Текст книги "Dead Giveaway"
Автор книги: Joanne Fluke
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
TWENTY-TWO
The west side of the building was landscaped with a hedge of juniper and Walker crouched behind it for cover. He worked his way around the building, wincing at the open field of snow ahead, still showing the blurry indentation of their snow angels. That happy time seemed far in the past, though it had actually been less than thirty hours ago.
Feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he forced himself to slow down. Time was not of the essence, but caution was, and his breathing was already ragged. The Springfield weighed approximately eleven pounds, the bayonet probably bringing the total up to twelve. He’d trekked through the muck of Vietnam carrying at least fifty pounds, but he’d been much younger then.
As soon as his breathing had slowed, Walker assessed his chances. The wind had died down and now it was as quiet as a tomb. To make matters worse, the temperature had dropped, causing the snow to crunch underfoot.
Just then a crash sounded back in the trees on the far side of the building, as a fairly large animal moved through the brush. A coyote, perhaps, or a deer. It was an unexpected break. The moment he heard it, Walker was up and moving, streaking across the bare field of snow, using the sound for cover.
A shot shattered the stillness of the night. Marc had spotted him, but only after he’d reached the safety of the pine grove. Here only light snow dusted the ground, and less than five minutes later he was in the center of the grove, about a hundred yards directly behind Marc’s position. There was still an exposed patch of snow to cross, but he had to wait for his chance.
Walker settled down and forced his tense body to relax. The bright pink jacket had only a thin lining of flannel inside. It had been designed for warmer temperatures, but it was better than nothing. Luckily, he’d been wearing his boots. Ellen had found a perfectly adequate pair of leather gloves, but Walker knew he couldn’t last indefinitely out here in the cold. He had to hope his chance would come soon, while he could still move rapidly and efficiently.
His opportunity could come in several ways. If the wind picked up from the north behind him, it would be difficult for Marc to use his rifle sight in the blowing snow. There was also the possibility of diversion from another animal. All he had to do was be patient, and waiting was the most difficult task of all.
The Caretaker checked his ammunition and smiled. He’d brought enough to take care of everyone and then some. Although it seemed impossible, Betty was still alive. The nurse must have sabotaged that injection somehow. He should have thought to check it. Another mistake that he shouldn’t have made.
He figured Walker was the one who had run for cover. The rest of them would still be huddled in Betty’s room, trying to decide what to do. They might have hooked up with Paul and Jayne by now, but that wouldn’t help them much. Not a man of action, it took Paul days to make a decision, and he’d never dash across the snow in a foolish attempt to outrun a man with a rifle. It had to be Walker. Of course the shot had given away his position. It was a bad break for him, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Walker still had a clear patch of snow to cross, and that would be suicide, especially since the absence of return fire meant that he was unarmed. Either Walker was stupid or he had real balls; it didn’t really matter which.
They’d plugged the air-conditioner vent with wet towels and were gathered at the windows. The open panel provided adequate ventilation. Grace peered out the window and frowned. “Marc’s got Walker pinned down in the grove. Think he’s hit?”
“Marc’s shot went wild.” Ellen let out her breath in a shuddering sigh. She’d seen the snow kick up at least ten feet in back of Walker.
“But now Marc knows that Walker’s out there.” Grace’s voice was shaking. “We’ve got to help. If we had a gun, we could draw Marc’s fire.”
Betty spoke up. “Race gun! Ready, set, go?”
Moira stared down at Betty in shock. “The starter pistol. Je . . . Jeepers, Betty! Alzheimer’s or not, you’re smarter than all of us put together.”
Paul’s knuckles were white by the time they passed the outskirts of town. He didn’t like planes, and helicopters were even worse. He stared down at the darkness below and hoped that the pilot had plenty of experience.
“Ten floors and there’s only one entrance to the building, is that right?” An officer wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying a clipboard sat down next to him.
“Unless you count the balconies, nine on the south side of the building. Someone could reach the first-floor balcony, but the sliding glass door to the unit will be locked from the inside with a metal post which slides into a hole on the frame. It is the type of burglar-proof lock the police recommend.”
