DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  She jumped out, slammed the door, ran around the hood, opened the back door and fumbled with the car-seat release. The red-faced kid shrieked and waved its tiny fists.

  “Wait in the shelter until a bus comes. Don’t call the cops. If you do, I will track you down and I will kill you and your kid.”

  She yanked the squalling kid out of the car seat, slammed the door and ran. He clambered over the center console into the driver’s seat and watched her, clutching the kid to her chest, probably thought she’d died and gone to heaven, rescuing her kid from the big scary man with the bloody forehead.

  Good riddance. He had bigger fish to fry. The Diva-bitch. He put the MPV in gear and touched his forehead. His fingers came away sticky with blood, and the merciless pain continued unabated. He pulled a Belinda CD out of his knapsack and put it in the disc player.

  Maybe Belinda and her magic flute would sooth his headache.

  The magic flute she would never play again.

  Vengeance was going to be sweet.

  _____

  She watched the rain pelt the window, pinging against the glass, felt her heart thump inside her chest. The doctor had given her a shot to make her sleep, but it wasn’t working. Every muscle in her body quivered with tension. She shut her eyes. Saw visions of Silverman. His ghastly shaven head. Those horrible lips. Those voracious eyes.

  She moaned into the pillow. She had escaped, but her beloved Haynes flute was back in that hellhole.

  Music had been the center of her world forever. During the dark days after the wrong-way driver decimated her family, music had kept her from self-destructing. Lonely and heartsick, she had even considered suicide. The music had saved her. She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t playing her flute. Nothing was more important to her.

  Until her life was at stake.

  Then, without hesitation, she had dropped her flute on the floor.

  Dropped it. On the floor. An unthinkable act. Until today.

  And now she was alive. She was in a hospital. Surrounded by people who cared about her, people like the doctor. She tried to remember the woman’s name but her brain was fried.

  Her eyes closed. She was safe now.

  Frank was right outside. Frank would protect her.

  CHAPTER 42

  He parked in a No-Parking zone near the side entrance of City Hospital and hopped out of the MPV. The torrential rain had slackened to a drizzle. Droplets of rain glistened on the green shrubbery beside the entrance, but the area behind them was dry, protected by the overhanging roof. He retrieved the knapsack from the MPV and hid it behind the shrubs. Hiding the Ruger behind his thigh, he mounted the steps to the glass double doors.

  He felt like Rambo. Rambo on a mission. Kill some cops, including Renzi, and make The Diva wish she’d never been born.

  He took the blood-soaked bandage out of his pocket, held it to his forehead and stepped inside. A uniformed security guard sat inside a glassed-in booth beside the door.

  “I need help,” he said, making it sound urgent.

  Without hesitation, the guard came out of the booth. And saw the gun.

  “Turn around and go out the door.”

  The guard’s eyes hardened. “Fuck you.”

  He slammed the Ruger against the bridge of the guard’s nose. The man reeled back, bounced off the wall and slid into a seated position. He clubbed him again, two hard blows to the head. The guard flopped sideways onto the floor. He ran outside and grabbed his knapsack and raced back inside.

  The guard lay motionless, eyes closed. Blood pooled on the gray-tile floor beneath his head. The wannabe-hero was down for the count.

  He loped down the hall to the lobby. Four women looked up, gaping at him. A woman with a towheaded toddler in her lap. Two black women, one pregnant, the other one older with kinky gray hair. A pasty-faced teenager slumped in a chair, obviously pregnant, reading a paperback novel.

  The woman behind the reception desk saw him and gasped.

  “Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt.” To the receptionist he said, “Where’s Belinda Scully?” Got back a rabbity look, the woman looking like she wanted to run, hands fluttering to her mouth.

  “Tell me or I will kill you right now.” He aimed the gun at her head.

  “I don’t—” Reacting to his murderous glare, she said, “S-s-somewhere on Level Three.”

  “Very good. Go sit with the patients.”

  Eyes wide, she came around the desk. He hit her with the gun butt, and she went down, shrieking. The teenaged girl yelped and clapped a hand over her mouth. The black women watched him, flat-eyed and expressionless. They knew not to fuck with a guy with a gun.

