Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(71)

“Dallas, you want to take a look here.”

She looked back as Lowenbaum played his light around the room.

Or, more accurately, the armory. A battered worktable held more than two dozen weapons—long and short range, knives, boomers. More body armor hung on pegs, along with other goggles, field glasses.

“He must’ve been stockpiling for a while, maybe even before his wife died.”

“There’s another knife stuck in the wall out there,” Peabody said.

“So that’s what that was.” Eve looked down at Mackie. “You’re going to find that funk, too. I could see the tremor in his hands.”

She stepped back as the MTs came in. “Patch him up, bring him around. I need him in Interview.”

To keep Roarke off her back, she let the MTs treat her arm while she, Lowenbaum, and Feeney had their roundup.

“He had a two-level barricade on the doors and windows,” Lowenbaum told her. “If we’d tried storming, he’d have picked some of us off.”

“Maybe—didn’t want to risk it—but he’s not the marksman he was. My team found two kegs of funk hidden in the closet of his room. Probably hiding it from the daughter, but she’d have been blind and deaf not to see the effects.”

“Prided himself on his exceptional vision and steady hands.” Lowenbaum shook his head. “But he goes on the funk, goes on what takes those away.”

“Ever known a funky-junkie who didn’t think they’d beat the effects until they didn’t? I’m going to the hospital—I’ve got four cops on him. Unless he’s fricking dying, he’ll be in a cage tonight.”

“Heard the MTs say he’d need surgery on his right eye—maybe the left, too.” Feeney shrugged. “Even then he ain’t getting it all back—some of that’s the funk. Got some burns on his lower calves where the boot leather seared into him. I’m not going to cry about it.”

“He was a good man once. I’m not going to cry about it, either,” Lowenbaum added. “But I’m goddamn sorry he lost the man he was.”

“The daughter’s still out there.” Eve pushed to her feet, ignored the low-level burn down her arm. “And there’s no evidence suggesting she has any trouble with steady hands or eyesight. We get him patched up, get him in a cage, break him.”

“It’s his daughter, Dallas. I don’t see how you can break him down enough to flip on her.”

“He’s a junkie,” she said flatly. “I’ll break him.”

—

But not that night. Eve argued with nurses, with doctors, and ultimately with the surgeon. Reginald Mackie would not and could not be released from the hospital for at least twelve hours.

“We removed sixteen shards of infrared lens out of his right eye and seven out of his left.”

“He killed seven people in two days.”

The surgeon huffed out a breath. Maybe his own eyes looked exhausted, but Eve didn’t give a shit.

“You do your job, Lieutenant, I do mine. I’m giving you the facts. His addiction has already compromised his vision, his retina, and his optic nerves. This trauma has left his corneas and his retinas damaged further. Once cured of his addiction, he would be a viable candidate for organ replacement, or at least additional surgery, but at this point we’ve done what can be done. He and his eyes need rest. We need to keep him under observation, as we’re concerned about more deterioration or infection.”

“Is he awake?”

“Yes, he should be. And he’s restrained and guarded. We have our own security backing up your officers. We’re fully aware of who he is, and what he’s done.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“I have no medical objection to that. His head is in a stabilizer. We don’t want him to move his head, jar his eyes in any way, for the next twelve hours. After that, I’ll examine him, and hopefully clear him for release to your custody.”

Accepting it was the best she’d get, Eve made her way to Mackie’s room. She moved through the two uniforms on the door, inside where she had two more keeping watch.

Mackie lay still, his head slightly inclined inside the cage-like stabilizer, his eyes covered with bandages. Tubes ran from him into machines, and the machines clicked and hummed busily.

God, she hated hospitals, had hated them since she woke up in one at the age of eight. Broken, battered, with no idea where she was, who she was.

But Mackie knew who and where.

She signaled to the uniforms to give her the room, then approached the bed.

“Record on,” she said clearly, and saw Mackie’s fingers flex in reaction. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, questioning Mackie, Reginald. Mackie, in case you missed it, you’ve been placed under arrest for multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to murder, possession of illegal weapons, armed assault on police officers, and a whole bunch of lesser charges. It’s what we could call a freaking cornucopia of charges. Also, in case you missed it, I’m going to reread you your rights.”

As she did, slowly, she watched him, watched his jaw tighten, his mouth firm, and those fingers tap, tap, tap on the sheets.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations in these matters? I know you’re awake and aware, Mackie,” she said after a beat. “And you know that you’ll be out of here and in a cage very soon. Stonewalling me gets you nowhere. We’ll find her.”