He was stalling. Weather said, “I think that should be all right.” Feldman looked at her and she gave a small shake of the head. “You sure?”
“Better to get him out of here,” Weather said.
“What’s going on?” LaChaise demanded.
“Trying to figure out what we can do here,” Feldman snapped. “We’re right in the middle of things.”
Weather stepped back from the table. “But I’m done,” she said. She looked at LaChaise. “Now what?”
“Outa here. We need a phone. Someplace where they can’t get at me.”
“There’s an office at the end of the hall.”
“Let’s go,” he said, waving the pistol at her.
THE OUTER AREA was deserted. The nurses had gone, and the cops hadn’t arrived yet. Weather pulled off her mask and peeled off the first of her gloves and said, “What’re you going to do?”
“Talk to your old man,” LaChaise said.
And kill her, while they were on the phone, she thought. She came to the office and said, “In there. There’s a phone.”
She gestured and she went through ahead of him, turned. “You have a lot of choices to make,” she said.
“Shut up. What’s your old man’s number?”
“You could probably dial 911 and they could patch you through. He’s out there in his car.”
“Do it, and hand me the phone . . .”
Weather punched 911 and handed it to him. He listened a minute, the gun muzzle steady on her chest, and said, “This is Dick LaChaise. I want to talk to Lucas Davenport. I’m at the hospital and I’m pointing a gun at his old lady, Dr. Karkinnen.”
Weather said, “You don’t have much time left: you better start thinking this through.”
“I said, shut up.”
“Why? Because if I don’t you’re gonna kill me? You’re already planning to kill me.”
“You don’t want it to come no sooner than it has to . . .” Then he said to the phone, “Well, get him on. Well, when is he gonna be . . . Yeah? You tell him to call . . .” He looked at the phone, but there was no number, and he looked at Weather.
“The surgery suite,” Weather said. Lucas wouldn’t get on the phone. He knew what LaChaise would do.
“The surgery suite,” LaChaise repeated, and he hung up. “He’s on foot somewhere. They’re getting him.”
Weather said, “I’ve got to sit down,” and she dropped in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Look, you’re either going to have to shoot me or listen to me, and I think you better listen: My friend Davenport will get here in a few minutes, and if you kill me, he’ll kill you. You can forget all about rules and regulations and laws; he’ll kill you.”
“Like he killed my old lady and my sister.”
She bobbed her head. “Yes. He set that up. I talked to him about it, because I couldn’t believe he did it. It’s caused us some trouble. But when he thinks he’s right, he won’t turn. And if you kill me . . .” She shrugged. “That’s the end for both of us. You won’t walk out of here.”
“I ain’t walking out anyway.”
Now he looked at her, and she saw that she was still wearing one glove, and she pulled it off slowly, watching his eyes.
“There’s no death penalty either in Wisconsin or Minnesota. You escaped once. You might have to wait for a while, but there’s always the chance that you could be free again. One way or another.”
“Bullshit, they’re gonna kill me.”
“No, they won’t. Not if you wait a while. They have all kinds of rules. And once you’re on television, they won’t be able to take you off and shoot you somewhere. Once you’re in the system, you’ll be safe. My husband, my friend . . .”
“Is he your husband or your friend?”
“We’re planning to get married in a couple of months. We live together . . . If you make a deal with him, he won’t kill you. But if you shoot me, you can make any kind of deal you want—you can make a deal with the President—and he’ll kill you anyway.”
He grinned, and said, “Yeah, tough guy,” but he was thinking. He thought about Martin, probably dead already, going cold in the snow somewhere, and he said, “They’d stick me in the Black Hole of Calcutta.”
“Probably, for a while,” she agreed. “Then something bigger and dirtier would come along, and they’ll start to forget about you, and they’ll give you a little air. Then you’ll have a chance. If you die now . . . that’s it. No court, no TV time, no interviews, no nothing.”
“Well, fuck that,” LaChaise said. “Let’s see what your old man says.”
