[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping his shoulder. He looked up to see a middle-aged man holding the crying girl’s head to his chest.

  “Is he going to be all right?” he asked.

  He used the standard answer. “We’re doing everything we can. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, that’s Senator Harper. We work for him.”

  “Senator?”

  “Yes, from Georgia.”

  He turned and looked at Danielle. She just rolled her eyes and continued tightening straps around the victim.

  “Shit,” was all Ron could say.

  • • •

  Jack tried to look inconspicuous as he strolled through the dining room of the hotel. Several people were engaged in a late-night meal or business meeting. The jacket with the large letters over the obvious body armor was making it a lost cause. He scanned all the faces, and headed for the kitchen entrance when the phone rang. He had turned the volume up to its maximum setting after descending the stairs, and the phone’s tone now cut through the conversations and soft music like a siren. He got several more looks as he clawed at his belt for the offending device. He glanced at the screen before answering.

  “Yeah, Syd,” he spoke with his regular voice. Screw the diners; they were going to be pissed anyway when they found out they couldn’t leave. He continued his walk toward the kitchen entrance as her voice exploded out of the tiny speaker.

  “Jack, where are you?”

  “I’m still in the hotel. I yelled his name just before the shot, and then I kicked in the wrong door. I think he escaped down the stairs, but I’m not sure. We have the hotel sealed off, and we’ll be going room to room soon as we have the manpower. Was it Harper?”

  “Yes, looks like he got it in the chest, but I only know what I can see on TV. Listen, Eric found some maps of DC. One is of the subway system, and there are service tunnels. One of which connects to the main line about a block away from that building you’re in. I think he may be going out that way. Can you find the basement?”

  “Hold on, I’m looking.” He pushed his way through the double stainless steel doors into the kitchen area. He was met by several waiters with trays on their shoulders and busboys pushing carts. It was wall to wall people. Fortunately, he could see over most of them. He looked for exit signs, but saw nothing that looked like stairs. He made a quick decision. He pulled a chair out into the aisle and stood on it.

  “Everybody listen up!” He paused as the heads all turned his way. “I’m looking for the basement. Where is it?”

  As a group, they all pointed toward a large walk-in refrigerator. He looked to see a walkway around it leading toward the back of the building. He felt a tug on his jacket, and looked down to see a young man with the obligatory tray. It was empty.

  “I’ll show you,” was all he said. With a practiced shrug, the tray fell off the shoulder into both hands and was then slid onto the stainless counter top. He then spun on the rubber soles of his black tennis shoes and walked toward the cooler. Jack jumped down to follow and almost busted his ass on the red tile floor. He had gone through several different environments today, and still didn’t have the right footwear. As he followed the boy, he vowed to wear tennis shoes every day from now on. He had almost forgotten the phone in his hand.

  “Syd?”

  “Still here,” she answered.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “You’re kind of broken.”

  “I’m being led downstairs. I’ll probably lose signal. Do you have anything else?”

  “No. All we can see is that you’re only a couple of blocks from Union Station. You think he may try that?” Sydney was screaming into the phone now, as if that would improve the signal. Jack had to hold it away from his ear to make out what she was saying. It was not the time to correct her.

  “Anything that indicates he’s going there?”

  “No, but if I had just shot someone, I’d be getting out of town as fast as I could.”

  Good point, he thought. “Okay, tell Greg upstairs I’m looking for this tunnel of yours. I’ll call you back. Keep looking.” With that, he hung up the phone.

  He was standing at the top of a stairwell and needed his hands free again. He thanked the kid and replaced the phone with the Hi-Power. Keeping it out in front of him, he descended the stairs and was soon in the laundry room, where the staff froze at the sight of him. He held up Sam’s picture, and two of them pointed to another door across the room.

  Jack waved them all upstairs before he strode across the room to the steel door. The sign simply read Maintenance. No window. He reached out and grasped the knob. He slowly turned it until it stopped. At least it was unlocked. He took a deep breath and thought about what he should do. This was just what they told him not to do at the academy—it was a good way to get shot. He weighed it against all the time he had lost on the stairs and in the dining room. Jack also admitted he wanted to confront Sam alone; it might keep his friend alive.

  “Screw it,” he voiced under his breath. With a strong tug, he opened the door and dived through it. He came up against the wall in a crouch and scanned from right to left. A boiler room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed something shining back at him from the corner. On a closer look, he made it out as a broken padlock. He gazed slowly around the boiler at knee height until he saw the door. It was open an inch. Jack approached carefully until he could feel the cold air escaping from the crack. He opened it slowly, wincing as the old hinges let out a squeak.

  He waited for the shot, but it never came.

  The state of Virginia holds 35,067 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 23,494 are repeat offenders.

  —FORTY-SIX—

  Sam paused when he heard the screech of the opening door behind him. It was some distance away, but its meaning was clear: they were coming. He returned to the task at hand and directed the red beam of the flashlight on the last remaining links in the gate. He would have brought bigger cutters, but he had to make do with what would fit in the bag he was currently using. His hands were beginning to get sore from the repeated strain. Another train roared past not four feet away, as he cut the last link. He grabbed the chain link section he had cut free to keep it from falling onto the tracks. If this gate hadn’t had the steel plate around the hasp, he would have been through some time ago. He was just glad they hadn’t used steel bars.

