The 7th Canon (40 page)

The overhead lights in the office clicked on. Donley spun from the wall, scissors raised.

“Whoa.” Frank Ross reached up, stopping Donley’s arm.

“Ross,” Donley said, collapsing against the big man, feeling a sense of relief.

Ross directed him to a stool and lowered him down. “How bad are you hurt?”

“I think my leg is broken.”

“Connor?”

“I don’t know. Still out there somewhere.”

“Let’s get you out of here.”

Ross draped Donley’s arm around his shoulders. One of two officers who stepped forward came to Donley’s other side.

“How did you find me?” Donley asked.

Ross gave him a concerned look. “You called your wife. She called nine-one-one. You don’t remember?”

The retort of a big gun echoed, and the glass window of the office exploded not far from their heads.

Ross acted instinctively, pushing Donley to the floor and slapping at the light switch, plunging them back into darkness.

Connor.

From the trajectory of the bullet, Ross figured Connor had to be somewhere above them, on the catwalk.

A second shot shattered another window.

Ross crawled from the office on his hands and knees to the two officers who had taken cover below the counter.

“Connor carries a forty-four Magnum,” he said to them. “It sounds like a cannon, but at that distance, it’s not very accurate.” He raised his head, looking for shadows and movement. “He’s somewhere on the catwalk. Give me some cover.”

Another shot rang out, skipping off the Formica, causing Ross to duck again. The son of a bitch always was a good shot, but the shot had also given away Connor’s location.

“He’s at two o’clock,” Ross said to the officers. “Take a broad range and provide me with cover.”

On the count of three, the officers rose and fired, their guns echoing as if in a drum.

Ross ran, firing the SIG over his head. When he reached the cover of the metal shelving, he slid down the aisle, staying close to the cans. A bullet skipped off the concrete floor a foot behind him. He returned fire at the catwalk, backpedaling down the aisle and around the corner. The front entrance was to his left. The broken window he and the officers had found walking the perimeter was about ten yards to his right, at the back of the building. The metal rack and paint drums, his cover, ended five yards short. As he slapped in a fresh clip, he noticed the labels on the cans.

Flammable.

Not good.

Ross decided to go for the window. He took half a step from behind a row of cans, but had to draw back when another shot skipped off the cement.

He pressed his back to the cans, wishing he’d given up the cinnamon twists a year earlier. He made the sign of the cross and bolted for the window, firing blindly at the catwalk. Nearing the window, he lowered his head and dove through the opening, hitting the ground outside and rolling onto his back.

He scrambled to his feet and staggered down the side of the building, hearing additional shots being fired from inside. At the Cadillac, Ross climbed inside, about to start the engine when a loud explosion and flash of flames blew out windows near the roof, raining glass onto the hood of the car. Ross turned the key and threw the car into reverse. He drove away from the warehouse, made a sudden U-turn, and punched the accelerator. The Cadillac’s back tires spun in the dirt and gravel, gripped, and propelled the car forward across the dirt lot toward the building’s corrugated-metal doors. His instinct was to hit the brakes, but Ross suppressed it and pressed down on the accelerator. He pulled his seat belt tight, and braced his hands on the steering wheel.

God forgive him, he was about to retire the Cadillac.

The car hit a bump, bounced, and became airborne. The force caused Ross to lurch forward, straining against the belt, but he had the presence of mind to hit the brakes when the Cadillac impacted the doors. The car burst through with a metallic thud, landed, and skidded across the slick cement, toppling metal shelving and sending cans and drums flying. Paint splattered across the hood of the car as it shot forward. Another drum shattered the windshield.

The car slid to a stop near the office.

Ross reached for the SIG and fell out the door, gripping the gun in both hands, aiming at the catwalk, not seeing anyone. Flames leaped high over the metal racks. A second explosion launched a drum of paint like a depth charge off the back of a destroyer. It hit the counter, bounced, and crashed through the office windows.

“Move!” Ross yelled to the two police officers taking cover.

He put his shoulder under Donley’s arm, assisting him into the back of the car as a third explosion rocked the warehouse and a plume of flames and smoke shot toward the ceiling. One of the officers crawled into the back seat with Donley. The second jumped in the front seat. Ross threw the car into reverse as another explosion rippled toward them and the metal shelving overhead teetered.

The Cadillac’s engine revved, but the car did not move, the tires spinning on the paint-slickened concrete, spewing a plume of white smoke. Another explosion sent a rolling ball of flames directly at them. Ross punched the accelerator, and the tires gripped and finally lurched backward as the shelving above them collapsed in a pile of twisted metal.

For an instant, he saw nothing but the flames and smoke. Then it cleared, and the Cadillac shot outside, across the lot.

Chapter 23

December 30, 1987

Frank Ross stood outside what remained of the paint warehouse. An ambulance had taken Peter Donley to the emergency room, but Ross had stayed to coordinate with the detectives and discuss the situation with Aileen O’Malley, who was en route. Though the fog layer had burned off, a stubborn morning haze and lingering smoke and ash particulates choked the air. The explosion and three-alarm blaze had burned out of control for hours, providing the news stations spectacular film footage and making for a busy night for San Francisco firefighters. The warehouse had been reduced to blackened rubble. Even the cement foundation had melted, leaving pieces of rebar sticking up like the charred remains of trees after a forest fire.

