by D. F. Bailey
He knew he had to do something. He leaned forward, rolled her onto her stomach and clasped his arms under her armpits and locked his hands above her breasts. No, do not touch, he warned himself. Remember what happened to Gianna. All because you couldn’t control yourself.
After a minute, Toby dragged her to his front porch. He unlocked the door and hauled her into the living room. Where did he leave the torch? Thankfully, her wild shaking had settled down and he laid her on the sofa and clicked on the overhead lights. Ah, there it was, just where he’d left it: on top of the microwave next to the door where his dear ones lived. He switched on the flashlight and clicked off the overhead lights. What to do now?
His imagination faltered when he heard the distant cry of a police siren. So soon? His heart jumped a gear and he began to pace around the room. He knew he had to get rid of the girl. He held a hand to his face and tried to think. Then an idea struck, not a good one — he knew that as soon as the thought hit him — but he knew he had to do something. He pulled her up from the sofa and yanked her toward the kitchen. Her feet dragged across the linoleum. When he reached the Dutch doors, he unlocked the top half of the swing door and shone his flashlight into the rancid darkness. He could see a few of his dear ones scurrying about.
The wail of the siren approached.
“I don’t have time to help you, I’m afraid,” he whispered into the darkness. “But I’ve brought something for you.”
He unlatched the lower door and shoved it forward with his knee. Then dragging Eve by the waist, he laid her on the floor. He felt her breasts roll under the fleece hoodie and then pushed some of the shredded paper and bunting under her neck to support her head. Beautiful, he thought. She’s so beautiful, too. He wondered if he should say something to her, but couldn’t imagine what would be suitable.
He stepped out of the room, back into the hall and closed the lower door. For a moment he lingered, leaning through the top half of the door as he watched Ginger, and then Spice, nuzzle at the girl’s feet. Good, he thought. They’ll keep you company.
As he left the cottage he turned back and called to Eve in a restrained voice, “If you’re kind to them, they will love you.”
Then he cursed himself for speaking aloud again and stepped into the night to retrieve the two cameras from the lawn behind Stone Eater and make his way to the Mercedes-Benz.
※
When Finch ran out of the mansion into the yard he heard the sirens cry and then fade. Were they coming or going? He paused to get his bearings and then pushed himself halfway down the length of the stucco wall toward the silhouette of the garage.
A feeling of insularity disturbed him. That, and the utter silence of the night. No dogs, no alarms. Even the sirens had fallen mute. He felt naked and as he jogged toward the garage, the starkness of his own being simmered in his heightened awareness.
As the cottage door swung open, his feeling of isolation dissolved. A massive being stood before him, a hulk almost seven feet tall, heavy in the chest and thick through his neck and head. Whitelaw’s chauffeur. Even without his driver’s cap, Finch recognized the man who’d hunched over the corpse in the parkade. He gripped the baton in his hand and as he studied the figure sauntering to the far edge of the porch, Will realized that the bear didn’t see him.
Finch stood in place. He took a step forward, anchored his feet and rested the middle of the baton on his shoulder.
“Where’s the woman?”
His voice, bursting with adrenaline, startled the beast.
“What the —"
Finch flicked his wrist. The metallic resonance of the steel tubes vibrated as the truncheon locked into position.
“What’d you do to Eve?”
The giant gasped and began to run.
As Finch sprinted after him he noticed Toby’s faltering limp. He was a good ten feet behind, but Finch knew he’d soon close the gap on the lumbering monster. He pumped his fists as he ran, the baton lashing forward with every stride.
Then just ahead, perched on the near edge of the hill he saw another man standing motionless — another colossus of some kind, his arm pointing past the bay. Finch hesitated and in the instant of this lapse, he watched the giant stumble and then trip over his own feet. He collided head-first into the second man. As his forehead crashed onto the right foot of the stranger, Toby Squire let out a pathetic, almost silent moan.
“Uuhhh….”
As he approached, Finch saw that the second man was a statue of some kind, a rudimentary figure comprised of seven massive stones stacked together to resemble a marker, a guide pointing to something in the distance. Who knew what it meant?