“No problem.” The officer made a note. “And there’s no way for us to land on the roof?”
“No, the roof is a dome made of Plexiglas. However, there is a field one hundred and eighteen yards from the building on the east side. That is where the other helicopter made its landing.”
“Garage?”
“It covers three-quarters of the ground floor. The main entrance is there, served by an elevator which is not functioning. My wife and I used the stairs. The remainder of the space is subdivided into a one-bedroom apartment and security office.”
“And how many civilians are inside?”
It took Paul a moment to realize that anyone who wasn’t a police officer must be a civilian. “Four, perhaps five. I do not know if Marc Davies is still alive.”
“Four confirmed with a possible five,” the officer noted, handing Paul the clipboard.
“Make a rough layout of the building, including the elevator shaft and the stairwells. Use red marks to indicate where you last saw the civilians. Our ETA is ten minutes.”
Paul bent over the clipboard and began to sketch. The bright splashes of color against the white paper, one each for Moira, Grace, Betty, and Ellen, with a question mark on the seventh floor for Marc, made him shiver. Perhaps it was because red was the color of blood.
“This is a real treat.” The doctor closed his bag and smiled at her. “No bullets, no knife wounds, not even a broken bone. You ought to see the ones they usually call me in for.”
Jayne laughed. He was a wonderful doctor, old enough to be trusted and young enough to be up-to-date.
“Are you currently taking any medication, Mrs. Lindstrom?”
“No. Oh, I almost forgot!” Jayne reached into her pocket and took out the vial of Betty’s medication that Paul had grabbed from the nurse’s bag. “My neighbor has to have a shot of this every six hours. We were afraid they’d forget to bring it along when they rescued her, especially now that her nurse is . . . is dead.” Jayne’s voice broke and she began to sob. She wasn’t sure why, since she hadn’t cared for Margaret Woodard much when she’d been alive, but her death put a different perspective on things.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Lindstrom. You’ve been through a real strain.” The doctor patted her shoulder as he reached out to take the vial. Puzzled, he read the label. “What’s wrong with your neighbor?”
“She has Alzheimer’s.”
“Does she have a history of violent behavior?”
Her tears were gone now, as quickly as they’d come, and Jayne wondered if she was turning into a basket case. “I don’t think so. At least Dr. Glaser never mentioned it. He drives up to examine her every month and he brings a supply of her drugs for the . . . the nurse.”
“Dr. Glaser?”
“Dr. Harvey Glaser. I ran into him in the elevator a couple of months ago, and I’d rather take my chances with a ten-foot rattler than let him . . .” Jayne stopped and winced, realizing that she was bad-mouthing the doctor in front of a colleague. “Well, let’s just say I didn’t much care for his manner. But I’m sure he’s very competent.”
“He was, before his death four years ago.”
“But I don’t understand! He told me he was Dr. Harvey Glaser.”
“He lied. Do you know what this is, Mrs. Lindstrom?” The doctor pointed to the vial and Jayne shook her head. “It’s Melahydroflorizine, a sledgehammer of a drug used to calm violent psychotics. The side effects are short-term memory loss, slurred speech, and the inability to form sentences. If I wanted to give someone the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, I’d use this drug on a regular basis.”
Jayne’s mind was spinning. It was beginning to add up. “Then Betty doesn’t have Alzheimer’s?”
“I’d be willing to bet she doesn’t. But someone sure as hell wanted you to think she did!”
Ellen stepped onto the scaffolding and held the rope with both hands. She’d found a utility belt in the office and cinched it around her waist. The starting pistol was in a pouch on the right, along with a coil of rope. She’d slipped her tennis racket into a loop on the left, not much of a weapon, but at least she knew how to swing it. On the ground, she’d take up a position on the south side of the building where the juniper was thick, then fire the pistol. And while she was drawing Marc’s fire, Moira, Betty, and Grace would come down on the scaffolding and head for the woods.
She shut her eyes as Moira began to lower her with the crank. She’d always been afraid of heights and what awaited her on the ground wasn’t exactly reassuring. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of Walker out there alone, pinned down by Marc’s assault rifle.
