by Diane Capri
It felt very, very personal.
No question the shooter was a man with vengeance on his mind.
But he wasn’t Jack Reacher.
Gaspar wondered if Reacher would experience a pang of regret for having his unfinished business with Weston finished for him by this damaged, deranged soldier.
After he’d absorbed all he could about the situation, Gaspar returned to Otto and said, “Let’s go.”
They slipped weapons back into place and merged with the audience as security herded them to their cars and eventually exited the base though the nearby Bayshore Gate.
While they waited in the long line of traffic, Gaspar told her about the glinting rifle barrel in the sniper’s nest, the bodyguard, and the shooter.
“The shooter’s definitely not Reacher?”
“Definitely not. Although it could have been him in the nest. Impossible to know.”
Otto nodded, thinking. “So. Disabled veteran? Maybe served under Weston’s supervision?”
“Iraq has been Weston’s location for long enough. They could have crossed paths there, even if Weston wasn’t the guy’s CO,” Gaspar said. “The shooter was disabled, for sure. Likely a vet. But if we’re betting, I’d say he was focused and lucid when he planned and executed this plan.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. First, logistics. Getting close enough to Weston to shoot him required stealth and cleverness, but also logic and planning. He had to get on base, locate the best shooting position, have a weapon, and a long list of other things. None of that could have been accomplished if he’d suffered from a significant mental deficiency.”
Otto nodded, considering. “Maybe. One thing we know: the number of vets who suffered head injuries during both Iraq and Afghanistan is staggering. In earlier wars, they wouldn’t have survived wounds like that. We can keep so many more alive now, but the treatments aren’t great and definitely don’t fix the damage.”
Gaspar said nothing.
“Sometimes, they suffer strokes and seizures. Behavior can be erratic, even violent,” Otto said, running through her internal list of possibles. “Maybe he had a grievance against Weston. And maybe he was just not rational. What’s your second thing?”
“He pulled it off. He reached Weston, armed, on a military base designed to stop him. He shot five times before a private bodyguard took him out, but not before he mortally wounded the bodyguard. And he had physical disabilities beyond the head trauma. All of that says logic, planning, knowledge, focus.” Gaspar took a deep breath. Discussions about the abilities of the injured and disabled were bound to lead somewhere he wasn’t willing to go. “My money says the guy specifically planned to kill Weston and he was willing to die trying. But with nothing more to go on, it’s impossible to know. And, more to the point, not our case. We’ve got our own problems. So now what?”
“Assuming Weston survives, those two FBI agents will execute his arrest warrant today, no matter what,” Otto said. “Let’s see if we can get any more out of him about Reacher before we lose the only good lead we’ve got.”
“Okay. But what about Reacher?”
“What about him?”
“If he was the one in that sniper’s nest, he knows Weston wasn’t dead at the time he got into the ambulance. And he knows where to find Weston now.”
“And he’s at least thirty minutes ahead of us,” Otto said.
Gaspar increased the sedan’s speed to tailgate the car in front of them. Maybe today was the day to face Reacher after all. Get some answers right from the source. Finish this assignment and move on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tampa Southern Hospital was located about six miles from MacDill Air Force Base near the opposite end of Bayshore Boulevard. Gaspar stretched out as he settled into the oversized seat and drove along perhaps one of the most beautiful stretches of pavement in Florida.
Immediately outside the Bayshore Gate they passed residential property on the west side of the winding two-lane. At the first traffic light, Interbay Boulevard, more than half the traffic turned west.
Gaspar continued through the residential section, past the streets that led to the Tampa Yacht Club entrances on the right, past Ballast Point. After the next traffic light at Gandy Boulevard, the two lanes separated into a wide divided linear park that ran along the entire shoreline of Hillsborough Bay toward downtown.
Otto seemed to enjoy the scenery, too. As they passed Plant Key Bridge, she said, “I’ve never been to Tampa before. What’s that little island out there?”
