Kill Switch (9 page)

Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch

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C
HAPTER
10

P
olice vehicles clogged the street outside Manhattan City Hospital's emergency entrance as Tony Savarese, sweating from the heat in his ever-present blue blazer, squeezed the Impala into the only spot left at the curb, beside a fire hydrant. Nick, riding shotgun, barely noticed. All he could see was Tommy Wessel lying near death on the train tracks.

The troops had arrived at the subway station within minutes, the paramedics whisking Wessel off to the hospital while at least fifty cops and detectives searched the shut-down subway tunnel for any sign of Todd Quimby. But he had vanished, probably through an emergency exit. Savarese determined that Nick was in no mental shape to take part in the search and, after debriefing him on the subway platform, drove him to be with his short-time partner.

“We're here, Nicky,” Savarese said, bringing Nick back to the present.

As he exited the car, the precinct numbers on the police cruisers he passed told the story: Cops, from the lowest rookie to chiefs with stars on their shoulders, from around the corner to the farthest reaches of Queens and Staten Island, were pouring into the ER to show support and give blood. Nick himself had participated in the ritual for many a fallen cop more times than he cared to remember. But never before was the downed officer his partner.

Now, as Savarese escorted him through the double doors into the waiting room, Nick saw the dozens of cops praying, talking, crying. All turned silent as they became aware of Nick's presence. The media attention he'd gotten eight months earlier ensured that every cop in the cityâand most of its citizensâknew his face. As he passed through the throng of his brethren, Nick couldn't help but notice their solemn expressions. Were they looking at him with sorrow and sympathy? Or were they thinking that once again Nick Lawler screwed up?

The sound of quiet sobbing rattled Nick, which Savarese couldn't help but notice. He wiped his bald, sweaty head with a handkerchief and led Nick through another door into a treatment area. A few feet ahead, Lieutenant Wilkes was doing his best to console Debby Wessel, a pretty, obviously pregnant, twenty-five-year-old brunette. She and Wilkes were looking through a glass window into a room where a team of doctors and nurses worked on her husband. Nick's eyes returned to Debby.
She's way too young to have to face this,
he thought.

“You can't be in here,” came a voice from behind them. It was a doctor, the credentials hanging from his neck identifying him as Gavin Lester, chief of emergency medicine.

“Police, Doc,” said Savarese. He pointed to Nick. “He's Detective Wessel's partner.”

“Are you taking care of him?” Nick asked.

“Yes, I am,” Lester replied. “We're trying to stabilize him for surgery.”

“Will he make it?” Nick managed, afraid to hear the answer.

“If we can get the brain swelling down, he stands a chance.”

Nick let out a breath.

“But that's the good news,” Lester said, as if he'd said the same words too many times before. “His right fibula and tibia are shattered.”

“Which means what, Doc?” Nick asked, hoping it wasn't what he thought.

“We'll pin his leg back together, but he'll never be the same.”

His days as a cop are over,
Nick thought.

“Thanks, Doc,” was the only reply Nick could manage.

Lieutenant Wilkes now looked in their direction. Nick could see him whisper to Wessel's wife that he needed a moment. He walked the few feet over to them, all business.

“What'd the doc say?” asked Wilkes.

“Just that they're trying to get him up to surgery,” said Savarese.

“I need you back at the scene,” Wilkes told Savarese, gesturing over to Debby. “She's a mess and nobody's been able to reach Tommy's parents, so I have to stay here.”

“On my way, Boss,” Savarese said, looking at Nick.

“I'm okay,” Nick said, reading the look. “I'll get myself home.”

Savarese nodded, then headed off. Wilkes glanced over toward Debby.

“You want me to introduce you?”

It was the last thing Nick wanted. “I don't think I'm up to it,” he said.

“You been looked at yet?” he asked Nick.

“I'm not hurt, Lou,” Nick said.

“Have the doc check you out anyway,” Wilkes ordered. “Then go home, shower up, and get back to the office. I want to know every place this guy Quimby could be hiding. And we finally got hold of Catherine Mills's parents. They live somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, and they're driving into town, should be here by tomorrow morningâ”

“I'm taking tomorrow off,” Nick said, cutting him off, the words out before he even realized he'd uttered them.

Wilkes cracked his crooked jack-o'-lantern smile. “Now's not the time for comedy, Nicky.”

“It's not a joke. I won't be in tomorrow.”

Nick's boss gave him a long look. “Really?” retorted Wilkes. “We got a nut job running around town murdering blond women and burning their eyes outâone who almost put your partner in the groundâand you're taking a day off?”

“I need a personal day,” Nick said simply. “If you got a problem with that, send me back to Central Booking.”

Wilkes read the expression on Nick's face. “Look, Nicky,” he began, “if all this is too much for you and you're not readyâ”

“I didn't say I couldn't handle it,” Nick interrupted. “I just need a day. Is that too much to ask?”

Wilkes remembered what Nick had been through the past year. “If it means that much to you, I'll cover your ass myself.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Nick said.