At his feet, the giant lay quivering, blood oozing onto the lawn through his mouth. Finch leaned over the grotesque body and tried to catch his breath. He dropped the truncheon, watched it roll a few feet down the sloping lawn.
“Where’s Eve?!” he screamed. The words spat out of his mouth with a dash of wet spittle that landed on the giant’s ear.
“Where is she?” He drove the side of his foot into the monster’s flank. Then again. And again. “You fucking killed Gianna!”
When he’d exhausted himself, Finch collapsed onto the fallen behemoth, his arms slumping across the torso. He pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, felt a pulse still pumping through his neck. Then in an instant of disgust he pushed himself away. His hands swept over the chauffeur’s jacket and he discovered something flat and round inside one of the pockets. His fingers tugged two digital discs from the dead man’s coat. He studied the DVDs a moment and slipped them into his courier bag.
Finally he found the strength to pull himself away. He rose on his feet, uncertain what to do. In a daze he stumbled back towards the cottage. When he saw Eve’s pistol on the grass he tucked it into his pocket and wondered if a time would come when he might have to use it. Moments later he stood on the porch and tried the door. It slipped open. As he stepped inside his hand swept over the wall beside the door frame. He clicked on the bank of lights.
The interior of house blinked into life and at once Finch realized that he’d entered the chauffeur’s cottage. His head turned from side to side, trying to grasp anything that might reveal where Eve could be hidden. There on the sofa. Her bag. He stumbled forward and lifted it in both hands.
“Eve!”
He shoved open a nearby door and clicked on another light. A bedroom. Empty.
He pushed himself down the hall past the kitchen. He peered into the bathroom, swept the shower curtain aside with his arm. Nothing.
Down the hall to the Dutch doors. He paused. What’s this?
He pulled the upper bolt free and eased open the top hatch of the door. The heavy funk of rancid urine washed over him. He took a step backward, then unbolted the second lock and kicked the door ajar. Now the stench overwhelmed him and he pressed the palm of his hand to his nose.
Then he heard the taut cry — a forlorn screech — followed by the sound of toenails skittering against the floor tiles. He turned on the light switch inside the little room and gasped.
A dozen foot-long rats raced from wall to wall. Then one slipped between his ankles and scampered down the hallway toward the front door. Another coursed past him. Suddenly the room was alive with rats fleeing around Finch, along the corridor and through the open doorway to freedom.
Then he recognized her. Eve’s body half-covered on the floor as if she might be sleeping, her head braced on wads of ripped newspapers and shredded tissue.
“Eve … what happened?” he whispered and bent over her and touched her face. He felt the pulse at her throat. When he lifted her in his arms, another rat slipped from the inside of her hoodie, jumped to the floor and flew out the door. In a moment of horror, he screamed and almost dropped her on the linoleum.
He tipped her head onto his shoulder, carried her into the living room, lay her on the sofa and tucked a small cushion under her neck. A heavy bruise radiated across her left check and along her jaw. Then
he saw the bite marks on her throat and hands. He lifted the fleece from her belly and moaned when he saw three open wounds.
He found a clean dishtowel next to the kitchen sink and soaked it in warm water and wrung it out. He applied the damp cloth to Eve’s wounds and quietly repeated her name in hope that she’d open her eyes. Nothing.
After a moment, when he realized there were no more words to say, no more thoughts to think, he rummaged through his jacket pocket for his phone. Instead, his hand clutched the Colt pistol. He snarled when he considered how useless the revolver had been and then put it back in her shoulder bag. After a brief hesitation, a moment when a loud gasp of air burst from his lungs, he found his phone and dialed 9-1-1.
※ — SEVENTEEN — ※
DETECTIVE DAMIAN WITOWSKY propped his chin on his hands and quietly studied Will Finch. After two hours debriefing Finch in the interview room, Witowsky decided he didn’t like this man, this rogue reporter who’d shoved his way past the police in Oregon and was now trying to do the same here in San Francisco. Worse, he’d taken up with Eve Noon. That fact alone revealed a complete failure of judgment. Given more time, he felt certain he’d find a lot more to dislike about Finch. Something to land him in the slammer for at least a week or two.
