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Gary Duvall’s brain was humming, sparking, working at top speed. Morphine was new to him, and he loved it. No more pain, amazing. He felt good, maybe too good. He’d seen the wound in his side up close and personal when he’d tried to take care of it himself, seen all the blood, felt pain he’d never imagined. He slowly turned from his post at the front window to face his three hostages, all sitting on the floor lined up next to one another, their backs against the wall. He said, his voice mean, “Shut up, old man. I’ve already said I won’t kill any of you if your hick police do what I tell them to do exactly when I tell them to do it. And there won’t be any CT scans or surgery. You’re going to load me up with some more of your morphine, and I’m getting out of here. So stop your begging.”
Dr. Hodges said, “I’m not begging, you ungrateful whelp. I’m telling you what you’re doing is stupid. Without tests, I can’t know if the bullet nicked your bowels. Antibiotics and a few stitches won’t help you if it did. And you listen to me, I’m not an old man. I’m late middle age. Stop waving that scalpel around. Officer Janko can’t hurt you; you tied him up.”
Duvall eyed Hodges. Late middle age? The old dude probably couldn’t see himself clearly when he looked in the mirror. He had wispy gray hairs sticking up in all directions, and his jowls sagged. Only his eyes were sharp, still some fire in that ancient brain. He looked at the blood smears on Hodges’s white coat, his blood. The doctor had stitched up his side quick enough and told him the bullet had gone through and out his back, got some muscles and some fat on its way through, and he was damned lucky. But the bowel deal? He’d take his chances.
Duvall said, “You want to know what I really want, old man? Your bottles of morphine and some needles in a bag so I can shoot up myself later when you won’t be around.”
Dr. Hodges said, “Look, we all heard you’re going to get your helicopter. Will you keep your word to the negotiator? You’ll leave us all here, unharmed?”
“Well, sure,” Duvall said, and gave him a big grin, showing nice white teeth. “I’m the model of rectitude. That’s the right word, isn’t it? Don’t think I ever said it before.” He laughed, said “Rectitude” three more times as if savoring the feel of the word in his mouth. “The prison chaplain said it a lot.”
He heard a growl and waved the Colt toward Janko, who looked both scared and angry. Duvall eyed him. Talk about young. Janko didn’t look old enough to be in the Boy Scouts, much less a puppy cop. He’d set Janko’s Beretta on the exam table within easy reach. Compared to his compact Colt .25, it was clumsy and big. Still, he’d take the extra magazine the puppy cop carried. Let Janko growl. Duvall had already shown him how easily he could take him down, even wounded. He looked at the nurse, young, pretty Jenny, and wondered if he shouldn’t take her with him instead of the puppy cop. Yeah, she could take care of him in lots of ways. She was sitting perfectly still next to Janko, her hands resting on her knees. He hadn’t tied her up, no reason to. She was a girl, no threat to him, but she had a big mouth on her. He could correct that fast enough. As for Hodges, the old man would probably fall over with a heart attack if he tried to jump him, and he was tied up anyway.
Duvall said, “What you better hope is the cops show me some rectitude, otherwise there’ll be an eye for an eye, right?” When no one answered him, he started whistling “Whole Lotta Love,” his favorite Zeppelin tune, marveling again at the absence of pain. It was like that weird psychic bitch hadn’t shot him. Suddenly, he was there again and he saw her stagger, blood blooming on her arm. He wanted to shoot her again, a death shot. But she shot him, and he saw himself stumble to the floor, saw her staring at him, her gun still pointed at him. The pain in his side nearly froze him, but he pulled himself up and ran. Duvall blinked, shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that long, skinny living room, that place where he nearly died. He knew now he should have shot her again, at least tried, but he’d felt like he was dying himself. He wondered what had happened to her.
He shouldn’t have waited a day. He could tell right away the wound was bad. And now he was trapped in this bum-crap town. He wondered if one of the sick old geezers in the waiting room had heard him in the back and given him away. Whatever. Soon he’d hear helicopter rotors, and he’d be on his way, with cash and morphine in his pockets. No way he would ever go back to that prison, where the prisoners eyed him like he was a Snickers bar.
He looked down at his watch. Nothing to do but wait. Duvall smiled. Why not mock out the old codger some more? He knew he was smarter, so it’d be fun. Maybe he should be thinking about where he should go, making plans, but his brain was hopping around too much, all sorts of weird thoughts. The morphine. So what if he’d given himself too much? It would wear off, and he could give himself more if the pain came back. Who cared? He loved feeling like he could fly. He smiled again.
Savich knew if he made any noise, Duvall would hear him. He studied the ancient fire escape with its open steel gratings and drop-down ladder on the upper floor. No doubt in his mind, the old contraption would gladly creak out his presence if he unhinged the ladder and pulled it down. He uncoiled the rope and made a loop out of it. He swung the coil to give it momentum and sent the loop upward toward a strut anchoring the platform to the building. He missed, and the metal groaned from the impact. He went silent. No sound from above. He managed to loop the rope around the strut on the third try. He tied off the rope, yanked on it, and it held. He took off his boots, said a prayer, and slowly pulled himself up the rope, hand over hand, his stockinged feet holding the rope steady, careful not to swing enough to touch any part of the fire escape. He reached the landing, paused, and listened. Nothing. He pulled himself quietly onto the platform. Now the window. It was closed, as expected. He took out his pocketknife, pushed it under the bottom edge of the window frame, and torqued the blade steadily and gently until he got enough purchase to slide the window smoothly up.
