For Everything a Reason (14 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Carter took the stairs with reckless disregard. He’d
already left Level 1 behind him and was now a single flight of stairs away from
the ground floor. All around him came the insistent ringing of fire-bells,
piercing to hear, which threw his senses off somewhat.

He slowed now, understanding that
the shooter could have vacated the stairwell in favour of the many corridors
the hospital had to offer. No trace of blood could be found on the stairs or
walls. Body-armour, Carter thought, understanding that the killer must be
wearing a bullet-proof vest. How else could he have taken a direct hit and
still be standing? Stepping away from the handrail, he pushed his back against
the wall and trained his weapon towards the access doorway. It was closed tight
– just like on Level 1. They were thick, insulated fire doors.

Carter brought himself up
against the doorway. A small reinforced window revealed an empty corridor
beyond. He moved away, taking the first steps towards the basement.

The standard fluorescent lights
were replaced by smaller bulkhead fittings, which made Carter feel as if he was
heading deeper into an underground labyrinth. Also, the whitewashed walls faded
into a dismal grey, as if light from above was not a requirement here, in the
deeper bowels of the building. Carter didn’t like it one bit. He felt as if he
was leaving the safety of civilisation somewhere above him. Then, mercifully,
the ringing bells stopped. His ears filled instantly with the sound of silence.

The slam of a door stopped him
short. The detective waited for a second to see if any other sounds came from
below. Maybe the perpetrator had intentionally allowed the door to slam shut,
only to tiptoe to a lower level, taking that door silently instead?

The stairwell was dead quiet.

No, his quarry had taken the
first route available to him. Carter bounded down the stairs and reached the
basement doorway in four or five long strides.

Unlike the two previous doors,
this one was operated by a simple push-bar. Carter dropped the bar and opened
the door by an inch or two. Darkness prevailed on the other side. Had the
suspect hit the switch on his way, now waiting in darkness, ready to shoot
anything that came through?

Maybe?

Carter scanned behind him. A
fire extinguisher hung just off the floor from a heavy-duty hook. He took it,
momentarily tucking his weapon into his holster. Returning to the door, he
cracked it open slightly. No shots rang out. He undid his tie, quickly
loosening the knot, and then slipped it over his head. Dropping to one knee, he
wrapped the length of material round the operating handle. The short nozzle
fixed itself to the body of the canister. He pulled it clear before withdrawing
his weapon.

Ready for action, he stood,
pushed open the door, yanked the safety pin away from the handle and then
launched the extinguisher into the room. Thick, white powder exploded from the
nozzle, instantly filling the room with a choking, dry mist. He waited for just
a few seconds before reaching inside, now under cover. His fingers found the
light switch just inside the doorway. He pressed it and then quickly retracted
his arm.

The room beyond became a flare
of bright lights. A shot rang out, barely distinguishable over the high-powered
jet of powder, and a chunk of wood splintered just as Carter’s hand was clear.
He kicked the door open, spinning away from the opening, to take cover behind
the wall opposite. Another shot sounded and a bullet thudded loudly as it
buried itself in a chunk of masonry.

Carter dropped back to one
knee. He leaned quickly away from his place of safety and fired a single shot
at the extinguisher. The expected explosion didn’t happen. No ball of fire to
engulf the perpetrator or flying red-hot shrapnel to rip skin from bone.
Instead, Carter heard the canister crack open and the powder filled the
stairwell in a billowing white cloud. Silence followed.

The calm was finally broken by
the sound of running feet. In the next instant, Carter was up and giving chase.
He barged into the room, falling to one side, dropping low with his arms out
straight in a shooter’s stance. The powder had already started to fall, its
density too great for it to remain aloft for any real length of time. Just a
light mist lingered, most having covered the floor and contents with a thick
white blanket.

Carter found himself in a
laundry room. A fleet of carts took up one side of the room almost entirely,
soiled sheets, pillowcases and hospital gowns filled most to overflowing, and
large, industrial-looking washing machines were crammed closely together on the
opposite side. They stood idle, large circular doors open to reveal deep drums.

The room funnelled into a tight
passageway on the opposite side, and Carter spied another door swing shut. He
climbed to his feet and continued his pursuit.