  With a grunt against the pain, he quietly set the fencing down. He then looked carefully behind him for a full minute, letting his jaw drop open to improve his hearing. Not seeing any light, or hearing any sounds of pursuit, he could only conclude that they were going to try to head him off. Time to move.

  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a set of coveralls. They were not exactly like the ones workers here wore, but they were as close as he had been able to find. They would serve his purpose. He consulted the compass as it glowed on his wrist, before grabbing the gym bag and beginning a slow trot up the tracks to the north. As he had been taught, he rolled his feet when they hit the ground, which helped reduce the sound of his travel in the echoing tunnel. He kept the beam of the flashlight aimed just enough out in front to keep himself from stumbling.

  After ten minutes, Sam stopped to listen. He could just make out a voice. Sounded like it was being broadcast through a speaker. A man announcing trains. He was close to the station. Turning off the flashlight, he proceeded slowly until he could make out the light of the platform. When the stairs were in sight, he reached in the bag and pulled out the hard hat. Donning it, he walked directly to the stairs and up onto the busy platform. He was soon surrounded by late night commuters waiting for their trains. The voice announcing arrivals and departures continued to sound overhead. He scanned the crowd for a police presence, but did not see anyone resembling DC police or security.

  Walking quickly across the station, and using the map in his head, he soon located the locker. After pulling the key from his pocket, he exchanged the bag he
was carrying for the one inside. This took only seconds, and he was soon making his way toward the nearest bathroom. Once inside, he entered the large handicapped stall on the end. Inside, he stripped off the coveralls, hat, and underlying clothes, and donned the rolled-up shirt, pants, and suit from the bag. Over it all, he placed a long wool winter coat. The tie already possessed a Windsor knot, and was swiftly slipped over his head and snugged into place. He pulled a small tube of hair gel from his new coat pocket, along with a bright orange sticker. Kicking off the shoes, filthy from the tunnel, he replaced them with a new set of wing tips. Sam smoothed his shirt with his hands, but the wrinkles could still be seen. He decided they would help more than hurt: he was going to hide in plain sight—just another government worker who had stopped for a couple of drinks before catching the train home.

  Satisfied, he placed the bag on the toilet seat and exited the stall. Two men were studying the wall in front of them while they used the urinals. Another was just leaving. Sam shut the door and peeled the backing off the sticker. He carefully placed it over the crack of the stall door and smoothed it down flat. It read Out of Order. Perfect. Sam turned his attention to the sink. Wetting his hair, he then applied a large amount of the gel. After combing it into the slicked back style he had seen on the street the day before, he thought he looked like Michael Douglas in Wall Street. Last thing he did was place the glasses on his nose.

  “Handsome devil,” he quietly said to himself in the mirror.

  He stooped to pick up the briefcase to complete his ensemble. A quick check of his pockets, and he strode back out onto the platform. He headed left toward his train, swinging the briefcase as he went.

  • • •

  Ron jumped into the rear of his ambulance and then turned to guide the cot into the holding brackets. Once the cot was snapped into place, he reattached the bag and gave it two full squeezes. He needed help.

  “Danielle, grab a cop. I need someone to bag him.”

  “Okay.” She slammed the door and disappeared. The ambulance was suddenly very quiet, and Ron was all alone with his unconscious patient. A knock on the side door startled him. He looked out to see a man looking in, his hands cupped around his eyes in an effort to defeat the tinted windows. He looked familiar. Ron reached out and unlocked the door. When it opened, he saw the face of the local fire chief. He wore a heavy coat and had a ball cap on. The cap bore the logo of the local firefighter’s union.

  “Hey, Ron—need a hand?”

  “Man, am I glad to see you. Take this bag, will you? This guy’s got a through and through, and I need to get some lines going.”

  “No problem. Where’s the gloves?”

  “On the console. What size you need?”

  “I’m a large man.”

  Ron ignored the joke and got to the business at hand. His patient was bleeding into his chest and was already showing signs of shock. He needed to get some intravenous lines running fluids in to replace the lost blood. The oxygen line was attached to the bag and turned up to fifteen liters per minute. The monitor leads were placed on the chest, and a cuff was wrapped around the right upper arm. He pushed the button on his monitor, and it started pumping air into the cuff for an automatic reading. From his IV kit, he pulled a tourniquet and quickly wrapped the other arm. He then lifted the foot end of the cot until he heard a click. He left it in place with the feet elevated as far as it would go. The volume on the monitor was already up, and the steady beep of the heartbeat could be heard, still fast and regular. He was digging in the IV kit again when the rear door opened. Danielle stuffed a young female officer into the back and slammed the door behind her. She looked around the rig, taking in the scene.

  “Hey, Chief. What do I do?” she said to Stan.

  “Grab a seat right there, and put some gloves on. You know CPR?” Stan asked.

  “Yes, never done it though.”