The scaffolding swayed and Ellen bit back a moan of fear. She couldn’t make a sound. It was vital that Marc not see the scaffolding. It was their only means of escape.
Walker rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was bitter cold despise the windbreak under the pines. He knew he had to move soon, before the sky began to lighten. The darkness was his only advantage.
Gunfire sounded on the south side of the building. Walker didn’t take time to analyze who was firing what and why. He was up and running on legs painfully stiff from the cold. In the darkness, Walker saw Marc’s rifle blast at the bushes beneath the first-floor balcony. Another shot and a return shot and then Walker hurled himself forward with the bayonet.
Marc heard the steps behind him and whirled, deflecting Walker’s blow. The point of the bayonet buried itself in the sleeve of his jacket and the Springfield went flying to the snow. And then they were struggling, Walker clawing for the rifle barrel. An earsplitting shot missed Walker’s head by inches and he managed to knock Marc’s hand off the trigger, but his chilled arms had lost their strength. The two men grappled for long moments in the darkness of the night, but Marc was bigger and dressed for the weather. Walker felt his stamina ebbing in the biting wind.
Then something whizzed toward Marc’s head, connecting solidly enough to throw him off balance. He dropped to one knee and another blow sent the assault rifle flying. Marc was down, and Walker was on him before he could move, pulling his hands roughly behind his back. When he looked up, he saw Ellen standing over him with her tennis racket tucked under her arm, handing him a piece of rope. He secured Marc’s arms with hands that felt like blocks of ice. And then there was the welcome sound of a chopper in the distance, coming closer. Paul and Jayne had made it.
The next few moments were a blur of motion. Two officers rushed to take charge, handcuffing Marc and leading him away into the belly of the helicopter. Moira and Grace came around the side of the building supporting Betty between them, and two burly members of the SWAT team raced over the snow to help. Paul led four men into the building to inspect and secure it and Ellen and Walker found themselves momentarily alone, staring down at the trampled area in the snow where it had all happened.
Walker reached out to take Ellen’s arm. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful, courageous woman in the world. At the same time, he wanted to yell at her for being so incredibly foolish and crazy. It took a real idiot to come out here armed with nothing but a starting pistol and a tennis racket. And then he wanted to pull her close and kiss her. And tell her he’d do anything for her, that he was ready to settle down with her for the rest of his life if she’d have him. But there wasn’t time for all that. Instead, he turned to her and said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Nice backhand, Ellen.”
EPILOGUE
It was noon in Vegas and the temperature had hit the hundred-degree mark. The desert sun was merciless, glaring against the sides of the mirrored tower building and causing several passing tourists to fumble in their purses and pockets for sunglasses. Inside, it was cool and dark with the drapes drawn tightly and the air-conditioner turned up as high as it would go. The twentieth floor was an oasis of soothing relief from the blazing heat, but the four men at the table took no pleasure in their comfortable surroundings.
The tanned blond man frowned as he addressed the senior member of the group. “I got the word that they’re moving him tomorrow. I made the arrangements, just like you said.”
“Good!” The older man smiled in satisfaction. “He betrayed my trust. A rat like that does not deserve to live.”
The short, thin man sighed deeply. “We respect your grief at your daughter’s death. He will not die peacefully.”
“I have no daughter!” The older man thumped his fist on the table. “It was an old man’s foolishness to agree to his plan. I see that now. If she had lived, I would have killed her myself. I swear it!”
The heavyset man nodded. “I called this meeting to discuss a new plan for distribution, since the mannequins are no longer possible. We own a mail-order company. Computers and printers. It would be a simple matter to switch over the whole operation.”
The older man frowned. “It is a risk to move my supplies.”
“It’s more of a risk to leave them where they are.” The blond man pushed back his chair and stood up. “We’ve located a new storage place and our truck is ready. You’ll go with me to supervise the move?”
“Do I have any choice in the matter?”
The blond man shook his head and there was silence until they had left. Then the heavyset man wiped his perspiring face with a handkerchief and sighed. “Your man knows what to do?”
“We went over the details this morning. It’s unfortunate, but he’s getting too old. He’s already made several mistakes.”
“I know that. Do you really think he would have killed his own daughter?”
