Mother's Milk (32 page)

‘What are you doing?' Justine asked. ‘He's awake, if you give him more you're going to throw him into withdrawal.'

Barrett's hand shot out with lightning speed, snatching the plastic-wrapped syringe. ‘Exactly.' She tore open the package, broke the tip off the vial, drew it up, and then pierced Marky's IV tubing, just inches from where it went into his vein.

‘Barrett!' Justine stared at her sister. ‘I can't be part of this.'

‘You're right,' Barrett said, depressing the syringe, not wanting to look at Justine's worried face. ‘You shouldn't be here.'

‘This isn't you,' Justine said, her eyes fixed on the syringe, and in a whisper, ‘this is torture.'

Marky twitched, his face turned to a grimace, and in the course of a few seconds he went from barely rousable to moaning and curled up in a ball. ‘What's wrong with me?' he gasped.

‘No more bullshit,' Barrett said. ‘Give us Chase's address and we'll give you medication to make you feel better.'

‘Give it up, Marky,' Jerod said, ‘Chase just tried to kill you. He's been playing you all along, getting you to do his shit work. She can help you feel better,' he said. ‘She gave me something when I was bad sick and it made it all go away.'

‘You got to give me something. Give me a shot, anything,' Marky pleaded. He grabbed for a pink plastic bedpan, missed, and vomited on the floor.

‘An address,' Barrett persisted. ‘Where does he live?'

‘TriBeCa,' Marky said, as sweat beaded on his forehead. He held the bedpan and looked back at Jerod and then at Barrett. ‘You got to help me. Please don't leave me like this.'

‘TriBeCa isn't an address,' Barrett said.

‘I don't know the fucking number!' Marky spat back. ‘Just give me something!'

‘Can't do that without an address,' Jerod said, pushing his face close to Marky's. ‘Look, you piece of shit, you're dope sick, big fucking deal. It ain't going to kill you, and until you tell us what we need to know, it'll feel like your guts are on fire, like something inside is going to explode. Nice, ain't it?'

‘Give me a shot,' Marky pleaded, as tears flowed. ‘You can't do this to me.'

‘Yeah, we can,' Jerod said. ‘Where in TriBeCa? What's the street?'

‘He's got a loft off Church,' Marky gasped. ‘Top floor.'

‘What street?' Jerod persisted. ‘You don't owe him a thing.'

‘We're in love,' Marky said. ‘I'm going to move in with him.'

Jerod shook his head. ‘The street.'

‘Duane, off the corner.'

Barrett had her cell out and was dialing Hobbs. ‘Describe the building, and north or south side of the street?'

‘North,' Marky gasped. ‘It's got a store on the first floor that sells hair stuff, like wigs and shit.'

Barrett stared at the sweaty blond man. She'd pushed him into a full-blown opiate withdrawal, and Jerod was right, it wouldn't kill him, just make him wish he were dead. She'd seen no choice, but as Hobbs picked up, she knew that she'd crossed an ethical line. ‘Hobbs,' she said, ‘Chase has a loft on Duane, off of Church, north side of the street and the building has a store front on the first floor with some kind of wig store.'

‘I take it you're out of bed,' he answered wryly.

‘I'm in the ED with Jerod,' she said. ‘We've found Marky, he's up and talking.'

‘They got a cop there? 'Cause if he's awake, he'll try to bolt.'

‘Yeah, she's outside the door. Any luck with the cell?' Barrett asked.

‘He ditched it in a trash can on Avenue A. I got to go. And please don't do anything … foolish.'

He left her no time to respond, and she didn't like his parting comment, mostly because it struck true.

Suddenly Justine shouted from behind the curtain, ‘You need to stay in bed!'

‘Fuck you!' Marky responded, as the blue and gray plastic curtain shot out, followed by the thrashing of limbs, and then Marky. His arm dripped blood from the ripped-out IV; he gripped his stomach and his dilated eyes shot around, looking for an escape. ‘Get off me!' he shrieked, as Officer Stanton tackled him from behind the other side of the curtain. He thrashed violently, sending the policewoman off balance, her head landing hard against the metal edge of the door. There was a sick cracking noise as she crumpled over, and Marky made a barefooted sprint past her fallen body toward the door.