Weather took a breath: it was a start. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “We could get a first-aid kit.”
29
THE DRIVER OF the squad had his foot to the floor, his partner, braced for impact, screaming, “Slow it down, slow it down,” and they skidded through the first corner and nearly off the street, then they were on Washington headed toward University Hospitals.
Dispatch came back: “We don’t know what the situation is, but she’s still alive. He’s got her on the third floor, in surgery. Wait a minute, wait a minute, he’s calling in on 911, he wants to talk to you . . .”
Lucas shouted, “No. I don’t want to talk. He wants me to hear him shoot her. Tell him you’re trying to get in touch.”
“Got that.”
He sat clutching the handset, the street reeling by. Then Dispatch again: “You asked for a number at U.S. West.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He’d almost forgotten, but he took the cellular phone from his pocket and punched the number in as the dispatcher read it.
The phone was answered instantly: “Johnson.”
“This is Lucas Davenport. I was supposed to call here to find out what numbers this phone has been calling.”
“Yeah. We’ve got the number now, we’re reading it now, we’ll check the billings and get back to you. You can hang up.”
“Get it quick,” Lucas said. “Soon as you can.”
“It’ll take a few minutes.”
“Whatever. Call me back at the number,” Lucas said, and he hung up, got on the handset, and said, “What’s happening?” and the cop in the passenger seat lifted his hands to ward off an oncoming car, but the driver slipped it to the left and then hooked down a ramp and they were on the bridge.
Dispatch: “He’s still in the operating room. Another doctor’s going in and out. We’ve got two cars there, we’ve got an ERU team a minute away. Listen, the chief wants to talk . . .”
Lucas said, “You’re breaking up . . . I’ll get back.”
He turned the handset off and said, “Stay off the radio, guys.”
“Why?” asked the white-faced cop in the passenger seat.
“Because Roux wants to take me off this, and I can’t do that.”
THEY FLASHED UP the hill on the far side of the river, made the turn and slewed down Harvard toward the hospital’s front entrance. As they braked to a stop, Lucas said, “Pop the door,” and they popped it, and he climbed out with the cops and said to the driver, “I owe you big time,” and they all ran into the building.
A half-dozen security guards were in the lobby, and Lucas held up his ID and said, “What’s the deal?”
“They’re out of the operating room. They’re in an office.”
“Any cops up there?”
“Yeah, but they can’t see down through the doors.”
“Let’s go up,” Lucas said. He’d observed at several of Weather’s operations, trying to learn a little about her life. He knew the operating suite, and most of the adjoining offices and locker rooms. They rode up in the elevator, and when they got off, were met by two uniforms, who saw Lucas and looked relieved.
“He’s down there, Chief. He’s got her in a back office, and he’s asking for you,” one of the cops said.
“You got a phone line into him?”
“Yeah, but he says don’t call unless it’s you.”
“All right.” He turned to
the security guard. “I need an exact floor plan, and all the nurses and doctors who work inside.”
“You gonna call?” one of the cops asked.
“Not yet,” Lucas said. “And I don’t want anyone to tip him off that I’m here. We gotta figure something out.”
WEATHER WAS FIGHTING LaChaise. She’d come out from behind the desk, rolling out of the office chair, and she said, “I hope everything goes okay for Betty. I wish you’d come a half hour later.”
LaChaise was standing, holding the door open just a crack, peering down the long hall to the double doors. Davenport, when he arrived, should be coming around the corner just in front of the doors, a thirty- or forty-foot shot. But he was half listening to Weather, and he said, “Yeah?”
“She’s a farm kid,” Weather said. “If she loses that thumb, she’ll have a tough time of it. I don’t know how you work around a farm without a right thumb. I know I couldn’t.”
“What do you know about farms?” LaChaise snapped, looking at her now.
“I grew up in northern Wisconsin—I’m a country kid,” Weather said. She didn’t say, like your wife and sister. “Other doctors start out dissecting frogs or something; I started out taking Johnson twenty-fives apart, and putting them back together again.”
