For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

At last, Joseph thought, Gore’s replacement had arrived. Maybe there was still a chance of calling his wife, especially if the replacement officer was willing to help? Excitement got the better of him. He pushed away from the wall without first finding his balance, and managed just the one step before his right leg failed him. Throwing his arms out, he tried to redistribute his weight onto his left side, but the effort was too late. Joseph hopped foolishly on one leg for a moment before falling backwards, against the doorway to 4b.

  The door gave way under Joseph’s weight, and he toppled backwards and into darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thomas Carter was seated in his car. About two inches of the driver’s window had been cranked open, and a steady stream of smoke billowed out in a grey cloud. Carter closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift away, as if they themselves were caught on the mist of cigarette smoke, to be taken away up into the heavens, where perhaps the person of Carter’s interest would be able to read them. His son.

  Both Carter and Tyler had called it a night an hour earlier, and the young detective had taken her leave almost instantly, eager to get home and spend time with her family. She’d paused for just a second, to ask if Carter would like to join her for a late supper, but when he declined, she had quickly headed out of the Department.

  Carter had lingered at his desk with little or no reason to leave. Where would he go tonight anyway? He’d promised Captain Mendoza that he’d stay out of trouble for the next 48 hours. That left all tonight and tomorrow night to fill. And tonight, he just couldn’t bear the thought of spending the dark hours alone in his empty apartment. He’d waited long enough for the Audio Visual Unit to generate the photo and then made his way to the hospital.

  The detective opened his eyes and then shook his head in an attempt to clear away the feeling of guilt. Since being handed the case this morning, Carter had had little time to focus on his grief. For most of the day his thoughts and attention had stayed on the present, not on the past. He’d had little time to stop and ponder Billy’s death and, now, sitting silently alone in his car, he felt an overwhelming rush of betrayal for not having done so.

  Only three months had gone by since he’d been forced to walk along the bleak corridors of the city’s morgue, assisted by Captain Mendoza, as he headed towards the pathologist’s lab on trembling legs. That was the place where they’d taken Billy, and the last time Carter had seen his only son.

  His son’s face formed within his mind. It wasn’t a picture full of pain or brutality, either, just a desperately sad one. Billy had been prepared in one of the adjoining rooms, away from the main examination area. Laid out on a bed, he’d appeared to be merely asleep, ready to be woken and join the living at any moment. Pale, yes, but not overly so. Only a few hours had passed since the fatal shooting, and Billy had not had sufficient time to take on any real characteristics of a cadaver. His face didn’t look sallow, or wax-like, the need for an undertaker’s hand not yet apparent. Instead, his face had been recently scrubbed, the pathologist’s attempt to save Carter the pain of seeing his son covered in blood. He’d done a good job, too. A single crust of dried blood in Billy’s ear was the only slight indication of injury. Even the gunshot wound looked nothing too severe – little more than a dark red scab.

  Now, he found himself parked in this near-empty lot, with his thoughts turning almost as dark as the night sky. He patted at the holster that lay just under his right armpit. His usual Smith and Wesson snub-nose had now been replaced by Presley Perkins’ discarded weapon. A weapon that had been taken from the collection of evidence. Taken without anyone ever knowing about it.

  Detective Thomas Carter had replaced the original small revolver with one almost identical to it. It had been a hard task considering the importance of the weapon. Both that and the pile of excrement found near the crime scene were what had led the investigation team straight to Perkins. A simple DNA test and fingerprints had conclusively put Perkins near the scene, followed by ballistics on the bullet that had killed Officer William Carter, and that was all the authorities needed to secure a conviction.

  Considering his background, Perkins had only once brushed against the law. As a young teenager, he’d been arrested for taking his father’s Caddy, unbeknown to old Dolly himself, and had subsequently been arrested for grand theft auto. The arresting cops had taken prints and a DNA sample and put these on record. Dolly had then sworn he’d simply suffered a severe but short bout of amnesia, explaining that he’d knowingly allowed his son to take the car. Unsurprisingly, all charges had been dropped. Still, Presley’s identity was stored for all eternity in the police database.