He arrived at the doorway, his
intuition knowing almost certainly what would lie beyond. He could smell it
from this side already. A pungent reek of dampness filled his nostrils. Again,
he paused on this side, uncertain whether the shooter was waiting on the other
side. With no other option this time and little cover available to him, he
simply kicked open the door and barged through. With the agility of a gymnast,
he dropped to one knee before rolling sideways, away from the open doorway.

No sudden flashes of gunfire
erupted; no heads popped up from behind the available cover.

The room was humid, warm. In
some corners dark patches of mould could be seen, too rampant to be hidden by a
mere additional coating of paint. Large pressing machines stood with their lids
poised, ready to iron out any creases within the linen sheets. Like the
adjoining room, no workers could be found here.

Carter stepped into the centre
of the room. Now, he had a choice of two doorways. One shut tight by his side,
the other slightly ajar. He checked the one to his side but found it locked. A
heavy-duty mortise lock barred entry. It would be unlikely the suspect just
happened to have the right key, even if it was an inside job. Intuition steered
him towards the open doorway. As he drew near, a slight draught brushed against
his face. It carried with it the faint odour of gasoline and burnt oil.

Expecting to discover a boiler
room or some other type of utility service, he was surprised to find himself
once again at the top of a flight of steps. The stench of motor-oil became stronger.
He took the steps carefully, fully alert to danger, and eventually they gave
way to a simple opening. A large yellow stencilled sign read: Parking Level 1.

Instantly, Carter understood
the origin of the smell: cars. He poked his head around the throughway just for
a second, before pulling back. Still, he had enough time to register a dozen or
so lines of parked vehicles. This, it seemed, was the hospital staff’s car
parking area. Carter guessed the primary access to the parking bay must be
located elsewhere, possibly by both the elevator and stairs. Meaning, the
shooter could now be doubling back towards room 2b. Would he be bold enough to
do such a thing?

Most likely, considering the
state of panic the hospital had been thrown into. He took one step into the
parking bay, in the hope of seeing a retreating car, or fleeing fugitive, but
the area was silent.

Quickly, he re-entered the
stairwell and began a hasty ascent back the way he had come.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

Neon signs scratched bright effects into the canvas of
the night. The swirls and loops of luminous reds, blues, pinks and greens
offered a dazzling array of colour, which belied the dark festering reality
that could be found here. Young girls some barely out of their teens, stood
with midriffs exposed and legs clad in dark stockings. Lipstick almost as
bright as the neon signs could be found smeared across their cracked lips,
while eyes that were the windows to troubled or lost souls looked out upon the
night with bleak despair.

In this part of the city,
immorality ruled absolute. Strip joints and peepshows could be found in every
other doorway, separated by shops that advertised adult merchandise, or
shuttered doorways, which were makeshift beds for the night’s unwanted and
forgotten homeless.

How strange then that Presley
Perkins felt so comfortable as he trawled along these illicit storefronts. The
night was busy, drawing together a mixture of young and old, some to sample the
tempting things that were on offer, others brought by mere curiosity – and the
rest, like Presley, had come here with only business in mind.

While Presley made his way
along the sidewalk, he was stopped countless times by many a face: black,
white, oriental, youthful and aged, haggard or fresh-faced, but all presenting
him with the same service – sex. Presley kindly rejected all their offers,
smiling and bowing submissively in apology, then continued on his way. Maybe
there would be time for such pleasures later. But for now, he stayed focused on
the task at hand.

Finally, just before the bright
strip gave way to a main avenue, Presley arrived at a closed doorway. The
solid-looking door reminded him of Moses Prey’s place. He shuddered at the
thought of the carnage he had left there. Then, raising his fist, he hammered noisily
against it.

A familiar scene played out
before him. A peephole slid open to reveal a pair of eyes, full of cold
contempt.

“What you want?” the muffled
voice asked from beyond the door.

Presley took a step closer. “I
wanna speak to the Boss.” The light from the sidewalk cast half of Presley’s
face in shadow.

“And who might you be?” asked
the voice, which had a distinctive Slavic tone.

“It’s me – Presley.”

