With Malice
Page 30
Take the Beltway north to I-95, and I-95 north to Baltimore. Take the city bypass and go to the inner harbor. Leave the ransom at the entrance to the aquarium. You have forty minutes. You are being watched.
Forty minutes to Baltimore. It would be tight.
He climbed into the car and gunned the engine, tires squealing as he sped out of the lot and up the ramp to the Beltway.
"Just please, God, no traffic jams," he said. "Please. I need my girls back. Please, don't take them away from me. Please."
* * *
Karen had tucked the girls into the medevac helicopter, which had landed in the clearing behind the cabin. "You're going to ride to Bethesda Hospital," she told them. "It's a wonderful hospital. It's where they take care of the president."
The girls were scared, and she wanted to stay with them. But she also wanted, needed, to coordinate the chase. If anyone slipped up and Art Wallace saw that he was being tailed, he would skip. And Michaels would kill Grant.
Cathy Suzanne spoke quietly. "We'll be okay. Go find Daddy. I'll take care of them."
Karen blinked back a tear. The girl's eyes were mesmerizing. Seeing so much. Knowing so much.
"Go find Daddy," she said again. "Bring him home."
Karen kissed her cheek. "You bet I will."
She closed the door and patted the window to signal the pilot. Then she ran to the other helicopter. Miriam was waiting in the bay, listening to the radio chatter from the chase teams.
"I could have done this," she said. "You could have gone with the girls."
"I have to make sure," Karen said, her face grim against the rush of feelings that flowed whenever she thought of Cathy Suzanne's words. She wouldn't let that girl down. Ever. "I just have to make sure."
"I understand," Miri said, switching her headset to the intercom circuit. "Okay, pilot. Let's find this guy."
"On our way," the pilot said.
They lifted off into the growing darkness.
* * *
Grant wove in and out of traffic, having nearly rear-ended a Firebird on the interchange ramp to I-95. It was a straight shot from here. He had twenty-five minutes. Not enough time. He pushed the gas pedal harder.
* * *
"Wallace is headed to Baltimore," Karen told Terry over the radio. "We have a unit a half mile ahead of him and another a mile back. I have him in sight."
"He'll go downtown," Terry said. "It's the best place for an ambush. Lots of cover. Lots of escape routes."
"I know. Miri's on the line with Baltimore P.D. now, trying to get their help. Any progress on Grant's rental car?"
"We've got the information from the renting agent. The good news is that it's GPS equipped. We're setting up to monitor it from here." He paused. "Stand by, one."
"Standing by." She turned to Miri. "I think they've found Grant."
"Now if we could just find Michaels," Miri said. "He's the only wild card left."
Karen nodded. She put a hand over her ear. "What's up, Terry?"
"We've got Clam One's car on monitor. He's on I-95, just pulling into Baltimore now. Still on the highway."
"Where is he?" Miri asked. Karen told her. Miri thought for a moment. "I don't know this city. Where would you set up an ambush?"
Karen spread her hands. "I've never been here."
"Talking with Baltimore P.D.," Miri said.
"Right. Sorry."
"What's up?" Terry said.
Karen wished she had more than confusion to share. "Nothing yet. I'll let you know when we know something."
Jerry's voice came over the radio. "Just heard from the medevac. The girls are at Bethesda now."
Now if she could just get Grant home. For Cathy Suzanne. For herself.
* * *
Art wound through the city streets, following the route Michaels had scouted for him that day. As Michaels had said, the traffic was light. Not surprising, as the route wound through some of the worst neighborhoods in the city. Still, he emerged in the Inner Harbor area, and found the parking lot. It offered a clear view of the entrance to the aquarium. Two hundred yards. An easy shot, even in the dark. And Grant would be lit at the entrance.
It was perfect.
In the distance, he heard the whump-whump-whump of a helicopter. Probably one of those traffic monitors for a radio station, he thought.
He unpacked the rifle and popped the cover off the sight. There was a low wall at the perimeter of the lot. It was an ideal firing support.
Behind him, the whump-whump-whump settled for a moment, then faded into the distance. The night grew still. Quiet, save for the distant lap of water against the harbor seawall. Peaceful. Serene.
He settled behind the wall and leveled the rifle.
