Текст книги "Joe Victim"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Chapter Seventy-Four

This part of the hospital is a maze. Schroder has been in it before, visiting people. He’s waited outside operating rooms as victims inside have died. He’s been in here as friends have fought for their lives—some making it, some not.

Dr. Hearse sees him and comes over. He has the same disapproving look on his face his dentist has when he sees Schroder hasn’t been regularly flossing. “I know you’re impatient, but they’re still working on her.”

“I need the quickest way out into the back parking lot.”

“The hell you do. You need medical attention.”

“Just give me something for the pain.”

“What the hell is it with cops? You want us to perform miracles when your life is on the line, but when it comes to injuries you just don’t seem to care.”

“It’s one of life’s ironies,” he says. “Look, it’s important. Please, can you give me something or not?”

“No. You need to come back and—”

“Later,” Schroder says. “Look, at least show me the way to the parking lot.”

The way consists of a few more turns and a pissed-off doctor who rolls his eyes whenever Schroder looks at him. Then they’re in a corridor that’s about twenty yards long with doors at each end and no windows. Hearse has to walk with him to use his security card to get the doors to open. They both step outside into the sun. There are sirens wailing in the not-too-far distance.

“I don’t understand,” Hearse says, looking out at the parking lot and seeing the same thing that Schroder is seeing—an ambulance surrounded by sedans and SUVs and a few motorbikes. Dirt and dust from nearby construction floats above all of it like a blanket. The weather hasn’t changed any—the sun has climbed a little higher and made the shadows shorter, but that’s about it. Hutton has parked ten yards from the ambulance. He’s standing behind his car.

“That ambulance shouldn’t be there,” Dr. Hearse says. “What is—” he starts, then stops when he notices Hutton is holding a gun.

“Stay here,” Schroder says to the doctor, then skirts around the cars and, staying low, makes his way over to Hutton. “What’s the situation?”

“Not sure. But it has to be the one, right? I’ve called it in. AOS is ten minutes away.”

Schroder doesn’t think they need to wait. The Armed Offenders Squad is going to arrive only to find an empty ambulance. Still, they need to be cautious. “We can’t wait that long.”

“I know,” Hutton says. “That’s why I called you. I’m going to go in.”

Schroder nods. “And if somebody comes out? What do you want me to do? Shoot them with my fingers?”

“Why don’t you use Kent’s gun? I saw you take it.”

Schroder nods. Fair point.

They approach the ambulance. It’s clear there’s nobody in the front. Hutton stands at the back and gives Schroder the go signal, then Schroder rests Kent’s gun in his sling, uses his good arm to pull the door open, and at the same time he jumps back and grabs Kent’s gun. Hutton points his gun inside and a moment later lowers it. Schroder puts Kent’s back into his pocket then calls out to Dr. Hearse, who comes running over. He looks inside the ambulance.

“Jesus,” he says. “That’s Trish. And where . . . Oh, shit, Jimmy,” he says, looking at the second body, then climbing in.

The back of the ambulance is a mess. There are supplies littered over the floor. Blood. A nurse’s outfit. The man has been stripped down to his underwear. Hearse checks Trish for a pulse, then quickly turns toward Schroder.

“She’s alive,” he says. “Get some people out here,” he says, and pulls off his security tag and hands it to Hutton. “Quickly,” he adds, and Hutton runs toward the doors.

Schroder looks at the clothes. Melissa showed up in nurse scrubs, then changed into the clothes the naked victim was wearing. Hearse checks for a pulse on the second victim, then puts the side of his face against the man’s chest, then checks for a pulse again. “It’s weak,” he says. “What the hell happened here?”

“This was used in the escape,” Schroder says. Dressed in the nurse scrubs, Melissa would have found it easy to be given a ride. Then she probably pulled a gun on them. She could have ordered the scrubs from any work-uniform shop online. Or she got them from a nurse. If she got them from a nurse, then she might have gotten ID cards to open the doors to the hospital too.

“Help me with the gurney,” Hearse says, and between them they get it onto the ground, Schroder using his only good arm. Then they get the woman loaded onto it. There is blood around her face and her hair is matted in it. Blunt force trauma to the head. Schroder has seen enough of it to diagnose the condition and knows if she survives there can be some serious ongoing problems. The second paramedic has no signs of violence at all. He looks like he’s just fallen asleep. Hearse starts pushing the woman toward the door they came out of. He’s almost there when it’s thrown open and four doctors come running into the parking lot. Two of them take the gurney with Trish, and the other two come back to the ambulance with Hearse and another gurney. The second victim is loaded onto it, then for a moment it’s just Hearse and Schroder.

