Hostage (2001) (33 page)

'Open this year.'

'It's a tax form that my dad makes up to send to the government.'

'Up at the top of the page, does it say whose tax it is, maybe a company name?'

The boy didn't answer.

'Thomas?'

'I'm looking.'

Talley glanced toward the cul-de-sac. Martin was watching him. She held his eye for a moment, then said something to Hicks and came toward him, hunched over to stay under cover of the cars.

'It says Family Enterprises.'

'But there's no one's name?'

'Uh-uh.'

Talley wanted to look at the disks himself; if he could see them he knew he could find what he needed instead of depending on a ten-year-old boy.

'Look for something like Officers or Executive Compensation, something like that.'

Martin had cleared the line of police vehicles and was out of the line of fire from the house. She straightened and came toward him. He held up his hand to warn her off, but she frowned and kept coming.

Martin said, 'I want to talk to you.'

'In a minute.'

'It's important.'

Talley moved away from her, annoyed.

'When I'm off the phone.'

His tone stopped her. Martin's eyes hardened angrily, but she kept her distance.

Thomas said, 'Here it is.'

'You found the name?'

'Yeah, there's a place called Compensation to Officers, but there's only one guy listed.'

'Who?'

'Charles G. Benza.'

Talley stared at the ground. The cool night air suddenly felt close. Talley looked at the house, then glanced at Martin. Talley had been wrong. Walter Smith wasn't a mobster with something valuable in his house. The boy's father kept Sonny Benza's books. That's what it had to be: Smith was Benza's accountant, and he had Benza's financial records. It was all right there in Smith's house, enough to put Benza away and his organization out of business. Right here in Bristo Camino.

Talley sighed deeply, the breath venting from his core in a way that seemed to carry his strength with it. This was why people were willing to kidnap and murder. Smith could put them out of business. Smith knew their secrets and could put them away. The mob. The men in the car were the mob. The head of the largest crime family on the West Coast had Jane and Amanda.

Thomas's voice suddenly came fast and thin.

'Someone's coming. I gotta go.'

The line went dead.

Martin put her hands on her hips.

'Are you going to talk to me now?'

'No.'

Talley ran for his car. If the disks could put Benza away, so could Walter Smith. He radioed Metzger at the hospital as he ran.

Thomas heard the nail being pried from his door. He jerked the computer's plug from the wall, then vaulted onto his bed, shoving the cell phone under the covers as the door opened. Kevin stepped inside, carrying a paper plate with two slices of pizza and a Diet Coke.

'I brought you something to eat.'

Thomas pushed his hands between his crossed legs, trying to hide the fact that he wasn't tied, but the tape he'd stripped from his wrists was in plain sight on the floor. Kevin stopped when he saw it, then glared.

'You little shit. I oughta kick your ass.'

'It hurt my wrists.'

'Fuck it, I don't guess it matters anyway.'

Thomas was relieved that he didn't seem too upset. Kevin handed over the pizza and soda, then checked the nails that held the windows closed. Thomas worried that he would notice that the computer was in a different spot, but Kevin seemed inside himself.

Kevin made sure that the windows were secure, then leaned against the wall as if he needed the support to keep his feet. His eyes seemed to find everything in the room, every toy and book, every piece of furniture, the clothes strewn in the corner, the posters on the walls, the smashed phone thrown on the floor, the TV, the CD player, even the computer against the wall, all with an expression that seemed empty.

Kevin's gaze finally settled on Thomas.

'You're fucking lucky.'

Kevin pushed off the wall and went to the door.

Thomas said, 'When are you leaving my house?'

'Never.'

Kevin left without looking back and pulled the door closed.

Thomas waited.

The nail was hammered back into the doorjamb. The floor squeaked as Kevin moved away.

Thomas tried to count to one hundred, but stopped at fifty and once more made his way to the closet. He wanted to know what they were planning. He also wanted the gun.

Chapter
21

Saturday, 12:02 A.M.

Canyon Country, California

The CanyonCountryHospital sat between two mountain ridges in a pool of blue light. It was modern and low, not more than three stories at its tallest, and sprawled across the parking lot. Marion thought it looked like one of those overnight dot-com think tanks you see in the middle of nowhere, sprung up overnight at a freeway off-ramp, all earth-colored stone and mirrored glass.

Marion cruised around the hospital, finding the emergency room entrance at the rear. Friday night, a little after midnight, and the place was virtually deserted. Marion knew hospitals that saw so much action on Friday nights they ran double ER staffs and you could hear screams from a block away. The Santa Clarita Valley must be a very nice place to live, he thought. He was liking everything he found about it.

The small parking area outside the ER showed only three cars and a couple of ambulances, but four news vehicles were parked off to the side. Marion expected this, so he wasn't put off. He parked close to the entrance with the nose of his car facing the drive, then went into the hospital.

The newspeople were clumped together at the admitting desk, talking to a harried woman in a white coat. Marion listened enough to gather that she was the senior emergency room physician, Dr. Reese, and that tests were currently being run on Walter Smith. Two young nurses, both pretty with dark Toltec eyes, stood behind the admitting counter, watching with interest. Marion thought that this was probably very exciting for them, having the newspeople here.

Marion went to a coffee machine in the small waiting area and bought a cup of black coffee. A female police officer sat watching the interview. A young Latino man sat across from her, rocking a small baby while an older child slept half in his lap, half on the seat next to him. The man looked frightened in a way that let Marion think that his wife was probably the reason they were here. Marion's heart went out to him.

