The Redeemed

by Jonas Saul

  “Drop the fucking burrito,” he said softly, but loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “The alarm is Sarah’s room. Pull your weapon. Be ready.”

  “How can you be so sure it’s Sarah’s room?” the cop asked.

  The security guard nodded his head. “Yeah?”

  “Because Father Adams is our only suspect in the priest killings.”

  “What? Nooo …” The cop shook his head.

  “And he’s in Sarah’s room.”

  “That would mean he killed Vicky last night and tried to kill Sarah in that parking garage—”

  Hirst cut him off. “And he’s trying again right now.”

  The cop pulled his weapon and nodded that he was ready.

  Hirst opened the door to the second floor hallway.

  Chapter 29

  The lamp from the night table didn’t do much damage to Adams’ foot, but it was enough to knock his aim off. The last bullet he fired took a chunk out of the floor beside Sarah’s head.

  Losing strength fast and in pain, Sarah spun away from him and rolled back under the bed. She kept rolling until she came out the other side where she sat up. He would be on her at any second and without a weapon she would die in this hospital room. She was losing this fight fast and knew it.

  He was already coming around the bed, the black hole of the barrel leveled at her. Never one to give up, she grabbed the empty juice glass on the end table and threw it at him.

  He ducked and stepped back, but that gave her the break she needed to pull herself up and hop toward the window.

  Someone knocked on the door. It must’ve given him pause because he didn’t fire into her back. Near the window she lost her balance on her weakened leg and dropped into the chair Parkman had sat in.

  More knocking on the door.

  Come in, dammit! It’s not locked.

  Adams crowded her, both hands fisted up.

  Where’s the gun?

  Sarah flailed hard trying to get a shot at him, but he hulked over her, maneuvering out of reach. Quick on his feet, he stepped in and delivered two hits to her chest and stomach. Her ability to fight was greatly reduced as he pounded on wounds caused by the airbag. Breathing became a chore, coughing through each breath was difficult and painful and trying to repel the attack was nearly impossible.

  His fist connected with her jaw. Then her forehead. She collapsed in the chair and started to slide out of it, her eyes fluttering closed.

  The floor meant death. Going down in this fight meant staying down.

  Summoning the will to stay upright through the drowning-inside-her-own-body feeling tested her stamina.

  Another of his hammer fists smacked her in the side of her head, the ear taking the hit. Then another slightly above the temple.

  More knocking on the hospital room door. Someone shouting.

  Parkman still bled in the corner.

  She struggled to keep her eyes open as blood poured from old cuts opened on her forehead, bandages on her face torn off and askew.

  She slipped off the chair toward the floor like warm Jell-o. Adams’ crotch was right in front of her.

  Something heavy slammed into the door.

  Her consciousness wavered for a brief instant.

  His knee came up to meet her face. She had enough street-fighting experience to bob away from the impact of the knee. As she did that, her right hand shot out with a last bit of will to fight. It closed around his scrotum and Sarah squeezed, locking her hand into a vise grip.

  Father Adams let out a high-pitched wail and tried to step away from her, but Sarah allowed gravity to bring her all the way to the floor without letting up on her grip.

  The door banged again like someone was body checking it.

  Just come in already.

  Adams punched and smashed at her forearm in an attempt to dislodge her, but she refused, ignoring the pain and tightening her grip. His balls would burst in her hand before she let go and die.

  The door whipped open, smacking the wall behind it.

  She squeezed tighter.

  Father Adams was close enough to the bed that he bent over, grabbed his gun, and brought it up to bear on the newcomers.

  She thought about Aaron. She needed more training. This was too dangerous without the proper skills. Even with two broken feet, Aaron would’ve subdued this guy in half the time.

  A gun went off. A second shot. A third.

  Father Adams stepped away slowly, not jerking and pummeling at her like seconds before.

  She lost the last bit of strength she had and released his scrotum. Others were here now. They could handle it. Sarah rested her head back and forced her eyes open as she wiped away blood.

  Father Adams had Parkman’s or Sarah’s blood on him as he pinwheeled his arms toward the room’s window.

  His gun came up, a horrid expression on his face.

  Another weapon fired in the room again and again. Tiny eruptions formed in his shirt. He stumbled back as the glass in the window busted out from a bullet.

  One second Father Adams was there, covered in blood, a gun in his hand, the next second he fell backwards out of the hospital room window.

  As Sarah lost consciousness, she understood it wasn’t Parkman’s or her blood on Father Adams’ chest.

