Nine Lives (22 page)

 

It was three a.m. when a nurse came into Mark Presley's room to check his vitals and change the IV bag on the pole. Mark had been dozing, but he woke almost immediately as the lights came on. He stayed motionless as she puttered around, resetting machines and checking hookups on the monitors that continued to register his vital signs. As best as he could judge, she was almost finished when there was a loud crash out in the hall.

Startled, she turned abruptly, and in doing so, knocked over a large bouquet of flowers that were sitting on a small table by the bed.

“Well, shit,” the nurse muttered softly. The vase had shattered, sending water and cut flowers everywhere.

She buzzed the nurses' desk and was rewarded with a prompt answer. “How can I help you?”

“I don't know what spilled out in the hall, but when the orderly is through cleaning it up, send him in here. I knocked over a vase of flowers. There's broken glass, water and flowers all over.”

“He'll be right there,” the nurse replied.

Mark heard her leave, but within a couple of minutes, the door opened again. Mark could tell from the weight of the footsteps and the length of the stride that a man had entered. He heard the sound of squeaky wheels and guessed it was a mop bucket.

Obviously the orderly.

Unlike the nurse, the orderly made no attempt to hide his disgust and cursed intermittently as he picked up the flowers and broken glass while dragging the squeaky bucket around.

As the orderly worked, Mark lay in wait, like a lion waiting for the kill, and when he sensed the orderly was on the other side of the room, he ventured a quick look.

He saw a man in his late thirties with his back to the bed, slowly cleaning up the mess the nurse had made. Mark noted the man's neatly clipped dark hair and slim build, and when he suddenly stood up, Mark could tell he was similar to his own height.

Suddenly a wild plan began to take shape. It might take more strength than he had—and an inordinate amount of good luck that he didn't have—but if everything worked, it could prove to be his ticket out.

He watched the man use a large mop to sop up the water in which he was standing, and suddenly Mark's decision was made.

Within a few seconds, the orderly, still with his back to Mark, had mopped himself all the way to the guardrails of the bed. Mark rose up, grabbed the man around the neck and gave him a hard backward yank. The unexpected blow combined with the wet floor, and the orderly dropped as if he'd been pole-axed. He hit the floor flat on his back with a sickening thud. His head bounced once and made a sound not unlike that of a ripe melon being dropped.

Mark refused to feel guilty. At this point in his life, it was every man for himself. He pulled the oxygen tubing from around his ears, then unplugged the monitors and began unhooking himself from them by grabbing fistfuls of the wires connected to his body and giving them a yank. He pulled the IV out of his hand, wincing as blood began to spurt, then grabbed a washcloth lying nearby and wrapped it around his hand as tightly as he could. But it was the catheter up his penis that gave him pause. Finally he gritted his teeth and pulled, again, then again, until the tubing suddenly came free, spilling urine out onto the floor.

Pain shot through his body so fast that he doubled over, but he didn't have time to suffer. At any moment some nurse could come into the room and that would spell the end.

He felt shaky when his feet hit the floor, but there was no time to waste. Without hesitation, he grabbed the orderly's feet, yanking first at the shoes, then the pants. He was shaking so badly he could barely breathe when he began to put them on.

I can do this,
he thought, as he tugged on the orderly's shirt until he managed to pull it over his head. There was blood all over the back of it from the orderly's head wound, and it was wet from the spilled water and urine, but it was something better than a hospital gown.

Mark shook out the shirt, then pulled it over his head, finding it a looser fit on him than it had been on the orderly. Now there was nothing left for him to do but get out undetected.

As he turned, his gaze jumping wildly from bed to table to window, he tried to think of how to make this happen. Then he realized he was looking at a cigarette lighter on the floor near the orderly's hand. It must have been in the man's shirt pocket and had fallen out when Mark undressed the orderly.

He looked at the lighter again, then at the oxygen tube lying in the middle of the bed where he'd discarded it. In that moment, his last bit of empathy for his fellow man flickered and died. He had his means of escape.

Carefully he stepped over the orderly, dropping his hospital gown on the body as he upped the flow of oxygen still coming through the tube. He stood, listening to the hiss until he was satisfied there was a noticeable amount pouring into the room.

Pure oxygen, the life-giving, body enriching—highly flammable—gas.

