After that it was all waiting and filling out reports and forms and applications.
Rasche hated waiting. He hated hospitals, thought they all smelled like death mixed with linoleum.
Ordinarily he hated filling out reports, too, but at least it made the waiting a bit less tiresome, and gave him something to look at other than blank walls and human misery.
He was pacing the floor for the hundredth time when a young doctor in wire-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed beard asked, "Are you Detective Rasche?"
Rasche looked up and didn't bother to answer. The doctor's firm belly and tidy appearance made Rasche uncomfortably aware that his own gut was bigger and softer than he liked, and his mustache was long enough to chew on-he hadn't had time lately to worry about trimming it.
How the hell did this guy look so tidy at this hour of the morning?
"I read your preliminary report," the doctor said as he took Rasche by the arm and marched him toward Schaefer's room. "So Detective Schaefer tripped, huh? I haven't seen an explanation that lame since third grade."
Rasche shrugged. He allowed himself to be led--after all, he wanted to see how Schaefer was doing, and if the doctor wanted to show him something, so much the better.
"Look," the doctor said as they reached the door of Schaefer's room, "I don't care what you tell your superiors. I'm not a cop, and it's not my business what you say officially, but I want some answers. I can't do my job properly if you lie to me. So what the hell happened?"
"What does it matter?" Rasche asked nervously. "Look, the guy's banged up, but a few stitches, a little rest, and he'll be good as new, right? He's not gonna die and make you look bad or anything." They stepped into the room. "I know Schaefer, Doc," Rasche insisted. "He carries liability insurance in case cars run into him. This isn't anything."
He hoped, very much, that it wasn't anything, that Schaefer wasn't going to die.
"Look, enough of the bullshit," the doctor said wearily, pulling aside the curtain around Schaefer's bed and revealing Rasche's unconscious, but still breathing, partner. "It's late, I'm tired, and you don't get something like that from falling out of a building."
He thrust out a finger and pointed to Schaefer's neck, just below the left ear.
Rasche had been taking in the monitors, the tubes up Schaefer's nose, the bandages across his nose and forehead and around his jaw-even though he'd landed on his back when he hit the pile of trash. Now he looked where the doctor's finger indicated.
It was a lump of dully gleaming metal, about the diameter of a nickel, but rounded like a beetle or the head of a bolt-Rasche had a sudden mental image of Schaefer as a Frankenstein's monster, with electrodes on either side.
By now he probably had about enough stitches for the part, too.
The metal thing was rimmed with blood fresh blood, from the color; everywhere else the blood had either been wiped away or dried to an ugly red-brown, but here was a circle that was still bright, bright red.
As Rasche watched, a thin red trickle ran down Schaefer's neck and dripped onto the pillow.
This wasn't anything Rasche had seen before; either Schaefer's shirt collar or the scattered garbage had hidden it when he had knelt over Schaefer on the pavement of Beekman Street.
Rasche looked questioningly at the doctor.
"We can't get it off without surgery," the doctor said. "Maybe not even then. It's got these barbed claws dug into the carotid artery, and any time we pull at it, they start moving. If we tear it off, maybe even if we cut it off, it'll chew the blood vessels to pulp, and he'll bleed to death before we can repair them."
"Jesus," Rasche said, looking back at Schaefer.
"We've x-rayed it, looked at it every way we know, and we can't see inside it or get any idea how it works. Now, Detective," the doctor said; "would you mind telling me what the hell that thing is?"
"I'd like to, Doc," Rasche said honestly, "but I swear to God, I don't know"
* * *
10
It took fifteen minutes to convince the doctor that Rasche didn't know what the thing on Schaefer's neck was, or how it got there.
It took another fifteen minutes to finish the paperwork, and forty more to get home. Even though the sun wasn't yet showing more than a faint glow in the east, the morning traffic had begun. . .
Rasche didn't bother cursing as he drove, or trying to make time. It wasn't as if he was in any hurry. He needed sleep, but he knew he wasn't going to get any right away, not while the image of that gadget on Schaefer's neck was stuck in his mind, not while he kept imagining those claws the doctor had described . . .
