Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(78)
Duvall said, “What you better hope is the cops show me some rectitude, otherwise there’ll be an eye for an eye, right?” When no one answered him, he started whistling “Whole Lotta Love,” his favorite Zeppelin tune, marveling again at the absence of pain. It was like that weird psychic bitch hadn’t shot him. Suddenly, he was there again and he saw her stagger, blood blooming on her arm. He wanted to shoot her again, a death shot. But she shot him, and he saw himself stumble to the floor, saw her staring at him, her gun still pointed at him. The pain in his side nearly froze him, but he pulled himself up and ran. Duvall blinked, shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that long, skinny living room, that place where he nearly died. He knew now he should have shot her again, at least tried, but he’d felt like he was dying himself. He wondered what had happened to her.
He shouldn’t have waited a day. He could tell right away the wound was bad. And now he was trapped in this bum-crap town. He wondered if one of the sick old geezers in the waiting room had heard him in the back and given him away. Whatever. Soon he’d hear helicopter rotors, and he’d be on his way, with cash and morphine in his pockets. No way he would ever go back to that prison, where the prisoners eyed him like he was a Snickers bar.
He looked down at his watch. Nothing to do but wait. Duvall smiled. Why not mock out the old codger some more? He knew he was smarter, so it’d be fun. Maybe he should be thinking about where he should go, making plans, but his brain was hopping around too much, all sorts of weird thoughts. The morphine. So what if he’d given himself too much? It would wear off, and he could give himself more if the pain came back. Who cared? He loved feeling like he could fly. He smiled again.
* * *
Savich knew if he made any noise, Duvall would hear him. He studied the ancient fire escape with its open steel gratings and drop-down ladder on the upper floor. No doubt in his mind, the old contraption would gladly creak out his presence if he unhinged the ladder and pulled it down. He uncoiled the rope and made a loop out of it. He swung the coil to give it momentum and sent the loop upward toward a strut anchoring the platform to the building. He missed, and the metal groaned from the impact. He went silent. No sound from above. He managed to loop the rope around the strut on the third try. He tied off the rope, yanked on it, and it held. He took off his boots, said a prayer, and slowly pulled himself up the rope, hand over hand, his stockinged feet holding the rope steady, careful not to swing enough to touch any part of the fire escape. He reached the landing, paused, and listened. Nothing. He pulled himself quietly onto the platform. Now the window. It was closed, as expected. He took out his pocketknife, pushed it under the bottom edge of the window frame, and torqued the blade steadily and gently until he got enough purchase to slide the window smoothly up.
He climbed into the doctor’s office, looked around, and walked on cat’s feet out into the hall. He heard voices. They were in Exam Room 1, the door shut and no doubt locked. He eased farther down the corridor and spotted the exam room Jenny had told them was separated off only by a wallboard partition. He stepped inside as quietly as he could. It was dim, the shades drawn. There were contractor tools stacked neatly in one corner, an exam table and two chairs next to them. To the right was the Sheetrock wall. Savich pressed his ear to the Sheetrock and listened, heard Duvall say, “Hey, old man, are you getting it on with this sweet young nurse? No way you could keep up with her. What you need is an old bag as ancient as you are and the both of you could go to a retirement home in Florida.”
Jenny Connors spurted out a mocking laugh, and Savich felt a stab of fear. He heard Duvall take a step, probably toward Jenny, then stop. “Shut up! Why are you laughing?”
Savich breathed easier when Jenny stopped and hiccupped. The Sheetrock was so thin, he even heard her swallow. She said, her voice steady, “It’s what you said. It really was funny. Dr. Hodges said he hired me because he was too old now to appreciate my youth and vigor, so I’d be safe. You swear you’re not going to kill us?”
Before he could answer, Janko said, “Who shot you?”
Duvall said, “A weird bitch. I wasn’t expecting her to be in the living room, but there she was.”
Dr. Hodges started laughing. Duvall yelled, “Stop laughing at me, old man, unless you want a bullet in your feeble brain right now.”
Dr. Hodges said, “Listen, you young fool, I’ve got two ex-wives spending all my money, and with a malpractice insurance company charging me more than the national debt and cutting back what they pay me every year, I haven’t got that much to look forward to. Why do you think I’m still here? I have to be here, to keep a roof over our three heads, three different roofs, three different heads. I’m the one living in a ratty apartment, not those two harpies.”
Savich heard Duvall laugh. He was distracted, perfect. He texted Sherlock, typed only “Now.” In the next second, earsplitting music erupted from bullhorn, a Sousa march, so loud it shook the building. He heard Duvall curse and run to the window.
Savich stepped back and ran full tilt at the wallboard, hit it at full speed. It buckled and splintered, and he burst through. “Duvall, drop the gun! Now!”
For a wild, confused instant, Gary Duvall didn’t know what was happening. He whirled around, saw a big man pointing a gun at him, and raised his Colt, but he wasn’t fast enough. He heard a shot and felt a sledgehammer slam into his shoulder. He screamed, felt his precious grandpappy’s Colt slip from his fingers as he sank to the floor. He lay there only a second, still aware enough to know he couldn’t let it end like this, couldn’t go back to Red Onion. He made a grab for his Colt.