The eyes widened, contempt
replaced instantly by confusion. “Presley?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” Presley replied.

The voice on the other side
became a guarded whisper. “You shouldn’t be showing your face around here. The
Boss is really pissed with you.”

“I know, but I need his help.”

“Help?”

“Yeah. I need to disappear.”

The eyes turned to astonished
amusement. “Viktor would happily do that for you, free of charge..!”

“I know he would. But he may be
willing to help if he gets his money back.”

“Money?”

“Yeah, from what I borrowed.”

“Presley, I’m not sure you’re
aware of this fact. But Viktor has people looking for you. You know – not with
good intentions, either.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here –
to have him call off the dogs,” Presley explained.   

The speaker’s eyebrows rose
slightly at Presley’s audacity. “You sure of this? We could keep this to
ourselves.”

“Look – Nikolay, I’m in a real
jam and need the Boss’s help. You gonna open up or what?”

Presley heard Nikolay’s lips
purse on the other side of the doorway. “Okay, Presley, but don’t say I didn’t
warn you. The Boss is in a foul mood tonight.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Nikolay shook his head, as if
silently reproaching a foolish child. The loud noise of a heavy-duty bolt
sliding back sounded from the other side. Next, the door swung open to allow
Presley’s entrance. Nikolay, a slim, old man, stepped to one side, giving
Presley room enough to move deeper inside. The door swung shut and the bolt
returned to its housing.

“You’d better follow me,”
Nikolay ordered, taking the lead. Shades of Moses’ place could be found here,
as if all lawbreaking ‘entrepreneurs’ hired from the same interior designers.
The corridor was long and dark, but carpeted, and the rooms that led off the
main passageway were closed tight. With names like Crystal, Suzy Star, Mercedes
and Candy stencilled on their doors, it was obvious to Presley what type of
transaction went on inside. Indeed, as he traversed this corridor, the muffled
sounds of pain and pleasure could be heard. 

Nikolay took Presley the full
length of the passageway. At the end, Nikolay turned and asked, “You carrying?”

Presley pulled his jacket to
one side. “Just this,” he replied, showing him the small handgrip of the
Derringer.

“Hard times, indeed,” Nikolay
said. “You wait here, while I see if the Boss will see you.”

Presley nodded, confident that
Viktor would make time to see him – no matter how busy he might be. He stood
alone for a few minutes, enduring the grunts and moans that came from closed
doors. Seemed like Viktor’s business was thriving as ever.

Nikolay returned shortly and
simply gestured for Presley to follow. He was led into another short passageway
and then directed to the single doorway at the end.

“You not coming?” Presley
asked.

Nikolay shook his head
apologetically. “No.”

“What about this?” Presley
asked, pointing towards the Derringer.

“What about it? That ain’t
gonna be of no concern to the Boss.” The old guy turned on his heels and simply
disappeared back around the corridor and out of view.

Presley took a deep breath –
perhaps his last – and then stepped inside. The room he entered was familiar to
him. Plush furniture filled most of the space available. Elongated sofas, long
enough to seat whole football teams – or so it seemed – were laid out at
irregular positions. Each had an expensive table or stand at either end, and
along one entire wall TV screens flashed with bits of imagery, forming a large,
single picture. The New York Rangers were filling up most of the screens with
their red, white and blue uniforms.

Five people sat watching the
game, the central figure almost as broad as the two who sat on his right.
Another two were leaning forward on the opposite side, engrossed in the early
match statistics. A sixth person, a thickset Georgian named Pyotr Krylov, stood
just in the open doorway, his attention focused directly on Presley. For
someone with such a muscular figure, Pyotr’s face looked skinny and long in
comparison. Pyotr smiled slyly, as if he was already privy to Presley’s fate. 

The guy sitting in the middle
of the sofa cursed loudly at the screen in a language that was mostly
unfamiliar to Presley. He knew it to be Russian, but had little understanding
of what had actually just been said. Another hail of abuse – its tone
unmistakable – fell from the man’s lips, and his round face turned slightly red
under the verbal assault.

Yeah, Presley thought, the Boss
is in a real foul mood tonight.

Not good.

Not good at all.