The drive gave Rasche him to think, but he didn't think of anything useful. He just kept seeing that ring of blood, or Schaefer's body falling, or the dangling, mutilated corpses at the police range.
He left Schaefer's car at the curb and hauled himself wearily into his darkened house.
Shari and the kids were still asleep, Rasche figured. At least Shari hadn't tried to wait up for him-she wasn't lying on the living-room couch with the television still on.
For a moment he was tempted to take a quick look upstairs, make sure they were all right, but that was crazy, he'd just risk waking them up.
They were safe here-as much as anyone was safe anywhere in New York.
He trudged into the kitchen, where he hung his holstered gun on a door handle while he found a bottle of bourbon-he was acting on the theory that a good stiff shot of booze might help him sleep.
Bourbon. General Philips had been drinking bourbon. Just who the hell was Philips, anyway? Who did he work for? He knew what was going on here, or at least part of it-what was his connection with the killers?
Schaefer's brother, Dutch, was connected to it somehow, too-and so was Schaefer. It couldn't just be a coincidence. The killers had taken out a bunch of Schaefer's enemies, then a bunch of Schaefer's allies-they hadn't touched anyone in New York that Schaefer didn't care about, one way or another.
And they'd been waiting for him at that tenement-or someone had. They must have guessed Schaefer would go back there after the massacre on Twentieth Street.
What had happened to Schaefer up there? Rasche had never seen him take a beating like that, with his nose and jaw both smashed before he went out through the hole in the wall.
And that thing stuck on his neck-did Philips know what that was?
What was it Philips had said? "They like the heat . . . They want the sport."
Sport?
"Makes it sound like the America's Cup or something," Rasche muttered.
"Did you say something, hon?" Shari asked him from the doorway.
Rasche started and almost spilled the whiskey.
"I heard you come in," Shari said. She was wearing her old pink terry-cloth bathrobe.
"Sorry," Rasche said. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I'd be getting up in fifteen minutes anyway. So did you say something?"
"No, no," Rasche said. "It's nothing." He gulped bourbon and glanced at the clock, and saw that Shari was right about the time.
"Isn't it kind of early to be drinking like that?" she asked.
"No," Rasche said, "it's late. Very late." He swallowed the rest of the whiskey.
"Do you want some breakfast?" Shari asked, reaching for a cupboard door.
Rasche shook his head. "I'll be going to bed in a few minutes."
"You've got the day off?"
"I'm taking the day off. I've been up all night." He looked at the empty glass and the half-full bottle, then put the cap back on the bottle, and the glass in the sink.
There was someone or something out there in the city, something that had thrown Schaefer off the fifth floor, something that had butchered a dozen armed men-and according to Philips, it had done it for sport.
For fun.
Whatever it was, he didn't want to be drunk into a stupor if he ever had to face it-and it could show up anytime.
"Did you eat anything?" Shari asked.
&
nbsp; "Yeah," Rasche lied.
He sat and watched as his wife got her own breakfast-cornflakes and milk. She didn't bother cooking if he wasn't going to eat.
Sometimes he wished she didn't care so much for him; if he ever did get himself killed, she'd suffer for it, and he hated thinking of that even more than he hated thinking of his own death.
He knew he should get some sleep, but he wasn't ready yet. He wasn't sure why not. He sat there by the table as if waiting for something-but he didn't know what.
He was still sitting there when someone began pounding on the front door. .
Rasche was on his feet in an instant, grabbing his gun and shouting, "Shari, get upstairs with the kids, now l" .
Shari threw him a terrified glance, then scampered for the stairs.
Pistol in hand, Rasche crept down the front hall.
Whoever it was, was still knocking-but just knocking. No one had broken in the glass panes in the door, no one had kicked at the door, no one had picked or smashed the lock, no one had come in through the windows. That was promising-but Rasche still kept his gun ready.
"All right, all right, I'm coming," he called as his hand closed on the knob.
