In the dark room my eyes adjusted and I could see again.
I was in a small storeroom, if the boxes of goods lining the walls were any indication. A single window looked out over the side yard, which led around to the rear of the property.
Out in the hallway, someone, Spencer maybe, was shouting for Gallagher’s men to fall back, and hearing it I knew that I couldn’t stay here much longer. There was no way I could take on the Sorrows myself. If they caught me, I was as good as dead.
I hustled over to the window, shoved it open, and climbed through. Once outside I made my way around to the back of the house, heading straight for the fence along the rear of the property. Decatur Street ran past the house on the other side of that fence. In the event of an emergency, Gallagher’s people had been instructed to regroup several blocks away from the clinic, and Decatur Street could take me there just as well as any other.
With a last look back toward the beleaguered men and women fighting inside the house, I slipped over the fence and headed off down the street, feeling about as useless as a priest in a whorehouse.
42
HUNT
The rendezvous point was an empty warehouse several blocks to the south and I headed in that direction as soon as I was clear of the compound. If we were going to have packs of Sorrows hunting us through the streets, I wanted to put a few more bodies between them and me without delay, and there was definitely a certain safety in numbers.
I moved through the night without difficulty, thankful for my ability to see in the darkness. Not only did it keep me from crashing into what would otherwise have been unseen obstacles, but it let me see what was coming my way, preventing the Sorrows from sneaking up on me from the shadows.
Rather than heading directly for the warehouse, I took a circuitous route, making random left and right turns for the first few blocks in order to confuse the trail. The Sorrows might not have the ability to reason things out, but the Angeu certainly did. I stopped at an intersection and turned around, staring back the way I had come, searching for anything moving amidst the parked cars and recessed doorways.
I glanced at the street sign above my head, made some mental calculations, and then set off down the narrow street to my left, intent on reaching the rendezvous before too much more time had passed.
Half a block later a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead of me, blocking my way. From his height and the width of his shoulders, I knew it was a man, but that was all; the light behind him kept him in silhouette, hiding him in shadows that even I couldn’t pierce. There was something about him that seemed familiar, something about the way he stood or carried himself that set that old alarm bell in my gut ringing in warning. I’d met him before; I was sure of it.
I slowed and looked back over my shoulder, just in time to see two men emerge from one of the cars I’d run right past a few seconds before and step up behind me, cutting off my retreat.
I was boxed in from the front and the back.
Not only that, but the trap had been sprung with such elegant precision that even I had to admit that they knew what they were doing, whoever they were. I was starting to suspect that I might be in a little bit of trouble.
“Never let them see you sweat” was my motto, so I slowed my walk, casually glancing to either side as I did, hunting for a way out of the mess I’d suddenly found myself in.
That’s when the one in front decided to speak up.
“Hello, Hunt. Remember me?”
Unfortunately, I did. It was hard to forget a man who’d told you straight up that he intended to see you hang for what you’d done. Especially if you knew that you were innocent of the very thing he’d been accusing you of. The man in front of me was my own private bogeyman, the one I’d been waiting to catch up with me for more than three months, and I recognized him the moment he opened his mouth.
Dale Robertson.
Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Where in heaven’s name had he come from?
Forget what I said about a little bit of trouble. With Robertson here, I was in a whole LOT of trouble.
My shock must have been readily apparent, for Robertson actually had the audacity to chuckle. “What’s the matter, Hunt? Cat got your tongue?”
He shouldn’t have laughed. If he hadn’t, I probably would have simply stood there in open-mouthed shock as his men closed in from behind and arrested me. But that laugh galvanized me into action. Although a moment before I’d been all but frozen where I stood, his obvious delight at surprising me burned away my indecision like fog in the morning sunlight. I knew that if I let them take me, I’d never see anything but the inside of a jail cell for the rest of my life. I had to act and I had to do it now.
“Nah,” I said, glancing around casually as I did. “I’m just looking for words that are small enough for you to understand.”
A white Cadillac was parked against the curb, blocking my access to the street, but I knew without having to think about it too much that going in that direction was suicide. If I got past the car I’d be in the open street, a clear target if they decided to shoot first and ask questions later.
To my right was a long stretch of brick wall that extended all the way to the end of the block, where Robertson was currently standing. An alley bisected it, most likely to allow delivery trucks to make deliveries to the rear of the building next to me, but its entrance was blocked by a wrought iron gate and secured with a thick chain and padlock.
It looked like I didn’t have anywhere to go, and I knew that this particular spot had been chosen exactly for that reason. The trouble with a plan you throw together at the last second, though, is that you often miss simple little details like the one staring me in the face right now.
The gate to the alley was locked, yes, but there was a gap at the top large enough to allow a man to slip through if he was willing to deal with a bit of a bump and tumble on the other side. Not wanting to telegraph my move before I made it, all I had time for was one quick glance, but it looked like I could fit.
