Joe Victim: A Thriller (40 page)

“That’s a really good question,” the guard says, because the guard doesn’t know Sally, the guard doesn’t know she worked with Joe, was one of the reasons he was caught, that she returned to studying nursing last year and now her training is at the hospital. The guard’s fingers fly across the keyboard for a few seconds. A moment later a photograph and an ID come up on the monitor, and Schroder looks at the picture of Sally, and Hutton looks at the picture of Sally, and then Schroder and Hutton look at each other.

“Shit,” Hutton says.

“I know,” Schroder says.

“Let’s go,” Hutton says, and the two men race out the door and back into the parking lot.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Joe stays mostly quiet as she gets him dressed into a new shirt. She had forgotten how his skin smelled. Forgotten how he felt. The last year without him was tough. Not the first few months. Back then she was annoyed he’d been arrested, but life goes on. Then she found out she was pregnant. Then a whole bunch of hormones flooded her body. Things would make her cry, random things, but mostly stories in the newspapers that involved animals or children. Bad stories. And there were always bad stories. She developed a craving for weird food. She would eat raw potatoes. Couldn’t get enough of them. And chocolate. For a month there she was sure she was single-handedly keeping the chocolate labor force of New Zealand in work. Then those cravings left and new ones came—suddenly it was all about fruit, all about chicken and Thai food, and through it all her feelings for Joe intensified. Three months into her pregnancy she started figuring out how to help him escape. She wanted her baby to have a father—and most of all she wanted her baby. She’s always wanted one.

“Where are we going to go?” he finally asks.

Melissa is also getting changed. She brought clothes with her last night for this. And a new wig. She’s going shoulder-length light brown. “We’re heading home,” she says. “We lay low for a bit. The police look for people who run. They’re easy to find. But we hide out and—”

“Do we really have a daughter?” he asks, “Or did I just imagine that?”

They are still in Sally’s house. She hates it here. She can’t imagine this being much better than where Joe spent his last twelve months, and she has a good imagination. The rooms feel damp. It doesn’t get a lot of sun. And she’s pissed off at Sally for not having kept the refrigerator nicely stocked. She’s hungry and there’s nothing here to eat.

“Yes,” she says. “She’s beautiful. She has your eyes.” She knew it was going to be a shock for Joe. She knew he would need time to adjust to it. Hell, she had nine months to get her head around it and even then it didn’t feel real until she was lying on Sally’s bed with a baby turning her vagina into something that resembled a gutted rabbit. So she knows he needs to come around a bit—she was just hoping he’d be a little happier along the way. “Her name is—”

“Abigail,” Joe finishes, adjusting the hat a little that she gave him so nobody will be able to clearly see his face once they leave.

“Did you mean before what you said that you’d rather go back to jail?”

“No. Of course not,” he says. “Where are we hiding out?”

“My place,” she says.

“You still live in the same place?”

“No,” she says. “I moved.”

“Before you started killing other people?” he asks.

“Something like that. Are you sure you don’t really mean what you said earlier about going back to jail?”

“Of course I’m sure. Did you have sex with those men you killed?” he asks.

“Of course not,” she says. And it’s true. But she’s not annoyed that he asked.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Did you fuck anybody in jail?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Did somebody fuck you?”

“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t in general population, otherwise that would have happened. There’s been nobody since you,” he tells her.

She believes him. A guy like Joe—she imagines he’d rather kill himself than become somebody’s pet. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It hurts,” he says. “A lot. But I’ll make it.”

She helps him to his feet. They make their way out of the bedroom.

“We have to go and see my mother,” Joe says.

She throws him a
Why the hell would we do that
glance, then follows it up. “Why would we go and do that?”

So he tells her why and she keeps him propped up by the door and listens to him as he talks. At first she thinks he’s still delusional from the medication. It’s quite the story. Fifty thousand dollars. Detective Calhoun. Jonas Jones the asshole psychic she’s seen on TV. A trip into the woods. Joe’s confidence in what he is saying becomes infectious. Then she remembers the files she saw in Schroder’s car from the TV station. It all makes sense. And fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. She’s done well with the forty she got from Sally three months ago, and another fifty would certainly help get their new lives under way.

They should just head back to her house. Relieve the babysitter. And stay inside for the next few months. Grow Joe’s hair out. Dye it. Get him to put on some weight. Get him to look about as different as she can with what she has to work with. Get him to bond with Abigail. Then work at getting some false identities and leave the country. Difficult, yes, but not impossible. Just wait for the manhunt to die down.

“So the money was transferred into your mother’s account,” Melissa says.

“Yes.”

“That means your mother will have to go into a bank and draw it out. We can’t risk her saying the wrong thing. Too problematic.”

Joe shakes his head. “You don’t know my mother,” he says. “She doesn’t trust banks. She has a bank account purely because you can’t really get by without one, but she hates them, hates them so much she goes in there every Monday morning and draws out her benefit in cash and takes it home and hides it under her mattress. She has done for years.”