The short, thin man shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Jack glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes and pressed the buzzer to summon the nurse. After a moment a tall woman with a mass of curly red hair bustled into the room. She was wearing a name tag that identified her as Miss Cooper.
“You buzzed, Mr. St. James?”
“Right. I’ve got ten to three. They said they’d be here at three, didn’t they?”
“That’s right.” The nurse reached out to adjust his pillows. “Just relax, Mr. St. James. I’m sure they’ll be here on time.”
Jack frowned as he looked up at the crank and pulley that kept his leg stiffly elevated. “What are the odds of getting out of this thing, just while they’re here? Jayne’s going to say that I’m trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”
“The odds are better at rigged roulette. The doctor says your leg has to be in traction for another two months.”
“Come on, Miss Cooper. Can’t you do something? I heal fast.”
“Not that fast.” The nurse laughed. “And I’m sure Jayne Peters won’t say word one about a Christmas turkey.”
“Want to bet a fiver?”
“Sure.” The nurse nodded. “I’d better get some more chairs in here. Seven visitors, is that right?”
Jack shook his head. “Six. Jayne and Paul, Moira and Grace, and Ellen and Walker.”
“I thought they said seven. I’ll bring in an extra chair, just in case they’re bringing a friend.”
Jack sighed as he watched the nurse move in the extra chairs. Here he was, stuck in a hospital bed for at least two months, when he really wanted to be back up at Deer Creek Condos taking care of Betty.
“Here they come.” Miss Cooper glanced out the door and hurried to fuss with his pillows one more time. “Just remember that bet you made.”
“Jack, honey!” Jayne raced into the room and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Look at you, all trussed up like a Christmas goose!”
“A Christmas goose?” Jack groaned and handed Miss Cooper a five-dollar bill. “I thought for sure you’d say Christmas turkey!”
“No way. Turkeys are for Thanksgiving and geese are for Christmas. I even wrote a song about it. ‘Don’t be a Turkey at Christmas.’ You never heard it?”
“No, but Miss Cooper did.” Jack glared at the nurse, who laughed and made a hasty exit. Then he turned to Paul. “Hi, Paul. Sorry I can’t stand up to shake your hand. I tried, but they wouldn’t let me out of this rig.”
“It is no big contract.”
“No big deal.” Jayne corrected him automatically. “Come on, Jack. Shake his hand so he’ll sit down.”
Paul bowed slightly and extended his hand. “It is good to see you, Jack. Grace and Moira will be here shortly. They are arranging permission for the refreshments.”
There was a knock at the door and Grace came in, followed by Moira with a picnic basket. While Moira opened the basket and set out glasses on Jack’s bedside table, Grace came over to kiss Jack.
“The doctor said it’s all right, that you’re allowed to have the cake and ice cream we brought and a glass or two of champagne as long as we don’t get you so drunk that you break out of that traction thing you’re hooked up to and start swinging from the light fixtures or something equally destructive and, oh, I’m so glad to see you, Jack!”
“Say good night, Gracie.” Jack grinned at her. “Hey, Moira . . . don’t I get a kiss?”
“Dam . . . I mean, darn right you do!” Moira rushed over to the bed, her red and purple caftan flapping, and bussed Jack on the cheek. “Ellen and Walker are on their way up. They had to stop at the kitchen because Grace forgot to pack the silverware.”
There was another knock at the door and Walker and Ellen came in. He was carrying a bucket of ice and she had a handful of spoons.
“Sorry about this, Jack.” Ellen plunked the spoons down on the table and kissed him. “They couldn’t spare any knives and forks.”
“They don’t give us sharp implements. I guess they’re afraid we’ll stab one of the doctors and make a break for freedom. Hey, Walker. I hear you picked up a couple of biggies this afternoon.”
Walker came over to shake Jack’s hand. “Still got your sources, huh?”
“You bet.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Moira looked puzzled. “We know that Marc is in jail, but who else got busted?”
Jack smiled. “Three kingpins in the drug-smuggling business. That’s the reason Walker couldn’t blow the whistle any sooner. I tumbled onto the fact that Johnny was running drugs in Ellen’s mannequins months ago, but the agency wanted to hold off until they could nail his source.”