It was either that or take my chances out in the street.
My silence must have stretched for too long, because Robertson took a couple of steps forward, his hand going to the gun I was sure was inside the dark suit jacket he was wearing.
“Aren’t you the joker, Hunt? Enough of this bullshit,” he said. “Face the wall and put your hands over your head. You’re under arrest for the murder of Detective Miles Stanton and Hector Morales.”
I didn’t bother with a response. I knew that I hadn’t killed either of them, that they’d actually been killed by a doppelganger masquerading as me during the height of the events in Boston several months ago, but there was no way I would ever be able to prove that to Robertson. I’d look certifiably insane just trying to do so, and a life sentence in a facility for the criminally insane was just as bad as one in a federal penitentiary. Perhaps worse. No way was I going to let them take me in.
I feinted left, toward the open street, and then threw myself in the other direction, my hands grabbing the iron bars of the fence and hauling myself upward, my feet scrambling for purchase against the painted iron.
Shouts filled the air, but I wasn’t listening; I’d heard all I wanted to hear from that smug-faced bastard already. If I stopped to hear what he had to say, I would be lost while the night was still young.
Reaching the top of the gate, I scrambled part of the way over it and then let gravity take over, falling in a heap on the other side.
So far, so good.
I didn’t have time to gloat, however, since I could hear running footsteps approaching the gate from the other side. I surged to my feet and took off down the alley, headed for the opening at the other end. If I could reach it before they thought to send anyone around the block, I’d have a chance to lose them in the warren of side streets.
Before I could do that, though, I had to avoid getting shot in the back. The alley was narrow and unfortunately empty of anythi
ng large enough to provide cover. Even though it was pitch black, I would be in serious trouble if they decided to start shooting, since there was nowhere for me to go until I reached the other end. If they opened fire, it would be like shooting a pig in a barrel. They couldn’t miss. I hunched over, trying to present a smaller target, and kept running.
To my surprise, no one shot at me.
I burst out of the alley, cut between two parked cars, and dashed across the street in a diagonal line to my left, headed in the direction I’d originally been traveling. Going the other direction might have taken me farther away from Robertson and his men, but it also led back to where I had come from, and for all I knew the Sorrows were still back there, waiting like spiders in their web.
I’d rather take my chances with the goon squad from the FBI any day of the week.
At the next intersection I turned right again, but not before shooting a look up the street to my left. Just as I feared, Robertson was racing toward me, his gun held high in his right hand. He was less than a block away. He must have doubled back in an effort to try to cut me off, leaving his two accomplices to chase after me down the alleyway, like a hunter uses his hounds, forcing the fox out ahead of the pack where it was more vulnerable.
Damned if it wasn’t working, too.
I didn’t think he’d seen me yet, the streets being heavily shadowed, with the streetlamps few and far between, and for a moment I considered simply dropping to the ground and rolling under one of the cars parked nearby, hoping he’d miss me in the darkness. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come, however, knowing that if he had seen me I would then be a sitting duck, unable to extricate myself from beneath the vehicle with any speed or dexterity.
Running was still my best option.
No sooner had I made the decision than a shout sounded from over my shoulder and a bullet spanged off the car next to me, ricocheting into the darkness. Apparently the two men who’d followed me down the alley had just caught up. I didn’t bother to turn and look; they were back there somewhere, that’s all I needed to know. I took off at full speed down the street in front of me, trying to increase the distance between myself and my pursuers.
I hadn’t gone another ten steps before I began to feel it. My heart was hammering madly away, my breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and my chest felt like it was on fire. My efforts over the last few days had worn me out and now I was paying the price.
Knowing I needed to increase the distance between myself and my pursuers, I took a chance and ducked down a narrow alley that suddenly came up on my right. If I could reach the other end before they got to the one I’d just entered, I could effectively lose them in the tangle of streets beyond.
I raced forward, dodging bags of trash and discarded debris, my gaze set firmly on the other end and the sanctuary it represented.
Twenty yards became ten.
Ten became five.
Almost there …
Something punched me in the back and knocked me sprawling, just as the sound of a shot echoed in my ears. My face collided with the pavement and I slid forward, propelled by a combination of my own momentum and the force of the shot.
For a moment, I didn’t feel anything, didn’t feel anything at all, and then the pain exploded through me—intense, agonizing pain that started in my shoulder and spread throughout my body, nearly overwhelming in its searing fire. My head was spinning and darkness loomed at the edges of my sight, but I fought back against it with everything I had. If I passed out now, it was all over.
Get up! my mind screamed at me. Get up now!
If I didn’t, I was dead. I knew that much and yet the simple act of pushing myself up onto my knees was nearly impossible. It felt like it took forever. The voice in my head kept screaming at me the whole while, urging me to get to my feet and get out of there, before it was too late. All I wanted to do was lie down and rest, to take a break for a little bit, but that voice got me going, and before I knew it I staggered to my feet and stumbled off down the road.
