Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (22 page)

The significance of the adjective in front of
father
wasn’t lost on me.

THIRTEEN

Inside the hallway, there
was absolutely no relief from the blackness beyond the ends of our feeble beams of light. I had no idea how my damn dad could have even considered staying in this place ten minutes, let alone several days! Well, if he wasn’t hiding from the po-po because he was a cold-blooded whack-a-mole.

As we very slowly moved away from the laundry room door, I repeated my father’s directions in my head.
Go to the window on the far left to the first junction. Make a right and go down the stairs. Look for the light.

Indefinable things slid underfoot as we crunched along, the sound echoing against walls the same faded, peeling sickly institutional green.

About ten feet outside the laundry room door on the right was a yellowed sign that still clung to the wall by one corner. I reached out to straighten it and played the light beam across its surface.

Idle Hands are the Devil’s Hands.

Underneath, it read:
Don’t Be a Devil.

Yikes. I let go as if my gloved fingers were on fire. The sign curled back up, waved the white flag of surrender, and fluttered to the floor.

Coop said, “You devil.”

“If I am, so are you.”

“If we wind up going to hell, there isn’t anyone else I’d want beside me.”

“Gee, thanks. But I don’t think we have to go too far because we’re in hell right now. In fact, let’s just call it what it is. Welcome to Hell. That’s with a capital H.”

“Agreed.”

I clenched my teeth. “Can’t be much farther. Come on.”

After four more strides, we were at a junction.

There was a wide opening on the right and what at first glance looked like a rectangular cage that had at some point been painted white. Dirty steel gray peeked through where the paint had been chipped off. Upon closer inspection, I realized the cage was actually a fence of sorts that encased a stairway to floors above, and also led down to the basement—True Hell.

The space in the center of the stairwell was open, and that was probably why the cage must have been installed: to ensure no suicidal inmate—client? patient?—was able to dispense with their life on this planet before the specter of death called them home. Or when one too many electrotherapy sessions were administered.

“Can you believe this?” Coop sounded like he was croaking like a frog.

“No. Jesus, can you imagine being locked up … like this?”

“I’d find a different way to kill myself, that’s for sure.”

I played the flashlight beam over the stairs again. Access was gained by opening a swinging gate on each level. The gate on this floor was off its hinges, leaning against the fencing across from where we stood.

“Onward and downward, Pancho,” I said.

“Pancho?”

“Yeah. Didn’t he try to slay windmills?”

“Pancho Villa? That was Don Quixote, dumbass. He did have a sidekick, though, named Sancho Panza.”

“Well, Sancho, this thing reminds me of a windmill.” I waved a hand at the suicide-proof stairs. “I was trying to add a little levity to the situation.”

“It worked. I fear you might be losing it.”

“Don’t think there’s any
might
about it. Come on.”

With that we began our descent into the bowels of Hell. There was still a sturdy rail attached to the wall, and after every fourth step there was a three-foot landing, perhaps so those who needed to rest along the way were able to.

Down we went. Four steps, two strides to the next set of four, around the corner, and repeat. The stairwell ended and we were in the basement. I swear I could feel the phantoms of patients past rustle around us.

Coop poked my shoulder with a stiff, glove-covered finger.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“You had that look.”

“What look? And how can you even see my face?”

He pointed his flashlight at me and my eyelids reflexively slammed shut. “Jeez, Coop.”

He moved the beam away and said, “It was that constipated look you get when you’re about to lose it.”

I blinked, trying to get rid of the big white spot floating behind my eyes.

Perceptive man. Perceptive, but irritating. “Why aren’t you freaked out, Mister I’m-a-chicken-shit?” When had it happened that Coop shifted into my role as keeper of the calm?

“Hey,” he said. “You get shot at enough and arrested enough, you become tough enough.”

“Okay, Stuart Smalley.”

“Don’t worry. I’m quaking on the inside.”

We walked to the hall adjacent the stairway. Here the peeling paint wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been on the main level. Instead the floor was covered in bits of torn paper, like someone decided to shred the evidence of malpractice by hand and scatter it in a roughly ten-by-five-foot area.

Maybe forty feet down the hall, a welcome light shone through an open door on the right.