  Having all they needed, the detectives running William Carter’s case just had to bring in their number one suspect.

  Only Perkins wasn’t willing to play ball.

  And now, Thomas Carter had taken charge has lead detective – unofficially, of course. It had taken a great amount of cunning and resolve to get his hands on the weapon used to kill his son, replacing it with one that looked identical. A task that he would have to do in reverse, replacing the original gun, once he’d carried out his plan. Not a plan as such, but a punishment.

  Carter checked his watch. 8:20PM. He pulled on the cigarette one last time before stubbing it out in a half-full ashtray. Then, after winding the window back up, he popped open the door and stepped out into the night. The cold wind battered him for a moment, grabbing his coattails and whipping them about his thighs. He tucked his head down and headed for cover.

  A set of automatic doors opened for him. He stepped out of the dark, windy night and into the glare of overhead strip lights. The hospital lobby was relatively quiet; just a few staff filled the entrance, either taking a cigarette break or milling around the coffee machine. For a second, Carter just stood there, not really sure why he’d chosen to come here. He unbuttoned his coat, shrugged it off his shoulders and draped it over his arm. A few hospital staff had gathered around the elevator, waiting for it to arrive.

  Carter stepped over to join them. He looked up and watched as the indicator dropped from the 8th to the 2nd. The light held at 2 for what seemed like a long time, before it fell to 1 and then finally to ground level. The doors opened with a metallic ping.

  Carter climbed in with the rest of the passengers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The floor underneath Joseph drew heat from his body like an elemental magnet. He pushed himself into a sitting position and then scanned around. The room was almost a mirror image of his. Same size, same layout, albeit everything opposite to his, and the window in this room had the added effect of snow blowing against it.

  The bed behind him was empty. Not even sheets could be found. A bare mattress lay flat on bedsprings, and a couple of coverless pillows had been piled at the foot of the bed.

  Joseph shivered. The temperature in this room was almost as bleak as the room itself. Barren, soulless, empty, were words that formed in his mind. The room was clean, too clean, as if it hadn’t been graced by a human soul for quite some time. He shuffled over to the bed, sliding on his butt until his back pressed against the cot.

  Favouring his left side, he drew himself onto the bare mattress. The bedsprings beneath him sung a short, high-pitched tune, as they contracted under his weight.

  What now?

  Should he wait here for a while and gather his strength? And, in doing so, alarm his present guardian. Surely by now Gore’s replacement would have arrived – to find Joseph missing. No, Joseph realised, the right thing to do was to return to his room and rest. He wiped the sweat off his brow. As his hand dropped away, he spotted a mop propped up in the corner of the room. Just to the side of the mop lay a rusty old bucket. Joseph nodded in understanding. The room had recently been cleaned, and that’s where the overpowering smell of chemicals had come from.

  An idea sprang to mind. Once again, he climbed onto unsteady feet. He shuffled over to the corner of the room and took the mop. Then, spinning it around, h
e fixed the mop head underneath his right armpit. Perfect. The wooden handle reached to the floor, allowing Joseph to use it as a makeshift crutch.

  He laughed slightly, pleased with his ingenuity.

  Maybe there’d still be time to call Marianna after all?

  Finding movement easier now, Joseph hobbled to the door and pushed it open. The glare of the lights outside stabbed painfully at his eyes, forcing him to blink a couple of times. He stepped out into the bright passageway, and as he did so the door to his room opened. The unexpected arrival of another person caught him by surprise.

  “You,” the guard said, raising something metallic for Joseph to see.

  The guard jabbed the sharp blade out to show his intentions. Joseph reacted by taking an awkward step back. Matching him, the guard stepped forwards, keeping the distance between them equal. Joseph raised the mop handle off the floor, and then levelled it out in front of him in an attempt to hold the guy back.

  The guard laughed maliciously. “That all you got?”

  “What do you want?” Joseph asked foolishly.