I glanced over to see the left front of my shirt soaked with blood and looked away, afraid to know any more. Deal with it later, the voice soothed, first you need to get away.
Who was I to argue with that logic?
The problem was that my feet didn’t want to cooperate with me any more. It was like they suddenly had a mind of their own; they felt heavier with every step and my fine motor control was slipping, causing me to weave and stumble erratically.
I wasn’t going to get much farther: that was obvious. My only hope of survival was to find a hole and pull it in after me long enough that they stopped looking.
In the meantime, I’d just have to keep from bleeding to death.
I staggered out of the alley and turned, though at that point I couldn’t have told you which direction I was heading. All I knew was that I was now out of sight and momentarily safe from any more gunfire. I made it a short way farther down the street before falling again, the pain in my side pounding out a rhythm with my beating heart. I could hear shouts coming from the alley behind me, and knew I had just moments left to figure something out.
That’s when the sound of gurgling water reached my ears. Not two feet away, one of the city’s many canals ran parallel to the street. Having seen them previously, I knew they were filled with muddy water the color of milk chocolate. What that water would do to my shoulder wound didn’t bear thinking about, but right now that didn’t matter as much as getting out of sight as quickly as possible. I’d worry about sepsis if I survived the next five minutes.
On hands and knees I stumbled to the edge of the street and toppled down the short embankment into the slick water below.
I thought the water would hide me for a few moments. What I hadn’t counted on was the current. It was much stronger than I ever would have imagined, seizing me in its grip and shoving me ten feet downstream before I even came up for air. When my head eventually did break the surface, I had just enough time to suck in a mouthful of air before it dragged me under again.
My weakened state left me at the mercy of the canal, which tossed me end over end so often that I no longer knew which way was up. My lungs were burning, my chest ached, and all I wanted to do was let go and rest, just let my body drift with the current. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Just let the canal take me where it would? All I had to do was let go of the breath I was holding in my lungs and relax …
I slammed bodily into something jutting out into the water and instinctively grabbed at it, latching on with hands that felt like claws. My lizard brain took over at that point, pure survival instinct, and I found myself scrambling upward against whatever I was holding onto until my face broke the surface of the water and I could grab another lungful of air.
One breath became two, then three, pushing back the fear and panic until I was clearheaded.
I discovered I was clinging to the end of a drainage pipe that jutted out into the canal by just a few inches. Half a foot farther from shore and I would have washed right on past, never even knowing it was there.
That was the third time I’d cheated death tonight. Eventually, he was going to catch up.
No sooner had the thought occurred to me than I heard shouts from the road nearby.
“Anything?” a voice called, and I nearly lost my grip when the reply came from just a few feet away atop the embankment to my left.
“Hang on. I’m not there yet.”
A chill that had nothing to do with my injury went through me as I realized that I hadn’t lost my pursuers after all. They must have seen me go into the canal and followed it downstream, hoping to catch a glimpse of me in the water. If they looked over the edge of the embankment I was going to be as obvious as an elephant in a bird bath.
I glanced frantically around, searching for something to hide behind.
My gaze fell on the end of the drainage pipe I was clinging to.
It looked just large enough …
Trying to make as
little noise as possible, I held on with my hands and tried to lower my body around the outer edge. If I lost my grip, the current would sweep me right back underwater. I knew I couldn’t survive another battle with the canal, but at the same time remaining where I was wouldn’t be healthy either.
I heard footsteps crunching through gravel right above my hiding place at the same moment my feet caught the lip of the pipe.
It was now or never.
I managed to pull myself up and into the pipe just as a beam of light flashed across the exact spot where I’d been moments before. I didn’t stop there but quietly worked my way deeper into the pipe, wanting to get deep enough so that they wouldn’t see me if they decided to look inside. After a minute or two I couldn’t go any deeper and just sat there in the slow trickle of water moving beneath me, staring at the light outside the pipe and wishing for it to go away.
A few minutes later, it did.
I was wet, cold, and exhausted, never mind bleeding from a gunshot wound to my chest.
But I was alive.
That alone was enough.
I slumped against the side of the pipe, suddenly bereft of whatever energy had sustained me until now. My limbs felt like lead and I could barely find the will to sit up.
I just need some rest, I told myself. Just a few minutes of rest.
And with that passing thought, I slipped into unconsciousness, my head slumped against the concrete and my blood mixing slowly with the water that ran past me from somewhere deeper in the pipe’s darkness.
43
CLEARWATER
As they came down the street and saw the activity in front of the clinic, Denise knew that something had gone horribly wrong. Police cars lined either side of the curb, and there were two white City of New Orleans vans in the small parking lot. A uniformed officer stood watch by the front door while several men and women in civilian clothing went in and out, carrying cases of equipment in each hand.
King of the Dead (Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) Page 21