“It’s called Plant Key. Privately owned. It was originally built by a railroad baron named Henry Plant.”
“He built an island?”
“Well, the Army Corps of Engineers dredged the bay and piled up the dirt, but Plant did the rest. That Moorish looking building was his home, called Minaret. Maybe built in the 1890’s. Plant was constructing the Tampa Bay Hotel, now the University of Tampa. He was competing with Henry Flagler for the rich and famous vacationers of the time.”
“Don’t try to tell me about competition, Chico,” Otto said. “I’m from Detroit, where the weak are killed and eaten. There’ve never been rivals bloodthirstier than the Fords and the Dodge brothers.”
He laughed. “Now, there’s a great restaurant out there called George’s Place. If we get a chance, we’ll have dinner there. The chef is amazing.”
Otto glanced toward him and smiled for the first time today. “You mean we’d eat something that doesn’t come out of a ptomaine cart? What a sweet-talker you are.”
He felt a grin sneak up on his lips and some of the unrelenting tension released. “Stick with me, Susie Wong. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You’ve never tried a gold brick sundae, I’ll bet.”
When she laughed like that, she seemed younger and prettier, Gaspar realized. She was so serious most of the time that he’d never noticed that about her. She was young. She could still have a normal life with a family. He wondered if she ever thought about that.
“The homes along here across from the waterfront are amazing, too. I’ve stayed in hotels smaller than that one,” she said, pointing to an 8,000-square-foot Georgian-style mansion. “Reminds me of a similar stretch along Lake St. Claire. In Grosse Pointe, just outside Detroit. I drive out there on weekends sometimes in the summer. Beautiful.”
She sounded homesick. Interesting, Gaspar thought. Until now, she’d never seemed to care that she wasn’t on her way back for Thanksgiving.
There was no further landmass in Hillsborough Bay until they reached the bridge to Florida Key where Tampa Southern Hospital was located. Gaspar merged onto the bridge and crossed the water before entering the driveway between the hospital and the parking garage.
“Drop me off at the entrance and park the car, okay?” Otto said. “I’ll find out what’s going on and meet you inside.”
“You got it, Susie Wong,” he replied. She left the car and he watched her sign in at the information desk and head toward the elevators before he drove to the garage alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Four people occupied the small waiting room when Gaspar arrived upstairs. Two men he’d never seen before. Two women he recognized. The men sat a few chairs apart and directly across from the wall-mounted television tuned to a football game. If they noticed or cared about his arrival, they didn’t betray themselves.
He was relieved to see both women look up when he entered, which meant he hadn’t become invisible since they’d seen him last.
Jess Kimball, the Taboo reporter, sat closer to the entrance, as if to ensure she’d be the first to pounce when worthy prey arrived. There was something about her that suggested barely contained anger. Given her feelings about Weston, maybe she was annoyed that the shooter had failed. She was intense, which made Gaspar want to know her story. She was young to be so driven. Usually that kind of idealism came from tragedy and betrayal, in Gaspar’s experience. Which was what he figured had happened to her. But what?
The ot
her woman was Jennifer Lane, Samantha Weston’s lawyer. She sat in the corner across from the entry door where she had a clear view of the entire room and its occupants. Gaspar knew a lot of lawyers, but none that were Velcroed to their clients like this one. What was going on there?
He shrugged. Both women were too young to have known Reacher during the Weston murder investigation, which made them vaguely interesting, but irrelevant to his mission.
He absorbed the rest of the scene in a quick glance. One wall of the waiting room featured large plate glass windows overlooking the water. The opposite wall sported a small opening filled with a sliding frosted glass panel behind which, presumably, someone was working. Otto was probably chatting that someone up now. Which was great, because it meant he didn’t have to do it.
Gaspar settled into one of the molded plastic chairs, extended his legs, folded his hands over his flat stomach and closed his eyes. The others might think he was sleeping. If nothing interesting happened within five minutes, he would be.