* * *
Grant pulled into the lot for the Inner Harbor aquarium. He'd taken the girls here once. Cathy Suzanne had loved the shark exhibit. Belle had preferred the seals. The memory jarred against the tension of the moment. Did anyone know where he'd gone? He hefted the duffel bag from the back seat, cursing the idea of substituting newspaper for real money. If Michaels or anyone else opened the bag here, Art would kill his daughters.
"Just let me bring them here one more time," he said, walking across the lot. "Let Cathy Suzanne see her sharks and Belle her seals. One more time. Please?"
* * *
The bastard was talking to himself, Art thought, watching him through the telescopic sight. Grant was looking upward, as if talking to God. Good. He could do it face-to-face in about twenty seconds, once he was out in the clear. Twenty, nineteen…
* * *
Miri pointed at the figure crouched behind the wall. Karen nodded. He was already in her sights. But they had to find Michaels first.
* * *
Grant walked between two vans with aquarium logos on their sides. Probably portable exhibits for schools, he thought. It was a good idea.
* * *
He was almost in the clear. Art's finger tightened on the trigger. Thirteen, twelve…
The gods were with him. Somewhere deep inside, he'd always known they were. Even when his mother was beating him. Even when Georgie was cheating. He'd always known the gods would come through. Eventually.
Nine…eight…
* * *
Michaels heard the crunch of a footstep on the asphalt behind him an instant before he felt the cold steel pressed behind his left ear. He let out a breath, released the rifle and raised his hands.
* * *
"We've got Michaels," Harrelson said. "Go go go."
* * *
Grant hesitated at the end of the fence. The entrance was deserted. Not even a security guard. Of course. That was why they'd chosen this place, and this time. The sign on the fence beside him announced the hours and admission prices. He walked toward the door.
* * *
Two…One…
* * *
"Freeze," Karen shouted, popping her flashlight on Wallace. "Put the rifle down, Wallace."
* * *
What? Art glanced over his shoulder. The flashlight hid the figure, but he recognized the voice. The lady cop from Tampa. What the hell was she doing here?
"Put it down now!" she shouted.
No. The gods wouldn't betray him. He'd spent his life being beaten and cheated on by women. Not again. Not this time. He turned and tried to fix the sight on Grant, waiting for the red retinal glow from the flashlight to pass. Ahh. There was Grant. Stopped. Facing him. That was the way it should be. Perfect.
* * *
Karen saw him turn and aim the rifle again. She already had her gun at the ready. Beside her, Miri grew still. Karen didn't feel her finger squeeze. The buck of the pistol surprised her. Her left ear rang with the report from Miri's pistol.
* * *
Art heard the reports a split second before the sub-sonic, nine-millimeter rounds punched into his back. The world reeled, then receded. Through his sight, he saw Grant crouch. He must have heard the shots. Art tried to steady the swaying rifle.
He could still win. His finger tightened.
So intent was his concentration that he didn't hear the second pair of twin cracks, only felt the kick of the rifle butt against his shoulder as his finger tightened.
Then the world went black.
* * *
Karen saw the muzzle flash of Art's rifle an instant before his head snapped forward amidst a pink mist. Her second shot, or Miri's, had found its mark. But he'd fired first.
She ran across the lot. "Grant! Grant!"
"Target is down!" Miri called out beside her, as shadowy, black-clad figures emerged into the parking lot, guns leveled.
Karen hardly noticed. "Grant!"
There he was, in the parking lot. On his knees. Clutching the duffel bag to his chest. Not sinking. Not rising. Not moving.
"Grant!"
He sank onto one hip, then onto his side, his face contorted. She sprinted across the lot. "Get a medic!" she yelled. "He's down. The senator is down!"
She dropped to her knees beside him.
"Grant. Are you hit?"
He opened his eyes and met hers. "The girls?"
"We got them. They're fine. Are you hit?"
"Damn knee," he said. "Damn knee."
She looked down at his leg. The trousers were torn. And wet.
"Get a medic!" she screamed again. "He's hit."
"No," he said, wincing, gasping out words. "I heard shots. Crouched down. Knee gave out and I fell. Bee flew over my head." He let out a low groan. "Damn knee."
