For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

  The calm was finally broken by the sound of running feet. In the next instant, Carter was up and giving chase. He barged into the room, falling to one side, dropping low with his arms out straight in a shooter’s stance. The powder had already started to fall, its density too great for it to remain aloft for any real length of time. Just a light mist lingered, most having covered the floor and contents with a thick white blanket.

  Carter found himself in a laundry room. A fleet of carts took up one side of the room almost entirely, soiled sheets, pillowcases and hospital gowns filled most to overflowing, and large, industrial-looking washing machines were crammed closely together on the opposite side. They stood idle, large circular doors open to reveal deep drums.

  The room funnelled into a tight passageway on the opposite side, and Carter spied another door swing shut. He climbed to his feet and continued his pursuit.

  He arrived at the doorway, his intuition knowing almost certainly what would lie beyond. He could smell it from this side already. A pungent reek of dampness filled his nostrils. Again, he paused on this side, uncertain whether the shooter was waiting on the other side. With no other option this time and little cover available to him, he simply kicked open the door and barged through. With the agility of a gymnast, he dropped to one knee before rolling sideways, away from the open doorway.

  No sudden flashes of gunfire erupted; no heads popped up from behind the available cover.

  The room was humid, warm. In some corners dark patches of mould could be seen, too rampant to be hidden by a mere additional coating of paint. Large pressing machines stood with their lids poised, ready to iron out any creases within the linen sheets. Like the adjoining room, no workers could be found here.

  Carter stepped into the centre of the room. Now, he had a choice of two doorways. One shut tight by his side, the other slightly ajar. He checked the one to his side but found it locked. A heavy-duty mortise lock barred entry. It would be unlikely the suspect just happened to have the right key, even if it was an inside job. Intuition steered him towards the open doorway. As he drew near, a slight draught brushed against his face. It carried with it the faint odour of gasoline and burnt oil.

  Expecting to discover a boiler room or some other type of utility service, he was surprised to find himself once again at the top of a flight of steps. The stench of motor-oil became stronger. He took the steps carefully, fully alert to danger, and eventually they gave way to a simple opening. A large yellow stencilled sign read: Parking Level 1.

  Instantly, Carter understood the origin of the smell: cars. He poked his head around the throughway just for a second, before pulling back. Still, he had enough time to register a dozen or so lines of parked vehicles. This, it seemed, was the hospital staff’s car parking area. Carter guessed the primary access to the parking bay must be located elsewhere, possibly by both the elevator and stairs. Meaning, the shooter could now be doubling back towards room 2b. Would he be bold enough to do such a thing?

  Most likely, considering the state of panic the hospital had been thrown into. He took one step into the parking bay, in the hope of seeing a retreating car, or fleeing fugitive, but the area was silent.

  Quickly, he re-entered the stairwell and began a hasty ascent back the way he had come.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Neon signs scratched bright effects into the canvas of the night. The swirls and loops of luminous reds, blues, pinks and greens offered a dazzling array of colour, which belied the dark festering reality that could be found here. Young girls some barely out of their teens, stood with midriffs exposed and legs clad in dark stockings. Lipstick almost as bright as the neon signs could be found smeared across their cracked lips, while eyes that were the windows to troubled or lost souls looked out upon the night with bleak despair.

  In this part of the city, immorality ruled absolute. Strip joints and peepshows could be found in every other doorway, separated by shops that advertised adult merchandise, or shuttered doorways, which were makeshift beds for the night’s unwanted and forgotten homeless.

  How strange then that Presley Perkins felt so comfortable as he trawled along these illicit storefronts. The night was busy, drawing together a mixture of young and old, some to sample the tempting things that were on offer, others brought by mere curiosity – and the rest, like Presley, had come here with only business in mind.

  While Presley made his way along the sidewalk, he was stopped countless times by many a face: black, white, oriental, youthful and aged, haggard or fresh-faced, but all presenting him with the same service – sex. Presley kindly rejected all their offers, smiling and bowing submissively in apology, then continued on his way. Maybe there would be time for such pleasures later. But for now, he stayed focused on the task at hand.

  Finally, just before the bright strip gave way to a main avenue, Presley arrived at a closed doorway. The solid-looking door reminded him of Moses Prey’s place. He shuddered at the thought of the carnage he had left there. Then, raising his fist, he hammered noisily against it.

  A familiar scene played out before him. A peephole slid open to reveal a pair of eyes, full of cold contempt.

  “What you want?” the muffled voice asked from beyond the door.

  Presley took a step closer. “I wanna speak to the Boss.” The light from the sidewalk cast half of Presley’s face in shadow.

  “And who might you be?” asked the voice, which had a distinctive Slavic tone.

  “It’s me – Presley.”

  The eyes widened, contempt replaced instantly by confusion. “Presley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that really you?”

  “It’s me,” Presley replied.

  The voice on the other side became a guarded whisper. “You shouldn’t be showing your face around here. The Boss is really pissed with you.”

  “I know, but I need his help.”

  “Help?”

  “Yeah. I need to disappear.”