'It's like they've forgotten you, isn't it?'

The man glanced up without comprehension. Marion smiled, thinking he probably didn't speak English.

'That's so sad,' he said.

Marion turned away and went back to the admitting area. A gate opened to a short hall, beyond which was a kind of communal room with several beds partitioned by blue curtains, and another hall with swinging doors at the end. Marion waited at the gate until an orderly appeared, then he smiled shyly.

'Excuse me. Dr. Reese said someone would help me.'

The orderly glanced at Reese, who was still busy with the reporters across the room.

'I'm Walter Smith's next-door neighbor. They told me to pick up his clothes and personal effects.'

'That the guy who was the hostage?'

'Oh, yes. Isn't that terrible?'

'Man, the stuff that happens, huh?'

'You never know. We're worried sick. Those children are still in there.'

'Man.'

'I'm supposed to bring his things home.'

'Okay, let me see what I can do.'

'How's he doing?'

'The doctor's checking the CT results now. They should know soon.'

Marion watched as the orderly disappeared into one of the doors farther up the hall, then he stepped through the gate and walked up the hall just far enough so that the nurses at the admitting desk could no longer see him. He waited there until the orderly returned with a green paper bag.

'Here you go. They had to cut his clothes off, but there isn't anything we can do about that.'

Marion took the bag. He could feel shoes in the bottom.

'Do I have to sign?'

'No, that's all right. We're not that formal around here. I used to work for County-USC man, you had to sign for everything. Here, it's not like that. These small towns are great.'

'Listen, thank you. Is there another way out of here? I don't want to leave past the reporters. They were asking so many questions before.'

The orderly pointed to the swinging doors at the far end of the hall.

'Through there, then take a left. You'll see a red exit sign at the end. That'll bring you out the front.'

'Thanks again.'

Marion put the bag on the floor to go through Smith's things. He did it right there. The bag contained jeans, a belt, a black leather wallet, white Calvin Klein briefs, a Polo shirt, gray socks, black Reebok tennis shoes, and a Seiko wristwatch. The clothes had all been split along the centerline. Marion felt the pants pockets, but found only a white handkerchief. There were no computer disks. Mr. Howell would be disappointed.

Marion tucked the bag under his arm and walked down the hall past the beds in the communal room. The beds were empty. Marion wondered about the Latino man's wife, but stopped thinking about it when he found Smith in a room at the end of the hall. Smith's left temple was covered in a fresh white bandage, and an oxygen cannula was clipped to his nose. Two nurses, one red-haired and one dark, were setting up monitor machines that Marion took to be an EEG and an EKG. That the nurses were only now setting up the monitors told Marion that the tests had just finished but the doctors were still waiting for results. That gave him time. When the doctors knew Smith's true condition, they would either proceed with some additional intervention or move Smith into the main body of the hospital. A room there would make things easier, but surgery would make Marion's job impossible. He decided not to take the chance.

Marion found a quiet spot farther down the hall where a gurney was resting against the wall. He put the bag on the gurney, then put a syringe pack and a glass vial of a drug called lidocaine into the bag. Both the syringe and the lidocaine were Marion's, brought in from the car.

A tall young man pushed an empty wheelchair around a corner. He looked sleepy.

Marion smiled pleasantly.

'I used to tell myself I would get used to these hours, but you never do.'

The man smiled back, sharing the tragedy of late hours.

'You're telling me.'

When the man was gone, Marion worked inside the bag so no one could see. He tore open the syringe pack, twisted off the needle guard, and pierced the top of the vial. He drew deep at the lidocaine, filling the syringe. Lidocaine was one of his favorite drugs. When injected into a person with a normal healthy heart, it induced heart failure. Marion placed the syringe on top of Smith's torn clothes so that it would be easy to reach, then closed the bag and waited.

After a few minutes, the dark-haired nurse left Smith's room. Shortly after that, the second nurse left.

Marion let himself into the room. He knew that he didn't have much time, but he didn't need much. He put the bag on the bed. Smith's eyes fluttered, opening partway, then closing, as if he was struggling to wake. Marion slapped him.

'Wake up.'

Marion slapped him again.

'Walter?'

Smith's eyes opened, not quite making it all the way. Marion wasn't sure if Smith could see him or not. Marion slapped him a third time, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek.

'Are the disks still in your house?'

Smith made a murmuring sound that Marion could not understand. Marion gripped his face again and shook it violently.

'Speak to me, Walter. Have you told anyone who you are?'

Smith's eyes fluttered again, then focused. The eyes tracked to Marion.

'Walter?'

The eyes dulled and once more closed.

'Okay, Walter. If that's the way you want it.'

Marion decided it was time. He felt confident that he could report that the disks were still in the house and that Smith hadn't been able to speak since his release from the house. The people in Palm Springs would be pleased. They would also be pleased that Walter Smith was dead.

'This won't hurt, Walter. I promise.'

Marion smiled, and suppressed a laugh.

'Well, that's not exactly true. Heart attacks hurt like a motherfucker.'

Marion opened the bag and reached in for the syringe.

'What are you doing?'

The red-haired nurse stood in the door. She stared at Marion, clearly suspicious, then came directly to the bed.

'You're not supposed to be in here.'