  No explanation came. Instead, the sharp weapon was jabbed aggressively in Joseph’s direction. And although the motion was only meant to intimidate, merely an exaggerated gesture with no real threat, Joseph still jolted back instinctively.

  The cackle of cold-blooded amusement came again. “Not such the tough guy after all.” The words were broken and clumsy and full of mispronunciation.

  Joseph’s mind flipped into overdrive, his heart pounding quickly in his chest. It was obvious to him who this guy was. His intuition washed away the guard’s façade immediately. The uniform looked all wrong: too neatly pressed, too new, and worst of all, a perfect fit. Gore’s had been tight around the midriff and washed to a lighter blue. This guy looked too seasoned to be a rookie, his face was deeply lined and greying hair, cropped closely to his scalp, bristled at the sides of his cap. His shoes reflected bright white slivers of light off their polished tips, and the peak of his cap looked like glazed ebony. This guy had never seen the streets, let alone served and protected them. In all, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a TV cop show.

  “Tough guy,” he said again. His words were unclear, like a drunkard’s, and laced with Slavic undertones.

  “The guard’ll be back any minute,” Joseph said.

  The guy just shook his head with a resolute no. “He’s got a sore throat. Not be back tonight, or any other night.” He drew the blade across his throat to show Joseph what he meant.

  “His replacement’s on his way now.”

  The guy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “He busy too. He got himself a splitting headache.” Two fingers and a thumb formed themselves into the shape of a gun. He placed his fingers to his temple and then dropped his thumb. “Kaboom..!”

  Joseph looked at the guy’s belt. A dark leather holster held a firearm tightly against his hip. His heart skipped a beat, and the corridor tipped forwards slightly as fear threatened to force him into the killer’s embrace.

  The attacker recognised Joseph’s terror. He reached down with his free hand and patted at the weapon. “No worries. I like to get up close and personal.”

  The blade waved backwards and forwards a few feet from Joseph’s face.

  “I wrestle with big bear – like back home. You big brown bear,” he said, flipping the blade over in his hand. Now, the blade pointed to the floor, and the guy had the option to either hit out with his fist or strike down with the knife.

  He made the wrong choice. He threw a punch towards Joseph’s head. Standing square-on, Joseph managed to block the punch by catching it with the inside of his left wrist, then immediately launched his own counterattack. His left hand skipped over the failed assault and landed squarely against the guy’s jaw. The counter-punch carried speed but little power. Still, the man staggered back, caught off guard.

  Wasting no time, Joseph swung the wooded handle towards his assailant’s head. Again, his attack carried little power. His right side was still weak, and the handle bounced uselessly off the guy’s shoulder.

  The guard grabbed at the handle. He caught it under his arm, trapping it in a tight embrace. Then, pulling it towards himself, he tried to rip it out of Joseph’s grasp.

  Joseph used the momentum to his advantage. Instead of trying to resist, he pushed the mop forwards and forced the attacker against the closed door of his room. It opened with a hollow boom, and the guy fell backwards, losing his grip. He back-pedalled, lost his footing and then landed heavily in the centre of the floor.

  Joseph stepped forward to grab the door handle as it swung back. He pulled it tight and then fed the wooden stick through the handle, turning it into a makeshift deadbolt.

  Now, in the centre of the corridor, Joseph scanned quickly right and left. The elevator lay to his right, both doors closed now, and out of reach. The left side offered either the washroom or the fire escape. Joseph took a few steps to the left, hobbling dangerously, before stopping.

  Behind him, the elevator arrived. He spun around to see Detective Carter stepping into the passageway. Joseph changed direction, and then staggered awkwardly towards the detective. He passed his room and heard the muffled sound of gunfire come from within. Chunks of wood exploded outwards in a hail of splinters, and the mop handle snapped down the centre, breaking into two. In the next second the door flew open and the guard stepped out into the passageway.

  Moving with too much momentum, Joseph tipped forwards and went down hard. It saved his life. A bullet zipped over his head before punching a hole into one of the elevator doors. Another bullet whizzed by, this one going in the opposite direction. Joseph heard a cry of pain. He chanced a look behind him and saw his attacker stagger against the wall.