He could see the outline of two men through the white curtain that covered the glass; carefully, he nudged the fabric aside with the barrel of the revolver and peered out at the faces. One was out of his line of sight, but the other he recognized.
Schaefer.
His face was half-covered with bandages, but there was no question it was Schaefer
For a moment Rasche's weary mind went blank-what the hell was Schaefer doing there?
The pounding continued, and eventually that penetrated Rasche's confusion. He opened the door, pistol still in his hand.
"`Bout time, Mac," the stranger said.
He was a young black man of undistinguished size, and he was struggling to keep Schaefer upright with one arm while he knocked with the other.
Schaefer was barefoot, still wearing his green hospital gown. He coughed. "Hey, Rasche," he said, "pay this creep, will you?"
Rasche looked past them both at the city cab waiting at the curb.
Schaefer had gotten out of the hospital and found a cab. He didn't have any money, didn't have his goddamn clothes, but he'd gotten a cab.
"Let's get him on the couch," Rasche said to the stranger, ignoring Schaefer.
Together, Rasche and the cab driver got Schaefer onto the sofa in the living room, his head propped up on a throw pillow, Shari's crocheted afghan thrown across his bare legs. A twenty from the housekeeping money covered the fare and a tip, Rasche didn't want to keep the cabbie around long enough to worry about change.
As he showed the driver out, Rasche saw Shari at the top of the stairs and signaled to her that everything was okay. She crept down the steps and saw their guest. She relaxed slightly upon recognizing him, but his condition was enough to keep her nervous.
"I'll get you some tea," she said.
Rasche pulled a chair up beside the couch and sat, looking down at his partner.
Schaefer was still in bad shape-that had been obvious at the door. He was bandaged half a dozen places, and couldn't speak without coughing-Rasche guessed that came from pressure on his lungs from a broken rib.
He was conscious, though.
"How did you get out of the hospital?" Rasche asked. "The doctor said-"
"Screw the doctor," Schaefer interrupted.
Then he went into a brief fit of coughing.
Rasche waited for it to pass.
"So what're you doing here?" he demanded.
Schaefer held up a bandaged hand. "I'm going to need some help for a few days," he said.
"Help?" Rasche asked. "Help doing what?"
Schaefer coughed. "I need a place to stay where I can do some thinking, get some things done. Can't do shit in that damn hospital. Besides, the feds can watch me every goddamn minute there."
"But, Schaef, you're all busted up . . . ."
"That's why I didn't fucking go home, Rasche," Schaefer said, lifting his head. "I can't manage by myself yet. Come on, give me a break."
"Right, you can't go home like this . . . ," Rasche agreed uncertainly.
"So can I stay, or not?"
"You're welcome to stay, Schaef, but what is it you want to do that you can't do in the hospital? I mean, you're in no shape to . . ."
"I'm going to find the ugly son of a bitch that did this . . . ," Schaefer interrupted, before being overtaken by more coughing. Again Rasche waited for the coughing to stop.
"I'm going to find him," Schaefer said, "and I'm going to kick his ugly ass from here to Jersey"
Shari appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a cup. "I . . . I made you some tea, Schaef. I . . ."
Schaefer, already sitting up to ease the coughing, turned slightly and accepted the cup.
"Thanks, Shari," he said.
A voice spoke from the hallway.
"Wow, just look at his neck!" the boy said. "It's all bloody!"
"Cool!" another voice answered.
Rasche looked up- and saw his two sons standing in the doorway, staring at Schaefer.
They were right; the thing on Schaefer's neck was oozing fresh blood again. The coughing had probably done it.
"Honey, please," Rasche said, "could you get the boys out of here?"
Shari obeyed, dragging the pair of them to the kitchen for breakfast.
When they were gone, Rasche asked, "What about that thing on your neck? We've got to get it off before it kills you."
"I don't think it's there to kill me," Schaefer said. "At least not yet."
"So what do you think?"