One of the fire units continued to pour water on the smoldering debris. Others shoveled through it. The flames had been so intense, the firefighters initially could not get near the building and hadn’t been eager to do so. Ross still did not fully understand exactly what had happened. Donley had been in no shape to talk. His pain and shock had made him delirious. The one thing he’d kept repeating was that he needed his jacket, even after paramedics had covered him with multiple blankets.

Then he’d passed out.

Ross looked up at the sound of footsteps. Aileen O’Malley approached.

“He is one crazy son of a bitch,” she said, surveying the damage.

Ross nodded. “That he is.”

“You OK?”

Ross shrugged. “I could use a cinnamon twist and cup of coffee, but yeah, I’m OK.”

She smiled. “How’s Peter Donley?”

“Don’t know. They’re working on him. He’s pretty banged up—broken leg and a lot of bumps and bruises. They’re monitoring him for a concussion. Slipped into shock, but physically, I think he should be fine.” Ross paused. “Mentally, I think it’s going to take longer to heal.”

Ross watched a fireman turn off the final stream of water. Others had begun to stretch their hoses, preparing to roll them up. “Any word on Connor?”

O’Malley shook her head. “No, but he won’t get far. Where’s a guy like Connor going to run? Can’t imagine he has any friends left.”

“Don’t count on him making it easy on you,” Ross said. “He won’t do it himself like his old man.”

“I know,” O’Malley said. She took a deep breath. “There’s something bothering me about this one, Frank. My stomach’s been bothering me from the start.”

“Never knew you to have a queasy stomach, Aileen.”

“I made some telephone calls to try to find out what happened with Father Martin on Christmas Eve.”

“The blood test?”

“I haven’t been able to get anything concrete, but from what I can tell, the sheriff didn’t act on an order from the district attorney’s office.”

Ross gave her a look. “So, who gave the order to have it done that night?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know, but it had to be someone with some pretty good credentials.”

Ross contemplated the information. “What does Ramsey have to say?”

“Haven’t spoken to him yet. He’s been stumping down south for votes. Last I heard, he was in Orange County. I was hoping you might have some insight.”

“Into that specifically?” Ross shook his head. “No.”

O’Malley leaned against the police cruiser, the two of them side by side. “At least it looks like this nightmare is over for Father Martin.”

“The kid came clean?”

“About everything.”

Ross shook his head. “I’m not sure it will ever be over for Father Martin. Something like this . . .”

“How about you, Frank? How’re you doing?”

Frank Ross tilted his head and looked up at the sky. For the first time in nearly two years, he thought he just might be OK. Never the same. But OK. He really couldn’t ask for more than that, not with his son gone.

“Sober for more than seven months now and plan on staying that way. I miss my son and know I’ll always be a little crazy as a result, but I’m OK with that. Maybe I can make some good come from it.”

“Maybe I can help.”

Ross looked at her.

“I’ve put in a request for state and federal funding to form a child-exploitation detail. San Jose’s had a pilot program that’s showing success. They work with local FBI, Customs agents, US attorneys. I need somebody committed.”

Ross shoved his hands in his pockets, giving it some thought. After several seconds he said, “I’ll think about it. I have to discuss it with my wife. We’re talking about starting a family again.”

“Yeah?”

“Adopting.”

“Good for you, Frank.”

Ross looked down the street at the police barricade and saw Sam Goldman waving to him. “Thanks. I’ll get back to you, but yeah, I think I’d like that. Right now, I have to keep a promise to a friend.”

Donley awoke to the glare of bright fluorescent lights that hurt his eyes and made him squint. When he stirred, his leg felt weighted. He looked down at a robin’s-egg-blue cast that extended to just below his right knee, elevated in a stirrup. As more of the room came into focus, he saw Father Martin sitting in a chair by the bed, a bandage still around his head, but he was dressed in civilian clothes. Father Martin stood and approached.

“Well, this is a switch,” Donley said, his voice rough and his throat so dry.

Father Martin reached onto a tray near the side of the bed and handed him a plastic cup with a straw. Donley sipped tepid water. A small amount dribbled down his chin.

“Welcome back,” Father Martin said.

“Have I been out long?”

“Through the night and most of today.”

“What?”

“They kept you sedated to deal with the pain.”

“How did you get out?” Donley asked.

“Lou.”

“He’s out of the hospital?”

Father Martin nodded. “He is. He made some calls from home.”

“Sounds like Lou.” Donley considered the cast. “Light blue?”

“Your friend Mike wanted pink. You’re lucky they were out.”

“Mike is here?”

“No, but he called from Hawaii. You had a lot of people worried about you.”

Donley looked about the room with a little trepidation. “Is Kim here?”

Father Martin nodded to the hallway. “She just stepped out to talk to your doctors. I’ll get her.” He took a half step.

“Wait. What about Frank?”

“Frank’s fine. He stopped by earlier, said he talked to a lieutenant about what happened.”

“They have Connor?”

“No. They haven’t caught him yet.” Father Martin stepped closer to the bed. “But they will. I’m in your debt, Peter.”

“I knew you didn’t kill Bennet. I want you to know that.”

Kim appeared at the door, and Peter winced, though not from the pain. He now fully realized the stupidity of his actions, and he wasn’t eager to face her. Father Martin gave him a wink and walked out, touching Kim’s arm as he left. Kim walked to the window and pulled back the drapes. Streams of sunlight shot into the room.