“I gotta use the head,” he yelled. He wanted to see what was going on and that was the only way he knew to get out of this room. “Hey! At the door. I gotta use the head real bad.”
The cop outside opened the door and leaned in. Geez, he was a baby who didn’t look old enough to shave. His buddies had harassed Mittens about the pencil thin mustache above his lip but at least he had one. Not this guy. “Hang on, little man. You’re not the priority at the moment.”
“Well unless you want me peeing in that wastebasket in the corner, you better make me a priority.”
Baby Cop spoke into the microphone hooked to his shoulder and then motioned to Mittens. “C’mon. You can use the facilities and then make your phone call. We’re cutting you loose.”
He bounced to his feet, surprised by the change of events. Something real big must be going on. He scanned the room hoping for a clue on his way to the john but no luck. When he emerged, Baby Cop escorted him to the corner with a small metal table, folding chair, and phone.
“Can I have some privacy, please?”
Baby Cop moved a few steps back, glaring at Mittens. By now, he knew Lauren’s phone number by heart. “Yeah, it’s me, Mittens, I need a ride. I’ll meet you on the corner of Main and Abigail in fifteen minutes.”
She wasn’t happy, but he didn’t care, he just needed to get away from this police station and back on Cassidy Hoake’s trail. That would right everything with Johnny and redeem his reputation with the family.
“It’ll be a couple minutes,” he informed Baby Cop. The kid simply nodded.
Mittens narrowed his eyes, studying the frenzy in the room. Some kind of shootout somewhere. It sounded real bad. He checked his watch again and stood. It didn’t matter if he had to wait longer on that corner, this room was starting to close in on him. And then, as clear as if they were delivering the message to his own ears, Mittens heard the voice transmission he knew would save his life broadcasted from the radio on Baby Cop’s hip.
“This is Unit Four Eleven. I’m transporting Cassidy Hoake to the station now.”
Praise the saints. They were bringing her right to him.
• • •
She wanted to go in the ambulance with Clay, but because she wasn’t a relative, they wouldn’t let her. Dan embraced her briefly and assured her he would keep her informed of Clay’s condition. It frightened her that Clay lapsed into unconsciousness just after whispering his warning. She overheard bits and pieces of talk between the ambulance crew and the hospital expressing concerns about a collapsed lung and the large amount of blood loss.
She sank further into the folds of Clay’s oversized cargo coat trying to ward off the goose bumps that pimpled her skin. Without Clay protecting her, she felt naked. Vulnerable. Dan’s presence wasn’t the same. He insisted they needed to debrief her so she waited inside his police cruiser, the red, blue, and white flashing lights casting the area in a surreal disco scene. She braved one glance to the spot where DelMorrie lay as the car rolled past him, a sheet now draped over his body. Her nightmare was over, but it hadn’t sunk in yet. She was numb.
They drove to the police station in silence after Dan radioed in to say they were en route. How would she even begin to make a statement? So much had happened and she was uncertain if she should tell all. Clay’s cautionary words stayed in the forefront of her mind.
Pat Tatman waited for her when they arrived, taking her arm to assist her exit from the backseat of the police car and signaling to Dan. Instead of the barren interrogation room she occupied last time, he escorted her to a small lounge with two overstuffed loveseats and a counter full of coffee, tea, and cocoa products. She declined his offer of any of them.
She massaged her hands, trying to edge some warmth to the tips of her icy fingers. “Have you heard anything about Clay?”
“Only that it’s pretty serious, but they are doing everything they can. He’s in good hands. As soon as I hear more, Miss Hoake, I’ll be sure to let you know. Meanwhile, we need to discuss what happened tonight. Maybe we can talk first before you write it all down.”
“I’m not sure, Officer Tatman. Clay came running out of the motel office yelling for me to get out of there and the shooting began. I floored the gas pedal, but when I saw that Clay had been hit I turned around and the only thing I could think was to run down the man with the gun.” She rubbed her forehead with her thumb and fingers hoping to shield her face with her hand. She was a terrible liar.
“That wasn’t a very smart thing to do, Miss Hoake. You could have been shot.”
“I only wanted to help Clay.”
He nodded. “I understand. Did you know who Clay was shooting at?”
“No, no I didn’t. I didn’t really have time to look at him to see who it was. Officer Tatman, it’s been a really long day for me, a rough couple of days, actually. I don’t think I’m up to writing a statement tonight. My thoughts are all jumbled and I’d like to get to the hospital to be with Clay. Is it possible that we could do this tomorrow?”
“I really should take your statement while the events are fresh in your mind, Miss Hoake.”
She mustered a sad smile. “I understand. But believe me, I can barely think clearly. Please. I’m not going to forget what happened tonight, not one minute of it. Can’t we delay this until tomorrow?”
He stared at her, his lenses magnifying his eyes to twice their size. She squirmed under the intense stare. It seemed like an hour passed before he sat back and nodded. “I suppose, if you don’t think you can do it tonight, we can start fresh tomorrow. Where will you be staying?”