"I think I've been tagged, like some kind of baby seal," Schaefer said. "Guess he wants to keep tabs on me." He grimaced, coughed, then added wryly, "I guess the bastard likes me."
* * *
11
Schaefer, Rasche thought, was one tough hombre.
If I had been beaten up and thrown off the fifth floor, he thought, I'd spend the next few days sipping chicken soup and watching Love Boat reruns.
Schaefer just wanted to get back to work.
Oh, they'd both slept most of the day and taken it easy that evening; Rasche had made a run down to the hospital and talked the nurse into turning over Schaefer's clothes and wallet, made a stop at Schaefer's apartment for a fresher outfit, then come home and tried to coax a coherent description from Schaefer of just what he had fought in that tenement.
They'd talked over what it was, where it came from, what it was after-all of it guesswork, of course, but Schaefer had that last chat with Dutch to help him.
He thought the thing was a hunter, the kind Dutch had talked about-probably the one Dutch encountered; after all, how many could there be?
Schaefer told Rasche the thing wasn't human, but he admitted he hadn't gotten that good a look at it, had only been in the same room with it for a few seconds in poor light; Rasche didn't comment on that.
But Dutch had run into it in Central America, and this one was in New York.
Well, it had had seven or eight years to find its way north. Maybe it had already gotten Dutch and was going on after his family. Or maybe Dutch had gotten away, and it had mistaken Schaefer for his brother.
In any case, Schaefer figured that it was toying with him, playing cat-and-mouse games, killing Schaefer's own natural prey at the downtown tenement, killing Schaefer's allies on Twentieth Street, marking Schaefer.
Schaefer didn't think it had intended to knock him out of the building; that had been an accident. And it hadn't bothered coming down after him because it wanted the chase to continue a bit longer, it didn't want to kill him while he was helpless.
It wanted the sport of hunting him.
It was all guesswork, all just talk, and that was all Schaefer and Rasche did that first evening.
But the next morning, bright and early, they were in Schaefer's car again, driving back to Manhattan.
Schaefer
planned strategy on the way as Rasche negotiated New York's traffic.
"We can't let that thing call all the shots," Schaefer said. "We have to track it down, get at it when it isn't ready, catch it off guard."
"How the hell are we supposed to do that?" Rasche asked.
"We need to find out more about it," Schaefer said. "We've got to backtrack Philips. He knows a lot more than he's telling-he's plugged into this somehow. He knew that thing was in town. And he's hiding something about Dutch, something more than I know. I can feel it."
"I can feel that we're going to be canned if we don't bring McComb in on this," Rasche replied.
"Look, Schaef, I haven't pushed you because I figure you have your reasons, but I've got to know what we're really up against. You saw that character up there, I didn't you must have some idea what's going on. Okay, so it's some kind of superhunter -- who sent it? Why was it after your brother? Who'd he piss off, the mob? Terrorists? Some foreign government? Sinatra's bodyguards?"
"How about, `None of the above'?" Schaefer said. "You want the truth, Rasche? The truth is, I just don't know. It could be some kind of mutant monster on the rampage for all I know; it could be from outer space. Maybe Philips is involved because it's some kind of biowar experiment gone wrong. I just don't know."
Rasche started to ask another question, then dropped it. If Schaefer didn't know, more questions wouldn't help.
At Police Plaza they didn't need to go looking for McComb; they were scarcely inside the building when he spotted them and came charging down the corridor at them, fists clenched.
"There you are!" he bellowed. "About time you put in an appearance!"
"You could've called-" Rasche began.
"You should've stayed in the goddamn hospital where you belonged, Schaefer! I warned you! I've got the chief crawling up my ass, wondering why one of my homicide detectives was pissing around a federally sealed crime scene-"
"Give it a rest, McComb," Schaefer interrupted.
"That's Captain McComb, Detective," growled McComb. "In my office. Now."
Neither of them paid any attention to Rasche, and that suited Rasche just fine. The order to McComb's office was directed at Schaefer, and as far as Rasche could tell, he wasn't wanted.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Predator 01 Page 7