He moved toward the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, he flipped open the lighter, opened the door, then looked back.

At that point, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

He flicked the lighter.

It lit on the first try.

As he tossed it, it flew in a perfect arc toward the middle of his bed.

He was already into the hall and running when the oxygen caught. He didn't see the deadly tongue of blue flame as it appeared out of nowhere, but he, along with everyone else on the floor, felt the explosion.

It knocked him to his hands and knees, but he didn't look back. Sprinklers came on overhead, but the flames in his room were still being fed and were too intense to be put out so easily.

People were screaming.

Nurses were shouting orders and running in every direction.

A nurse raced past him to a fire alarm on the wall up ahead, broke the glass and pulled the lever. He knocked her aside on his way to the exit and took the stairs two at a time. His legs felt like rubber as he went stumbling, falling, then got up and did it all over again.

Suddenly he was running through the hallways on the main floor, along with dozens of others who were also on the move. He ran past a door marked employee lounge. Without hesitating, he ducked inside.

Rows of lockers lined the side of one wall. There was a winter parka hanging over the back of a chair. He grabbed it, and as he put it on, he found a set of car keys in the pocket.

Bingo.

The wheels he needed to escape.

The jacket was at least two sizes too large, and he had no idea what vehicle the car keys would fit. All he could do was punch the car alarm on the security key ring and hope he got a quick hit before the guards got suspicious.

The moment the cold air in the parking lot hit his face, he pressed his thumb on the alarm button and held it down as he ran, aiming it wildly from one vehicle to another. Suddenly a horn began to honk—repeatedly and in a frenzied monotone—leading him straight to a mid-sized Chevrolet.

Still in full stride, he silenced the alarm and hit the Unlock button.

It was only after he slipped behind the wheel and tried to put the key in the ignition that he realized how badly he was shaking. He took a slow breath, trying to calm down. It would be the final straw if he got this far, then passed out from exertion and missed his chance to escape.

Finally the key slid into the ignition. The engine started on the first turn, and he thought, as he put the car into gear, that he'd never heard a more beautiful sound.

The way he figured it, even if there was enough left of the orderly to pick up, it would take them days, maybe longer, to realize that it wasn't Mark Presley who'd died in that room.

By then, he would be gone.

As he turned a corner, he paused and looked back. Flames were shooting out of three windows on the second floor. Fire trucks and police cars with lights flashing and sirens screaming were turning into the hospital parking lot as he drove away.

He shuddered.

It was the only physical reaction he could muster to what he'd done. Above all else, he needed clothes and money. Going home to get clothes and a car was too risky, and he couldn't use an ATM without alerting everyone to the fact that he was alive and running.

But he did have a plan.

He had clothes and money at the office, and a set of keys to a company car that was parked in the adjoining garage. All he had to do was get inside without being seen. He couldn't go through the lobby and maintain the deception that he was dead, but there was his personal elevator down on the freight docks that led straight to his office. Normally he used the key on his key ring, but that was at the house. However, he was a man who was always prepared. There was another key hidden on the docks for emergencies. And if ever there was an emergency, this was it.

C
at was physically exhausted by the time she got home. There was another message from Al, who wanted her to call him back, but it was too late to return the call.

The laptop that Pete had promised was on the kitchen counter, along with a sealed envelope. She opened it, read the brief instructions and then booted up the machine. With a couple of key strokes, a map of Dallas appeared on the screen. Another couple of key strokes and a pattern of tiny lights came up, superimposed on the map.

Cat's eyes narrowed in satisfaction as she realized she was looking at the bugs Pete had left behind. For the moment, none of them were moving, which, if she understood Pete's instructions, meant they were still right where he'd left them.

The instructions also said that if anything started moving, the map would automatically change to accommodate the movement.

Now that the program was up and running, she was nervous about walking away. What if, while she was taking a bath, something started to happen and she didn't see it? Still, it was better than nothing, which was exactly what she would have had if not for Pete.

Satisfied that for the time being she had as much control of the situation as she could, she moved around the kitchen, turning up the thermostat in the apartment as she made herself a sandwich. She heated up some leftover coffee, but it tasted bitter, so she poured it down the drain and settled for a can of pop.

Too antsy to relax while she ate, she stood at the kitchen counter to eat her meal while keeping an eye on the computer screen.