Three minutes later, Otto came in and sat next to him. “I spoke with the Westons’ assigned nurse. His name is Steve Kent. He served at MacDill, so he has the necessary clearances, he said. He was also a Navy medic for a while, and respected Weston’s service in Iraq. That’s why he requested the duty.”
“Since when do you need a security clearance to be a civilian nurse to a retired officer?” Gaspar asked without opening his eyes.
“Probably depends on the officer,” Otto said. “Anyway, I told him we had a plane to catch and he said he’d take us in as soon as Weston can answer questions.”
“Okay,” he replied, closing his eyes again. “Did he say anything else I need to know right now?”
Gaspar heard her sigh and imagined she was rolling her eyes, knowing full well what he was up to. Unlike Gaspar, Otto had never been a soldier. She hadn’t developed the habit of resting when she could. She got up and left him to it.
When he checked through his lashes, he saw her pacing the room, stopping now and again to glance out the window at Bayshore Boulevard. On a clear day, Gaspar knew she could have seen Plant Key and George’s Place and probably all the way to MacDill at the opposite end of the linear park. Not today. Heavy clouds had moved in, bringing congested air that obscured the sightline. He settled his eyes truly shut.
Gaspar figured even if Reacher was in the vicinity, he couldn’t reach Weston as long as Weston was still in surgery. Gaspar might have dropped off for a quick twenty winks, but he heard Otto engage in subdued conversation with one of the women. Probably Kimball. Reporters were chatty by nature. Probably not Lane. Lawyers were notoriously tight-lipped. Trying to talk to Lane would be a waste of time. Whatever Otto found out from whoever she was talking to, she’d tell him eventually. He let his breathing flatten and even out as he felt himself dropping again toward sleep.
He was almost there when the door opened and Gaspar raised his eyelids enough to see a woman dressed in pink surgical scrubs enter. “You’re the FBI agents?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Otto said, directing her to the seat next to Gaspar and leaving Kimball and Lane behind her looking miffed at being excluded.
“I’m Trista Blanke, O.R. Patient Coordinator,” she said. “I’ve been told I should give you an update on Mr. and Mrs. Weston. They should both be out of surgery shortly. Mr. Weston’s most serious wound was the shot to the back of his shoulder. The bullet traveled through his body, which is better than most alternatives. But it nicked an artery. He lost a lot of blood and the repair surgery lasted a bit longer than it otherwise would have.”
“And Mrs. Weston?” Otto asked.
“She was wounded in the right thigh. Again, the bullet traveled through, but it shattered the femur. She should be fine once reconstruction is completed,” she said. “They’ll be in recovery for an hour or so after the procedures.”
“When can we talk to them?” Otto asked.
“When they’re out of surgery, you can give it a try. But until the anesthesia wears off, they may not make much sense.”
“Thanks,” Otto said.
“No problem,” she said before she approached Jennifer Lane, likely to deliver the same news. Kimball crowded in to hear.
“We are probably wasting our time,” Otto said, quietly.
Gaspar didn’t argue. Except for the possibility of running into Reacher, he figured their time could be much better spent eating. He settled back into his waiting posture and reclosed his eyes, hoping for a quiet five minutes.
When Ms. Blanke had completed her mission and advanced toward the exit, Gaspar heard Otto join her, asking, “Where can I get a cup of coffee?”
Four minutes, forty-five seconds later, the football game ended and the two guys who’d been watching left the room. Gaspar was now alone with the two women. In his bachelor days, he’d have considered that a fringe benefit of the job.
Jessica Kimball spoke first. “Are you planning to arrest both Westons when they come out of recovery?”
“What reason do you have for arresting Samantha Weston?” Jennifer Lane demanded.
Kimball replied, “He’s FBI. The Asian woman, too. Why else would they be here?”
“Is that true?” Lane asked.
Gaspar’s eyes remained closed and he said nothing. Otto would have bristled at the assumption she was Asian. Oh, sure, she looked like her Vietnamese mother. But she considered herself 100% tall, blonde, sturdy, stubborn German, like her father. Gaspar grinned and said nothing.