“You think she’ll have gone there this morning and drawn out the fifty thousand dollars?” she asks, and she tries to imagine it, and for some reason she pictures an old lady with a sack slung over her back with big dollar signs on it. But of course that’s not the reality. Fifty thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills is five hundred of them. That amount would fit into a handbag.

“Without a doubt,” Joe says. “It’ll be at her house under her bed just waiting for us to go and get it.”

“And you’re sure.”

“Yes,” he says.

Fifty thousand dollars—is it worth the risk?

She decides that it is.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Schroder and Hutton are leading the chase. He knows they are because when Hutton calls in the new information he’s told backup is ten minutes away. While Hutton is on the phone organizing that, Schroder is once again searching his pockets for his Wake-E pills. Nope. Definitely gone. He has a headache coming on.

“A team has just reached Raphael’s house,” Hutton says.

“And?”

“And the results are interesting. Nothing there to suggest he was working with Melissa. But plenty to suggest Raphael wasn’t exactly a Good Samaritan.”

“Yeah? What’d he do?”

“Joe’s lawyers,” Hutton says. “It looks like Raphael’s the guy who killed them.”

“Shit,” Schroder says.

“We’ve sent people to Joe’s mother’s house, hoping he’ll turn up there, or hoping she may offer something, but there’s no sign of her.”

They both revert to their own thoughts. Schroder starts thinking back to the last time he saw Sally. When was that? It was last year, not long after Joe was arrested. Within days of being given the reward money she quit her job. She went back to studying. She never stayed in touch with anybody from work, and why would she? The night they figured out who Joe was, they treated her like hell. They arrested her and put her in an interrogation room because they’d found her prints on a piece of evidence. She ended up being the reason they caught Joe. Not police work, not detective skills, but pure luck because Sally had picked up something she shouldn’t have.

“You should give me Kent’s gun,” Hutton says.

“You’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right. Come on, Carl. We’re almost there. If you end up shooting somebody we’ll probably both go to jail.”

“They’re armed,” Schroder says. “It’s only fair that I’m armed too.”

“You think she’s still alive?” Hutton asks. “Sally?”

“No.”

“Nothing I can say to get that gun back from you?”

“Nothing.”

“Just don’t fuck up. Promise me that, okay?”

“You have my word.”

“And don’t tell anybody I knew you had it.”

Town races by. The neighborhoods race by. Schroder doesn’t take any of it in. Six minutes later they’re pulling into her street. They watch the numbers on the letterboxes, but then stop watching when they see the blue van up a driveway six houses ahead, exactly where the numbers were going to line up. The houses are all pretty small and look like they’ve spent thirty years being blasted by bad weather and no love. Hutton does a U-turn and drives back to the start of the block. He takes out his cell phone and reports in. Backup is still four minutes away. He tells Schroder this when he hangs up.

“A lot can happen in four minutes,” Schroder says.

“And a lot can happen for the worse if we go in there.”

“We opened the ambulance before, right?” Schroder asks. This isn’t any different from that.”

“It’s a lot different,” Hutton says, and Schroder knows it. “We knew that thing was going to be empty. Whereas this time we know they’re in there. If only we had Jonas Jones along with us. He’d be able to tell us what’s going on inside.”

“Funny. Look, they wouldn’t have come here if Sally was dead,” Schroder says. “They’ve come here for her help. Most likely for her medical skills. I say we go in. We have to. We owe it to Sally.”

“We owe it to Sally to give her the best chance we can, and her best chance is if we wait for backup, and nobody from backup is going to have a busted arm. Three minutes, that’s all,” Hutton says, and Schroder knows he’s right, and in Hutton’s position he’d be making the same decision. So then why does the right thing to do feel so very, very wrong?

He opens the car door and steps outside.

“Jesus, Carl,” Hutton says, and he does the same. Schroder starts walking. “Have you forgotten you’re not even a cop anymore?”

“We have to do something, Wilson.”

“Don’t make me arrest you.”

“And what? Cause a scene?”

“You’re going to get me fired.”

“And you’re thinking of your job over saving Sally’s life.”

“That’s a really shitty thing to say, Carl,” Hutton says.

“I know. You’re right, and I’m sorry. But we can’t just stand by and wait.”

“Two minutes,” Hutton says. “Just two minutes now.”

“Then that’s less time for us to fuck up.”

Schroder keeps walking to the house. He can do this. He can save Sally and Hutton can arrest Joe and Melissa. It’s what they’re trained for. Only it’s not. They’re trained to investigate. And they’re trained to stand back and send in the AOS team in these situations. Melissa is armed. She’s already killed one policeman today. No reason to make it easy for her to kill a second. He stops walking.

“Okay,” he says.