“Then you’re a narc?” Jayne turned to Walker with surprise. “You sure don’t look like a narc.”
Paul shook his head. “No, Jayne. Walker was kind enough to explain it to me. He is not a narc. He is actually a spook.”
Jayne looked horrified. “Really, Paul! They might say that in Norway, but we certainly don’t say it here!”
“But it’s true.” Walker chuckled. “I’m a member of the Spook Squad. We’re the agents who go undercover on the big cases.”
Ellen reached out to take Walker’s hand. “You mean you were a member of the Spook Squad.”
“You’re finally retiring?” Jack began to smile as Walker nodded. “About time you let the young guys take over and started to lead a normal life. And you’re settling down to make mannequins, right?”
“That’s right.”
Jack raised himself on his elbows until he was sitting up slightly. “You need my testimony to tie up any loose ends? All you guys have to do is subpoena me, and the doctors’ll have to let me out of this thing.”
Walker shook his head. “Nice try, Jack. But if you’re not out in time, they can always do a deposition from your hospital bed.”
“Okay, okay. If I can’t get out of traction, how about opening that champagne? At least it’ll take my mind off my troubles.”
Ellen stood up. “Good idea. We’ve got two bottles and a surprise waiting out in the hall. I’ll go tell her to come in.”
Jack felt his heartbeat quicken. Her? But it couldn’t be Betty. She wasn’t well enough to wait alone in the hall. He was happy his friends were here and he was glad to see them, but it made him miss Betty even more than ever.
“Hi, Jack.”
Jack’s mouth dropped open as Betty walked in, unassisted. She looked so healthy and so beautiful that he could hardly believe his eyes. He swallowed hard, but his voice still came out in a strangled croak. “Betty?”
“It’s me, Jack.”
Betty handed the champagne to Moira to open and came over to the bed to kiss him. She smelled wonderful from some kind of expensive perfume, her hair was done in a soft, flattering style, and her dress was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Jack blinked and fought down the urge to pull her down for another kiss, the kind of a kiss that might just embarrass them both.
“I told them it might be too much of a shock to spring on you this way, but they just couldn’t resist. Should I sit on the edge of the bed? Or will that hurt your leg?”
“Oh, no. Please sit.” Jack’s voice was still hoarse. “What happened to you? You look . . . uh . . .”
“Normal?” Betty laughed. “I’m getting there, now that the drugs are almost out of my system.”
“Drugs?” Jack swallowed again, but it didn’t seem to help his voice.
“Her father had her drugged to keep her from talking,” Walker explained. “Betty’s responsible for the arrests we made this morning. And she made tapes of the murders on that close-circuit system you hooked up in her unit. She’s our star witness.”
Jack gazed at Betty in shock. “Then you don’t have Alzheimer’s?”
“No. The whole thing was Marc’s idea, and my father gave his approval. Walker says they’ve been trying to get the goods on our family for years.”
“But that means you’re in danger!”
“True, but it’s minimal.” Walker spoke up. “Marc told Betty’s father that she was dead and we haven’t said anything to the contrary. When the story breaks in the papers tomorrow, they’ll list Betty Matteo as one of the victims.”
“Come on, Walker.” Jack shook his head. “That might work for a while, but you know they’ll get wise sooner or later. Somebody’s got to protect Betty and I’m stuck in this damn hospital bed.”
Walker grinned at him. “Hospital beds can be moved. They can even be loaded onto a plane and taken to a nice safe tropical hideaway where you can recover with the aid of your private nurse.”
“My nurse?”
“Meet Margaret Woodard, RN. I’m assuming her identity.” Betty handed him a glass of champagne. “Drink up, Jack. We’re leaving in an hour.”
“An hour?” Jack’s head was spinning and he hadn’t even tasted his champagne.
“It’s all set. You took care of me for over four years and now it’s my turn. You won’t mind if I play nurse, will you?”
Jack began to smile. If playing nurse was anything like playing doctor, it was the best proposition he’d ever had. “I won’t mind. And you certainly look prettier than the last time I saw you, Miss Woodard.”