“You’re looking for the person who did this, aren’t you,” Hearse says.

“Yes.”

Hearse nods. “I can’t do this for you, but you see that plastic drawer up there?” he asks, nodding toward a whole stack of small drawers along the inside of the ambulance. “The one with the green handle?”

“I see it.”

“You’ll find something for your arm in there. It’ll give you a few hours. You won’t feel much, but you won’t feel any pain either.”

He chases after his colleagues and Schroder climbs into the ambulance and opens the drawer with the green handle. There are half a dozen syringes in there—all identical, and all loaded with some type of clear fluid. He uses his teeth to pull off the protective lid, then plunges the needle into his arm. He doesn’t know what’s inside it, but by the time he puts the cap back on the needle and tosses the empty syringe onto the floor, the pain starts to fade. He takes a second syringe and drops it into his pocket. He figures what the hell, and takes a third too. He steps out of the back just as Hutton arrives.

“I’ve canceled the call to AOS,” he says, “but forensics are on their way.”

“Look at that,” Schroder says, pointing to a blood patch on the wall.

“It’s not from the paramedic,” Hutton says. “Doesn’t fit in with the other blood patterns.”

“It’s from Joe. He sat down here and leaned against the wall. There are plenty of blood drops leaving the ambulance, and here too,” he says, pointing at the ground. “Melissa switched vehicles.”

“She probably had one here ready rather than stealing one,” Hutton says.

“Exactly. Quicker and easier,” Schroder says. He looks up around the parking lot. “No cameras,” he says.

Hutton shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “It’s part of the upgrade. Cameras are getting installed in all the entranceways, and soon in the parking lot too.”

“Soon doesn’t help us.”

“No, it doesn’t, but the camera at the entrance there might,” Hutton says, and points toward the public entrance. “It’s designed to see people coming and going, but it does point toward the parking lot. Maybe if we’re lucky . . .”

Lucky. He wonders how that word is defined. Joe was lucky because he escaped. Schroder was lucky he got out of the car before it exploded. So that means there has to be a balance. For each piece of good luck there has to be bad luck. That’s the thing about Christchurch. Good luck for Joe and Melissa, bad luck for Rebecca and Jack and for Raphael too.

“Let’s check it out.”

“Listen, Carl—” Hutton starts.

“Hey, look, this is a hospital, and this is a broken arm,” he says, “which means I’m going back in there anyway. You’re going in there too—no reason we can’t both go the same way.”

“Carl—”

“You’ve let me come this far, Wilson. No reason to stop now. All I’m asking is to look at the security footage. That’s all. Even that may lead to nothing. Then I’ll get my arm fixed, and then I’ll come into the station and maybe I can help.”

A patrol car pulls into the parking lot. It comes to a stop next to them. Hutton goes over and talks to them about securing the ambulance, then the two of them head back into the hospital, circling their way around to the front and going into the main entrance. Hutton shows his badge to a woman behind a reception counter and tells her they need to talk to somebody about the security cameras. The woman looks excited. She’s putting two and two together and coming up with an answer that suggests all the commotion on the other side of the hospital is linked to something these two cops are looking for. She nods, tells them it’ll be just a minute, then makes a phone call. They say nothing to each other as they watch her, as if their focus can make her speed things along. It works because it takes only half the predicted time. She tells them somebody is on their way.

That somebody is Bevan Middleton—no relation to Joe Middleton—so he tells them as he shakes Hutton’s hand and then stares at Schroder’s broken arm. As he leads them to the security office he tells them he wanted to apply for the police force, but because he’s color-blind he wasn’t allowed. “I thought it was all about the thin blue line,” he tells them. “I thought police work was going to be about shades of gray, but it’s the reds and greens that fucked me.”

The security office is on the ground floor not far from the toilets, so the room smells of urinal cakes and disinfectant. There’s a bank of monitors on one wall, several different viewpoints across the hospital. There are a few computers on various counters, and one on the desk ahead of them, along with a flat-screen monitor that is almost as big as Schroder’s TV. Half the stuff in here is brand new, some ten years old, except for the decor, which is twenty years out of date. Schroder’s arm is good now. The shot he took has his arm humming along quite nicely, thank you very much. It has his mind humming nicely too.

“It’s all getting upgraded,” Bevan says. “So it’s the rear parking lot you want, huh?”

“Exactly,” Hutton says.