“Don't âthanks, Boss' me, Nicky. I already stuck my balls in the paper shredder getting you your job back,” Wilkes chastised him. “You won't make me look like a schmuck, will you?”

“I won't, Lou. I promise.”

And as he walked out, Nick hoped he could live up to that promise.

Twenty hours later on Tuesday afternoon, Nick Lawler was on the southbound platform of Boston's Back Bay railroad station, having just gotten off an Acela Express train from New York.

He was tired, more exhausted than he could remember. Yet he knew now that he was right to make this trip. Still, his sense of duty and guilt over taking the day off at such a critical time had overcome Nick long before he reached Boston.

Nick's cell phone rang. It was Lieutenant Wilkes.

“You resting up, Nicky?” Wilkes asked with a forced friendliness.

“Yeah, Lou, I'm just hanging out at home,” Nick replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I got good news. Your partner's up and yacking a mile a minute. Blames himself for going into the subway tunnel without backup.” Wilkes waited for a response from Nick, but none came. “He's going to retire on three-quarters pay. Says he got hurt because he screwed up and lost Quimby.”

He saved my life. He didn't screw up. I did,
Nick thought. “I got to go, Lou. Someone's at the door. See you tomorrow.”

Nick clicked off. He had someplace to go and he was late.

The light from Dr. Mangone's ophthalmoscope bore into Nick's eyes, so bright that it hurt.

“Is it getting worse?” Nick asked.

“I'm afraid so,” said Dr. Mangone, peering through the large machine deep into the dark pupils of Nick's gray-blue eyes.

“How much longer?”

“A year. Maybe a little more if you're lucky,” said the doctor in his thick Boston accent. “You're not driving at night, are you?”

“No,” Nick lied.

Dr. Mangone looked him over. “I have to ask you a question, Mr. Barton. Who are you hiding your condition from?”

Mr. Barton
. He could never get used to the doctor calling him that.

Nick first noticed something was wrong five years ago when, late one night at home, he tripped down a flight of stairs. He shrugged it off as being tired, but when he hit a parked car the next week, he got scared. It was dark and the car suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Nick made an appointment with an eye specialist who worked with the NYPD, thinking maybe he needed glasses.

But before he went in for his exam, he looked his symptoms up on the Internet: night blindness and loss of peripheral visionâthese were signs of retinitis pigmentosa, an incurable disease that ended in blindness. If that's what Nick had, his police career would be over the instant he was diagnosed. He couldn't take the chance, so he'd canceled his appointment with the police department doctor and sought out Dr. Mangone, an expert in treating RP. He practiced in Boston, far enough away that no one would find out. Mangone had quickly confirmed Nick's self-diagnosis.

But now, Nick couldn't even think of an appropriate way to answer the doctor's question. He was hiding his condition from his boss, his friends, from everyone, including himself. Instead of lying, he said nothing. Dr. Mangone got up and pushed the ophthalmoscope out of the way. Nick sat back, moving his chin off the chinrest.

“Look,” the doctor began, “what you do with your life is none of my business until it either affects your condition or puts you or others in danger.” He shook his head. “I almost want to ask you your real name.”

Nick was glad Dr. Mangone cared enough to be interested in him and the effect this insidious disease would have on his life.

“You pay me in cash, no insurance,” he continued. “Your address is a post office box. And I don't know a lot of accountants who carry guns.”

Nick looked down at his leg. The bottom of the ankle holster was just sticking out from the cuff of his pants.
Christ.

“It's complicated, Doc,” he said.

Dr. Mangone sighed. “You're not gonna tell me, are you.”

“I can't,” said Nick.

“Then listen to me. Carefully. There's no way you can clearly see what you're aiming atâespecially at night. If you find yourself having to shoot someone, there's a better than average chance you will hit the wrong person.”

If you only knew, Doc.

Nick stared out the train window into the dark night as the Acela raced back to New York. The bright streetlights of the towns along the tracks whizzed by like flashbulbs bursting in Nick's eyes. He closed them, as if that might delete todayâand yesterdayâfrom having happened.

Nick could see himself running through his apartment, past the family photos lining the walls. Running through the subway tunnel. Finding Wessel. Running into his bedroom. Seeing the blinding flash from the gun muzzle as if it were right in front of his face ...

“Police, sir. Wake up.”

Nick opened his eyes. An Amtrak police officer stood in the aisle beside his row of seats, his hand on his holstered Glock.

“Yes, Officer?”

“Put your hands on the seat in front of you.”

Nick now saw cops at both ends of the car and that he was the only passenger. He realized they had evacuated the train.
Like I'm some kind of terrorist.

“I'm NYPD,” Nick told the cop, “if this is about my weapon.”

“Where's your ID?” asked the cop.

“Inside coat pocket,” Nick replied. “Can I reach?”

The cop nodded. Nick took out his wallet and handed the cop his shield and ID card. The cop relaxed, giving him back his creds.

“Sorry, guy,” the cop apologized. “Someone saw your gun and complained. We had to check it out.”

“You're doing your job,” Nick said. “No apology necessary.”