“I had a Johnson twenty-five once,” LaChaise said. “Hell, I guess everybody did, who had a boat up north.”
“Just about,” she agreed. “My old man . . .”
She went on for a bit, talking about her family. She got LaChaise to talk about Colfax and the UP, and she told him about ski trips to the UP, and it turned out that they both knew some of the same bars in Hurley. “From Hayward to Hurley to Hell,” she said.
He laughed abruptly, winced and said, “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Are you hurt bad?” she asked.
“I got some shit in my legs . . . Cop at the other hospital got me with a shotgun.”
“Want me to look?”
“No.”
She was about to push him on it, when the phone rang. “That’s him,” LaChaise said. His eyes flicked over to her.
Not yet, she thought. Please, not yet. She had him going . . .
LUCAS MUTTERED TO the cop, “Remember about Martin . . .”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He dialed and LaChaise picked it up.
“Chief Davenport is on the way. He was in the ambulance with your friend, the Martin guy.”
“Martin’s alive?”
“Yeah, but he’s hurt,” the cop said. “He got hit in the legs and he surrendered. He’ll be okay.”
“Martin?” There was wonderment in LaChaise’s voice. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“You got a radio or TV? They’ll be carrying him into the hospital.”
“Ain’t got no TV,” LaChaise said, looking around the office. “What about Sandy?”
“Who?”
“Sandy Darling, she was with us.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess they can’t find her,” the cop said. Then, “Anyway, Chief Davenport wants you to know that he’s coming. He’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Don’t call back until he gets here,” LaChaise said.
LACHAISE TURNED TO Weather and said, “They say Martin made it.”
“Good.”
“I don’t believe them.”
“You can’t tell what a person’ll do when he’s hurt bad enough. I’ve had all kinds of weird confessions when I was working in an emergency room. A person thinks he’s going to die in the next couple of minutes . . . something changes,” Weather said. She looked at his gun. “I wish you wouldn’t keep that pointed at me. I’m not going to beat you up.”
He shifted the muzzle of the gun, just slightly, and she said, “Thanks,” and thought, Maybe.
THE ERU TEAM included a young blond Iowan who was carrying a Sako Classic .243 with a fat black Leupold scope. Lucas stepped away from the medical people, who were working out a floor plan, and said, “How good are you?”
“Very,” he said.
“You ever shoot anyone?”
“Nope, but I got no problem with it,” the Iowan said, and his flat blue eyes suggested that he was telling the truth.
“You’ll be shooting just about sixty feet, close as we can tell.”
“At sixty feet I won’t be more than a quarter-inch off my aim-point.”
“You’re sure?”
The kid nodded. “Absolutely.”
“We need him turned off. He may be pointing a gun at Weather or me.”
“I got a low-power, wide-view scope. I’ll be able to see his move—if he’s got the gun right at her head, if the hammer’s down, I can take him, and your wife’s okay. If the hammer’s cocked . . . then it’s not so good, maybe fifty-fifty. If he’s got the gun at her head, if you can get him to take it away, I’ll be able to see it and I’ll take him. You need to get him to take it away just a second, just an inch.”
“He can’t have any time to recover—not even a millionth of a second.”
The kid shook his head. “I’m shooting Nosler ballistic tips—I didn’t want anything that’d go through and ricochet around the halls. So all the energy’ll get dumped inside his skull. If I hit him anywhere on the face—and I will—he’ll be gone like somebody turned off a switch. That fast.”
Lucas looked at him for another long moment, and said, “I hope you can do it right.”
“No problem,” the kid said, and he stroked the rifle like he might stroke his girlfriend’s cheek.
Lucas nodded and went back to the medics and to look at the floor plan. Basically, the suite was one long hall with double doors in the middle, dividing the operating rooms from the support offices. He’d put the sniper at the far end of the hall, open the doors himself and talk to LaChaise, who was in one of the offices at the other end of the hall.