Justine appeared from behind the curtain. ‘Security! Security!'

Barrett didn't hesitate, and while her body still felt disconnected and sluggish, she chased after him.

Marky, for someone in obvious pain, moved fast. He looked back once, and saw Barrett, not twenty feet behind. He bolted to the right, past the central nurses' station, and headed toward the ambulance bays.

Barrett's hospital slippers made good traction, but she wasn't able to push fast enough to keep up. He was getting away. She looked for the security guards, but they were nowhere to be seen. She felt helpless as Marky sprinted for the exit. He rammed his shoulder into the electronic door and was outside.

She didn't let up, just wished her legs felt more normal, like each step was slogging through sand.

Jerod appeared on her right, matching her pace. ‘What's the plan … I say follow him, 'cause you know he's going to Chase.'

‘Smart,' she puffed, as they cleared the ambulance exit, spotting Marky in the streetlight. He had a fifty-foot lead, but dressed in jeans and a billowing pale blue hospital shirt he was easy to spot. His head whipped around as he got his bearings, and then sprinted east toward Washington Square Park.

Barrett and Jerod followed, sticking to the dark side of the street, wanting to stay hidden, to let Marky think he'd gotten away free and clear. She fumbled with the pockets of her white coat, got her cell phone, clipped it to her jeans, and stripped the coat off, letting it fall in a heap on the sidewalk. They nearly lost him in the park, much of it fenced off due to construction, but then she caught sight of him heading south.

At Houston and Wooster, Barrett grabbed Jerod and yanked him back behind a kiosk, as Marky's head whipped around. Through the glass of the electronic poster that covered the wall they got a clear look; he seemed crazed, barefooted, dripping with sweat, his face contorted in pain. Late-night pedestrians swerved to avoid him, as he turned around, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking in all directions. With a small hop he started to run, sprinting across Houston.

Barrett and Jerod emerged from the kiosk, and raced across one of the busiest thoroughfares in Manhattan. They lost the light and cabs sped toward them as they dodged their way across. Jerod stuck close to Barrett. ‘You have got to be the craziest shrink in the world,' he commented, as they bolted across the final two lanes.

She wasn't about to argue as her eye caught on something blue crumpled on the ground ahead – Marky's hospital gown. ‘Damn! Where are you?' She scanned Wooster, with its ancient cobblestones and minimal street lighting.

‘There!' Jerod pointed toward a bare-shirted man half walking and half jogging two blocks ahead.

‘Good eyes,' Barrett said, picking up the pace while sticking to the shadows. Her feet ached, and her eyes struggled to follow Marky, while keeping a watch for broken bottles and shards of glass that would shred the thin soles of her slippers … and her feet.

‘Something's wrong,' Jerod whispered, as they watched Marky put on a burst of speed and run across Canal Street.

‘What?' Barrett asked, as they followed.

‘Asshole!' Jerod hissed as Marky, instead of turning right onto Church, kept east. ‘He gave you the wrong address.'

‘Figures,' Barrett said, glad that Marky's pace had slowed to a half jog, ‘but when people lie, they usually give you some of the truth. So he'll be close.'

‘You feel bad for him, don't you?'

‘Some, not much,' she said.

‘He's scum,' Jerod said, matching his pace to hers.

‘It's not so simple,' she said.

‘He's killed people. He had something to do with Carly; I can't even think about that,' his voice cracked, ‘is she even alive? He's evil, and this Chase guy has got to be like Satan … He's going down Broadway, close like you said.'

When they turned the corner of Broadway and Canal, Marky was gone. ‘He's got to be close,' she said.

They jogged down Broadway, checking each building as they passed. They crossed Walker and then she stopped as they came to the corner of White. ‘You hear that?' There was a banging coming from inside a doorway two buildings in. They padded toward the source, the noise got louder and then Marky's voice: ‘Come on, man, open up. Let me in.'

Barrett pulled out her cell, her heart skipped when the battery showed it was nearly dead. She dialed Hobbs, and before he could say anything gave him the address on White Street.

‘I told you to stay put,' he said.

‘Ed, just get here.'

‘Don't go after him,' Hobbs warned, and with that she lost the signal.

Jerod looked at her. ‘You're going to ignore him, aren't you?'

