Driven (7 page)

“
Shadahd,
” she said. It just came out.

Suddenly the spinning stopped. Her vision was still blurred, but she was no longer dizzy because of it. The room seemed darker
than ever, but she didn’t mind; in fact, she liked it. Preferred it. She looked at Krogan. He hadn’t moved, still intently
watching her. She felt very different, and somehow Krogan knew that, too.

“Two more,” she yelled, grinning widely. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way, but somehow she knew she
had—many times. Maybe she was dreaming. She didn’t care. If it was a dream she was going to enjoy it. Really enjoy it.

The bartender brought over two more drinks, looking at her oddly, but didn’t say anything.

“What’s the matter, Sam? You don’t get many interesting people in here?” she said sensually, locking her eyes on her old friend,
Krogan.

The bartender didn’t answer. He just retreated back to his usual distance.

Karianne and Krogan picked up their drinks together. She clinked her tumbler against his and poured the contents down… ice
included. The cubes barely escaped getting caught in her throat and the pain that followed was so sharp the numbing alcohol
in her bloodstream could do little to combat it. She grabbed at her throat and started to fall forward. Krogan caught her
and pushed her back into the chair with a laugh.

“Maybe next time you’ll take a body that can handle a little more abuse. This one’s the best ever,” he said, and pulled open
his loose shirt, exposing his massive, muscle-ripped torso.

Karianne felt schizophrenic. Half of her knew what he was saying while the other half had no idea. Regardless, she didn’t
care. She was totally drunk and for some reason had plenty of energy. She reached up with her right hand and grabbed the thick
hair behind his neck, then pulled his head toward hers and kissed him. Still holding his hair tightly, she pulled his head
away and stared into his silver eyes. “Let’s party.”

“What kind of car do you have?”

“A new Jeep Grand Cherokee,” she slurred.

“
Shadahd?
” he said, picking up his newspaper as he rose from his seat.

“Yes!” she said, suddenly knowing exactly what he meant.

G
avin pushed through the worn wooden door of the homicide department. Homicide 242 was a depressing hole in the wall. The carpet
was so old, visiting retired detectives, some of whom were World War II veterans, could point to specific coffee stains and
reminisce. The standard joke was that the local historical society had blocked the way for a new carpet.

The supervisor’s office was partitioned off in such a way that no windows were available for ventilation or natural light.
So as not to burden taxpayers or elected skimmers, an oscillating fan, powered through a creatively routed extension cord,
was set upon a tall filing cabinet to assist a noisy, undersized air-conditioning system.

Chris was at his desk talking on the phone. He turned and held up an index finger. Gavin waited impatiently.

“Right… right… yeah,” Chris was saying while rolling his eyes and motioning that whoever was on the other end of the phone
was on a needless verbal roll.

On Chris’s desk lay a large white blotter decorated with data and doodles. Next to it sat a comic strip one-a-day calendar
and one of those chrome toys that defied the physical laws of perpetual motion. Gavin usually made a point of stopping it
whenever he walked by.

Gavin had no such entertainment on his own desk, just ten feet away—just a writing pad and photos of his parents, grandparents,
and the girlfriend who hadn’t lived long enough for him to marry. He was a jinx and the memorial on his desk was proof of
it. Chris’s
desk also had photos, but they were all of living people—mostly people Gavin didn’t know very well, which is why he figured
they were still alive.

“Uh-huh… super. Thanks again,” Chris said, then hung up.

“So?” Gavin said.

“That was your buddy, Detective Rogers from Brooklyn. He wants this guy almost as bad as you do.”

Gavin knew that was impossible. “And?”

“You go first. How’d you make out at the hospital?”

“She’s still in a coma. They’ll notify me the moment she comes out of it.”

“We should call them every day to make sure they don’t forget,” Chris said, pointing a pencil at Gavin.

“I don’t think we’ll have to. She has a twin sister who seems on the ball. Maybe a little too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. She’s just the helpful type. What do you have from Rogers?”

“Good news, bad news. What do ya want?”

“Good.”

“Prints are positive,” Chris said as he handed Gavin the forensic report. “It’s the same guy that introduced himself to you
at the aquarium. And check out those prints. They’re the biggest I’ve ever seen.”

“So I’ve heard. What else?”