  It had all been his.

  Chapter 30

  “It’s over,” a man said.

  Sarah opened her eyes, though it took immense effort.

  Why are my eyes so heavy?

  She blinked a couple of times, wiped them, and then opened her eyes as far as she could.

  Detective Hirst sat in a chair beside her bed.

  “Parkman,” she whispered. “How is he?”

  Hirst set the magazine he’d been reading down and leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  “He’ll be fine.”

  She closed her eyes. “How bad?”

  “Gut shot. Missed anything vital. An inch from the spine. The bullet was removed without a problem. He’s all stitched up and sleeping, recovering.”

  “How long have I been out?” She tried to open her eyes again, but then gave up.

  “Eighteen hours. They gave you a little something to sleep.”

  “Oh, that’s what it is.”

  “What what is?”

  “Nothing. Am I cool? More injuries or less?”

  “I didn’t know it was possible but you’ve got bruising on top of your bruises. You put up quite a fight at the end.”

  “Father Adams? Where is he?”

  “Dead.”

  “How?”

  “I shot him. He fell through the window.”

  “Did he hit the ambulance under the window?”

  There was a pause before he said anything. “How did you know an ambulance was parked there?”

  “I had Parkman look before Adams arrived.”

  “Oh.”

  “Weird luck, eh? Shot in a hospital room and smashing into an ambulance. I mean, who goes out like that?”

  “Men of God.”

  “Supposed men of God. The guy was a murdering fraud.”

  “You should get more rest.”

  “I’m almost asleep now.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Aaron’s coming to visit. He’ll be here when you wake next.”

  “Shit.”

  “Problem?”

  “Don’t want him to see me like this …”

  Her mouth stopped and hung open as she fell back under the warm spell of the drugs in her system.

  Chapter 31

  The food was equally good as before. This time someone had splurged and the hospital was taking her order. Maybe Detective Hirst had pulled a few strings. Sarah wondered if Parkman was getting the same deal.

  Her abdominal bruising had turned a yellowish purple and most of the minor aches and pains had subsided. Her broken foot was still healing nicely and the wounds on her face were clearing up. Only her cracke
d rib protested when she moved or coughed, but something a little stronger than Advil was keeping it at bay.

  It had been four days and they were releasing her in the morning along with Parkman. Aaron had set up a hotel room for them as they wanted to stay for Father Adams’ funeral tomorrow. A large congregation was set to commemorate the man’s place with the church and the legacy he had left behind.

  Because it would only serve to hurt the relationship the Catholic Church had with the local authorities in an already stressed environment, the powers that be requested that Father Adams be buried without being named the priest killer. The police were to spend an extra week filling in reports and closing files. Once the man was in the ground, the LAPD could release a sanitized version of what they had on the case and announce that the killings were over. They would say the case was closed and that the suspect’s body had been located. The city could rest easy as the police had done their job.

  Sarah didn’t like it at all. More cover up, more enabling and condoning, exactly how the Vatican preferred it. For Sarah, it cheapened the lives lost, the people hurt by this tragedy. But the church was a business just like any other. Revealing the truth could be looked upon as a smear campaign. The Vatican had released financial statements that showed their 2012 profit to be over a hundred-million dollars. It appeared nobody wanted to rock that boat.

  Someone knocked.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Parkman was pushed in on a wheelchair, Aaron behind him.

  “Parkman’s telling me you’re quite the fighter with one foot,” Aaron said.

  “Parkman lies.”

  “No, no, he said the guy had a gun on you and you still fought back with vim and vigor.”

  “That’s what he called it?” she asked, smiling at Parkman as Aaron pushed him closer. “Vim and vigor? It’s not that. It’s a little something I call survival. What Parkman failed to say is that he’s the one who can fight. He’s the one who attacked the guy and almost finished him off.”

  “Let’s just agree that we got lucky,” Parkman said.

  Aaron rolled him right up to Sarah’s bedside where Parkman took her hand.

  “You doing good?” he asked.

  She pulled her hand away. “Better than you. And no coddling.”

  “Come on, Sarah,” Aaron said. “Be nice. He took a bullet for you.”

  “Aaron, you want nice. Come over here. I’ll give you nice.”

  “Whoa, you’re not in any shape—”

  “Fuck shape. Get over here.”

  Aaron did as he was told.

  Smart man.