Glowering beneath his heavy eyelids, his steel gray eyes shifted to Lou Levine, the lawyer representing the San Francisco eXpress. He’d driven to the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street at four A.M. to coach his star reporter through the two-hour long interview. Nice to have friends, Witowsky mused to himself, even if the friendship’s built on billable hours.
While Finch appeared to be in possession of the facts, the story he’d spun over the past two hours seemed incredible. Nonetheless, the details checked out. Sure enough, after Witowsky called the Golden Gate Division about Finch’s claims, a patrol located Dean Whitelaw’s corpse on the top floor of the Beach Street Parkade with a recently fired pistol stuck in his jacket pocket. A second, unfired pistol, was lodged in his left pocket. The old man had been killed by a single bullet to the head, the sort of execution delivered by professionals. Or lucky amateurs.
And Bud Hatch, the desk sergeant over at the Marin County Sheriff’s Office, confirmed the details of Finch’s 9-1-1 call: Toby Squire was found barely alive, suffering from a skull fracture at the Whitelaw compound next to a stone statue at the south edge of the property. The woman, Eve Noon, the disgraced cop Witowsky knew from his days on the beat, was lying unconscious in Finch’s arms with dozens of raw sores — bite marks, of all things — covering her body. The preliminary report from the hospital suggested she might be comatose. Witowsky figured that could last a long time. Maybe she deserved it. Maybe not.
The only missing ingredient was Eve Noon’s cellphone. Finch had mentioned it in passing, blurted out a few words to substantiate his claims about the gun fight. “She recorded it all on her phone,” he’d muttered, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. Witowsky found that hard to imagine, but he didn’t push. No need to alert Finch to the importance of the video. Most likely the phone was stowed with her other belongings in the hospital. He could picture the ex-cop hiding it as soon as she regained consciousness. Do not allow that to happen, he told himself. He made a mental note to file a warrant and seize the cellphone ASAP.
“All right,” he said after a long pause, an opening that he provided to allow Finch to disclose anything more. Often some perps, especially the ones who call in their own 9-1-1, stumble into a confession during these gaps. But not Finch. “Okay. We’re done here. But we’ll see more of one another before this thing goes to court.”
“I guess.” Finch clasped his hands together to steady the shaking in his bones. He looked at Lou Levine. “Time to go?”
“Sure. It’s late.” Levine tilted his head toward Witowsky. “Thanks.”
“Whatever.” Witowsky lay his hands flat on the table and looked into Finch’s eyes. Now something new made him angry, the idea that Finch bore some criminal responsibility that the reporter didn’t quite grasp. “You know there’re a lot of charges I could toss in your lap because of what happened tonight. Everything from trespassing to fleeing the scene of a felony—”
“I doubt that,” Levine interjected. He stood up and made a gesture to Finch.
Witowsky brushed his hand in the air and continued. “Just what in hell did you two think you were doing out there?” His right arm slanted to the wall, vaguely marking the direction to Sausalito. “Playing a superhero role game with your girlfriend?”
Finch lifted himself from the chair and stepped towards the door. “Just doing my job, detective,” he whispered through his exhaustion. His chin dropped as if he wanted to say more. Then he added, “Someone has to.”
Lou Levine gripped Finch’s elbow in his hand and guided him out of the interview room and into the corridor.
“What’s that?” Witowsky called down the hall.
“Because the damned cops in this town aren’t doing their job,” Finch yelled over his shoulder.
Levine whisked him along the hallway.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Witowsky barked, “ ‘Aren’t doing their job.’ ”
Finch whirled around and shouted the length of the hallway. “If you’d done your jobs, one more person would still be alive tonight!”
Lou Levine rolled his eyes and coaxed his client past the reception desk. “Save it for the editorial pages, Will. You know that.”
