Catch a Shadow (14 page)

“Did he say anything?”

Lying to an FBI agent was a crime.

No police
. Mark Cable's words—she still thought of him as Mark Cable—echoed in her head. Just as those of Jake Kelly last night. He could go back to prison.

He'd saved her life at the risk of his own.

“Nothing that made any sense,” she said.

“Could you be more specific?”

She studied him. Light brown hair. Brown eyes. Middle height. Relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. Why didn't he have a partner? In the movies, they always had partners.

“He said something about military,” she said. “He was in a great deal of pain, and I couldn't make out some of the words.”

“Nothing else?” he persisted.

“Are you from the Atlanta office?” she asked suddenly.

He looked startled.

“I know some of the guys there,” she continued. “Maybe we know some of the same agents.”

“If you can answer—”

“Why is the FBI interested?”

“We suspect he was one of two men who stole over five million dollars, some of it in diamonds,” he said. “They've never been found. The other one was just released from prison. He's dangerous, and he'll do anything to get to the diamonds.”

“Then why was he released?” she asked.

Just then her partner came into the room. “We have a call.”

“If there's nothing else, I have to go,” she said. “Tell John Coleman I said hello.” She gauged his reaction, then left before he could stop her.

The fact that he didn't even try struck her as suspicious. John Coleman was the agent in charge. She'd met him at Robin's wedding. This man should have recognized the name, had some reaction. Or maybe he was just an emotionless fed.

She followed Ben Wright out to the truck. “What's the call?”

“A nursing home. Sounds like cardiac arrest.”

As senior on the ambulance, she decided she would drive. The junior high school kid shouldn't even have a driver's license.

When they arrived, a nurse met them. “He was eating dinner and started having pain in his chest. We gave him aspirin, but his heart stopped. We've been giving him CPR.” She led them to where another nurse was administering CPR.

Ben Wright looked at her.

She nodded for him to take over, and he did so, smoothly and competently. A heartbeat, then another.

She got the oxygen out and put a mask over the man's face. Probably in his nineties. His skin was ashen.

She got the personal information, since Ben was occupied. In four minutes, they were wheeling him out.

She did the paperwork at the hospital, then told him he'd done a great job.

He turned red and gave her a huge grin. “It's my fourth week,” he admitted.

“I wouldn't have known,” she assured him. “You acted like a veteran.”

Another man down call. Located in a gang-infested area she didn't like. It was also an area with a lot of bars and homeless people.

“You drive,” she said.

The kid nodded. “I passed, huh?”

She smiled back. He would do.

She called the dispatcher and asked for more information.

“Anonymous call,” the dispatcher said. “A report that a man is lying in an alleyway off Battle and Line Street.

“Probably nothing,” Kirke said to Ben as they sped toward the address and arrived within a few moments.

She grabbed her bag as he parked. No one was in sight. No crowd gathered around a fallen man.

She headed for an alley that ran between two buildings, then stumbled on a piece of loose pavement. As she tried to regain her balance, she felt a rush of flame on her left arm. She didn't stop moving. She caught her balance and dashed into the protection of the alley just as a piece of brick separated from the wall.

She dived behind a Dumpster. Her partner was right behind her. “Get down,” she yelled as he joined her next to the wall and flung his body beside her.

Another object—hell, not an object, a bullet—hit the side of the Dumpster. Sniper. Must have a silencer, since she hadn't heard a noise other than the impact of a bullet against the wall, then the Dumpster.

She crouched against the wall and told her partner to do the same. She used her radio to call the dispatcher. “We're under fire. Sniper. We need police.” She gave them the location and kept the line open.

Her partner leaned over and gently pulled her uniform shirt from her. She winced as he touched her. The kid didn't look as scared as she felt. She decided he would very much do.

“It's just a graze. Going to hurt like the devil but no real damage,” he said as he placed gauze on both the entry and exit wounds. He wrapped a roll of bandage around her shoulder and chest, all the time keeping low.

It might have missed the bone, but it was beginning to burn. She knew from training and experience that shock was a temporary anesthesia, and now she was learning how temporary.

At least there were no more shots. She moved slightly to look across the street where the shooter must be. It looked like an abandoned three-story hotel.

She ducked immediately, as something hit the wall across from her.

Ben slumped to the pavement. Had to be a ricochet. She leaned over him. He looked surprised. Blood oozed from his mouth, and she saw the wound in his chest.

Where are the police?

“It'll be okay, Ben,” she said, leaning over him. Ignoring the burning pain in her arm, she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up a T-shirt that had turned red. She saw immediately there was a hole in the thoracic wall. She packed it and sealed it off, then wrapped the chest. Then she called the dispatcher again and asked for another ambulance.

She heard one siren, then two. Squad cars screamed up to the ambulance she and Ben had left. An officer got out of one and yelled to her. She pointed up at the building across from them as she shrugged her shirt back on and managed to fasten one button.

Three other officers sprinted out of their cars and took up positions behind their cars, as the first darted over to her. “Ma'am,” he acknowledged as he knelt next to Ben. “How bad?”

“Chest wound. We need to get him to the hospital, fast. I've called for an ambulance. I can't drive mine and care for him at the same time.”

“We'll check out the building across the street. Whoever it was probably ran when he heard the sirens.” He hesitated, then said, “I can drive the ambulance, and you can ride in back with him. My partner can stay with the other guys and look around.” Then he saw the bandage around her arm. “You okay?”

“Just superficial. I tripped just at the right moment. Being clumsy has its advantages. My partner wasn't so lucky. This is his fourth week on the job,” she said senselessly.

“He looks young.”

“He's good.”

The kid opened his eyes then. “Real … good,” he said.

“Darn straight,” she agreed.