"Don't curse it too much," she said, relief surging through her. "It saved your life. If you hadn't fallen, that bee would have taken your head off."
He nodded and managed a pained smile. "Okay. Thanks, damn knee."
She smiled and touched his face.
"Yeah. Thanks, damn knee."
Epilogue
The woman's smoky voice filled the club as she built to the song's climax.
He really makes it hard for me to sing the blues….
Grant released Karen's hand and applauded. "That's cute," he said.
"I can appreciate the feeling," she said, meeting his eyes. They'd found a table this time. For four. "I can definitely appreciate the feeling."
"So can I," Miri said, squeezing Terry's hand.
He smiled, white teeth lighting up his face. "Yeah, well, I'm still gonna retire."
"Bullshit," Miri said. "Karen's going to need someone to partner with."
"Oh?" he said.
Grant turned to face her. "Is that so?"
Karen tipped her head. The past two months had been a blur. She'd flown back to Tampa to help Previn wrap up the paperwork, but Simpson had put her on administrative leave, pending the investigation of the shooting of Art Wallace. There was no doubt that she'd used justifiable force, but rules were rules. As it turned out, Previn hadn't needed the help. Paperwork was his element. His spirits had lifted since he'd talked to a lawyer. He was no longer a helpless victim of Linda's machinations, and while the breakup still nagged at him in quiet moments, he could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
The lab had matched the DNA from the saliva found around the bite marks on Stacy's body to Art Wallace. The official story was that he'd killed both Abby and Stacy, moving Stacy's body because he thought he might have been seen stalking her. Michaels hadn't been at the murder scene, so he couldn't contradict the story. It was, Karen thought, true in its essence. Art Wallace and Bill Michaels had created this horror from their own twisted motives. Whatever Jerry Connally had done, it had been done with good intentions. There was no reason to let Wallace and Michaels ruin someone else.
A thorough search of Wallace's house had turned up a journal. Wallace believed he was the father of Grant's girls. She'd asked Grant if he wanted a paternity test, but he'd refused. He'd raised them. They were his. Biology wouldn't change that. Ever. Karen agreed.
The girls were bouncing back…slowly. Belle still had nightmares sometimes. Cathy Suzanne kept her feelings to herself, except in fleeting, unguarded moments with her father. Then her fingers would tighten into his back as she hugged him, and a half sob would emerge before she caught herself. Someday, perhaps, she would talk to someone about what she'd seen in the early years when Georgie took her on trips to the cabin in Maryland. Or maybe she would work through it on her own.
She had, just once, kissed Karen's cheek, holding the contact for a moment, and whispered, "Thank you." It was a moment Karen would savor forever. The commendations Miri and Terry had forwarded to Simpson would never equal those two words.
She'd spent the last two weeks in Washington, staying with Miri. Seeing Grant when she could drag him away from the final wrangling over S.R. 52. Randall Youngblood had come to Grant's house to express his sorrow over what Michaels and Wallace had done. Professionally, he was still opposed to the bill. Privately, he told Grant he would back off if Grant would be responsive to the sugar growers in the aftermath. Grant had shaken his hand on the deal, a handshake between two men whose word was their bond.
The media was still abuzz with the kidnapping story. At a press conference the day after the rescue, Miri had made a point of mentioning that Grant had walked into that parking lot knowing the assassins must have had him in their sights, willing to die if necessary to protect his daughters. That story was also true in its essence, Karen thought. She'd had a gun and a bulletproof vest when she'd stepped into that parking lot. Grant had had nothing but his courage and his faith that he was doing what he had to in order to get his girls home. Karen didn't know if she could have walked out across that exposed parking lot in those circumstances. He had. If the American people judged him a hero, well, he was.
That, and Youngblood's tacit support, had made the difference. S.R. 52 had passed that afternoon—by four votes.
And tonight they were celebrating.
"Well?" Grant asked.
"Well what?"
He smiled. "So are you thinking of moving up here, joining the D.C. force?"
She could look at that smile forever. "I'm thinking about it."
He leaned forward and kissed her as the sax player began "What a Wonderful World."
ISBN: 978-1-4268-8366-8
WITH MALICE
Copyright © 2003 by Susan Civil-Brown.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
Visit us at www.mirabooks.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Epilogue
book with friends