangs them in trees. That woman next door might know where he’s going to strike next. I’m going to do everything within my power to stop him. I’m not going to let Slocum get another kid. Are you with me, or not?”

  Jennifer Farrell said nothing. After a few seconds she nodded weakly, still looking into Kearns’ blazing eyes. He relaxed his grip on her shoulders.

  “Get going. Give me five minutes, then pull the fire alarm. I expect to see you when I come out.”

  She wordlessly turned and left.

  Kearns tossed his overcoat over the video camera mounted in one corner of the room. He then focused his attention on the intricate medical apparatus consuming one entire wall. Tubes and hoses from several of the machinery’s outlets were attached to various parts of Margaret Hapworth’s body.

  Reaching down and grabbing a handful of these cords, Kearns said, “I’m sorry, Ms Hapworth, but I have to do this. You’ll be OK; you’re in the Critical Care Center, and they’ll take care of you. But I need a diversion, and you’re all I’ve got.”

  If Margaret Hapworth heard him, she didn’t show it. He shrugged, and pulled several cords from the life-support machine.

  A cacophony of alarms, buzzers, and bells filled the room. Kearns ran into the hall and began yelling frantically.

  “Help! My aunt’s dying! Help! Emergency! Help!”

  Several nurses came running from different directions. The FBI agent came running too. They checked the apparatus, as well as Margaret Hapworth, who looked the same as she did before the crisis. The room filled with people.

  Kearns took a second to ensure the FBI man was watching the event in room number two. Satisfied, he sneaked from Hapworth’s room into the adjacent one.

  Elizabeth Slocum was propped in a sitting position to drain her punctured lung. Kearns ran over and shook her gently by the shoulder.

  “Ms Slocum,” he said softly. “Wake up. Please, wake up. It’s very important.”

  Gradually Elizabeth’s eyes opened and she looked at Kearns, recognition coming an instant later. Her eyes widened.

  “You,” she said faintly. Kearns put his ear close to Slocum’s mouth to hear her. Her breathing was extremely shallow.

  “Yes,” Kearns said. “I was at your house yesterday. I’m a cop. I was there looking for your brother, Vernon.”

  “…ank you for not leaving me,” she whispered.

  “Save your strength. I need to know where your brother Cole is. We think Vernon is going after Cole next, like he went after you. Where is he? You must tell me where we can find him.”

  She nodded, swallowing hard. He knew it was hard for her to speak, but he didn’t have much time. He pressed his ear
closer to her mouth.

  “Address book,” she said, barely audible.

  “What address book? Where is it?”

  Elizabeth’s face contorted in pain and she struggled to get the words out. “Kitchen,” she said at last.

  “Where is Cole? Do you know?”

  Elizabeth nodded again. Her hand reached out and took Kearns’ hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She squeezed tightly as she spoke.

  “…alifornia. In California.”

  Elizabeth’s face was beet red, and Kearns worried the strain of speaking was hurting her. He started to get up. She pulled him back.

  “Name,” she said, pulling him nearer. “His name...”

  She had to stop. Her breath came in wheezing gasps. Kearns wasn’t sure what she was trying to communicate, but it was obviously important.

  “What do you mean, ‘name’? Did Cole change his name? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Once again, Elizabeth Slocum nodded. She was almost at the point of complete exhaustion.

  Kearns squeezed her hand, hard. “Come on, Elizabeth, stay with me. Tell me Cole’s name. I’ve got to know his name.”

  “…alentine,” she gasped, coughing.

  “Valentine? Did you say Valentine?” He was running out of time.

  Slocum shook her head, choking back a cough. “…alentine,” was all he could make out.

  “Come on, Elizabeth, I need more. Give it to me. Is it Valentine?”

  Slocum took a deep and raspy inhale. Straining with all her dwindling might, she forced out her words.

  “B-Ballantine.”

  Kearns grinned from ear to ear. “Gotcha,” he said. He kissed her on the forehead. He was standing up to leave when he saw her expression change to astonishment. He spun around to see the tall FBI man walk into the room.

  Both men made eye contact. The Fed acted.

  The federal agent swept aside his coat with a practiced movement of his right hand and began to draw a blue steel revolver from a holster on his hip.

  Kearns threw the bouquet of roses in the Fed’s face and leaped, catching him around the waist in a flying low-tackle. He pinned the man’s arms to his sides. Both men went crashing to the floor, white rose petals filling the air. Kearns rolled off the larger man as the agent tucked both knees and kicked, and narrowly avoided having his teeth caved in. Both men struggled to their feet.

  Kearns reached out a left and grabbed the agent’s right hand, as the Fed was clearing his revolver from its holster. He twisted the gun hand inward, and punched the FBI man a quick jab to the face. The revolver clattered to the floor.

  The FBI man staggered back and shook his head, then squared off. Kearns was in a relaxed stance, his right fist cocked and his left open in a blade. The Fed was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, and Kearns was alert to the possibility of his opponent’s skill in martial arts. Sure enough, the Fed faked a punch, and when Kearns reacted his right leg darted out and kicked Kearns directly in the ribs. The kick missed the solar plexus. Had it not, the fight would have been over.

  Kearns ignored the stabbing pain in his side. That his opponent was more than a match for him in unarmed combat was certain. Kearns remembered a lesson he’d learned during hand-to-hand combat training at Fort Benning.

  As a recruit in Advanced Infantry Training he’d been taught if the fight lasted more than a few seconds, you were dead. Your adversary would spread an alarm. Therefore you must ignore pain, attack, and overcome your opponent’s greater strength or skill with aggression and savagery. Be relentless. Attack or die.