  “Anyone calls the cops I’ll come back and kill you. Believe it.”

  He trotted down the hall to a pair of elevators, hit the call button, set the knapsack on the floor and checked his wristwatch. Not bad. He’d been inside the hospital less than two minutes.

  When the elevator on the right arrived, he trained the Ruger on the metal doors, tensed when the ping sounded.

  The doors opened. An empty car.

  He grabbed the knapsack, got in and hit the button for Three.

  In the waiting area, the black women and the pregnant teenager bolted for the door. The woman with the toddler did too, but paused at a fire alarm long enough to pull the handle.

  _____

  Cursing under his breath, Frank opened the door to the hall. The alarm was deafening. A door opposite Belinda’s suite opened onto a stairwell. Their only escape route. Elevators weren’t an option now. Her suite was at the end of a short hall that intersected the main corridor thirty yards to his left. Beyond the right-angle turn were two delivery suites, a nurse’s station and a pair of elevators. Shouts and urgent voices came from that direction.

  He shut the door and said to Kelly, “Go check on Belinda. Tell her not to worry.”

  She gave him a look—Don’t worry? Are you crazy?—opened Belinda’s door and went inside.

  She was right. He was frantic, his fears fueled by the clanging alarm. He called Vobitch, told him the situation and they made a quick decision. As he closed his cell phone, Kelly came out of Belinda’s room, shaking her head.

  “I can’t believe she’s sleeping through this.”

  “We think Stoltz is here.”

  “Here?” Her sea-green eyes widened with dismay.

  The alarm raked his nerves like a buzz saw. “Vobitch said SWAT got in the house, but it was empty. I think Stoltz came here to kill Belinda.”

  “But how would he know she’s—”

  “I don’t know, but he knows we made him for the Ziegler murder. He’s got nothing to lose. Belinda got away. He wants revenge. Vobitch wants us to stay with her until more cops get here. It’s too dangerous to take her down the stairs. Stoltz could be anywhere.”

  The hall door opened and Frank raised his SIG.

  A security guard in an NOPD uniform saw the gun and said, “Hey, don’t get excited! We’re evacuating the hospital.”

  Frank showed his NOPD badge. “We’re staying.”

  “I got orders to evacuate everybody who can move.”

  “We’ve got orders to stay here with Belinda Scully. The kidnapper may be in the hospital. Get everyone else out fast.”

  Get them out so Stoltz doesn’t have too many targets.

  _____

  The ear-splitting alarm drove nails into his aching head. As the elevator passed Level Two he aimed the Ruger at the door. No telling what awaited him on Level Three. He’d wanted to find The Diva-bitch before the cops arrived, but that might not be possible now.

  The elevator stopped, and the doors slowly rolled open.

  Two men stood five feet away, an NOPD cop and a light-skinned black man, who was saying, “I can’t leave! What about my wife?”

  The cop glanced his way and his hand twitched toward his belt.

  “Don’t even think about it. Hands up, both of you.”

  The black man gaped at him stup
idly. “My wife’s having a baby!”

  “Shut up.” To the cop he said, “You gonna evacuate the hospital?”

  The cop, a grim-faced man with hard blue eyes, held his hands at shoulder level palms out. “That’s what I’m doing now.”

  He risked a quick glance down the hall, saw a vacant nursing station, beyond it a pair of double-doors. “What’s behind those doors?”

  “My wife is in labor!” the man shouted, wild-eyed.

  “I told you to shut up.” To the cop he said, “What’s behind the doors?”

  “Two delivery suites. This guy’s wife is in one. The other one’s vacant.”

  Should he kill them? It hardly seemed sporting. Too much like shooting chickens in a coop. “Okay, Daddy, get out of here.”

  The man’s face puckered. “I’m not going anywhere. My wife—”

  “Move or I’ll kill you! Use those stairs over there.”

  “Do what he says,” the cop said.

  “Exactly right. Move or you’re dead.” The man gave him a nasty look, shuffled slowly to the door, opened it and started downstairs. He leveled the Ruger at the cop. “How come there’s nobody on the nursing station?”

