Murdock Rocks Sedona

by Robert J. Ray

  *****

  Karla tried to sit up. Her foot peeked out from under the hospital sheet. Teri saw a chain around Karla’s ankle. The other end of the chain was locked onto the metal bar at the foot of the bed. Was Karla the suspect?

  Teri left the room. Karla called, “Come back! We had a deal.” Teri was confused, moving down the corridor, sliding into the elevator. Why was Karla chained to the bed? How had Jeremy known? She pressed the button for Seven.

  No time to check with God. No time to process the new info. No time to separate fact from Karla’s medicated craziness. No way to get back the innocent girl who laid on her belly in Jeremy’s bed because she was competing with her mother, again and again. Was Teri excited by Sin? The elevator stopped. The doors opened at Room 733. Her brain felt clumsy. Where was Room 717?

  *****

  Fish entered Ackerman’s Room. A big corner suite, two beds, but room for three. A big wide double-glass window leading to the fire escape. Fish imagined pushing Ackerman through that escape door, onto the platform, send him flying into space.

  But there was a steel railing.

  No way to boost him over.

  Ackerman spoke from the bed.

  “Fatso Fish,” Ackerman said. “You gotta weigh three hundred pounds, boy.”

  “You look dead, Axel.”

  “Those Arabs,” Ackerman said. “You sent them to fuck up my deal and look what happened.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “And when did you decide you wanted my hotel?”

  “When I heard you wanted it, Pool Boy.”

  “You are one sick fuck,” Ackerman said.

  Fish unfolded the agreement bearing the name of George Hawthorne. Ackerman shook his head. He was groggy, looped on drugs, so Fish seized his chance to gloat.

  “On Monday when the banks open, I become the new owner of the fifth floor in Sedona Landing. If you should die—what a lovely thought—then my consortium will have first dibs on the whole goddamn building.”

  Fish felt rage, his cheeks on fire; that was the hate talking. He stood at the bedside, looking down. His fists kept clenching. He had hated Axel Ackerman since that hot summer day, catching the son-of-a-bitch in bed with his mama. Ackerman had ruined Fish’s life; now he was going to pay.

  Fish’s eye traced the IV tube that ran from Ackerman’s arm, down along the sheet, then up to a plastic bag that hung from an IV stand. He moved his hand to the little valve. If the valve lever was horizontal, it was closed. If it was vertical, aligned with the tube, it was open.

  “It was just like you, revealing your total disrespect, showing up at mother’s funeral,” Fish said.

  “Wanted to pay my respects. Despite giving birth to a moron, your mama was fine.”

  “What’s this little tube do, anyway … this little valve?”

  “Keep your fat political paws off the tubes,” Ackerman said.

  “You are going down, Pool Boy.”

  Chapter 72

  Helene Steinbeck was restless—enough theory, enough talk. Murdock was too groggy to help. Slattery checked his messages. Nothing on Cypher’s military record. No telling how long that would take, it being Friday and all.

  Helene needed some air. Her brain was fuzzy. She had a hunch. She left Murdock with Connie and Slattery, walked down the corridor. Maybe there was coffee in the machine now. She met Nurse Rivera coming out of the elevator. She was agitated.

  “Is there something wrong?” Helene said.

  “Now I know why people don’t trust their government,” Rivera said.

  “What’s going down, girl?”

  “At first,” Rivera said, “I admit I felt honored. A U.S. congressman, friend of Senator Gypsum, taking a tour of our facility, so I left him with the director, but when I went back, he wasn’t there.”

  “A fat man?” Helene said.

  “With nasty eyes,” Rivera said, “and a mean little smile.”

  Fish was in the building. Helene said thank you and punched the button for Seven. The elevator seemed really slow; the doors took forever to close. The car stopped on Four, an orderly pushing a gurney. Helene watched the doors, heart beating fast. The elevator stopped again on Five, where two gurneys waited.

  Helene left the elevator, ran to the stairs. Jerked the door open, took the stairs two at a time. Her legs were stronger now, but her knees sent pain signals as she made the turn. At the landing on Six, she phoned Murdock, back in the staff meeting room. One ring, two, she was wasting time.

  *****

  Inside Ackerman’s room, Hiram Fish was humming. This was his time, his moment for payback, mine eyes have seen the glory. He was on his feet, ambulatory. The enemy lay in bed, trussed by tubes.