  In the next instant, Carter was at Joseph’s side. He aimed and fired again, but the guard was already rounding the corner. A second later the corridor was filled with the deafening wail of a fire alarm.

  Carter yelled over the noise. “You okay?”

  Joseph nodded. “Am now.”

  “You hurt?”

  “No.”

  Carter remained poised, clearly unsure if he should remain here to assist or give chase.

  “Go,” Joseph said, understanding the detective’s dilemma. “I’m okay. He was alone.”

  “Okay,” Carter said. “Help will be on its way.” Almost as quickly as he’d arrived, the detective disappeared from view.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Carter took the stairs with reckless disregard. He’d already left Level 1 behind him and was now a single flight of stairs away from the ground floor. All around him came the insistent ringing of fire-bells, piercing to hear, which threw his senses off somewhat.

  He slowed now, understanding that the shooter could have vacated the stairwell in favour of the many corridors the hospital had to offer. No trace of blood could be found on the stairs or walls. Body-armour, Carter thought, understanding that the killer must be wearing a bullet-proof vest. How else could he have taken a direct hit and still be standing? Stepping away from the handrail, he pushed his back against the wall and trained his weapon towards the access doorway. It was closed tight – just like on Level 1. They were thick, insulated fire doors.

  Carter brought himself up against the doorway. A small reinforced window revealed an empty corridor beyond. He moved away, taking the first steps towards the basement.

  The standard fluorescent lights were replaced by smaller bulkhead fittings, which made Carter feel as if he was heading deeper into an underground labyrinth. Also, the whitewashed walls faded into a dismal grey, as if light from above was not a requirement here, in the deeper bowels of the building. Carter didn’t like it one bit. He felt as if he was leaving the safety of civilisation somewhere above him. Then, mercifully, the ringing bells stopped. His ears filled instantly with the sound of silence.

  The slam of a door stopped him short. The detective waited for a second to see if any other sounds came from below. May
be the perpetrator had intentionally allowed the door to slam shut, only to tiptoe to a lower level, taking that door silently instead?

  The stairwell was dead quiet.

  No, his quarry had taken the first route available to him. Carter bounded down the stairs and reached the basement doorway in four or five long strides.

  Unlike the two previous doors, this one was operated by a simple push-bar. Carter dropped the bar and opened the door by an inch or two. Darkness prevailed on the other side. Had the suspect hit the switch on his way, now waiting in darkness, ready to shoot anything that came through?

  Maybe?

  Carter scanned behind him. A fire extinguisher hung just off the floor from a heavy-duty hook. He took it, momentarily tucking his weapon into his holster. Returning to the door, he cracked it open slightly. No shots rang out. He undid his tie, quickly loosening the knot, and then slipped it over his head. Dropping to one knee, he wrapped the length of material round the operating handle. The short nozzle fixed itself to the body of the canister. He pulled it clear before withdrawing his weapon.

  Ready for action, he stood, pushed open the door, yanked the safety pin away from the handle and then launched the extinguisher into the room. Thick, white powder exploded from the nozzle, instantly filling the room with a choking, dry mist. He waited for just a few seconds before reaching inside, now under cover. His fingers found the light switch just inside the doorway. He pressed it and then quickly retracted his arm.

  The room beyond became a flare of bright lights. A shot rang out, barely distinguishable over the high-powered jet of powder, and a chunk of wood splintered just as Carter’s hand was clear. He kicked the door open, spinning away from the opening, to take cover behind the wall opposite. Another shot sounded and a bullet thudded loudly as it buried itself in a chunk of masonry.

  Carter dropped back to one knee. He leaned quickly away from his place of safety and fired a single shot at the extinguisher. The expected explosion didn’t happen. No ball of fire to engulf the perpetrator or flying red-hot shrapnel to rip skin from bone. Instead, Carter heard the canister crack open and the powder filled the stairwell in a billowing white cloud. Silence followed.