Her telephone rang as she was downing her last bite. As soon as she saw caller ID, she answered.

“Hey you.”

Wilson McKay stifled a soft groan. Just the sound of her voice turned him on.

“Hey yourself,” he said. “How are you doing?”

Cat sat down on a nearby barstool and began fiddling with the ends of her hair.

“I'm okay. How about you?”

“That's part of why I'm calling,” Wilson said. “I wanted to come by and see you tonight, but I'm on a stakeout.”

“Is it a bad one?” she asked.

He knew what she was asking. Sometimes the people who jumped bail were scary.

“Nah…this guy's a toker. He probably got himself a bag of weed and forgot he was supposed to show up in court. I've got a line on his girlfriend, who swears that when the dude's smoking, he always comes to her place to crash. So here I am. You know how it goes.”

“You don't think she'll warn him off?” Cat asked.

Wilson chuckled. “No. She's pretty pissed at him. Says he owes her money, and that when he's not smoking weed, he has a tendency to smack her around. She wants him off her back.”

“Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Cat said.

“Yeah. At any rate, I just wanted to check in with you.”

“I'm fine,” Cat said.

“Glad one of us is,” he said.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly. “Ignore me. That doesn't require an answer. It's just an update on my state of mind.”

Surprised by the unexpected humor, Cat laughed.

The sound curled around Wilson's heart and squeezed just tightly enough to make him feel short of breath.

“Have a good evening.”

“You too.”

“Okay, Miss Independent, I see a little movement down the street, which means I've got to go.”

Even as she was hanging up the receiver, she felt as if she were floating off into space without a tether to anything stable.

Disgusted with herself for feeling something close to needy, she carried her dirty dishes to the sink. With one backward glance at the laptop, she headed for the shower.

A short time later, she moved the laptop into her bedroom and then crawled into bed, intent on watching the late news. She was asleep before it ever came on.

 

Pete Yokum stood at the window of his apartment overlooking the streets below and thought about the job he'd just done for Cat Dupree. It had felt good to get back in the swing of things. Maybe he would do a little something now and then, like installing security systems—or maybe troubleshooting for the ones he'd already installed.

As he stood there, he began to realize he was hearing sirens—a lot of sirens—and that he'd been hearing them for some time. It wasn't an unusual sound, not in a city the size of Dallas. But this wasn't the normal pattern. Curious, he turned around and picked up the television remote, turned on his set and then clicked on a local news channel.

The screen was alive with what he could only describe as chaos. Fire trucks and firemen were everywhere. Water from the hoses was freezing on the parking lot where the trucks were parked, making the men's job even more hazardous than usual. Police cars could be seen in the distance, blocking off streets and redirecting traffic. Curious, Pete sat down on the sofa and turned up the volume, catching a live report of what was happening.

“What's on fire?” Pete muttered, willing them to mention the address, then leaning forward as the reporter continued his broadcast.

A hospital? Pete's heart dropped as he frantically scanned the screen, looking for anything that would tell him the location.

He continued to watch as a camera began to sweep across the parking lot, giving an overview of what was happening to go with what the on-site reporter was saying, and as it did, he saw a sign in the background.

Dallas Memorial.

The fire was at Dallas Memorial!

What had that journalist said? It had started on the second floor?

Wasn't Mark Presley on the second floor of Dallas Memorial?

He began scrambling for his laptop, plugging it in, then quickly turning it on. He had a program on his that was the twin of the one he'd given to Cat. His hands were shaking as he waited for it to load. Typing quickly, he soon had the map up, highlighting the bugs he'd planted. Almost immediately, he saw movement.

It didn't take long for him to figure out what he was seeing. Someone was at Presley's office, taking clothes, shoes, the large duffel bag and the money that had been in the safe.

He stared back at the television, seeing the fire and imagining the horror of what must be happening inside. He didn't know how it had happened, but he was about to bet Cat Dupree's life that she'd been right. He grabbed his phone and punched in her number.

 

Cat was so deeply asleep that when the phone first rang, she thought it was part of her dream. It rang twice more before she woke up enough to realize that someone was calling her. She rolled over on her side without opening her eyes, grabbed the receiver, then put it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Cat! It's Pete! Wake up and listen!”

It was the panic in his voice that made her sit up on the side of the bed.

“I'm awake,” she muttered. “What's wrong?”