  Fish gripped the mattress, put his face close to the enemy. Ackerman’s mouth emitted a sour odor, foul, gray as death.

  No more words. Fish closed the valve. Ackerman turned his head, his eyes blazed, for the last time, Fish thought.

  A bed rolled into the room, pushed by a blonde nurse wearing green scrubs. The patient in the bed was Lottie Ackerman Belle, her red hair hidden in bandages. The blonde in the scrubs looked familiar, a face from somewhere. She glared at Fish, told him to get away. She spoke with an accent. She was not American. Fish knew that voice. She was that hooker from Prague, the one who worked for Ackerman’s daughter. The bitch from Prague had broken his nose, made it crooked for the cameras. They couldn’t stop the bleeding, and Fish had flirted with death. This bitch was part of the daughter’s blackmail scheme.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Fish saw Ackerman’s hand groping for the little metal clip that had closed off his IV drip. Scrub Girl’s hand flew to the valve, made a quick turn, aligned with the tube, back to the “on” position.

  Fish grabbed her wrist; this bitch owed him. He clubbed her with his fist. She grunted, fell sideways, onto Ackerman’s bed.

  In a groggy voice, the doped-up daughter asked what was going on.

  Fish backed up to the wall. A door to his left—that was the bathroom—maybe there was a connecting door to the neighboring room.

  Ackerman made a croaking noise.

  Fish yanked open the door—another goddamn bathroom, no connecting door.

  Movement, scuffling noises—that was Scrub-Girl charging him, brandishing a plastic tray. Holding the tray in both hands, she made a slicing motion. Fish dodged, felt a pain in his forehead, just over the eye. Fish went down, hitting hard, hurting his tailbone, hot and sharp.

  He touched his head. The finger came back wet; he saw his own blood.

  A voice asked what was going on.

  Ackerman’s bitch-daughter was up on one elbow, staring at Fish. She called him a fat bastard. Fish was out-numbered. Ackerman the Pool Boy was not dead. Fish saw his career going down the tubes.

  Another bed rolled into the room, blocking the doorway—nowhere to run.

  The man pushing the bed wore a blue EMT uniform, blousy trousers tucked into black boots, and a tan mountain-climber backpack.

  The man looked familiar.

  Fish blinked. The man was Captain Wilson, the soldier-hero from Kabul—same crazy eyes, different face.

  The crazy eyes locked onto Fish. This man was insane; he was here to kill Fish.

  *****

  Helene Steinbeck came out of the stairwell just in time to see an EMT uniform wheel a gurney into Room 700.

  The guy in the uniform was medium-height. He wore a blue cap and black jump boots. Helene checked her Glock. Nine rounds. Voices came from inside Room 700. Helene heard a woman mumbling.

  She heard Cypher saying shut up.

  Helene needed backup.

  She phoned Murdock.

  Chapter 73

  Murdock’s phone bonged. 5.58 p.m. It was Mrs. Dorothy Stanhope, a short text message, “I found her, Mr. Detective.”

  Murdock’s cellphone screen revealed a photo of Penny Diamond, black and white turning sepia—a photo from Amarillo, thirty years ago. Penny, looking young and p
retty, was holding hands with a skinny kid, fourteen or fifteen, with the moony face of a guy in love. The kid had to be Joey Wilson. Murdock handed the phone to Connie. She loaded the photo onto her laptop. As the photo got bigger, Slattery said, “Jesus fucking Christ. Is that who I think it is?”

  “It’s Jeremy,” Connie said. “Younger, with a different face.”

  *****

  Ackerman swam back. There was magic juice in the IV bag; without it he was dead. If he got through the next couple of minutes, he would be happy to walk around with a goddamn IV in his vein forever.

  Ackerman tried to remember the sequence of events.

  He saw Fish moving toward the bed, wearing a long lab coat.

  He saw Fish in a close-up, his pudgy fingers turning off the valve, sending Ackerman down the tunnel to Hell.

  He saw the Czech girl wrestling with Fish, turning the valve back on, bringing Ackerman back from the dead.

  He saw Lottie on the rolling bed, her voice weak, cursing Fish; they had a secret history.

  He saw Cypher coming through the door, pushing a bed that held Arthur Ackerman, bloodstains on the sheets.