  “There’s no patient rooms on Level Three, and the delivery room doors lock automatically. Doctors and nurses are in there with the woman in labor.”

  “Uh-huh. Where’s Belinda Scully?”

  The guard’s eyes shifted down and away toward the floor.

  “Answer me!” A muscle jumped in the guard’s jaw. Another cop with a hero complex. The bitch was here on Level Three, with Renzi probably. But the alarm was blaring and time was running out. “Do those keys on your belt open any closets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take me to the nearest one. And no funny stuff. I mean business.”

  I mean business. That was a Rambo line if he ever heard one.

  With the ear-splitting alarm clanging in their ears, they walked down the corridor past the nurse’s station until the cop stopped at a door.

  “If that’s not a closet, you’re dead. Open the door.”

  The cop looked at the Ruger. Took out a key and opened the door of what appeared to be a supply closet, bed linens and pillows lining the shelves.

  The alarm stopped. Unnerved by the sudden quiet, he glanced behind him. The hall was empty. No cops with guns drawn. Not yet anyway.

  “Stand still while I take your weapon out of the holster.”

  He set the knapsack on the floor, touched the Ruger to the guard’s neck and pulled the Glock-9mm out of the guard’s holster. And realized the radio handset on the cop’s belt was emitting faint voices.

  “Hand me the keys and that radio. Don’t screw up or I’ll kill you.”

  “Don’t shoot me. I got a wife and three kids.”

  “Do what I say and you’ll be fine.”

  The cop handed him the metal key ring, then the radio handset.

  “Get in the closet and take off your shirt and pants.”

  The cop stepped into the closet. Stripped off his dark-blue shirt and dropped it on the floor. Took off his belt. “My shoes. I don’t think I can get my pants over them.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just drop your pants to your ankles.”

  The cop shoved his pants down to his ankles.

  He set the Ruger against the cop’s head and pulled the trigger. The cop fell as if he’d been pole-axed. His legs twitched, two quick spasms, and went still. Blood gushed from his head onto the closet floor.

  Fuck-all! His ears were ringing, first the alarm, now the gunshot. He pulled off the cop’s shoes and trousers, grabbed the uniform shirt and backed out of the closet. And heard sirens. Many sirens.

  The Diva was somewhere on Level Three, but he had no time to find her now. And when he did find her, he intended to spend some time with her. No quick mercy killing for the Diva-bitch.

  He locked the closet, hooked the police radio on his belt, stuffed the uniform in his knapsack and ran down the hall to a sign that said: LEVEL THREE PARKING GARAGE. He sprinted down a long glassed-in walkway into the garage. Now the sirens were louder, and closer. Ten yards to his left, a lighted sign above a door said: STAIRS. He took them two at a time, grunting under the weight of the knapsack. His forehead throbbed, but he ignored it. Focus on the mission. Get to the roof, take out some cops, and call Renzi. Renzi’s cell number was burned into his brain.

  Hey loverboy. Give me Belinda or I’ll kill more cops.

  On Level Four he entered the garage and saw a half dozen parked cars. Yellow arrows on the cement floor pointed to an up-ramp. He loped up the ramp to Level Five. Three cars were angle-parked in an area sheltered by the roof. He ran up the next ramp to the roof. No cars. Perfect. Except for the excruciating pain in his head and the sirens approaching the hospital.

  A four-foot cement wall lined the perimeter of the roof. He ran to one corner and peeked over the wall. The street below bordered the eastern end of the garage with the entry and exit ramps. No cop cars, but soon there would be. Through the misty drizzle, he walked the perimeter. At the northwest corner he found the perfect sniper position. Six stories below him, four fire trucks idled in front of the hospital entrance. Firemen in yellow helmets were already rushing into the hospital.

  Might as well get in some target practice before the cops arrived.

  He removed the two sections of the Bushmaster M4 carbine from his knapsack and assembled it with practiced speed. Adjusted the 6-position stock. Dry-fired the weapon to make sure it was ready. It was.

  He clipped on the Nikon Monarch scope, raised the carbine above the top of the wall and peered through the scope. Not quite right.

  He adjusted the scope and sighted again. Much better.

  That fireman was crystal clear in the scope’s crosshairs.

