Blood of Angels (34 page)

WE CLING TO EACH OTHER
, waiting for the ambulance. Jazz is coughing between great gulps of air. Her little hands are dug into me, her arms straining to hold me closer. I see nothing. I only know I have Jazz, and that she's alive. The ambulance pulls up, and I hear the back door of the Emergency Response Vehicle open. But before the EMT gets his oxygen unloaded, I hear Rebecca screaming Jazz's name. I look up and see her running down the street as hard as she can, her black hair streaming behind her. She bolts past the EMT and collapses beside us. “My baby. Oh God, my baby.”

I release Jazz into her mother's arms. She cradles her gently, rocking back and forth. Bec's face is stained with tears. The EMT comes up from behind and puts his hand on her shoulder. Bec looks up, but she can't let go. The EMT kneels down and covers Jazz's face with an oxygen mask. Jazz looks frightened, but I squeeze her hand and nod. She relaxes, and the EMT listens to her heart and lungs, takes her blood pressure, and shines a stream of light into her eyes. He snaps a blood oxygenation sensor onto her right index finger. After a couple of minutes, he looks up. “She's at ninety-seven percent. It's normal.”

I lower myself down onto the pavement. “She's OK,” I say. “She's OK.”

The sky above me is darkened by the shape of Agent Myers, his head haloed by the sun. I look up at him. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For everything.”

“There's somebody who wants to talk to you,” he says, holding down a phone. I reach up for it and hear Kipling's voice on the other end, sobbing like a baby.

“I'm very happy for you, sir,” she says. “It was an honor to serve you.”

I hold the phone, feeling my consciousness slip away. “You did good, Kipling. You did good.”

Kipling sobs again. “Thank you, sir.”

I hand the phone up to Myers. “Keep people away from the van,” I say, and I close my eyes.

 

TWO HOURS LATER
, Newton, Myers, and I walk down the antiseptically clean corridors of St. Thomas Hospital, looking for Jazz's room. Sarandokos, who performs about half of his surgeries at the hospital, uses his clout to get Jazz in a special, secure area with no other patients nearby. When we finally find the room, two policemen stand guard outside the door. About ten feet away, Sarandokos is conferring with a doctor. He sees us coming and walks over. “Physically, she's fine,” he says. “There wasn't any kind of—”

“I understand,” I say. “Thank God.”

He nods. “At least he didn't do that, the bastard.” He shakes hands with Myers and Newton. “I want to thank you gentlemen.”

“We're just glad she's OK,” Myers says.

“We still didn't get the guy,” Newton grumbles.

“That ain't over,” Myers says. “Sooner or later, he'll slip up.” He looks at me. “When he does, we'll be there, waiting for him.”

“I'd like to see Jazz,” I say. “Is she asleep?”

Sarandokos nods. “I gave her a mild sedative.” He pauses. “But she was asking for you earlier.”

I turn to Newton and Myers. “I can't thank you guys enough,” I say. “You realize that, I hope.”

Myers laughs. “I just want to see the girl I spent eighteen hours of my life trying to find. Any objection, Doc?”

Sarandokos nods. “Go ahead, gentlemen. Just keep it down.”

The three of us walk into the room. Jazz is in bed, propped up, but her eyes are closed. Bec sits in a chair beside her, her hand on Jazz's arm. Newton and Myers stand a ways apart, looking at my daughter. “She's beautiful,” Newton says. “Like an angel.”

Myers nods. “It was a good case,” he says, shaking my hand. “You really saved our asses.”

Bec looks over at them and says, “Thank you so much. More than I can say.”

“Thank him,” Myers says, pointing to me. “He saved your daughter.” He grabs Newton by the shoulder. “Let's go, Newt. I'm starving.” They back out of the door, and they're gone.

“Michael says she's OK,” I say quietly.

She nods. “They're running some tests on her lungs, but it looks like she got out before any damage was done.” She looks up at me. “You got her out, I mean.” I walk up beside her, and she takes my hand, physically connecting the three of us; for these few moments, we're a family again. I look down at Jazz; thanks to the sedative, her face is as untroubled as if she were home, in her own bed, and the last day had never happened.

Bec lets go of my hand and stands. “We should let her sleep,” she says quietly. I follow her back out into the hall, and she comes in under Sarandokos's arm. “We're going away for a while, Thomas,” she says. “Maybe it will help get this memory out of Jasmine's mind.”