“We think he’s blond. The girl had brown hair and there was short blond hair on the seat. Rogers is having the samples checked
against hair found in the aquarium truck.”

“They’ll match,” Gavin said without looking up from the report.

“Probably, but I don’t understand how a guy that’s this elusive isn’t careful enough to wear gloves. He leaves his fat fingerprints
everywhere. Maybe he wants to be known. Just not caught.”

“What do you mean?” Gavin said, still reading.

“Well, maybe he wants the attention. I know the feds have all but ruled him out as a terrorist, but maybe he’s a little jealous
of all the attention they’ve gotten.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a Viking,”

“A Viking?”

“Yeah. He lives for the moment. He could care less about tomorrow. The battle exists only for today. Yesterday was yesterday,
tomorrow is tomorrow, now is now.”

“Viking, maybe; stunt man, definitely. Instead of an ax and sword he uses cars and trucks. One of those Hollywood daredevil
crazies that drive off ramps into a stack of piled-up cars.”

Gavin looked up from the report to see if he was serious. At the moment nothing seemed farfetched.

“He’ll probably turn out to be one of those wrestling dudes. Some of those guys will do anything for attention.”

“They wouldn’t do this,” Gavin said.

“Well, probably not, but the media attention might spur on some copycats.”

Gavin frowned thoughtfully.

“Whatever he is,” Chris continued, “he certainly enjoys what he’s doing. Nobody puts himself through that much physical pain
if he doesn’t have to.”

“What did you find out about the girl?”

“That’s the bad news. Nothing. She was a waitress at an archeological theme restaurant in East Norwich called The Dig. One
of the other waitresses said she had complained about feeling shaky. She had a couple of drinks to try to settle herself down,
then left before dinner was over.”

“She left alone?”

“They think so. Nobody actually saw her leave and she didn’t tell anyone she was going. And nobody recalls ever seeing her
with any big guy with blond hair.”

“Parents? Friends?”

“Not much. Everyone’s in shock. A couple of close friends admitted she liked to drink at parties, but none would say she had
a drinking problem.”

“The blood test shows a .25. I’d say that constitutes a drinking problem.”

“Point two-five?” Chris said. “I must have missed that. Another five hundredths of a percent and she wouldn’t have needed
the crash to kill her. I’ve never seen so much alcohol in someone who was still able to function. A seasoned alcoholic would’ve
been out cold. She must have been unconscious.”

“She had her seat belt halfway around her, like she’d tried to latch it. How could she do that if she was unconscious?”

“Well, then the .25 has got to be wrong.”

“Tell them to do it over,” Gavin said, dropping the report onto the desk.

“Why bother?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t got much and .25 stands out. It’s odd. I can’t see where it could bring us, but… it’s odd.”

“Done,” Chris said, getting out of his chair. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

“Headin’ out?”

“Yeah. Pat’s already fed the kids, but she’s waiting for me with a juicy steak that needs grilling,” Chris said, smacking
his lips. “I suppose you need a ride home?”

“Yeah. My car’s probably done and waiting.”

“It’s times like this I really miss being single,” Chris said sarcastically. “You going home to that toolbox you call a car;
I’m going home to my wife and that juicy steak.”

K
ROGAN SMILED
from behind the wheel of Karianne’s Jeep when he saw the man that matched the face in the newspaper emerge through the glass
doors. To take him out in the police department parking lot would be fun. The smart man in the paper deserved to be humiliated
in front of the other cops.

Karianne, whom Krogan knew as Sabah, was more interested in the bottle nesting safely between her legs. It reminded Krogan
of the first time he’d seen Sabah drinking, cradling a wineskin.

The cop from the newspaper entered a car with someone else. Two cops, Krogan thought. The more the better. He started his
engine, but cursed when he realized the cops were parked next to the exit and he wouldn’t be able to get to them in time.
Whatever, he would have them soon.

C
HRIS DROVE A WHITE MINIVAN
—a family car for a family man. He and Gavin chatted and traded insults as he drove toward Gavin’s place. At Gavin’s, the
garage door was open, the light was on, the car’s hood was closed, and John Garrity was sitting back in a plastic patio chair
with a bottled drink in his hand.

“Say, Gav,” said Chris. “The transmission in this beast has been slipping a bit. Do you think your buddy would check it out
for me?”