“Turn on the television.”

Cat reached for the remote and aimed it.

“Which station?”

“Doesn't matter. Any local one,” he said.

Cat leaned forward, staring in disbelief as the picture appeared on the screen.

“My God! What's on fire?”

“Dallas Memorial.”

Her next heartbeat was so hard and irregular as it slammed against the inside of her chest that she almost lost her breath.

“What the hell are you saying?”

“The fire—they're saying it started on the second floor. But that's not all. Check your computer. Someone's made a move on Presley's office. I bugged clothes, shoes and a butt load of money while I was there, and it's all on the move and going in the same direction!”

“Oh dear God,” Cat muttered as her mind began to race. When she looked at the laptop on the other side of the room, she saw the moving blip. “How did he do this? How
could
he do this?”

“You don't know for sure that Presley was responsible for what happened,” Pete said. “And you can't be certain that it's Presley who's at the office. For all we know, he fried in that fire.”

Cat's voice was shaking as she began grabbing at her clothes.

“No, he's not dead. Evil like that isn't going to die that easy. I don't know how he did it, but I would bet money he caused the fire and used it to make an escape, without caring who else might be harmed. Thanks for calling me.”

“Wait! What are you going to do?”

“I'm going after him.”

Pete frowned. “No. What you need to do is call the police. Let them chase—”

“He'd be gone before I could convince anyone to go check out his office. I'm not going to let the bastard get away.”

“Damn it, Cat. You can't go after someone like that without—”

The line went dead in Pete's ear. He returned his attention to the computer screen and tried not to let his imagination go crazy. Still, there was no denying the fact that someone was on the move. When he saw the glowing blip on his screen hit I-35 and head south, he grabbed the phone, started to dial the police, then hung up. How was he going to explain what he knew without implicating himself into a jail cell?

“Damn it to hell.”

He was caught between a rock and a hard place, forced to trust the fact that Cat was calling the shots.

 

Cat's hands were shaking as she plugged a battery charger into the cigarette lighter in her car, then plugged the other end into her laptop.

Immediately the tracking program reappeared.

She sat there long enough to watch the underlying map as it began to change with the route of the moving blip. When she saw the blip begin to move south down I-35, she drove out of the parking lot, heading for a drive-through ATM. Without knowing how long she would be gone, she figured she had better get some cash.

As she neared the ATM, she remembered her promise to Wilson, and grabbed her cell phone and made the call. It rang until his voice mail came on. She had no option but to leave him a message.

“Wilson? This is Cat. I had a friend bug some stuff belonging to Mark Presley. He just called to tell me that the tracking devices have been activated and are on the move south down I-35. Not only that, but Dallas Memorial is on fire. It started on the second floor. Presley was on the second floor. I can't prove it, but I think Presley started that fire to cover his escape. He had clothes and money at his office, which is where movement first showed up. I don't know why he didn't head for his airport, unless he wants everyone to believe he died in that fire. I'm about an hour behind him, following the blip on my laptop. I don't know what he's driving, so there's no need to notify the highway patrol. Maybe if I get closer…Anyway, just letting you know what's going on.”

She disconnected as she pulled into the bank lot, then got out her ATM card and withdrew the limit, which was three hundred dollars. She hoped she wouldn't need more too soon, because it would be twenty-four hours before she could make another withdrawal. A short while later, she was heading south on I-35 herself.

 

Penny Presley was hysterical. A friend had called and awakened her to tell her that the second floor of Dallas Memorial was on fire. She'd been trying to call the hospital for more than fifteen minutes, but to no avail. Rationally, she understood why she couldn't get through, but the part of her that was trying to come to grips with the possibility that Mark had burned to death was coming undone. Despite her anger at the way things were turning out between them, she would never have wished such a horrible death on anyone—even him.

 

Joe Flannery hadn't been in bed for more than a couple of hours when he was jarred from sleep by the persistent ringing of the phone. He rolled over far enough to reach over his wife's sleeping body and grabbed the receiver. In the process, he managed to mash the shit out of her left breast.

She came awake screaming in pain.

All he'd tried to do was get the phone before it woke her, and instead, he'd managed to almost take out her left boob. He would never hear the end of it.

“Flannery,” he said shortly, as he crawled out of bed and moved into the hallway so that he could hear what was being said above his wife's complaining.