“We’ll put the gun on a gurney,” Lucas said. “We’re gonna need an office chair . . . and then I’ll call, and go through the doors. . . . Will the doors stay open?”
“You’ve got to push them back hard,” one of the doctors said.
A cop said, “Lucas, the chief . . .”
“Tell her to call back,” Lucas said. He looked back at the sniper and said, “Let’s do it.”
“ . . . PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND that,” LaChaise said. “People don’t understand how country folks get ripped around by the government. Christ, you start out just trying to get ahead . . .”
Weather was quietly amused at her own reaction: in some way, she liked the guy. He was like two dozen high school classmates back in Wisconsin, kids who didn’t have much to do if they stayed around home. You’d see them trying to put together lives with part-time jobs in the resorts, out in the woods, trying to guide . . . willing to work, but without much hope, afraid of the cities.
LaChaise was like that, but gone down some darker, more twisting trail. He hated his father; didn’t much like his mother. Idolized his younger sister, and even his wife.
“Candy sounds like trouble, though,” Weather said. “Sometimes people push too hard.”
“Yeah, I guess. But she was so damn lively . . .”
LUCAS GOT THREE big stacks of surgeon’s scrub suits, all green, from the laundry. The sniper took off his jacket and pulled one of the scrubs on, and tied a pair of pants around his head. They put one stack of scrubs in the middle of a low stainless-steel instrument gurney. The sniper sat in an office chair behind the gurney, and dropped the rifle across the top of the stack, and put a couple more scrubs on top of it. The other two stacks went on either side of the center pile.
Lucas walked down the hall toward the double doors and looked back. He could see the glass of the scope and the rifle barrel, but they made no visual sense. He couldn’t tell exactly what they were, and LaChaise would be twice as far away. The sniper himself was invisible with the green scrub pants tied around his head.
“Good,” Lucas said, hustling back. “If we can drop one more suit right here . . .”
He spread one across the barrel.
Lucas and another member of the ERU walked down the length of the hall again, and looked back a second time. The other cop said, “This scares the shit outa me.”
“Me, too,” Lucas said. He nodded at the sniper. “But can you see him?”
“I can only see him because I know he’s there. LaChaise . . . no chance.”
Lucas walked back. “All right,” he said to the Iowan. “I hope to God you haven’t been bullshitting me.”
The kid said, “You wanta quit fuckin’ around and get the show on the road? And stay to the right side of the corridor. The slug’ll be coming right past your ear.”
THE PHONE RANG again, and LaChaise bent over to pick it up: pain shot down his leg and he grunted, almost stumbled, caught himself, and lifted the phone.
Lucas said, “I’m right down the hall from you. If you look out, I’ll open the double doors, and you’ll see me.”
He was that close? LaChaise put his eye to the door crack and looked at the double doors. “Let’s see you.”
The first of the two doors opened, slowly at first, and then quickly, pushed against the wall; it stayed open. The man who’d pushed it open was standing behind the other door. He peeked out at LaChaise.
“All right, here I am,” Lucas said. “We got a lot to talk about.”
“You killed my goddamn wife and sister,” LaChaise said. “And I say, ‘Eye for an eye.’ ”
“When your sister was killed, she was firing a gun at us,” Lucas said. “She went down shooting. We didn’t just shoot her out of hand: we gave her a choice to give up.”
“Bullshit, everybody says it was over in one second, I saw the TV . . .”
“Doesn’t take long to have a gunfight,” Lucas said. “Anyway, what’re we going to do here?”
“Well, we’ve been talking about that, your old lady and me,” LaChaise said.
THE SNIPER COULD feel just the lightest sweat start on his forehead, just a patina. Through the scope, he could see the crack in the door, and even, from time to time, LaChaise’s eye. He thought about taking the shot, but he didn’t know what Weather’s situation was. He’d seen training films where the crook’s gun was taped to the hostage’s head, the hammer held back on the gun with thumb tension. Shoot the crook, the hammer falls, and the hostage is gone.
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 96