The guard starts playing around with a computer keyboard. A moment later the rear entrance shows up on the big monitor ahead of them. Its focus is on the five yards leading up to the doorway. Everybody leans forward a little, straining to see what’s in the not-so-sharp distance.

“That’s the ambulance,” Schroder says.

“Only just,” Hutton says.

“But it’s enough,” Schroder says.

“Can we enhance the image?” Hutton asks.

The guard shakes his head. “Not really.”

Schroder knew he was going to say that. On The Cleaner they would have enhanced the image and cleaned it up and it would have been perfect. They would have enhanced a reflection off a nearby windshield to have gotten a perfect look from a different angle, to have a cell phone number scrawled across the back of somebody’s hand. He wonders what Sherlock Holmes would have made of TV technology.

“Not even a little?” Hutton asks.

“It is what it is,” the guard says, and he enlarges the image and the quality drops off. They can see the ambulance and the two policemen guarding it, but no detail.

“Okay. Wind it back,” Schroder says. “Let’s see when it arrives.”

The guard starts winding it back. Other cars come and go. The shadows get fractionally longer. The day looks as though it gets colder. People are walking around backward. Twenty-five minutes earlier a car drives backward and parks near the ambulance, two people get out and walk backward and climb into the ambulance and then the ambulance backs away. The guard lets the footage play forward at normal speed without the need for anybody to tell him. The ambulance comes in. Blurry Melissa helps Fuzzy Joe out of the back. The sight of them both—even though the detail is poor—makes his skin crawl. They get into the dark blue van. They drive away. Then nothing, just a parked ambulance and other cars and life carrying on as normal. They can’t get a plate from the van.

“None of it helps,” Hutton says, “but we’ll put a call out. A dark blue van—hard to tell what make. I mean, it could be nothing, they may have changed cars again, but I’ll still put out the call. We might get lucky.”

Lucky. There’s that word again.

“Start going back,” Schroder tells the guard. “I want to see when that van first arrived.”

The guard nods enthusiastically as if it’s the best idea in the world. He starts running the footage backward. He jumps it in five-minute intervals. An hour before the ambulance showed up the van is suddenly there. The guard jumps forward five minutes again, then starts winding it back second by second until they see Melissa walking backward and then climbing into it. He presses play.

“Where is she going?” Schroder asks.

“Hard to tell. She could be getting ready to circle around the entire building, and there are some more parking spaces out back for staff, but it could also be she’s heading toward the staff entrance.”

“You got a camera over that door?” Hutton asks.

“Sure we have, it’s been there about two years.”

“Line it up with this footage,” Schroder says, tapping the monitor.

The guard plays around with the controls and gets the footage in sync with the other camera. It’s the same entrance Schroder and the doctor came out earlier. They watch Melissa enter the corridor. It’s a different camera and she’s much closer so the quality is much better. The guard keeps switching cameras and they follow her through the emergency department and around to the ambulance bay. Schroder can’t believe the confidence she has, how casually she behaves as though she is meant to be there. She pauses for a few minutes and does something with her phone, though Schroder thinks she may just be pausing for time and watching her environment. Then she chats to the two paramedics he saw unconscious earlier and climbs into the back of their ambulance.

Schroder can feel a pulse throbbing in his forehead. He can feel adrenaline starting to pump. He feels that if he had to, he could lift a car and flip it over, even with his broken arm.

“Whose swipe card is she using?” Schroder asks, pointing at the monitor, and the moment he asks the question, he knows—he knows for sure what the answer is going to be. He should have figured it out when he was in the parking lot.

“That’s a really good question,” the guard says, because the guard doesn’t know Sally, the guard doesn’t know she worked with Joe, was one of the reasons he was caught, that she returned to studying nursing last year and now her training is at the hospital. The guard’s fingers fly across the keyboard for a few seconds. A moment later a photograph and an ID come up on the monitor, and Schroder looks at the picture of Sally, and Hutton looks at the picture of Sally, and then Schroder and Hutton look at each other.

“Shit,” Hutton says.

“I know,” Schroder says.