I took an eager step forward, then stopped abruptly. My dad was supposed to be here. Wasn’t he? We had assumed the email was from him. If it was my father, why the hell didn’t he meet us in that super-classy laundry room upstairs?

With a panicked grab, I yanked on the arm of Coop’s jacket to pull him down to my level and whispered tightly, “What if … whoever is in there isn’t Dad? Assuming the room is actually occupied.”

Coop’s breath warmed my cheek. “That’s not even funny. Shit.” The low voices we’d been using since entering Hell had morphed into strained whispers. He slowly straightened.

We both stared at the unassuming light that cast its glow into the hallway.

I pulled in a steadying breath. “Let’s go quietly and hope whoever’s in there hasn’t heard us. And shut the flashlights off.” We hadn’t exactly been noisy, but we also hadn’t taken care to be as noiseless as we could have been on our descent. The twin flashes in our hands went out, leaving us bathed in repugnant darkness.

The distance that separated us from our glowing destination felt like a huge chasm instead of maybe ten or twelve long strides. I gritted my teeth and set myself in motion. Coop’s finger slid through my belt loop, keeping us connected. Thirty feet, twenty feet, ten feet, and then I was hugging the wall, inching toward the doorjamb. My heart hammered in my ears and I tried not to hyperventilate.

How did the cops do it on Eddy’s TV shows? They made it look so easy. I’d just stick my head far enough around the edge of the doorjamb to get a peek into the room, see what and who was in there. I realized that if there was someone inside and it wasn’t my father, well, maybe popping into the room at eye level wasn’t such a great idea. I recalled JT mentioning awhile back that in cop-speak, doorways were sometimes referred to as a vertical coffins. I sank into a squat, feeling the texture of rough brick against my back through the layers I was wearing.

I felt a nudge and glanced at Coop, who had hunkered down beside me. Thanks to our proximity to the light spilling from the open door I could now clearly see him. His eyebrows met his hairline in the classic “what are you doing?” expression. Or more accurately, it was the “what the fuck are you doing?” look.

Jesus, it was hard to breathe. I needed to act or I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen. I squeezed my eyes shut in a lightning-quick prayer to whatever deity might be willing to listen, opened my eyes, and ducked my head around the doorjamb.

The room itself wasn’t exactly bright, but it was illuminated enough for me to make out the back wall, which was covered in wallpaper that made up a full-size nature scene—the kind that was used in the ’70s and early ’80s—with bucolic pictures of deer grazing on a lush green pasture, or stands of trees in the forest. In this case it was a blindingly colorful sunset over a lake in the woods. I wondered if the intent was to try to relax patients. If it was, it wasn’t working now and probably didn’t then, either.

In front of the obnoxious wall, a person sat slumped chin-to-chest, face obscured, on an old rust-colored vinyl couch. The still form was bundled in blankets, and a pointy, purple-colored stocking hat with a yellow tassel covered the top of their head.

A kerosene lamp, like those used on
Little House on the Prairie
, sat on a side table and cast its yellowish light through the room. A propane camp heater glowed red-hot on the floor nearby. I didn’t see any weapons lying about, but who’d leave their means of protection very far from their side in a place like this?

An old rectangular folding table with a faux-wood top sat against a wall, and two pizza boxes and a jumble of grease-stained napkins littered one side of the top. Four gallon-sized water jugs were lined up with military precision below the table. The other side held what looked like first-aid supplies—a few rolls of gauze, white tape, a brown plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Whoever was in there was apparently one hurting unit.

By the time I finished my brief assessment, the person hadn’t budged an inch. I pulled away and pressed the back of my head against the wall in a futile attempt to ground myself. Coop gave me a half-panicked glare.

I pointed down the hall the way we’d come. We retreated around the corner next to the stairwell.

I said, “I don’t know if the dude is alive or dead.”

“You couldn’t tell it if was your dad?”

“No. All I could see was the top of his head. Or her head. Shit, Coop, what if whoever it is, is frozen solid?”

Momentary silence. “We’ll deal when we confirm either way.”

I took a shaky breath. “Okay. Here’s the plan. I’ll get over to the other side of the door, and on the count of three, let’s go in, guns blazing.”