  Ackerman got what was going on. Cypher was here to kill Ackerman’s family, a staged execution, a death-ritual. Ackerman had to admit that Cypher looked good in battle dress. The fellow was a born soldier, holding a pistol with a sound suppressor, grinning down at Fatso Fish.

  Cypher’s laugh sounded hollow, insane, out of control. Ackerman watched as Cypher squatted down on his haunches, face to face with Fish. They were talking. “Kabul,” Cypher said. “You took advantage, misused your power.”

  Fish said, “You murdered a Federal agent, Captain. His body has been found. You’re a traitor. They’ll dump you into that facility in Kansas with the crazies from Guantanamo. No one gets out of there, my fine feathered friend.”

  Ackerman was not tracking. What the fuck happened in Kabul? Some bad blood between Fish and Cypher, more secrets. Ackerman’s brain was a slow train chugging uphill. He wanted to ask a question, but there was something wrong with his voice. The words swam in his head. Cypher knelt on the floor; his hand gripped Fish’s throat.

  The Czech girl held tight to Ackerman’s hand.

  Her nose oozed blood—that swat from Fatso Fish.

  Ackerman saw movement, a flash of metal—that was Cypher hitting Fish with the pistol. A blow to the cheek, a second blow that bloodied Fish’s nose. Fish crumpled, and his head flopped to the side. Cypher stood up.

  Cypher’s face had the woeful expression of a wounded teenager—a face that looked both hurt and hateful. He turned to Ackerman. The Czech girl moved closer, using herself as a shield between Ackerman and Cypher.

  *****

  Cypher stepped close to Ackerman’s bed.

  “Old man, you killed my dad.”

  “I made him rich,” Ackerman said.

  “He jumped three stories to his death,” Cypher said. “I saw him after he landed. You and your greedy Crew destroyed my family.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ackerman said.

  “Now,” Cypher said. “You can say goodbye to your happy family.”

  Arthur spoke from his bed. “Oh, Papa, what have you gotten me into now?”

  Grinning, Cypher shot Arthur in the leg.

  The Czech girl grabbed Cypher’s arm. He shook her off. He swiveled, shot without aiming, putting a bullet into Ackerman’s daughter. She grunted, a woman on drugs.

  “Two down,” Cypher said. “One to go.”

  *****

  Teri was thinking the guy on the rolling bed had eyes like Axel. He had the same nose. He was chubby; Axel was thin. The sheet did not hide the big belly. His patient tag said D. ACKERMAN. As she maneuvered the bed down the hallway toward Axel’s room—what was it, 700, the big room at the end of the hall on Seven—Teri was feeling weird about the whole hospital deal. She looked good in the uniform; she was getting gonzo material for her class. The interview, even though unfinished, was A-Plus work, but she didn’t like it that Jeremy had merked Karla Kurtz—one more lie from that dude. And he was acting really crazy. All that talking to himself, like he was out of control, like he was two people. Mama had said that Jeremy had a mean streak. Teri believed her now.

  *****

  Before she entered Room 700, Helene phoned Murdock again. He answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?”

  “Headed for the great outdoors. Slattery is on board at last. Connie too. Where are you?”

  “I’m outside Ackerman’s room. Cypher’s in there. Maybe the Czech girl. I don’t know who else.”

  “You’re going in, right?”

  “I need a diversion, Murdock.”

  “Don’t charge in like the movies, guns blazing.”

  “What about my diversion?”

  “Where do you want it, coach?”

  “The fire escape. It’s right outside Axel’s room.”

  “Okay, I remember. You went to the window and—”

  “Gotta ring off, I’m moving.”

  *****

  With Connie and Slattery in the lead, Murdock rolled down a hallway toward the green Exit sign. His shoulder ached from Penny Diamond’s bullet. His legs felt heavy. The sweat bloomed under his arms, felt thick on his chest.

  Slattery was on his cellphone, demanding backup. Connie was checking her weapon. Murdock told them that Helene needed a diversion, maybe on the fire escape. Slattery stopped at the narrow door with a door that led outside.

  The wind was cold, sharp as a knife made of bone. Connie was counting out loud, her voice quavery. “That’s gotta be Room 107. We want 100, right under 700. Is this really happening?”

  “That bastard fooled me,” Slattery said. “Lady wants a diversion, I’ll nail Cypher from the fire escape.”