“Greece,” Sarandokos says. “Jasmine's never seen it. I want her to meet my family there.” He kisses the top of Bec's head. “We're fine here, Dennehy. You should get home, get some sleep. You look like you're going to fall down where you stand.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Bec looks at me a second, then opens her arms and pulls me against her. We hold each other a long, unembarrassed moment, Sarandokos be damned. I feel her mouth press against my ear. “I wish you could have killed him,” she whispers. She lets me go and turns back to Sarandokos. Somehow, she's still regal, even after so much. She takes Sarandokos's hand, and they turn and walk back into their lives.

 

THE FORD
'
S V
-8 rumbles sweetly down I-65. Jazz is safe. And the moment in her hospital room means that sooner or later, her mother will forgive me for this intrusion into her perfect life. I will not be banished. What I want is home and great chunks of silence. And, when the time is right—days, weeks, or months from now—time with Fiona. I cover the last four or five miles to Clovercroft, pull into my subdivision, and drive down Springhouse Circle to my house. The garage door opens, and I pull the truck inside, home at last.
Jesus. I could sleep for a week.

I walk into the kitchen and set my keys and the .45 down on the table. “Fiona? We got her. She's gonna be OK.” Silence. “Fiona? You here?” I walk into the living room. There's no sign of her. After the crush of activity, the house feels empty and lonely.

I kick off my shoes and walk through the house, unbuttoning my shirt as I go.
Shower. Sleep.
I push open the door to my bedroom and turn on the light.

“Well, Skippy,” a voice says. “Welcome home.”

BRIDGES AND FIONA
sit at the opposite end of the bedroom. Bridges is beside her, with a knife
—the
knife, the one he used to kill his parole officer and Carl—pressed against her neck. The point is pressing gently against her skin, causing an indentation. She stares at me, her eyes wide.
The gun. It's back on the table, all the way across the house.
I start to move backward, and Bridges presses the knife harder, causing Fiona to gasp out in pain. “Stay where I can see you, Skippy. We've got things to discuss.”

I stare at the man who tried to kill my daughter. He's unnerved, edgy. Things haven't gone as planned. He looks like the slightest provocation will send the blade in his hand through Fiona's neck. “What do you want?” I whisper.

“Justice. You made a mistake. You have to pay.”

“The gun Hale led us to at the park was moved,” I say quietly. “It was a setup.”

“That doesn't prove anything!” Bridges screams. Fiona crumples in fear, and he jerks her back upright. “You fucked up! You sent the wrong man to the death chamber!” He puts his face next to Fiona's. “Do you know what pretrial diversion is, my sweet?” He squeezes her arm with his free hand until she winces. “Tell her, Skippy. Tell her how you fucked me over.”

“Take it easy, Bridges.” I scan the room for anything to use as a weapon, but come up empty.

“Pretrial diversion, my sweet, is when the accused serves whatever time he's done before trial, and once his parole is over, the record is expunged. I asked you for that, didn't I, Skippy?”

“Yes.”

He puts his mouth on Fiona's ear. “He denied me. He said in matters like this…” He stops and looks up at me. “Tell her what you said, Skippy.”

The words are poison in my mouth. “I said no mistakes could be tolerated.”

Bridges's face is red with rabid anger. “No mistakes!” he snarls. “Skippy here sent me to Brushy Mountain, where I was traded between gangs like a deck of cards. And every time they bent me over, I always remembered that this was my fate because, according to the great Thomas Dennehy,
no mistakes could be tolerated.
”

I move a step toward him, and Bridges presses the point into Fiona's skin until she cries out in pain. “Don't,” I say, pulling up. “This is between us. Let her go.”

He smiles. “You like her, Skippy. That means she's…what's the legal term? She's
relevant.
”

“I'll do whatever you want, Bridges. Just let her go.”

Bridges smiles. “You got that backward, Skippy. It's as long as I have her you'll do what I want. If I let her go, you'll get other plans.”

“So what is it, then? What's this revenge you want, dammit? You've killed Carl, and you've nearly killed my daughter. What is it going to take to satisfy you?”

“I want you to say you were wrong,” he snarls, his face turning red. “I want a fucking
apology
!”

Holy shit. He's out of his mind.
“That's what this is about?” I say. “You want me to say I'm sorry?”

His eyes turn to slits, and his voice crawls out of his mouth like spreading gravel. “
Say
it.”

“I'm sorry, Bridges. You're right. I fucked up. I never should have charged you. And I never should have charged Wilson Owens.”

Bridges stares at me a second, then slumps forward, exhaling. The knife moves off Fiona a half inch.

Silently, I move another step toward him; we're now five feet apart. “I gave you what you wanted, Bridges. Now let her go.” He seems tired, like whatever energy was driving him has suddenly dissipated. “I'm sorry, Bridges,” I say quietly. “You were right. Let her go now.” Fiona looks up at me, but I shake my head for her not to move. “Put down the knife, Bridges. Let her go.”