  Kearns let out a guttural howl and charged the FBI agent. The Fed struck out another kick, but Kearns barely felt it. He threw a hard right and took the larger man square on the jaw. Both men went to the floor again with the deputy on top.

  The federal agent simultaneously covered his throat and groin. Kearns continued to scream in a primordial manner, and head-butted the agent repeatedly in the face.

  The stitches on the left side of Kearns’ head ripped open, and his own blood flowed down his face. The agent threw him off and regained his feet, but he could tell by the stiff manner in which he rose that he was stunned. It was no time to relent, and Kearns charged again.

  The Fed threw another karate kick, but this one was slow, and Kearns caught the leg. He trapped the man’s foot in his left elbow and stepped back, pulling the agent off balance. He hit the man as hard a right as he’d ever thrown, directly in the groin. Still screaming, he hit him two more times, the last shot to the jaw. The FBI man crumpled to the floor and was still.

  Kearns wiped the blood out of his left eye and looked up. Three nurses were standing in the doorway, aghast. Kearns stumbled over to where the agent’s gun had fallen and retrieved it. It was a standard FBI-issue Smith & Wesson Model 13 with a three-inch barrel, and wore Pachmayr grips. He tucked the gun in his waistband.

  His side was an explosion of pain. It was a sure bet the federal agent bruised or cracked at least one of his ribs. More people began filling the doorway, blocking his exit. He was trapped.

  Suddenly the deafening sound of a klaxon filled the halls. The fire alarm! Jennifer did it! The group blocking the doorway was momentarily distracted by the blaring horn. Seizing his chance, Kearns ducked his head and charged through the group of people blocking the doorway.

  Several hands tried to grab him, but he rammed his body through. He sprinted to the exit by the nurses’ station. A large male nurse tried to block his path, but Kearns brushed his hands aside and brought him down with an uppercut to the gut. The impact from the punch sent shivers of pain through Kearns’ ribs. He grimaced and continued his flight.

  Kearns knew with the fire alarm activated the elevator would be inoperative. He ran to the stairs and found the stairway crowded with people. He shoved them aside and made his descent.

  He finally reached the ground floor. Bursting from the stairwell with shouted obscenities in his ears, he pushed past the throngs and ran into the parking lot. The lot was filled with hospital employees and patients who’d left the building in response to the alarm.

  Kearns wiped more blood from his left eye and searched for Jennifer. Her car wasn’t in sight. People were beginning to take notice of him; a disheveled man with a torn coat and blood on his face.

  Faintly, over the deafening roar of the fire klaxon, came the tiny sound of a car horn. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw Jennifer’s Volkswagen Jetta on the street outside the lot. He sprinted towards the car.

  He found the passenger door unlocked and piled into the car. Jennifer drove rapidly away from the hospital, the Jetta’s tires skidding on the icy road.

  When several blocks away, she looked over at Kearns. He was clutching his side and wincing. Blood ran down his face.

  “What happened? You look like hell. Do you need a doctor?”

  “I’m OK,” Kearns rasped. “Besides, we just left a hospital. Get us to the hotel; I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. Did you get what you were after?”

  “I’m not sure. I think so, but I won’t know until I talk with your dad. It’ll depend on what he got.”

  “Hopefully whatever he gets won’t have him looking like you do. You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m alright,” he said, unconvincingly. “It was a piece of cake.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Farrell strolled leisurely down the street, the puppy tugging mightily on its leash. He’d visited this neighborhood before; yesterday, in fact.

  Farrell acquired the dog at the Omaha Animal Shelter earlier in the morning. It was a black Labrador, and no more than a few months old. He selected it because it was the only dog in the shelter that didn’t bark constantly. The lady at the facility gave him a certification for the dog’s shots and a nylon cord woven into a leash.

  Farrell walked up to Elizabeth Slocum’s house. The last time he’d been there Elizabeth lay bleeding on her front lawn, and he and Kevin were
locked in combat with Vernon Slocum.

  He looked around, whistling. There were no other pedestrians about, and no one seemed to be peering from any of the windows nearby.

  Farrell walked past the front door and down the driveway to the rear of the house. He acted as if he were the owner and did this on a daily basis. He went directly to the back door and let go of the leash, saying, “Stay,” in a loud whisper. The dog complied.

  Farrell was wearing thick winter gloves and he punched his fist through the glass pane of the back door. Reaching his hand through, he unlocked the knob from the inside. A moment later he and the Labrador were safely inside Elizabeth Slocum’s house.

  He went directly to the kitchen. Most people kept telephones there, and subsequently address books. He located the phone, and sure enough, a small vinyl address book was beneath it. He checked the bedroom next, using a flashlight he’d brought for the occasion. There was nothing near the phone but a stack of magazines. He figured he’d better not press his luck and headed for the back door.

  He found the puppy sitting as he’d left it. He’d gotten the puppy as a prop in case a cop or federal agent was watching the house. He would claim to be out walking his dog, and in fact walked back and forth in front of the house several times before approaching.

  Farrell pocketed the address book and stowed his flashlight. Taking hold of the leash, he started to walk the dog out through the front door and back to his car. He’d parked the Oldsmobile on the other side of the park. He didn’t want to get caught in the cul-de-sac if there was someone staking out the house.

  But the dog wouldn’t budge. The Labrador instead exhibited a low, steady growl. Farrell was instantly alert. He’d had the dog almost the entire day, and it hadn’t made a sound. Now his ears were back, and pointing a wet nose at the rear door.

  Listening carefully, Farrell could hear the crunch of footsteps in the snow outside the house. Feds. He knew it was optimistic to think they wouldn’t be staking out Slocum’s house, especially after the bloodbath yesterday. The footsteps made steady progress along the side of the garage, the same way he had come.