“You want my mechanic to look at your car? I’m surprised you think he’s worthy.”

“Hey. If he can get that thing of yours running, mine will be a piece of cake.”

“Well, you can ask him yourself,” Gavin said, seeing Garrity on his way down the driveway. He climbed out of the car, noticing
as he did so a dark-colored Cherokee driving slowly by. Garrity smiled easily as he came up to the car.

“Hey, partner,” he said to Gavin, then waved to Chris.

“How’d it go?” Gavin asked.

“Done. No big deal. I haven’t been here long.”

“Good. John, meet Chris. Chris, John,” Gavin said. “Chris wondered if you could take a quick spin around the block and check
out his tranny.”

“Sure. Be happy to.”

“Great,” Chris said. “Gavin tells me you’re the only one he trusts with his car.”

Garrity laughed. “That’s because he’s scared how much the other guys would charge to work on that thing.”

Chris and Garrity laughed as Chris slid over to the passenger seat and Garrity hopped behind the wheel.

“Hey, Gav. Wanna join me and the missus for dinner? There’s a juicy steak with your name written on it,” Chris said.

“Another time,” Gavin said.

“Okay, but just remember when you’re pulling out that last slice of salami from last week’s cold cuts, I’m gonna be strategically
placing sautéed mushrooms and onions on my hot, dripping steak. Then I’ll follow it with hot mashed potatoes and—”

“Enough! Get out of here.”

“—Greek salad with just the right amount of feta cheese. Hot, buttered asparagus—” Gavin shut the door on Chris’s culinary
barrage. Chris promptly rolled down his window and continued the abuse as they drove away. “Hot apple pie, à la mode…”

Gavin shook his head as he watched Garrity drive slowly up the block. He was about to turn away when he saw something that
froze him in place. He could see the headlights of another car coming out of a side street. It was going much too fast to
stop at the corner.

“No!” he cried, emptying his lungs as the car smashed head on into the driver-side door of Chris’s van, slamming the car sideways
until it bumped over the curb. As explosively loud as the impact had been, there was suddenly silence.

Dead silence.

G
avin’s legs couldn’t have gotten him to the crash any faster. All he could think about was Chris and Garrity. As he neared
the collision he could see that the car that had hit the minivan was a Cherokee—the same one that had driven by them minutes
before. He slid on the wet asphalt, stopping at the minivan’s passenger door. His heart hammered as he grabbed the handle
and yanked.

“Oh, God!” he cried, and meant it, as Chris’s limp body fell toward him. Gavin caught him by the shoulders. He was out cold,
but Gavin could feel his warm, shallow breath on his own neck. He pulled him out and lowered him gently to the hard concrete
sidewalk, then went back to Garrity, who had been on the impact side. The interior light revealed Garrity facedown on the
passenger seat. Steam from the Cherokee’s radiator was billowing through the smashed-in door of the minivan, making it almost
impossible to see. Gavin heard the creaking, popping sound of metal. It was the driver-side door of the Cherokee. A large
shadow staggered across the fogged windshield.

Could it be the killer? At first the notion seemed absurd. But how absurd must the car flying through the air have appeared
to
Mitchell Clayborne before he was decapitated? But if it was the killer, what was he doing here? Had he followed them from
headquarters? Were the hunters now the hunted? The sudden likelihood opened the door to questions Gavin had no time to consider.
If he moved now he could catch the man, arrest him—or better, shoot him—and end it here. End this useless carnage of human
life. He wanted that murdering scum so badly he was trembling.

He looked back at Garrity. Through the oily cloud of water and antifreeze vapor he saw blood spreading on the seat like spilled
ink on a blotter pad. A coiled black cord led to a car phone lying on the floor. He grabbed it, pressed the power button,
and punched in 911, praying for a connection. Instead he heard two low-toned beeps indicating the need to enter Chris’s security
code.

“I don’t know the password,” he screamed at the phone.

“Is anyone hurt?” called a voice from behind him.

Gavin turned to see an elderly woman standing in a nearby driveway.

“Call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance. Hurry!”

The woman stared.

“Go!”

The woman turned and hurried back up the driveway as Gavin turned back to Garrity and gently maneuvered him so his face wasn’t
buried into the seat cushion. The heavy limpness of his head brought tears to Gavin’s eyes.

