Fever Dream (15 page)
Meanwhile, Roarke scooped up a scalpel in his left hand. Carefully closed his fingers around the handle. Held it menacingly, sharp tip pointed up. He thrust at the air. Once, twice.
“Could be worse,” he said to me. Oddly personal. As though I’d been concerned about his condition.
“Like I give a shit.” I kept my voice hard, to cover my mounting anxiety about that scalpel. “Think this is some kinda bonding moment for us?”
He laughed, almost appreciatively.
“Not you and me, Rinaldi. Little Treva here.”
With that, he moved to where Treva cowered in the corner. Bent and slid the scalpel’s blade under the tape binding her ankles. One quick slice and her feet were free.
“C’mon, girlie. You and me are gonna tango right outta here. Like
Dancin’ with the Stars
.”
Treva’s head fell forward, as though her neck muscles had gone slack. Ignoring this, Roarke pulled her roughly to her feet. Which promptly gave out beneath her.
I struggled against my bonds. “Roarke, no—!”
Now Roarke was awkwardly keeping her upright, leaning her against his bandaged arm.
“
Dammit
, girlie—” His tone had lost its mocking self-assurance. Was all malice now.
With his good arm, he pointed the gun at her temple.
“Roarke!” My shout drew his look. “For Christ’s sake, she’s no good as a hostage. She can’t even walk. You wanna try to drag her outta here past a dozen cops?”
This made Roarke shift position, arm still hugging the limp girl, and train his gaze back up at the observation window. I looked, too, and saw that Polk had returned. He and Biegler were conferring, gesturing angrily at each other. While Lowrey was saying something into her two-way.
“Every second you delay, it’s gonna be harder to make it out,” I said to Roarke’s profile. His jaw working as he stared up at the cops above him.
“Take
me
, Roarke.” I shifted again, using the wall corner to help me lever my way to a half-standing position. My legs, bound at the ankles, turned awkwardly beneath me.
Roarke took only another moment to decide. Then he simply let go of Treva, who slumped to the floor, hospital gown settling with a flutter over her thin arms and legs.
In two quick steps Roarke was next to me. Bending to cut the tape binding my ankles. Leaving my hands still bound behind my back.
Then he straightened, dropping the scalpel to the floor. Glancing reflexively at his hand. Stiffly curled fingers. I could tell that holding the scalpel had been difficult. More painful than he’d hoped.
Face bathed in grimy sweat, he motioned with his head for me to get all the way to my feet. As I did, I felt momentarily dizzy. Aware again of the throbbing at the back of my head, where Roarke had struck me. Standing, the pain was even worse.
“Looks like it’s you an’ me, Rinaldi.” He indicated for me to turn around. “Last dance.”
The nose of the gun dug into my spine.
My heart was thumping so loud I was sure he could hear it. Adrenaline surged through me. Blocked, thwarted.
Nowhere to run, no way to fight.
My mind raced, as panic rose to the surface. Thoughts of my own death. Images from the bank, those bodies on the floor. Swimming in their own blood.
Roarke made some harsh sound in his throat. As though readying himself, too. For whatever lay ahead.
Pushing me before him, we made our way to the doors.
The corridor just beyond those doors was as empty as before. And as eerily silent.
Roarke gave me another nudge in the back with his gun and we headed in the opposite direction from the way I’d first come. Past another operating room, its double doors sealed. Then past another.
At the end of the corridor was a metal-sheathed, green-tinted, double-sized elevator. Our destination.
Our footsteps echoed off the worn linoleum and bounced back at us from the windowless walls. I turned my head left and right. As I could feel Roarke doing, behind me.
For different reasons, we were both on the lookout for the police. For some sign of a trap.
“They’re sure being good little boys and girls,” he muttered dryly into the back of my neck.
I tried to sound more confident than I was.
“You know they’ve got eyes on you, Roarke. Watching from somewhere.”
He grunted. “Let’s find out.”
With that, he shoved me with the gun. Hard. I stumbled forward, tripped. Without my hands free to help correct my balance, I fell to my knees.
Gasping, I craned my neck around to glare at him.
“What the hell—?!”
But Roarke was staring past me, at the huge silent elevator. The revolver was trained at my head.
“Whoever the fuck’s in that elevator, you got three seconds to make an appearance. Or I blow Rinaldi away.”
I swiveled back again, eyes front, still on my knees. Gaze riveted on those wide green doors. Nothing happened. They didn’t budge.
“Okay, assholes, I’ll just start countin’.” Roarke took two long steps and I felt the cold, hard muzzle of the gun at the back of my head.
I froze. Breath held in a tight knot in my chest.
“One…two…”
Still, the elevator doors remained closed. Silent.
I was going to die.
Suddenly, one of the operating room doors to our left opened. I heard the swish of the rubber sealant at the bottom of the door as it brushed against linoleum.
I turned, feeling the gun moving along the base of my skull as I did so. But I had to see.
It was Polk. Plus two uniforms in flak jackets. Both tall, male, young. All three with guns pointing impotently at the floor.
I heard Roarke’s hoarse laugh.
“Well, shit. I called the play right, but had the wrong fuckin’ door.”
I felt the pressure of the gun ease off my neck.
As I got unsteadily to my feet, I saw that Roarke had returned to pointing the revolver at my ribs. Though his eyes were glued to Polk’s own.
“Stupid move,” Roarke said. “Riskin’ Rinaldi’s life.”
One of the uniforms grumbled. “It was worth a shot.”
Roarke smiled. “Strange choice of words. But what the hell, it ain’t
your
life on the line. Or is it?”