‘Don't come with me,' she said, advancing on the doorway.

Jerod said nothing and followed.

They heard Marky pound on the door, and bang his fist on the buzzer. ‘Chase, don't do this, man. You got to let me in.'

Barrett positioned herself on the sidewalk, straight in front of the doorway. Marky was probably the only one still breathing who had a clue as to where Chase might run, and while Hobbs was only a few blocks away every second could make the difference. She also knew that she'd get only one shot. ‘He's gone, Marky.' Her voice was loud and she made certain that each syllable landed. ‘He left without you.'

Marky pivoted. His face twisted, tears poured both from the heroin withdrawal and from the realization of just how deeply he'd been betrayed, set up, and nearly killed. His skinny torso was streaked with sweat while gooseflesh made his naked arms look like sandpaper.

She moved closer, her eyes bored into his. ‘He didn't love you … obviously. He wants you dead because you know too much, because you could turn him in. Where is he, Marky?' She was in the doorway; if he tried to run, he'd have to go through her.

‘Get away from me. I don't know,' he said as he looked up and to the left.

She glanced once at the names on the door buzzer, one for each floor. The bottom three were commercial spaces and the top two just last names … the top being Strand. He was making, or had made, his getaway through the roof.

She backed out.

‘He'll get away,' Jerod said.

‘Not so important.' Standing in the middle of the street she surveyed the building, and then darted toward a narrow alley on the right that was walled off by an eight-foot padlocked chain-link fence, which had three strands of razor wire across the top. She heard the clang of metal from high up on the fire escape. ‘Son of a bitch!' and she dug the soft toe of the hospital slipper into the chain link and climbed. Her mind, trained by nearly two decades with Sifu Henry, willed the muscles of her arms and legs to function like machines as she breathed through the pain in her hands and feet, making it dissolve, her strength centered in her belly. When she reached the top, she gripped one of the rounded fencepost caps and used it to support her weight as she got her feet to the top crossbar. The strands of razor wire, spaced inches apart, tore at her arm and snagged her jeans. Holding tight to the post cap with both hands and using it like a fulcrum, she forcefully kicked her left leg up and back, followed by her right and swung them onto the other side of the wire. She felt something slice through her left leg below the knee, but no time to assess the damage as she stood doubled over the sharp razors. She grabbed at the top wire, the fingers of her right hand clutching a three-inch span between the jagged and rusted blades; she gripped hard, and then did the same with her left. She again heard noise from high above on the fire escape.

He's going to get away.
She heard Marky shout for Jerod to let him go, and caught the sound of car engines coming to a stop in front of the building.
You don't have to do this
, she thought, and then pictured Chase's beautiful face, the way he drew her in, how he'd tried to shape himself into what she wanted in a man. She thought of him with the picture of her and Max. She felt a surge of revulsion and her feet pushed back from the fence, as her fingers let go. The eight-foot drop felt like an eternity; she landed in a roll, not letting her ankles and knees get damaged by the impact. Unfortunately the rest of her was less lucky as the alley was a favorite spot for people to toss bottles and cans. Her bare arms and the side of her face started to bleed, how bad she couldn't know.

She sprang to her feet and ran toward the fire escape. The ladder was in the up position, and the trapdoor to the bottom was shut. There was a good ten feet between the landing and the ground. Her one break was a metal trash container just off to the right. She climbed on top, focused on a paint-chipped metal bar on the outside edge of the fire escape, and leapt. Her fingers grasped the cold iron. Bits of rust dug into her palms as she held tight and swung up. Her feet in the supple slippers grabbed onto cross bars in the floor. With her body clinging tight she edged her way up the side and over the railing. She strained to hear any motion up above, but instead heard Hobbs or someone else working away at the padlock on the alley gate with a pair of bolt cutters.

Moving fast and silent on the creaky stairs, she raced up. She fought against a mounting desperation that she was too late, that Chase would be far away, never to be found, setting up some new life, destroying innocent people wherever he went. When she got to the roof her heart sank. He was gone; she could see how he could have retrieved whatever he'd needed, and made his escape. But then she heard something. She ran toward the east. This building was two in from Broadway. Was that his destination? She glanced at the distance between the two buildings, too far to jump and no bridge between the two.