She knelt next to him and looked in his billfold for an address.

“My wife … Dena … expecting a baby.”

“I'll call her, tell her you're going to be fine.”

When she looked up for the cop, he was talking to someone at the car. Then a third car appeared, and a fourth.

The cop and another officer unloaded the stretcher from Kirke's ambulance and moved over to her. She helped them transfer Ben. Then she followed them to the ambulance.

She sat next to him and started an IV. He'd lost a lot of blood.

She knew she'd been the target. She didn't doubt that a moment. Ben had been hit trying to help her.

She no longer wondered about coincidences. There was no
random
burglary. No
random
purse snatching.

Someone wanted what she had.

And now others were being hurt because of it.

Anger and fear balled up inside her, numbing the burning in her shoulder.

Jake Kelly, if that was his real name, was the man who'd always appeared immediately after any incident. He'd told her a little, but not nearly enough.

And her young partner was a casualty of that reticence.

Jake Kelly would tell her what she wanted to know.

Or, career loss or not, she was going to the police.

The gun was a piece of junk.

Jake looked at it and shook his head. “No deal.”

The street dealer looked at him with new respect. “Hey, man, I got this other one, too.” He motioned to a kid down the street.

The kid came running, a paper bag in his hand.

Jake opened it. A .38 Smith & Wesson. Lighter than he liked. He took it out. Good balance. Clean. He noticed the serial number had been filed away.

“Is it hot?” Stupid question, he realized even as he uttered it. Of course it was hot, or it wouldn't be sold on a corner.

“Find one that ain't,” the dealer said. “Wanna clean one, go to the store.”

But Jake couldn't do that, and the dealer knew it. Why else would he have found this street corner in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Atlanta?

It hadn't taken Jake long to find it. He hadn't shaved this morning, and he had located a too-tight shirt, old jeans, and some good but worn boots at a thrift shop. He looked like a man desperate for a gun. A few bars in run-down areas, a few conversations, a lot of money. It took him less than an hour to locate a seller.

The gun fitted his hand well. “How much?”

The dealer's eyes had a new wariness as he'd watched him check out the gun.

“Four hundred,” he said.

“Two fifty,” Jake countered. “With ammo.”

“What do ya think I am? A Wal-Mart?” His eyes narrowed. “You a cop? You got a wire?”

“Hell no. Just got out of the joint.” He held out his arms. “Check if you want.”

The dealer studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Never mind. Don't look like no cop. Last offer, three hundred. You get the ammo on your own. Otherwise I split, man.”

It was highway robbery but less than he expected. The man was spooked.

Jake took out his wallet and counted out three hundred dollars. He made sure the man saw he just had a few dollars more. He didn't want to be mugged on his way back to the car.

Next stop would be for ammunition. Far easier since he didn't need a permit for that.

He had another stop as well. An electronics shop. Then some fresh clothes. Nothing fancy. Just some clean jeans and a few shirts.

He had plenty of time to get back to the fire station before Kirke's quitting time. Until then, he was counting on the police, firemen, and paramedics to look after their own.

He hadn't wanted to push any more than he had last night. He feared he'd done as much as he could without sending her into the arms of the police.

Jake found what he was looking for in a upscale electronics store. He purchased a miniaturized GPS unit, along with a listening device. No questions asked. He paid for it with one of the prepaid credit cards he'd purchased before leaving Chicago. Not knowing what to expect, he'd taken five thousand in cash with him, and another fifteen thousand in prepaid credit cards that couldn't be traced to him. Getting his hands on more would be difficult.

One more stop, and he would head for the fire station. Hopefully, he could place the GPS unit on her car without anyone noticing.

Stuck in traffic, he turned on the radio, searching for news.

He found only music and decided to turn it off. He must be getting old. He didn't understand what passed for music these days. But just as he reached to turn it off, the music dissolved into a “breaking news” bulletin.

“Two paramedics have been shot by a sniper in East Atlanta. Police say the two—a man and woman—have been transported to East Memorial Hospital.”

Jake froze for a moment, waiting to hear more. Nothing. Only more ear-splitting music. He frantically turned the dial. Again nothing.

He took small comfort in the fact that the radio reported they were both transported to a hospital. That meant they were—or had been—alive. His gut told him one of the paramedics was Kirke Palmer. God, she'd already been hurt enough just for trying to do something for a dying man. Good deeds were a rarity in his life and profession. He was more used to mendacity than generosity.

Icy fingers ran down his spine. What if she died because of him? If he'd not appealed to her, maybe she would have gone to the police.

He honked at the car ahead. The light had turned green, and the idiot just sat there.

If someone in the government, men who'd once been his friends, realized Del Cox had been alive all these years, they would start searching into where he'd been these years. There would be a money trail. No one had looked until now because he was presumed dead, killed by one Jake Kelly.

So far he still didn't have proof. Not without fingerprints, which, apparently, someone removed from the files. Otherwise, the authorities would know by now the hit-and-run victim was not a man named Mark Cable. He needed Gene Adams.

He couldn't go into the hospital. He'd made that impossible. The moment he showed his face, police would probably be called, and security officials would swarm him.

Jake stopped when he saw a gas station with a public phone. He needed a phone book. He didn't know Atlanta well enough to know the media. And he was still reluctant to use his cell phone unless it was absolutely necessary.

He started with the first television station listed in the book and went to others. No one knew more than the brief announcement. Then he looked up Sam's number and called.

“H'lo,” Sam said sleepily.

“This is Jake.” He paused and added, “From yesterday.”

“I remember,” Sam said in a cool monotone. It was obvious he didn't approve.

“You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Two paramedics were shot earlier today. I suspect one of them was Kirke.”

“Say what?” All the sleepiness was gone from his voice. These words were snapped out.