He climbed into the doctor’s office, looked around, and walked on cat’s feet out into the hall. He heard voices. They were in Exam Room 1, the door shut and no doubt locked. He eased farther down the corridor and spotted the exam room Jenny had told them was separated off only by a wallboard partition. He stepped inside as quietly as he could. It was dim, the shades drawn. There were contractor tools stacked neatly in one corner, an exam table and two chairs next to them. To the right was the Sheetrock wall. Savich pressed his ear to the Sheetrock and listened, heard Duvall say, “Hey, old man, are you getting it on with this sweet young nurse? No way you could keep up with her. What you need is an old bag as ancient as you are and the both of you could go to a retirement home in Florida.”
Jenny Connors spurted out a mocking laugh, and Savich felt a stab of fear. He heard Duvall take a step, probably toward Jenny, then stop. “Shut up! Why are you laughing?”
Savich breathed easier when Jenny stopped and hiccupped. The Sheetrock was so thin, he even heard her swallow. She said, her voice steady, “It’s what you said. It really was funny. Dr. Hodges said he hired me because he was too old now to appreciate my youth and vigor, so I’d be safe. You swear you’re not going to kill us?”
Before he could answer, Janko said, “Who shot you?”
Duvall said, “A weird bitch. I wasn’t expecting her to be in the living room, but there she was.”
Dr. Hodges started laughing. Duvall yelled, “Stop laughing at me, old man, unless you want a bullet in your feeble brain right now.”
Dr. Hodges said, “Listen, you young fool, I’ve got two ex-wives spending all my money, and with a malpractice insurance company charging me more than the national debt and cutting back what they pay me every year, I haven’t got that much to look forward to. Why do you think I’m still here? I have to be here, to keep a roof over our three heads, three different roofs, three different heads. I’m the one living in a ratty apartment, not those two harpies.”
Savich heard Duvall laugh. He was distracted, perfect. He texted Sherlock, typed only “Now.” In the next second, earsplitting music erupted from bullhorn, a Sousa march, so loud it shook the building. He heard Duvall curse and run to the window.
Savich stepped back and ran full tilt at the wallboard, hit it at full speed. It buckled and splintered, and he burst through. “Duvall, drop the gun! Now!”
For a wild, confused instant, Gary Duvall didn’t know what was happening. He whirled around, saw a big man pointing a gun at him, and raised his Colt, but he wasn’t fast enough. He heard a shot and felt a sledgehammer slam into his shoulder. He screamed, felt his precious grandpappy’s Colt slip from his fingers as he sank to the floor. He lay there only a second, still aware enough to know he couldn’t let it end like this, couldn’t go back to Red Onion. He made a grab for his Colt.
A boot heel smashed down on his wrist, and he screamed again as he felt the bones crack.
It wasn’t Savich’s boot; it was Teddy Janko’s. His hands were still tied, but he’d managed to stumble to Duvall and kick down. Then Janko kicked Duvall’s Colt across the room, managing to keep his balance. He stood over Duvall, panting.
“Good going, Officer Janko,” Savich said.
Jenny Connors leaped up, her intentions as clear as water to Savich. She raised her foot, then slowly lowered it, blinked, and stepped back. “Sorry, I nearly lost it. I’d still like to put his lights out.”
Dr. Hodges said, a good deal of satisfaction in his voice, “Better not to smash him more, Jenny. I don’t want you killing the idiot.” He grinned big at Savich. “Whoever you are, that was one amazing rescue.”
“I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. I must say it’s a relief to see all of you in one piece.”
Jenny turned to Savich. “Thank heavens you understood what I was saying about the Sheetrock. I wouldn’t care if you were the coffee maker repairman. Thank you. Now, Dr. Hodges, let’s get you and Officer Janko untied. I can put this bozo’s lights out later.”
Savich called Sherlock. “All clear. The hostages are fine. Get an ambulance here fast for Duvall. I had to shoot him in the shoulder to bring him down, and Officer Janko broke his wrist.”
They heard shouts and cheering from outside. Savich turned to Jenny Connors. “Yes, I understood what you meant. Along with the building plans, your information made all the difference.” He paused, then said, “Dr. Hodges, I think Jenny deserves a raise. Officer Janko, I’ll tell Chief Collette what you did here, maybe it’ll mitigate the butt-kicking he’s planning.”
Teddy Janko took a deep breath. “Thanks, I’ll probably need any good words you can say. But you know, I can tell him if I hadn’t seen Duvall, if I hadn’t come in, things might have turned out differently.” He gave Savich a huge smile and looked hopeful.
“Good luck with that,” Savich said.
