No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (37 page)

“
It won’t work.” Michael’s back was pressed against the railing. The wet of the snow had already sunk through his shoes and the entire lower part of his pants.

“
You have to jump now.” Patty took a step closer to Michael. It was her first step onto the terrace. “But don’t think I won’t shoot you if I have to.”

Then Lowell Moore arrived.

“
Patty!” Lowell shouted. “What are you doing?”

When she turned, Michael lunged at her. His hands wrapped around her wrists, trying to lift the gun up and away from him. Patty kicked twice as Michael struggled to pull the gun out of her hands.

Lowell ran toward them.

Patty looked at Lowell, and Michael jerked her as hard as he could. Her grip loosened on the gun, but then she jerked it back. Michael tried again, but this time he lost his footing on the ice.

He let go of the gun, and grabbed Patty as he started to fall, pulling her down with him.

She screamed, and the gun went off as they crashed into the cold. Michael’s head hit the stone terrace, and everything went black.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Kermit heard the gunshot. A bell attached to the building started to ring, and then Kermit heard the sound of police sirens.

“Holy smokety-smokes.” He shifted the car into gear and sped out of the alley. He got about a block away, and turned on the overhead dome light.

While trying to keep the Camry under control in the wet snow, he studied the printouts that Michael had given him. Kermit was trying to find a time and an airport that would work, but it was dark and he was having difficulty reading the sheets.

He dropped one on the floor. When Kermit bent down to pick it up, the Camry slammed into the back of a silver minivan. His head hit the bottom of the steering wheel, and then jerked back from the blow.

Kermit stumbled out of the car, as the driver of the silver minivan got out to examine the damage. She looked at Kermit.

“You’re bleeding,” she pointed. “Your head.”

Kermit touched his forehead, and then looked down at the red blood on his hand.

“Gotta do something, bleeding’s not a good thing.” Kermit closed his eyes, trying to regain his focus as throbs of pain shot through his neck and bounced around his head.

When Kermit opened his eyes, the pain suddenly shifted and roiled down his spine, causing him to slip. He fell to the ground.

“
Are you okay? Stay down.”

Kermit shook his head.

“I have to go.” He looked away from the woman, and then saw it. The sign bathed in a soft fluorescent yellow. It was The 365 Day Store on West 34th. It was the numbers that caused the magic: 3-6-5.

There were an infinite number of possibilities in those digits, two odd, one even. It promised to provide a numeric equilibrium to set the order straight. 

Kermit got up. The woman tried to stop him, but he continued on toward the store.

“I’ll be back.” He waved her away. “I’ll be back.”

Kermit went into the first aisle near the checkout and examined the shelves of candy and chips, specifically the various prices. There were so many prices to choose from, too many.

He finally decided on a Butterfinger (.67) and a Kit Kat Giant ($1.09). He picked both off of the shelf, and walked up to the register. Only one other person was in line. He waited, holding his snacks in one hand and covering the bleeding cut on his forehead with the other.

“
Rough night?”

The cashier looked at Kermit, as Kermit placed the candy on the counter. Car horns sounded outside the door. Traffic was backing up. More horns outside, and then the klip-klop of two horses.

The cashier finished ringing up the purchase, and Kermit paid. He left the change and the candy bars on the counter, and ripped the receipt out of the cashier’s hand as he ran toward the door.

“Hey you forgot your stuff, man.” The cashier was yelling, but Kermit didn’t stop.

When he got outside, a police officer had already dismounted his horse, and was examining the accident scene.

“
This your car?” The officer pointed at the Camry, while his partner spoke with the driver of the silver minivan. Kermit hesitated at first, but then nodded his head.

“
Well, you’re causing all sorts of problems.” The officer walked around to the back of the Camry to get the license plate number. He wrote it down, and then finished scratching out a preliminary police report and citation. “You’re going to have to move it.” He looked at the line of cars behind them. “Like now.”

A beep, static, and then a dispatcher’s voice came out of the officer’s radio.

The officer picked it up as dispatch repeated the 411.

He signaled to his partner.

“We gotta go.” The officer turned back to Kermit, actually looking at him for the first time. “You know you're bleeding?”

“
Yes, sir.”

The officer walked closer, examining the cut.

“Doesn’t look too serious.” He handed Kermit the citation. “Get that taken care of.” He looked in the direction of Hopper Tower. “We have to respond to this call.”

The officer turned away, and then hurried to his horse. His partner was already mounted and waiting, and soon they disappeared into the heavy winter snow.

Kermit looked down at the ticket.

It was Citation No. 0346405000 written by Officer Badge No. 2389 for a violation of New York Municipal Ordinance 257-24 regarding Toyota Camry License AEX-891 for a total fine due of $63. Getting in a traffic accident was evidently illegal in New York City.

Kermit stared at the citation a little longer. Then he saw the numbers move and rearrange as the traffic ticket began to glow in his hand. It was happening. For the first time in over thirty years, it was finally happening. His fluency in the language of numbers, a childhood gift that he had taken for granted during the first twenty-two years of his life, was coming back to him.  

The air outside was freezing, and the snow was coming down harder than ever before. But he felt warm and light, as the numbers continued to move.

“A little more.”