“Please, John. Hold on,” he said, searching Garrity’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He grabbed the rearview mirror and ripped
it off the windshield, quickly dried it off with his shirt, then placed it by Garrity’s lips and nose. Nothing. No fogging.
No breath. No life…

Gavin backed away from the car and looked at the sky. The dark clouds had broken up; moonlight illuminated their edges as
they slowly scudded by.

“No! Not him, too. Not John,” he sobbed, unable to control his emotions. “Why?”Why was this happening?

A groan. Gavin snapped his gaze toward Garrity. Another groan. It wasn’t coming from Garrity. It was coming from the Cherokee.

He ran over to the passenger side of the other car. The door was hard to open, making the same metal-popping sound he’d heard
when the driver’s door was opened. Inside, in the dim light, he saw a girl moving slowly in her seat, groaning, her head hanging
forward so that her very blonde hair touched her thighs. Her seat belt was unbuckled, but the airbag, which was now half deflated,
had done its job.

As Gavin peered into the interior, his breath suddenly caught. A copy of
The Daily Post
was folded and wedged between the seat and the center console. Chris’s face was clearly circled in red. Gavin reached past
the girl and grabbed the paper. He opened to the print on page three and saw another red circle around Chris’s quote: “Turn
yourself in.” Scribbled boldly across the page in the same red ink were the words “Here I am.”

Gavin heard sirens approaching behind him and saw the reflection of flashing lights dancing on the macabre message in his
hands. He folded up the paper and turned his attention back to the girl, grabbing her hair and pulling it back so he could
see her face.

“Stay alive,” he commanded through gritted teeth. “You’re not dying on me, baby. I’m gonna latch onto you like a pit bull
and you’re gonna tell me who the driver is. And when I get hold of him, I’m gonna beat him to death with my bare hands.”

Staring at the girl, he fought back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. It was then that he looked past her to
the open ashtray and saw the lobster claw.

A
N HOUR LATER
Gavin found himself once again in the emergency room at Glen Cove. Again he raised his head at the mechanical sound of the
sliding glass doors opening. This time, to his dread, he was right. Susan Garrity. She wore gray sweats and slippers. She
had probably been cozying up on the couch watching TV when she got the call. She took tiny, uncertain steps across the floor,
clutching her chest with her right hand as if she were having a heart attack. Her black mascara ran down her face like burnt
wax. She was sobbing, her eyes searching for answers in the faces around her.

“Susan.” Gavin sprang out of his seat to meet her. As he hurried over, he saw a nurse coming from across the room to intercept
her as well.

Susan turned to his voice. “Where’s John?” she cried in a pleading tone.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said. The words sounded ridiculously inane, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He reached out
to embrace her and she shook off his touch, bending over as if her stomach was cramping.

“I want to see my husband. I want to see John.”

The nurse had tears in her own eyes as she looked at Gavin. He closed his eyes and slowly nodded.

“Your husband’s in the other room, Mrs. Garrity,” the nurse said. “I’ll bring you to him.”

Gavin stepped back and watched the nurse walk the grieving woman through the swinging doors, her arm at the small of Susan’s
back. They were the same doors Chris and the blonde woman had been rushed through earlier. The doctors had told him the preliminary
prognosis looked good for the both of them. Chris appeared to have a mild concussion and a broken left arm. The girl had broken
her left leg, but the air bag had saved her from any other serious injury. In fact, if not for the air bag, treating her broken
leg would not have been necessary. She and Chris would both spend
the night in the ICU and in all probability would be moved into private rooms in the morning.

“Pierce!” Gavin looked up and saw Mel Gasman hurrying toward him. Gavin smiled grimly.

“Gasman,” he said. “You’re just the guy I want to talk to.”

Gasman looked as though he must have heard wrong. “You want to talk to me?” he said, pointing to his chest.

“Yeah! How would you like to help me catch the Ghost Driver?”

“I get the exclusive?”

“The story will be yours.”

“Then I’m yours.”

“Don’t you even want to know what you’ll have to do?”

Gasman shrugged. “What’s the difference? As long as I get the story.”

“Good. I’ve got breaking news. And I want tomorrow’s front page.”