※
Finch slumped in the upholstered chair next to the hospital bed and gazed at Eve. A purple bruise radiated from her hairline above her left ear and along her cheek. The contusion looked puffy, tender, and very sore.
Strands of wires extended from her body to a bank of monitors above the bed. Her breathing, her heart rate, her blood pressure, her brain waves. The critical parts of her measured, weighed, assessed. Although she could breathe on her own without the assistance of a ventilator, overall, her face bore an unsettling stillness, a death-like pall that worried him. Can anyone wake her up, he wondered.
Before he’d arrived at the Mt. Zion Medical Center someone had applied a disinfectant gel to the sores on her belly, neck and hands. Now a new nurse entered the room, brushed past Finch and began to tend to Eve. She looked forty-ish and likely had a troop of kids at home, he figured. And possibly a husband who provided good reason for the skeptical expression on her face.
“I’m Connie Baptista,” she offered. “Just coming on shift.”
“Will Finch.” He stood next to the bed. “Tell me if I’m in the way.”
“No problem.”
Finch watched her dab at Eve’s skin with antiseptic swabs.
“Nasty little love nips,” the nurse said. “Wasn’t you who did this was it?” She smiled at this little joke but Will guessed she might be assessing him for some kind of abuse. The nurses likely saw that every day or two.
“No. Somebody’s idea of pets. Rats on steroids.”
“You her husband?”
He shrugged. “We’re not married.”
“No?” she held this question out with a long look. “I’m going to treat a few of these bites under her gown. Mind if I close the drape?”
Finch stepped away and watched her pull the long drape with a single tug. Seems to know what she’s doing, he thought and checked his watch: Eight-thirty-five A.M. The newsroom would be buzzing already. It felt like he’d been away for weeks. At the very least Wally would expect a call, especially after Lou Levine briefed him on Finch’s night in hell.
He swept his dry hands over his face and rubbed at his eyes. What he’d give for two hours of deep sleep.
After a few minutes Connie pulled the privacy drape open and smiled again. “Those sores will probably be gone in a week. No sign of infection, but we’ve given her shots for tetanus, just in case.”
“What about waking her up?”
She walked to the foot of the bed and examined a chart. “Did the doctor talk to you about that?”
; “A few words. He said there’s no cranial fractures, but she’d had a severe concussion above her ear.” He paused and then continued, “When I asked if she’s in a coma, he wouldn’t say.”
She slipped the chart back into place. “He’s right about that. It takes six hours before we can say she’s comatose.”
He sat in the chair to consider this. Comatose.
“If you want to do something, then talk to her.” She wrapped her hands across her chest and stood before him. “I’ve seen it work. More than once. Patients open their eyes and just start talking. Like they’ve just returned from the corner store.”
“Really?” He wondered what he could say to Eve. What words might bring her back? The answer escaped him.
“Would you like a sleeping cot?”
“For here?”
She nodded. “I’ll tell the orderly to bring one along.”
“Thanks.” Finch watched Connie step into the ward, then he took a pillow from the closet shelf and placed it against the back of the chair. He tried to settle his head against the pillow, but it fell to the floor next to the wall. He couldn’t muster the strength to lean over and pick it up. Instead he decided to tell Eve about his son, Buddy. But before he’d could describe that good day when Buddy hit the stand-up double into left field, he fell into a shallow, broken sleep.
※ — EIGHTEEN — ※
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Eve was officially comatose and showed no signs of improvement. Knowing that she would want him to press forward, Finch decided to get back to the eXpress office where he could confer with Wally and Fiona and finally break open the story about Gianna.
He made his way back to Mother Russia, showered, shaved and changed his clothes. Before he drove downtown, he tapped at Sochi’s door, hoping to gather some news about Rasputin’s progress in cracking the password on Gianna’s flash drive. But Sochi was either on an errand, sleeping, or too preoccupied to answer his door. Or maybe he’d broken the code and sold whatever he’d found on the drive to the highest bidder. Once again the old question haunted him: who can you trust?