Bridges loosens his grip on Fiona's arm, until his fingers are barely touching her. I nod, and she slowly rises, until she's standing beside him.

“I'm sorry, Bridges,” I say. “I was wrong.”

Bridges looks up at me and nods, his eyes half open. His fingers are still lightly wrapped around her arm. “I don't want to go back to jail,” he says, his voice listless. “I don't want to be traded like a deck of cards.”

Looking down on him, I can just make out the slits of his eyes. “Let her go, Bridges. Then it's you and me. We'll talk this out.”

“Talk,” Bridges whispers. “We'll talk it out.”

Fiona inches her arm upward, gradually pulling it from his grasp.
It's OK. She's going to get away.
But out of the corner of my eye, I see the handle of the knife slowly turning in his fingers. It's spinning so slowly, it takes me an instant to understand.
He's turning the blade sideways to slip between the ribs. It's how he kills.
“Move!” I yell, pushing Fiona away as hard as I can. She stumbles backward and falls to the floor; I reach for Bridges's wrist, but he's too quick and comes in under my arm. He lunges forward, and I feel an agonizing pain as the blade plunges into my gut. Before I have a chance to react he's on top of me, withdrawing the blade for the finishing blow. He raises it to my chest, and we lock into an embrace, with the knife point a few inches away from my shirt. Fiona is getting to her feet, and I yell to her. “Get the gun! It's by the door!”

She stares at me a second, then runs to the doorway. She comes back around with the gun, holding it uncertainly. I feel myself weakening; Bridges is grinning at me, his foul breath in my face. I'm bleeding heavily, and in another few moments, I won't be strong enough to resist. Fiona drops the gun on the floor. “Shoot him!” I yell. “For God's sake, shoot him!”

“No!” Fiona hurls herself onto Bridges, wrenching back his arm. She locks onto his wrist with both hands, trying to twist the knife free. Bridges screams out in pain but deftly moves so that he's facing Fiona. She still has control of the arm with the knife, but Bridges is now free to pound on her with his other fist mercilessly.

I rush to my feet, but dizziness is taking me over.
Too weak to fight him. Get the gun.
I stumble toward the pistol, which is lying on the floor about eight feet away.

Bridges is kicking Fiona and giving her sharp blows to her body. She's hanging on, but she won't be able to take that kind of attack indefinitely.

I crawl to the gun, get to a knee, and laboriously make it to my feet. Mustering my strength, I scream, “Let her go, Bridges!”

The room falls silent as Bridges turns his head and sees me.

I know I won't have long before I lose consciousness; I'm seeing double, and my hearing is getting tinny. “Let her go, Bridges. I swear to God, I'll kill you.”

Bridges watches me, calculating his situation.

A wave of dizziness comes over me, and I put out a hand to steady myself.
It's now or never.
I raise the gun, trying to fix Bridges in my vision.

“No!” Fiona yells. She makes a last attempt to get the knife free, but Bridges is slowly spinning her back to me to use her as a shield. Suddenly, he cries out in anger and wrenches free his arm. She steps back on her heel, and there's a moment of daylight between them. He brings the blade down to thrust it forward.

I squeeze the trigger. I'm weak enough now that I don't know what I hit, and the recoil nearly rips the gun out of my hand. I see Bridges look over in confusion, then drop to a knee.
I hit him. Dear God, I hit him.
Fiona pulls away in horror; blood is seeping through Bridges's shirt in waves. With my last strength, I stumble toward him and put my foot in his shoulder, crushing him backward and away from her. The knife clatters away as Bridges falls onto his back; with his body's impact on the floor, blood spurts from his mouth. I stand over him, the gun pointed at his chest. I can't stand very well; I come down to one knee, my finger an eighth of an inch from squeezing off the finishing round. I know I can end him with the slightest movement of my finger.

Bridges looks up at me, blood seeping into his teeth. His eyes are wide with fear and hate. He reaches up a trembling hand, grips the barrel of the pistol, and pulls it down to his heart. The room is getting dark; another wave of dizziness crashes over me. “You're under arrest,” I whisper, but the words seem fuzzy, distant. I feel one of Bridges's fingers trace up along my hand. Before I realize what he's doing, he presses my index finger backwards.

The bullet rips through his chest, separating flesh from bone. The force lifts his body off the floor several inches, then flops him back down like a rag doll. I fall to the floor beside him, my shirt covered with his blood. I close my eyes and fall into blackness.