“Let’s go,” Hutton says, and the two men race out the door and back into the parking lot.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Joe stays mostly quiet as she gets him dressed into a new shirt. She had forgotten how his skin smelled. Forgotten how he felt. The last year without him was tough. Not the first few months. Back then she was annoyed he’d been arrested, but life goes on. Then she found out she was pregnant. Then a whole bunch of hormones flooded her body. Things would make her cry, random things, but mostly stories in the newspapers that involved animals or children. Bad stories. And there were always bad stories. She developed a craving for weird food. She would eat raw potatoes. Couldn’t get enough of them. And chocolate. For a month there she was sure she was single-handedly keeping the chocolate labor force of New Zealand in work. Then those cravings left and new ones came—suddenly it was all about fruit, all about chicken and Thai food, and through it all her feelings for Joe intensified. Three months into her pregnancy she started figuring out how to help him escape. She wanted her baby to have a father—and most of all she wanted her baby. She’s always wanted one.

“Where are we going to go?” he finally asks.

Melissa is also getting changed. She brought clothes with her last night for this. And a new wig. She’s going shoulder-length light brown. “We’re heading home,” she says. “We lay low for a bit. The police look for people who run. They’re easy to find. But we hide out and—”

“Do we really have a daughter?” he asks, “Or did I just imagine that?”

They are still in Sally’s house. She hates it here. She can’t imagine this being much better than where Joe spent his last twelve months, and she has a good imagination. The rooms feel damp. It doesn’t get a lot of sun. And she’s pissed off at Sally for not having kept the refrigerator nicely stocked. She’s hungry and there’s nothing here to eat.

“Yes,” she says. “She’s beautiful. She has your eyes.” She knew it was going to be a shock for Joe. She knew he would need time to adjust to it. Hell, she had nine months to get her head around it and even then it didn’t feel real until she was lying on Sally’s bed with a baby turning her vagina into something that resembled a gutted rabbit. So she knows he needs to come around a bit—she was just hoping he’d be a little happier along the way. “Her name is—”

“Abigail,” Joe finishes, adjusting the hat a little that she gave him so nobody will be able to clearly see his face once they leave.

“Did you mean before what you said that you’d rather go back to jail?”

“No. Of course not,” he says. “Where are we hiding out?”

“My place,” she says.

“You still live in the same place?”

“No,” she says. “I moved.”

“Before you started killing other people?” he asks.

“Something like that. Are you sure you don’t really mean what you said earlier about going back to jail?”

“Of course I’m sure. Did you have sex with those men you killed?” he asks.

“Of course not,” she says. And it’s true. But she’s not annoyed that he asked.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Did you fuck anybody in jail?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Did somebody fuck you?”

“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t in general population, otherwise that would have happened. There’s been nobody since you,” he tells her.

She believes him. A guy like Joe—she imagines he’d rather kill himself than become somebody’s pet. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It hurts,” he says. “A lot. But I’ll make it.”

She helps him to his feet. They make their way out of the bedroom.

“We have to go and see my mother,” Joe says.

She throws him a Why the hell would we do that glance, then follows it up. “Why would we go and do that?”

So he tells her why and she keeps him propped up by the door and listens to him as he talks. At first she thinks he’s still delusional from the medication. It’s quite the story. Fifty thousand dollars. Detective Calhoun. Jonas Jones the asshole psychic she’s seen on TV. A trip into the woods. Joe’s confidence in what he is saying becomes infectious. Then she remembers the files she saw in Schroder’s car from the TV station. It all makes sense. And fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. She’s done well with the forty she got from Sally three months ago, and another fifty would certainly help get their new lives under way.

They should just head back to her house. Relieve the babysitter. And stay inside for the next few months. Grow Joe’s hair out. Dye it. Get him to put on some weight. Get him to look about as different as she can with what she has to work with. Get him to bond with Abigail. Then work at getting some false identities and leave the country. Difficult, yes, but not impossible. Just wait for the manhunt to die down.

“So the money was transferred into your mother’s account,” Melissa says.

“Yes.”

“That means your mother will have to go into a bank and draw it out. We can’t risk her saying the wrong thing. Too problematic.”

Joe shakes his head. “You don’t know my mother,” he says. “She doesn’t trust banks. She has a bank account purely because you can’t really get by without one, but she hates them, hates them so much she goes in there every Monday morning and draws out her benefit in cash and takes it home and hides it under her mattress. She has done for years.”

“You think she’ll have gone there this morning and drawn out the fifty thousand dollars?” she asks, and she tries to imagine it, and for some reason she pictures an old lady with a sack slung over her back with big dollar signs on it. But of course that’s not the reality. Fifty thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills is five hundred of them. That amount would fit into a handbag.

“Without a doubt,” Joe says. “It’ll be at her house under her bed just waiting for us to go and get it.”

“And you’re sure.”

“Yes,” he says.

Fifty thousand dollars—is it worth the risk?

She decides that it is.