As Roarke turned and shot the cop right in the throat.
Everything happened at once.
The cop fell backwards, blood gushing from his throat. Gagging, sputtering. Polk and the other cop, momentarily stunned, took a full second to register what had just happened. And then they were crouching beside the downed man, yelling for help, cupping their hands over his throat to staunch the dark burble of blood.
Stunned myself, I was barely aware that Roarke had grabbed my elbow and was racing us down the corridor toward the elevator.
Other cops poured into the corridor at the far end, through the access door. Roarke hit the elevator button. The car must have been stopped at our floor already, since the doors opened immediately. Roarke’s luck was holding.
He shoved me inside, shouldered in beside me, and pushed the interior button. The doors started to close.
Moments before they came together, I caught sight of Biegler and Lowrey, both with guns raised, joining the other cops coming through the access door.
I saw Eleanor’s face come up, her eyes meeting mine from her end of the corridor. Then the doors closed, and she disappeared from sight.
It was just Roarke and me.
He said nothing, keeping the gun in my ribs for the full sixty seconds it took for the elevator car to settle with a shudder on a lower floor. I glanced at the button he’d pushed. Basement level.
The doors opened and we stepped out into a cavernous, concrete-walled maintenance area. Hulking machinery. Beds stacked atop each other. Surgical carts with damaged wheels. Shelves of bottles, tubes. Linen supplies.
“Move.” Roarke snarled.
He prodded me again with the gun, and we started walking. Fast. Footsteps echoing. A hollow, staccato sound. In less than a minute we were across the broad expanse of the room and going through the rear exit.
Roarke was smart enough to keep me in front of him as we stepped out into the deserted parking lot. Just in case any cops with visions of commendations dancing in their heads were waiting outside.
The night was black, and still heavy with the residue of the day’s heat. Maybe a hundred cars were parked in the huge, open-air lot. Soft spheres of light shone under the evenly spaced lamp poles.
Again, we mirrored each other in glancing quickly about us as we walked. Both looking for telltale movement in the shadows. Some sign of a police presence.
Roarke headed us toward a far corner, where two cars—featureless sedans in the dim light—were parked a couple spaces apart. No other vehicles around.
By now, my hands and arms had gone numb from being constrained so long against my back. I didn’t even feel Roarke’s grip as he steered us toward one of the sedans.
He’d just brought us to the driver’s side door when a sudden burst of light split the darkness to our left. Then another stream of light spilled into the night from our other side.
Headlights from a half-dozen parked cars, arrayed on either side of us, glowed like angry suns against the blackness. Roarke and I were illuminated as if on stage, pinned where we stood by the cold bright light.
Roarke squinted at me. Eyes dark points in the glare of the lights.
“Maybe you ain’t as valuable as you think, Rinaldi. They keep doin’ their best to get you whacked.”
Before I could react, Roarke shoved me hard with his shoulder and I went stumbling backwards. I stayed on my feet this time, but could only watch helplessly as he got in behind the wheel of the sedan and started it up.
I stared in disbelief. Door unlocked. Key in the ignition. Whoever owned the car was a complete fool.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of running feet, and a rising crescendo of voices as Roarke put the car in gear.
I hit the pavement, scrambling as well as I could manage with my hands bound behind me toward a large cement planter in a near corner. Ducked my head down low.
In case bullets started flying.
Which they did.
Roarke peeled out of the parking space and headed in a straight, unheeding diagonal across the pavement toward the closest exit. Steering with his bad hand, he’d let down the window on the passenger side and was firing randomly into the night. In the direction of the approaching cops.
I knew he wasn’t aiming for anything. Just shooting to cover himself and keep the cops honest. And wary. And backed up far enough not to block his exit.
I raised my head, risked a look. Saw the sedan’s tail end bouncing on the concrete as Roarke drove hard and fast through the exit, then made a sharp turn onto the street.
Almost immediately, two patrol cars, positioned on the other side of the intersection, roared into gear and came barreling down the street in pursuit. Lights flashing, sirens wailing.
Roarke made another turn, wheels squealing in protest, and gunned the engine. The cops stayed right with him. And then all three cars were swallowed up by the night-shrouded city. Gone from view. The sirens’ wail grew faint, and then faded away.
Meanwhile, more cops had poured out of their parked cars, blurred figures backlit by blazing headlights. Running. Heading my way. All talking and shouting at once. Some at me, some into their two-ways. Getting instructions. Giving Roarke’s probable heading.
I rolled up to a sitting position as a female cop in Kevlar knelt beside me. With a conspiratorial smile, she took a pearl-handled Swiss Army knife from her pocket and cut my hands free.
“Against department regs,” she whispered, pocketing the knife again. Then a wink.
When I gratefully pulled my arms around to their normal positions at my side, they just hung there, burning. Pretty much useless for the moment. I didn’t care.
My head was another story. The throbbing hadn’t slackened, and I carefully reached up to touch where I’d been hit. Felt the pulp of soft, raised skin. The moisture on my fingers was my own slow-welling blood.
Great
, I thought. Maybe a concussion. Or worse.
The female cop stood up then, to allow room for Biegler and Lowrey to squat on either side of me. Eleanor’s face reflected real concern. Biegler, as usual, just looked unhappy.
He watched me fingering the back of my head.
“What happened?” he said.
“I got clobbered with a gun-butt.”
Eleanor leaned in. “How does it feel?”
“Like I got clobbered with a gun-butt.”
She gave me a wry smile.
“You can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Rinaldi? Any idea why?”