  CHAPTER 43

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed. A minute ago she’d heard fireworks outside. She turned and looked out the window. How could it be fireworks? It wasn’t dark enough. Turning her head made her dizzy.

  Bracing her palms on the mattress to steady herself, she eased off the bed. The tile floor felt icy beneath her bare feet. She adjusted the hospital robe and belted it around her waist. Stuck her feet into the foam slippers on the floor beside the bed. Shuffled toward the door.

  Waves of nausea and dizziness hit her. She lurched forward, grabbed the handle and opened the door. And bit back a scream.

  Frank had a gun in his hand and so did the woman beside him.

  She braced her hand on the doorjamb to keep from falling. “What’s wrong? I woke up and heard fireworks.”

  “Someone pulled a fire alarm,” Frank said. “You were asleep. We didn’t want to wake you. Nothing to worry about. Kelly, help her back to bed.”

  Something was wrong. She could see it in his eyes. “I don’t want to go back to bed. I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

  His cell phone rang. He checked the faceplate. His eyes crinkled, not in a good way. “Kelly will explain. I need to talk to someone.”

  “I don’t want Kelly to explain.” But Frank turned and left with the gun in his hand. The woman with the short dark hair took her arm and guided her back to her room.

  “You look woozy, Belinda. You need to lie down.”

  She sat on the side of the bed. She felt woozy all right. Woozy and frightened. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  The woman holstered her gun and approached the bed. “I’m Kelly O’Neil. We met a couple of weeks ago at another hospital.”

  “I remember,” she said, picturing the woman who’d waltzed into the room with Frank the night Jake died. The woman dressed in shorts and a halter-top, smelling of sex.

  Kelly smiled faintly. “I figured you would. You’re smart, Belinda. I’m amazed that you got away from this guy. He’s a tough hombre.”

  Tough hombre? Kelly O’Neil couldn’t begin to imagine what that monster had done to her.

  “Tell me what’s wrong! Why were you and Frank standin
g outside my room with guns? He got away, didn’t he.” Hoping she was wrong, but knowing in her heart she was right.

  Kelly O’Neil sucked her lower lip into her mouth, frowning. Thinking.

  An ice pick of fear stabbed her chest. “Is he here?”

  “It would help if you could describe him and tell us what he’s wearing.”

  An icy calm settled over her. “I’ll tell you the only thing you need to know. If he’s here, he’ll kill me.” She studied the woman at the foot of the bed, regarding her with cool green eyes. “You’re worried about Frank.”

  “Yes. He wants to get this guy and I’m afraid—”

  “You’re in love with him.”

  Kelly blinked her no-longer-cool eyes. Now her eyes were deep pools of emotion.

  “Frank seems like a nice guy,” she said. What an inane comment. If Frank hadn’t come along and put her in his car, she’d be dead. The monster would have caught her and killed her.

  Kelly raised her hand—the hand that wasn’t holding the gun—and wiped sweat off her forehead. “Yes, he is. But I’m not in love with him.”

  Not yet, but you will be soon. “He’s a monster.”

  Kelly’s eyes widened.

  “Not Frank. Silverman. Stoltz. Whatever his name is.”

  “Did he rape you?” Kelly’s expression softened. “You can tell me if you want. Sometimes it helps to talk about it, get it out of your system.”

  She rubbed her arms. Nothing could erase the horror of that monster.

  “When I woke up this morning—” Was it only this morning? It seemed like this nightmare had begun days ago. Eons ago. “When I woke up he was in my bedroom. I asked him to leave but he wouldn’t. He made me go downstairs and cook him breakfast.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Kelly glanced at the door, tense, vigilant.

  She plucked at her tangled hair. “I made him scrambled eggs and coffee. I thought if I did what he asked he’d leave.” She sucked in a ragged breath, felt the cold hard needles of horror all over again. “How stupid.”

  “Was that when Frank called you?”

  She shut her eyes. Saw the nightmare unspool again in vivid color. “No, that was later. When he finished eating, he asked me what I wanted.” She opened her eyes and looked at Kelly. “I said I wanted him to leave. And he said he would if I kissed him goodbye.”