“Figuratively.”

“Of course.” Sometimes the man was far too literal for his own good. “Let’s get a hold of the guy and make sure he can’t hurt us, then deal with whatever else we need to.”

“Maybe we should go get JT.”

I considered that for about a half-second. “No. If we make any more noise, if whoever is in there is sleeping, they could wake up. If it’s my dad, no big deal. If it’s not … or if he’s joined the ranks of ghosts that I’m sure haunt Hell here, well, we don’t need backup for that. Let’s get this done.” I felt like I was going to yak. Or pass out. Maybe both.

“You didn’t see any guns? Any weapons?”

“No.” I didn’t get that good a look, and who knew what was under the blanket, but now wasn’t the time to quibble. “I’ll go in from one side of the door, you go in the other, and we’ll be on top of him before he has a chance to react. On my count of three.” I grabbed Coop’s hand before either of us changed our minds and dragged him back toward our questionable fate.

We reached the door, and stopped to listen. My left hand pressed against Coop’s chest. I didn’t hear anything new, so hopefully that was a good sign.

For a long moment, time hung in the air, so heavy it was almost tangible.
Come on Shay, it’s only three feet. Stop thinking and start acting
. I gritted my teeth, darted across the opening, and flattened myself against the opposite wall. Success. I hadn’t been shot full of holes.

I took a deep breath and quick-checked the room again. Nothing had changed. The slumper was still slumped. Across the doorway, Coop was ready to spring into action. I held out a hand with one finger raised. He nodded, his eyes glued to my hand. I raised the second. It was now or never.

Up went finger number three. With that, we both charged through the door, making a beeline for the slumper. It was only later that I realized we were lucky we fit through the door at the same time.

Coop’s longer legs aided him in reaching the still form a fraction of a second before I did. He grabbed hold of one shoulder. I launched myself into the air and tackled the other one. With the impact of two rushing bodies, the three of us slammed against the back of the couch, nearly tipping it over backward.

A mighty grunt of pain issued from pile of blankets. Whoever it was hadn’t keeled yet. Of course, after our abuse, who knew how long they’d last.

“Shay?” The hoarse voice that rumbled from the tangle of covers was unmistakably my father’s.

“Dad?”

Both Coop and I quickly extracted ourselves from my father, who was hunched over, hissing in pain.

Fresh alarm flooded my system. “Dad. What’s wrong?” I hovered over him, not sure what to do.

“Just … give me a second.” After a few obviously painful breaths, he straightened up and gingerly leaned back. The blanket he had up around his ears fell away and we were able to see his face.

“Holy shit, Dad!” Alarm radiated throughout my body, landing heavy in my belly. Both of my father’s eyes were blackened, and the right one was practically swollen shut. He squinted at us through his left. Red-going-gray stubble covered his sallow cheeks, and his usually jovial, lined face was pinched.

“Shay, I’m okay.”

“But your face—”

“Black eyes go away, honey.”

Coop said softly, “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“It’s actually the ribs I’m a little concerned about.”

“Ribs,” I echoed faintly.

“Broken?” Coop asked.

“I don’t know. Sure feels like it.” My father winced as he shifted. “Of course if I didn’t have you two stampeding in here attacking me”—he tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his pain-filled eye— “they might not hurt quite so bad. But honestly, I’m okay.”

“Pop, I’m so sorry—”

My dad waved off my apology. “I suppose seeing a corpse sitting here all covered up was cause for alarm. Easier to breathe leaning forward. Been nodding off now and again. Didn’t hear you two at all till you were sittin’ on top of me.”

I didn’t think we’d been all that quiet. It wasn’t like my father to nod off, ever. He had to be hurting in a bad way.

“Should we go for help?” I had so many questions, but first things first.

“No. Not till I figure out exactly what’s going on.”

Coop asked, “How did you wind up here, of all places?”

“Woke up on a couch. Way up north, in some cabin. Three empty bottles of Johnny on the counter and one half full one on the floor next to me.” Dad slowly drew in a breath. “I can’t remember a goddamned thing that happened. Last I can recall is playing poker night before New Year’s. I remember Agnes leaving, and after that, nothing till I came to.”