Then the digits on the ticket reached their cosmic pre-destination, a perfect equation staring back at him:

(
0346405000/2389
) + (257-24) - 63 = 100

891

Kermit looked down at his receipt from The 365 Day Store, generated by Employee No. 126, for a Butterfinger .67 and Kit Kat Giant $1.09 for a sub-total of $1.76 and .1020 tax for a total of $2.03. The receipt vibrated in his hand and radiated the same yellow glow as the police citation, then the numbers began to move gracefully in front of him, floating in space. Slowly at first, but then the movement picked up speed, until finally stopping in a beautiful, linear sequence:

(3x65) + (176- (67+109) + (10/2) –(0(18/6)
)=100

(12/6)

Numeric equilibrium had been achieved.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

Father Stiles’ face came in and out of focus as he knelt over Michael.

“You banged your head pretty bad out there.” He pressed a piece of gauze against the small cut on Michael’s forehead. “Cops are here already. An ambulance is on its way.”

“
Files?” Michael asked, unable to form the full question.

“
We got ‘em.” Father Stiles smiled.

“
Kermit?”

“
Stay down.” Father Stiles put a gentle hand on Michael’s chest, keeping him still.

Michael closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. He rested there for a minute, maybe ten. Then he opened his eyes and saw Patty Bernice being led away in handcuffs, her dress torn, her hair wet and messed.

Two paramedics came over to him.

“
You want to take him now?” He was talking about Michael. The paramedic lowered the stretcher, its legs folding beneath itself as the stretcher went down to the floor.

“
Might as well. No point with the other.”

Michael was lifted onto it, and they began to wheel him out of the office.

He jerked and bounced. His head throbbed. He felt himself about to slip back into unconsciousness, when he noticed Agent Frank Vatch with a crowd of officers and detectives huddled near Lowell’s desk. They were looking down at the floor, talking casual, like it was no big deal. Then Michael looked.

Lowell Moore. His right leg was unnaturally bent back. His arms out wide, like a tilted airplane. And then there was his chest. Lowell Moore’s chest was a mess of churned up bone and tissue, blood and hair. His white starched shirt was open, and it appeared to be dipped in a bright shade of red paint.

“
You have to rest, Michael.” Father Stiles replaced the bandage on Michael’s forehead with a fresh piece of gauze. “Everything is alright, now.” 

EPILOGUE

As the moonlight skimmed across the water outside Hut No. 7, Michael’s fingers traced the lines of her body. He started at her knee, then up to her hip, the edge of her breast, and then finally the back of her neck. He rubbed her shoulders, and Andie edged her warm body back into his, falling back asleep.

Michael had lost track of the number of times they had made love in the past twenty-four hours. It was like he was a teenager again, snuck away with his one and only sweetheart on a camping trip.

He closed his eyes and listened to the waves lap against the Sunset’s white, sandy beach. Sleep came easy, and he was thankful that the images waited a few hours before they made their return. The flashes and spins – the frames and images random – until the memory ended where it always ended.

“
Wait here.” Krane unlocked the passenger side door and grabbed his briefcase. “Should only take a minute.”

“
Fine.” Michael watched as Krane got out of the BMW Roadster and walked up to the Bank of America building. Krane took out a card, swiped it through an electronic reader, and then opened the door.

Through the glass doors, Michael could see Krane stop at the security desk, show some identification, and then he was waived through to the elevator.

Michael looked at the small digital clock inside the BMW. It was a quarter past two, only the latest in a string of seventeen hour days. He stopped going home a few weeks ago, and simply crashed on the leather sofa in his office. He showered at the club.

Michael looked back at the building. Krane still couldn’t be seen so he drummed the steering wheel to keep himself awake, turning on the stereo to break the silence.

$500 million, Michael thought, sitting there in a bank account. He tried to calculate how many hours his mother would have had to work at minimum wage cleaning office buildings to accumulate that much money.

Michael looked back toward the bank, and then in his rearview mirror. He thought he saw something. Maybe it was the FBI. Krane had to be under 24 hour surveillance, Michael thought, there’s no way he’d be let out of their sight.

Another minute or two passed, and Michael began to get nervous. Maybe Krane was having second thoughts. Lowell would be furious if he backed out.

Michael pecked through the hundreds of radio stations populating the New York dial, searching for a decent song. He finally settled on an old Mellencamp tune, but turned the radio off when Krane emerged from the bank building.

He opened the car door, got inside, and Michael shifted the BMW into gear.

The roadster pulled away from the curb.

“It pains me.” Krane shook his head. “Absolutely hurts.”

Michael looked over at Krane, but didn’t say anything. His briefcase was open at his feet, and he was holding a white envelope out in front of him.

“
This was the legacy.” Krane looked down at the standard, white envelope, which contained the account numbers to access over $500 million. “My kids and their kids and so on would all benefit because of this.” Krane shook his head. “And now the government gets to piss it away on some feel-good after-school program.”

Krane held the envelope out to Michael.

“Take it. Makes me sick just to think about it, much less hold it anymore.”

Michael took the envelope containing the account numbers and passwords.

“Your kids would like the money.” Michael slid the envelope into his suit jacket’s breast pocket. “But I think they’ll also like seeing their father a free man again.” Being a lawyer also meant being a salesman. Keep the client happy with the deal, at least until it’s signed and approved by the judge.

“
Maybe you’re right.” Krane locked the briefcase. “Or maybe the kids would rather have the money.” He laughed and Michael shifted the car into neutral as they rolled toward a red light and stopped.