Kimball walked over and kicked the sole of his right shoe. Not hard. Just enough to jostle a normal person to attention. But the strike sent painful shock waves up his right leg and into his right side where the muscles had collapsed and the nerves touched things they weren’t meant to touch.
“You’re not sleeping,” Kimball said.
“Checking my eyelids for holes,” he replied, willing his pain to settle down. Which never worked. Biofeedback was bunk. Maybe pain was in the brain, but despite his exercise of will, his leg settled into the dull thumping he’d long ago accepted as normal. He opened his eyes, but didn’t alter his posture. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kimball?”
“Same thing the FBI has been doing for me for a decade,” Kimball said, bitterly. “Nothing.”
Lane cut in belligerently. “Do you have an arrest warrant for Samantha Weston? You intend to arrest her while she’s incapacitated and unable to understand her rights, Agent Gaspar?”
“Obviously, she understands she has a right to an attorney, since you’re here,” Gaspar replied without moving. “The only way your presence here makes any sense to me is that she’s been expecting us. Which means someone tipped her off. When I find out who did the tipping, you may have yourself another client.”
The expression on Lane’s face suggested he’d hit the bulls-eye. Most leaks were intentional. If someone had warned Samantha Weston of her impending arrest, the notice was tactical. Which made him wonder briefly, as a matter of professional curiosity, what the local agents were really up to with Weston. If they already had a warrant supported by probable cause for arrest, why did they want his wife?
“Maybe I don’t need your client, Ms. Lane. I’m only interested in the original murder investigation,” Gaspar said. “What do you know about that?”
“Samantha wasn’t living in Tampa back then,” Jennifer Lane replied. “Nor was I.”
Kimball said, “I’ve investigated thoroughly for Taboo, and I was at the gunman’s execution. So I probably know more than she does.”
The waiting room door opened again and Otto entered with four cups of black coffee. Everyone took a cup and spent a few moments adding and stirring.
Lane sipped and swallowed before she asked, “Are you thinking today’s shooting is somehow about that old case?”
“What do you think?” Gaspar replied.
“I doubt it,” Otto said. “Seventeen years is a long time for any normal person to carry a grudge.”
Like a
woman with personal experience, Kimball said, “Not where your kids are concerned, it isn’t.”
“Say you’re right,” Lane said to her. “What do you think is going on here?”
Jennifer Lane looked young and inexperienced. How’d she get a powerhouse client like Weston’s wife? Curious situation, at the very least, Gaspar thought again.
Jess Kimball was about the same age as Lane, but she seemed more worldly somehow. As if she’d been through tough times that had aged her and forged her titanium spine. She said, “We need to know how today’s shooter is connected to Weston. It wasn’t a random shooting, because the guy went right up to Weston and fired only at him. When we get the name of the shooter, I should be able to tell you what’s going on.”
“What makes you so sure?” Otto asked.
“I do very thorough research, Agent Otto. If Weston’s sneezed in the wrong direction, I’ve found out about it,” Kimball said, clearly miffed at the perceived slight to her reporting skills. “Listen: this guy is a miserable human being who’s caused nothing but heartache wherever he’s gone. This wasn’t the first time someone has tried to erase Weston from the planet. He’s had more lives than an alley cat already. Sorting through the list of people waiting in line for a chance to kill him will take some time.”
Before Otto had a chance to reply, the waiting room door opened again. Every time it happened, Gaspar tensed a bit. Expecting Reacher. But so far, he hadn’t materialized.
This time, four people entered ahead of a short, stout man dressed in hospital scrubs. The smallish waiting room was instantly overcrowded.
Gaspar recognized the two FBI agents he’d seen at the memorial service intending to arrest Weston for a laundry list of crimes against the government. Lane and Kimball weren’t too far off in their assessment of the FBI’s intentions, though they had been led a bit astray regarding the identity of the Bureau’s official team for the arrest.