  Connie was pushing his wheelchair. Murdock felt exhausted, trapped. Slattery used his mini-flash to locate the fire escape, a dim probing light skittering across the outside wall from Room 100 up the outer wall to Room 700. Perfect.

  The lower rung of the fire escape loomed ten feet above, out of reach. Connie spotted a truck with a ladder. Murdock watched as they leaned the ladder against the wall. Connie wanted to go up first. She had a history with Cypher, and she was not a woman who liked to be tricked. Slattery went first. He was the ranking officer.

  Dizzy from the effort, cold from the wind, Murdock sat in his wheelchair feeling out of the action, watching Slattery climb, moving a little too fast. You never wanted to do that. Always take your time, always keep your wits about you, who wrote that? Some poet from Murdock’s childhood, when he was reading Robert Service, those poems about the Klondike, and Rudyard Kipling, those poems about the Brits in India. Now, in the cold wind, the words slid away.

  Slattery made it to the landing outside Four. Connie was on her cellphone again, “Where’s the backup?”

  She finished her call and started up the fire escape. Connie was young; she had strong legs. What was going on with Helene?

  *****

  Helene entered room 700 in a sniper crawl, elbows and knees. The floor was hard. She smelled antiseptic, wounds, the fear of death. They bring you to a hospital, you never get out alive. Her head was just below the edge of the bed.

  She saw green scrubs and green flip-flops; that was the Czech girl.

  She saw Senator Fish, on the floor, grunting and sweating, pulling up his pant leg. The senator had fat little hands.

  She saw three hospital beds, one close to the fire escape, one close to Ackerman. She saw blue trousers tucked into black paratrooper jump boots—the regulation uniform for cops and firemen and ambulance jockeys.

  The boots had a high sheen; that had to be Cypher, neatness to the end.

  Right hand on Axel’s Colt 45., left hand supporting, Helene aimed at the nearest boot.

  She squeezed the trigger, shooting through the forest of metal, bed legs, IV stands.

  Her weapon did not have a sound suppressor.

  The explosio
n filled the room.

  The Czech girl screamed.

  Helene saw a puff of blue from Cypher’s uniform trousers.

  The bed moved, exposing Helene. She was wide open to return fire.

  She caught a glimpse of Cypher’s face. He had used the EMT disguise to get inside. Why hadn’t they thought of that?

  Cypher shot at Helene. The bullet slammed into the wall. She smelled sheetrock dust.

  Ackerman waved a hand, trying to say something.

  On the floor, the fat senator was sitting up, using the wall to support his back. His trouser leg was up. He wore long black socks, like a CEO, regulation socks, the corporate look adopted by senators and congressmen. The little snap strap on his ankle holster was open.

  In the holster was a small weapon.

  Cypher said, “Senator Fish, you destroyed my Army career.”

  “Let me help you, son. It’s not too late for—”

  “I was on track to brigadier.”

  The Senator raised his weapon.

  Cypher’s gun whispered.

  The senator looked surprised. Wait a Minute! Why Me?

  A hole appeared in his forehead.

  Helene heard someone coming through the door and swiveled around to see Teri Breedlove, pushing a bed. The guy on the bed was Daniel Ackerman—bandages, puffy face, his eyes closed.

  Cypher turned. He was at the window, headed for the fire escape. Grinning, he said, “You are late, soldier.”

  Helene fired at Cypher’s torso. He took the round, rocked back, still alive—the guy had to be wearing a vest. He snapped a shot at Helene. The bullet went past; she felt that puff of wind. Had he missed on purpose? Was he that good under pressure? Teri Breedlove screamed at Cypher to stop. “Are you crazy, Jeremy?” she said. “Don’t you care about anyone?”

  Ackerman reached for Teri. She was already backing up. Cypher snapped a shot, and Teri squeaked, fell to the floor. A blood spot bloomed on her white nurse dress.

  “Bitches,” Cypher said, “all of you.”

  He was outside, on the fire escape.

  His backpack was open; he was uncoiling a rope.

  Helene was hunkered down behind Daniel Ackerman’s bed. Teri Breedlove lay on the floor, blood staining her white uniform. Daniel’s eyes were closed. Was he dead too? The room was thick with the smell of cordite. Helene leveled her weapon at Cypher. Teri Breedlove was crawling toward the big exit window, calling Cypher’s name, blocking Helene’s shot.