  The eyes turned to astonished amusement. “Viktor would happily do that for you, free of charge..!”

  “I know he would. But he may be willing to help if he gets his money back.”

  “Money?”

  “Yeah, from what I borrowed.”

  “Presley, I’m not sure you’re aware of this fact. But Viktor has people looking for you. You know – not with good intentions, either.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here – to have him call off the dogs,” Presley explained.

  The speaker’s eyebrows rose slightly at Presley’s audacity. “You sure of this? We could keep this to ourselves.”

  “Look – Nikolay, I’m in a real jam and need the Boss’s help. You gonna open up or what?”

  Presley heard Nikolay’s lips purse on the other side of the doorway. “Okay, Presley, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The Boss is in a foul mood tonight.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Nikolay shook his head, as if silently reproaching a foolish child. The loud noise of a heavy-duty bolt sliding back sounded from the other side. Next, the door swung open to allow Presley’s entrance. Nikolay, a slim, old man, stepped to one side, giving Presley room enough to move deeper inside. The door swung shut and the bolt returned to its housing.

  “You’d better follow me,” Nikolay ordered, taking the lead. Shades of Moses’ place could be found here, as if all lawbreaking ‘entrepreneurs’ hired from the same interior designers. The corridor was long and dark, but carpeted, and the rooms that led off the main passageway were closed tight. With names like Crystal, Suzy Star, Mercedes and Candy stencilled on their doors, it was obvious to Presley what type of transaction went on inside. Indeed, as he traversed this corridor, the muffled sounds of pain and pleasure could be heard.

  Nikolay took Presley the full length of the passageway. At the end, Nikolay turned and asked, “You carrying?”

  Presley pulled his jacket to one side. “Just this,” he replied, showing him the small handgrip of the Derringer.r />
  “Hard times, indeed,” Nikolay said. “You wait here, while I see if the Boss will see you.”

  Presley nodded, confident that Viktor would make time to see him – no matter how busy he might be. He stood alone for a few minutes, enduring the grunts and moans that came from closed doors. Seemed like Viktor’s business was thriving as ever.

  Nikolay returned shortly and simply gestured for Presley to follow. He was led into another short passageway and then directed to the single doorway at the end.

  “You not coming?” Presley asked.

  Nikolay shook his head apologetically. “No.”

  “What about this?” Presley asked, pointing towards the Derringer.

  “What about it? That ain’t gonna be of no concern to the Boss.” The old guy turned on his heels and simply disappeared back around the corridor and out of view.

  Presley took a deep breath – perhaps his last – and then stepped inside. The room he entered was familiar to him. Plush furniture filled most of the space available. Elongated sofas, long enough to seat whole football teams – or so it seemed – were laid out at irregular positions. Each had an expensive table or stand at either end, and along one entire wall TV screens flashed with bits of imagery, forming a large, single picture. The New York Rangers were filling up most of the screens with their red, white and blue uniforms.

  Five people sat watching the game, the central figure almost as broad as the two who sat on his right. Another two were leaning forward on the opposite side, engrossed in the early match statistics. A sixth person, a thickset Georgian named Pyotr Krylov, stood just in the open doorway, his attention focused directly on Presley. For someone with such a muscular figure, Pyotr’s face looked skinny and long in comparison. Pyotr smiled slyly, as if he was already privy to Presley’s fate.

  The guy sitting in the middle of the sofa cursed loudly at the screen in a language that was mostly unfamiliar to Presley. He knew it to be Russian, but had little understanding of what had actually just been said. Another hail of abuse – its tone unmistakable – fell from the man’s lips, and his round face turned slightly red under the verbal assault.

  Yeah, Presley thought, the Boss is in a real foul mood tonight.

  Not good.

  Not good at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Although Joseph did not consider himself overly politically motivated, his recent predicament presented him with a small measure of sympathy towards the nation’s leader. Five armed police officers accompanied him, each with his weapon drawn and eyes alert to trouble. Detective Carter led the way, a two-way radio pressed tightly against his ear, as he barked out instructions to waiting officers. Joseph found it difficult to draw breath. The tension was unbearable. Sitting in a wheelchair, pushed by a sixth officer, he felt totally exposed. His escort did little to make him feel safe. This, Joseph thought, is how the President of the United States must feel on a daily basis, under the constant threat of harm.

  Immediately after Carter had taken off in pursuit of the killer, Joseph had been swamped by a group of overeager staff, all offering help and assistance, quickly getting him back into bed. It was the last place he’d wanted to be: flat on his back, surrounded by strangers, any of whom could be plotting to kill him. Thankfully, not long after he’d disappeared, Detective Carter had returned, red-faced and out of breath. He’d ordered all but one of the hospital staff out of the room, and had then called for back-up. Within the space of five minutes a team of armed police officers had arrived.

  The bodies of Officer Gore and his missing replacement had been found, prompting Carter to shut down the hospital instantly. It was highly unlikely the killer would still be in the building, but the detective wasn’t taking any chances. Half of Carter’s department were either here already or on their way. Detective Tyler was making her way across town to pick up Marianna.