So they wait twenty more seconds and then Schroder decides twenty seconds is long enough. The thing is, a lot can happen in two minutes. People can die. Joe and Melissa can hear the police arrive and cut their losses and kill whoever they have in there with them. So he takes a few steps toward the house. There’s a throbbing in his head, a pound-pound-pounding, and he realizes it’s the sound of his footsteps on the pavement as he runs toward the house.

“Goddamn it,” Hutton says, but Hutton is overweight and hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in years, and all that extra eating holds him back. Even with a broken arm Schroder outruns him.

He reaches the house. The van has been reversed into the driveway and it’s easy to see the front is empty. Kent’s gun is back in his hand. The back doors of the van are open and he comes around the side of it and peers in and it’s empty too, except for some blood on the wall. Hutton is only a house away now, but he’s stopped running. Not because of the strain on his body, but because to catch Schroder now would be to create a confrontation. Still there are no sounds of sirens in the distance. Either they’re late, caught in traffic, or are running silent.

The house is a single-story dwelling with weatherboard walls and a concrete tile roof. The garden is tidy and looked after but uninspiring. There’s a headless garden gnome by the step to the front door. The front door is closed. Schroder peers through the window and can see into the lounge. There’s nobody in there. He ducks down and listens for any sound, but there’s nothing. He moves to the side of the house and looks through another window into the same room and gets the same view, but from a different angle. Next window looks into the kitchen. Small but tidy. He tries the back door. It rattles, but it’s locked. He puts the side of his face against it and listens. Nothing. No movement inside. No sirens approaching from the street. No sign of Hutton. Further around the house and now he’s looking into the bedroom window. There’s a body on the floor. It’s Sally. She’s face down. He can’t tell whether she’s dead or alive, but knows what he’d put his money on. The bed has blood on it. There are medical supplies scattered around the room. Some bloody clothes. A paramedic uniform. Joe and Melissa are gone, probably in Sally’s car.

He moves to the front door. He tries it. It’s unlocked. He pushes it open and moves into the bedroom, the gun pointing ahead. He crouches down next to Sally and has to put the gun on the floor so he can put two fingers on her neck. He looks for a pulse and finds one, steady and strong. He rolls her onto her back. There’s a big bruise on the side of her forehead and some blood.

“Sally,” he says, shaking her a little with his good arm. He wonders why they let her live. He wonders how Melissa and Joe go about putting a value on human life. “Sally?”

Sally doesn’t stir. So he slaps her slightly on the side of the face, and then a little harder. “Come on, Sally, it’s important.”

Sally doesn’t seem to think so. He moves into the kitchen. He finds a bucket beneath the sink. He fills it up with cold water. He thinks about the gun and knows what’s going to happen within the next few minutes. He takes it out and wraps it in a tea towel and sets it on the counter near the sink. He carries the water back into the bedroom. His arm is starting to wake up.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, and then he pours it over her face. She wakes up a quarter of the way into it, starts sputtering, and by the end she’s rolled onto her side and is coughing.

“Sally,” he says, and he crouches down next to her.

“Detective Inspector Schroder?” she says.

“You’re safe now,” he tells her.

“Where are they?” she asks. “Have you arrested them?”

“No,” he says. “Please, Sally, tell me what happened. Did they say where they are going? Do you still have your car? Did they take it?”

“The woman, Melissa, she came here last night,” she says. “She threatened to shoot me. She tied me up and used my uniform and took my ID card. Then she left this morning and came back with Joe. He’d been shot. They made me help him. I thought . . . I thought they were going to shoot me.”

“You’re safe now,” he tells her again. “What did they say? Do you know where they’re going?”

She shakes her head, then quickly puts one hand on the side of it and closes her eyes, the movement enough to bring her close to passing out. He helps her up so she can sit on the bed. Okay, his arm is really starting to hurt now. He pulls out the second of his three syringes.

“What are you doing?” Sally asks.

“Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” he says, and plunges the needle into his arm.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” she says.

“Tell me what happened here,” he says, and puts the cap on the syringe and dumps it on the floor. The numbness in his arm begins to return.

“They had a baby,” Sally says.

“What?”

“Not with them,” she says. “But . . . but Melissa made me help.”

“Wait. She had the baby last night?”

Sally shakes her head. “Three months ago. She came here and—”

“And you didn’t tell us?”

“I couldn’t,” Sally says, looking down.

“Why the hell not?”

She starts to cry. And she tells him why. He should be more sympathetic than he is, but all he can feel is the anger and frustration. People have died. Cops have died. She should have come to them. They could have done something with that information. They could have caught Melissa and the baby would have been safe.

“Tell me about today,” he says. “How bad was the wound?”

“He was shot in the shoulder. The bullet went right through.”

“And you’re sure neither of them said anything that might help?”

“Nothing.”

Before he can say anything more half a dozen men storm into the room, all of them dressed in black, one of them shouting at him to
Get down, get down.
A knee is put in the middle of his back and his face pressed into the floor, and then he screams into the carpet as his broken arm is pulled out of the sling and behind him, the numbness leaving in an instant as the handcuffs go on.