  He crawled up on the bed beside Sarah and gently wrapped an arm around her. They kissed.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

  “Me too,” Parkman interrupted. “I’m still here, guys.”

  “We know,” Sarah said without breaking eye contact with Aaron. “We just love each other and I don’t get enough of this in my day-to-day life.”

  “We love each other,” Aaron repeated.

  “Is that a question?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, it’s just, it kinda helps with what we’re doing here. You know, being together and shit.”

  “Yeah, I guess love helps that along.”

  They smiled. Then giggled.

  Parkman laughed as they kissed again.

  Sarah winced in pain and pulled back, a hand rushing to her head. An image of Father Adams had filled her mind. The image was so sharp and clear that it came across as a short headache. She closed her eyes tight and winced.

  “What is it, Sarah?” Aaron asked. “A headache?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Can I get you something?” Aaron rolled off the bed. “You want a nurse?”

  “No, no more nurses. Take me to the hotel. Let’s have dinner. I want out of this place.”

  The image came again. But this time it came with a message whispered into her inner ear. For a brief second, her eyes widened. It couldn’t be. None of it was true. But Vivian was never wrong.

  “Parkman?” Sarah said, her voice serious enough that both men turned to look at her. “Did you see the body?”

  “Father Adams?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him get shot over half a dozen times and leave your room backwards out the window.”

  “But you didn’t see the body?”

  “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “I was at the police station and talked to Detective Hirst,” Aaron added. “He had just come from the autopsy room when I met with him. Hirst saw the body. That’s for sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “It’s weird.”

  “You’re not making sense,” Parkman said. “What is it?”

  “Aaron, take us to the hotel. On the way, I want you to call Detective Hirst and have him meet us at the hotel. I have a message for him.”

  “Okay, Sarah, what message?”

  “It’s not over.” She sat up and slipped off the bed onto her good foot.

  “What’s not over?” Parkman asked as he looked at Aaron.

  “Father Adams. Something tells me it’s not over.”

  “That’s impossible,” Aaron said. “He’s dead.”

  Sarah spun to face him. “I don’t question Vivian,” she said too sternly. “If Vivian says it’s not over, then it isn’t. Get me to the hotel and make sure Hirst meets us there.” She grabbed her crutch, winced as she placed it under her arm, and walked to the closet for her clothes.

  Neither man tried to help her. She preferred it that way.

  “Okay, we’ll do it your way, but I don’t understand it unless Father Adams had someone working for him.”

  “It could be.” Sarah dropped the hospital robe and slipped a shirt over her bruised ribcage. “I don’t know all of it yet, but what I can tell you is if Hirst doesn’t act fast, hundreds of people are going to die very soon at the hands of Father Adams.”

  Aaron gasped. Parkman looked away.

  “By the way, that includes us. We all die unless this gets fixed. We’re almost out of time. Call Detective Hirst. And let’s roll.”

  Chapter 32

  Detective Hirst hated the paperwork, but understood it came with the job. That didn’t mean that when the paperwork was complete he couldn’t rejoice. Getting out of the office by two in the afternoon, his recent case closed and no new cases to look at until next week, he could spend the rest of the day at home, and then get up tomorrow to attend Father Adams’ funeral, the publicly respected individual, but a privately hated one as well.

  He pulled into his driveway and killed the engine, anticipating time with his wife. No work, no papers, no criminals and no dead bodies. Just one gorgeous woman with needs that he was happy to fulfill. He knew what it meant to be married to a cop. He knew the long hours weren’t conducive to a solid relationship. When he got these opportunities, he seized them.

  He retrieved his briefcase from the backseat and then stopped. After one look at the house, he decided his work wasn’t coming home with him today. He popped the trunk and tossed the case in. Slamming the trunk lid, closing the car doors and hitting the lock button on the key fob felt final. Today was wife Day.

  He strolled up the walkway, Janice on his mind, easing away thoughts of the past week. No lights were on when he opened the front door. He placed his keys on the stand beside Janice’s, unclipped his holster and set his gun in the locked cabinet underneath. The lock clicked when he closed it.

  He straightened, pulled his pants up, and shouted, “Janice? Where are you?”

  No reply.

  “Janice?”

  He started down the hall, looked in the living room, then the den, and ended up in the kitchen.

  Maybe she’s having a nap.

  “Janice?” he called one more time, then realized that if she was napping, he didn’t want to wake her. He took the stairs slowly, avoided the one that creaked, and made it to the second floor as
a yawn escaped his lips.