  “That’s okay, I have enough for both of us. He doesn’t need it yet, but be ready. Take those shears and cut off the rest of his clothes. This is Ron. Do whatever he tells you to do. Got it?”

  “Yup.” She was already working on the man’s belt.

  As he prepped his equipment, Ron listened to Stan’s instructions, noting that he gave them without missing a beat on the bag. Danielle was now in the driver’s seat. She worked the keyboard briefly before dropping the truck in gear. The wail of the siren began its song as she pulled the truck around.

  “21:52!” she yelled out of habit. He didn’t bother to answer as he normally would have. They were supposed to document their departure time, but Ron was a little busy at the moment. He looked down at the man’s arm and was disappointed to see no veins popping up. He yanked the tourniquet and tossed it on the seat beside him. The man’s excess fat didn’t help any. He was going to have to go with a central line. He discarded the two 14-gauge catheters he had pulled out and replaced them with the 16-gauge/20cc syringe combo he had rubber banded together earlier. He placed it on the man’s chest where he wouldn’t lose it, before reaching over his head for a 1000cc bag of ringers. This, he spiked with a combination IV set, which he dialed to 10, its maximum flow setting. Once he had the line flushed, he clamped it and draped it over the man’s body. He then stuck a Betadine swab in his mouth.

  “Switch with me, Stan,” he mumbled.

  Stan gave two good squeezes on the bag before he and Ron stood and did an awkward dance around each other, until Ron fell into the seat above the senator’s head and Stan planted his considerable bulk on the bench seat. Ron ripped open the Betadine packet and swabbed the man’s right chest along the collar bone, turning it a burnt orange color.

  “What can I do?” the young officer asked.

  Ron looked at her as his hands assembled the needle to the syringe. He didn’t know her. She must be brand new.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Janice.”

  “First, Janice, get rid of that gun belt and coat; you’re gonna be working hard here in a minute. Second, get in the cabinet over Stan’s head, and get out that green thing with the rubber bulb attached. Hang it on that hook over your head.” With that, Ron unsheathed the three—and-a-half-inch needle and held it up to the light so he could see the bevel. The sight of it made her eyes bug out, but she did as she had been told.

  “Use the handle,” Stan instructed her as she stood. She took the advice, and grabbed the overhead bar to keep herself upright as the ambulance took a curve.

  “Getting harder to bag, Ron,” Stan informed.

  “I hear ya,” Ron replied as his fingers probed the chest looking for landmarks. He placed his thumb at the medial third of the clavicle and his index finger in the sternal notch. He looked at Stan.

  “How’s it look?”

  Stan leaned forward and gazed out the front windshield.

  “Straight and flat for a few.”

  He glanced at Janice, who was watching closely while she hung on to the overhead rail. Nothing like an audience.

  Ron let out a deep breath and plunged the needle into the senator’s chest.

  • • •

  Charlie stood in his office, dumbstruck by the news he had just learned. The agent in front of him had pulled him from the celebratory office party, which always followed a successful State of the Union address, and broken the news to him.

  “Senator Harper? You’re sure?”

  “I’ve spoken personally to his aide who was at the scene and one of the first officers to respond. He’s on his way to George Washington right now.”

  Charlie’s head fell forward, and he planted both arms on the desk to hold himself up. Glitter left his hair and fell mockingly to the desk blotter, on which was a copy of the crime bill.

  “Where’s the President?”

  “He’s in the oval with a few senators.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The agent opened the door and let the noise of the party enter. Charlie snagged his jacket off the rack and donned it as he followed. The questioning l
ook of his secretary drew his attention, and he signaled her to stay. Others saw the grim look of the pair, and they parted to let them pass before shrugging it off and returning to their celebration. It wasn’t the first time they had seen that look on Charlie’s face, and they were sure it wouldn’t be the last. But right now, they had reason to party, and party they would.

  Charlie kept his head down until they entered the outer office. The President’s body-man was sitting outside, watching the news coverage on a tiny television. He looked up when the agent and Charlie stopped in front of him.

  “Does he know?” Charlie asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Get me in.”

  The young man opened the door of the Oval, and they saw the President with a rare drink in his hand, surrounded by his Chief of Staff and a few senior senators. They were laughing about something.

  “Mr. President? Charlie to see you?”

  “Sure, send him in! Get in here, Charlie! We’re telling bad jokes!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I need you for a moment.”

  The President’s face fell, and he looked past Charlie to see the agent standing outside. He quickly rolled with the request.

  “Gentleman, please excuse us for a moment, perhaps in John’s office? My deputy chief needs a moment.”

  “Yes, sir. Well done tonight, Charlie! You continue to surprise us.”

  Charlie forced a smile on his face for the men’s benefit. “Thank you, sir.” A moment later they had filed into the Chief of Staff’s office next door, and Charlie waved the agent in. The door closed quietly behind him.

  “What happened?” the President asked.

  “Sir . . . Senator Harper was shot while leaving the Capitol Building tonight. He’s in an ambulance and on his way to George Washington.”

  The President’s face turned to stone, and he set the glass of scotch down on the Resolute desk before leaning on its edge.