  With the elevator out of bounds, now cordoned off awaiting the forensics team, Joseph had had to endure an agonising trip down the stairs. He’d been forced to suffer the indignity of being carried by two burly officers, each taking him by one arm and a leg. Wanting to tackle the steps alone, Joseph had been silenced by Carter, stating that they didn’t have time for such a thing and to shut up and allow himself to be carried. The detective had also flatly refused to allow them the use of an alternate elevator, unwilling to have them caught in an enclosed box, and unable to see what lay ahead. At least Joseph had been able to find time to dress. He’d slipped into a clean set of clothes that Marianna had brought him the day before. At least this small measure of mercy had saved Joseph the embarrassment of being manhandled, and, having his ass on show for the whole world to see.

  Now, Joseph was back in a wheelchair and heading for the lobby. A scattering of staff looked on, surprised to see one of their patients being wheeled out, flanked by an armed escort. The hospital’s security manned the exit and, as Joseph’s party arrived, they stepped aside.

  “You got this place shut tight?” Carter asked one of the guards.

  The guy looked worried and out of his depth. This wasn’t your average security job. He shrugged his shoulders. “Place is a big institute. Would be impossible to do such a thing with so few men.”

  “Great…” Carter grumbled. “What about missing vehicles or hospital staff?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  Carter shifted his attention to Joseph. “We’re getting out of here. This guy could be anywhere – just waiting for another chance.”

  “Where?” Joseph asked.

  “I’ll take you to the precinct. We’ll figure something out from there,” Carter explained.

  “What about Marianna and my son?”

  “Detective Tyler will bring them. Don’t worry, Joseph, we’ll get you all safe.”

  Joseph nodded, reluctantly, feeling inadequate and angry that he couldn’t protect his own family.

  Carter read his distress. “They’re in good hands. Now, we need to get out of here.”

  The detective turned towards the outside lobby, ready to call for a car to take them to safety. As if conjured from his very thoughts, a black-and-white patrol car pulled up outside the lobby entrance. The passenger side opened and the bulky figure of Captain Mendoza climbed out. He made the short trip to the entrance.

  “Captain,” Carter acknowledged.

  The captain wore his badge on the outside of his shirt pocket, and his sidearm was strapped at his hip. He looked phased but still in control. Losing two officers in one night had shaken him to his foundations.

  “What we got here, Detective?” he asked.

  “Never seen anything like it,” Carter replied. “Place is a bloodbath.”

  “What about the two officers?” Mendoza asked, hopeful that his initial information had been wrong – somehow misunderstood – and the two young rookies would be found here safe and sound. Carter’s frank reply quashed any hope of that.

  “Dead,” he responded. The word seemed strange to Carter, not real, and didn’t seem to convey what he’d witnessed up on corridor 2 – not nearly enough.

  “Who the hell did this?” Mendoza demanded.

  “God only knows,” Carter said. “Didn’t get a look at the killer. I’ve no idea who we’re looking for or what the hell his motives are.”

  Joseph spoke up. “He was Russian – I think.”

  Both Carter and Mendoza turned to him.

  “What?” they said in unison.

  “That’s how the guy sounded – Russian.”

  “You sure?” Carter asked.

  Joseph nodded. “Yeah – positive.”

  Carter turned back to Mendoza. “What do you think?”

  “Could mean anything, but you need to get out of here – right now. Take Ruebins back to the precinct and start digging straight away. Get as much help has you can. Call everyone in if you have too, I don’t care.”

  “What about my family?” Joseph asked. “They can’t stay there.”

  “You want them safe?�
� Mendoza asked.

  Anger crept into Joseph’s reply. “Of course I do.”

  “Then follow Detective Carter and do as he says.” Mendoza turned his attention away from Joseph, his thoughts on more urgent matters. He nodded to Carter, signalling for him to continue with the task at hand, and then strode purposefully into the maelstrom that was waiting for him, ready to take charge.

  Carter gave the signal for the armed guards to carry on. Just before they did, Doctor Greenwood came rushing over, his face ghost-white and wide-eyed.

  “Detective – wait,” he called. Greenwood now looked more dishevelled than ever. He had dark sweat rings underneath both arms, and his tie had been removed, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. What had started as a bad morning had now descended into the realms of a nightmare.

  “Detective, where on earth are you taking my patient?” he demanded. “You can’t simply take my patient out of here without medical assistance.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Carter responded, angrily, now eager to put this place behind him.

  “Joseph may still suffer a relapse. I just cannot allow it,” Greenwood stated.

  “It’s not your call, Doc. If we don’t move him, you may not have a patient for much longer.”

  This uncompromising statement sent fear running down Joseph’s spine. Carter patted Joseph on the shoulder, as if to dispel this most disturbing predicament.

  “Look – Doc,” Carter began. “Something’s going on here that none of us can understand. Or predict. Whatever happened last night in Joseph’s room goes beyond comprehension. But I do know that if he was to stay here, then he’d be in serious danger.”

  “But what about his treatment?”