Good question. Did she still have an apartment at The Chalets? “I’ll be at the hospital until they throw me out. Then I’ll stay at Clay’s.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have a key?”
“Yes.” It was another lie, but she didn’t care. Maggie would probably let her in, and if not, she’d sleep in one of the pavilions in the common area. Maybe she could pick the lock on the pool house. Right now, she needed to get out of this room, away from guns and uniforms and crackling radios, and breathe fresh air before she passed out.
“Well, if you’re going to Clay’s, you might as well drive his truck home. We were talking about dropping it off at his place so you’d be helping us out. Would you mind?”
“Not at all, officer. I’d be happy to and thank you for understanding. I promise I’ll return tomorrow.”
• • •
Cassidy cringed when the truck’s gears squealed, reminding her how many years it had been since she’d driven a stick. Every clutch had its own feel; it was just a matter of capturing that touch. She sensed Clay all around her, the way the leather seat cupped her bottom and the feel of the grip wrap on the steering wheel holding her hands. She was tuned into him, his cautionary words echoing in her ears and his ever-present awareness of his surroundings ingrained in her brain. Like the pair of headlights in the rearview mirror that appeared to be following her.
She turned down two side streets, essentially weaving off and on the main road to the hospital, and the car remained behind her, even though it stayed a safe distance back. But she was certain someone was tailing her.
The police? Why? She told them she was going to the hospital to be with Clay and where she’d stay once she left his side. There was no need to keep her under surveillance. They wouldn’t have let her leave the police station if they were concerned about where she might go, and certainly not driving Clay’s truck.
Tony DelMorrie was dead. She no longer needed to hide from him. The reality of that nightmare ending was still blurry.
So who could possibly be so interested in her? She weighed her options: She could retrace her route and return to the police station for another round of questions about why she thought someone was following her and who it might be. The thought deflated her. She couldn’t walk back into that police center with its heightened level of activity. Not tonight.
She could veer onto the next residential side street and park the truck, essentially halting the convoy. But that option left her alone on an unfamiliar street to confront a stranger. That was a bad plan.
A better idea was to proceed to the hospital where the parking lot would be well lit and, presumably, there would be human activity. A more public place offered more protection.
She breathed slowly, enveloped in a sense of calm. She must be overtired not to be nervous or scared. Or, more likely, she was ready to be done with fear.
Exit signs for the hospital snapped her to attention. The emergency entrance was probably the busiest area, and the safest. She waited at the stop light, noting in the side mirror that three cars back, the silver car also had a turn signal blinking.
She navigated the turn and chose the emergency lane designated for cars only. Inching alongside the curb, she studied the silver Mercedes while it traveled the lane to the parking area. A man rode in the passenger’s seat, but her glimpse was too brief to recognize him. That meant two people tracking her, not just one.
Turning her attention to the emergency entrance, where a steady stream of emergency personnel and visitors moved in and out, her stomach lurched. There he was again, the black man from the bus station. Sauntering out of the sliding glass door, he stopped short when he saw her, pausing as if he recognized Clay’s truck. He waited, and watched.
What should she do? Lay on the horn until hospital security arrived? Her stalker would likely take off when she sounded the alert and she would sound like a madwoman claiming she was being followed.
Perhaps the activity around the entryway would prevent him from approaching her. The hospital was the only safe place for her to be, and the only way to get there was to turn off the engine and get out of the truck.
You can do it, Cassidy.
She dropped the keys into Clay’s coat pocket. When metal hit metal she remembered the pistol. She gulped and put her hand in the pocket, gripping the gun. Opening the driver’s door, she extended her left foot to the ground, looking in the black man’s direction as she did. Oh sweet Jesus, he started walking toward her. In a panic, she looked to her left and realized the Mercedes had turned around and was circling back, a police car directly behind it. Panic rose to close her throat.
Under the bright parking lot lights, she saw the passenger and, worse, recognized the driver. Clay’s ex-wife wore a maniacal look on her face, her forehead and eyebrows pinched together and both hands clutching the wheel. The man beside her grinned widely, his arm extended out the window aiming a gun at her.
Clay’s instructions sliced through her fear — don’t hesitate. She dropped to the ground, yanking the gun from her pocket and steadied the weapon in her hand. Shots rang out, one pinging beside her into the rear truck fender, the other coming from somewhere behind her, and she squeezed the trigger. She recalled Clay’s caution about the gun’s recoil and, even as her arm jolted upward, she controlled the movement with her left hand, and fired a second time. The Mercedes swerved violently and, from inside, a high-pitched wail echoed.
And then, the black man was beside her, gun drawn, huge hand shoving her to the ground.
“Stay down on the ground. Behind me. Don’t move.” She fought the bile rising in her throat as thick blue-jeaned legs backed her against the truck in a squat position and work boots shoved into her body, effectively trapping her to the spot.
Pandemonium erupted in the parking lot. Feet stomped the pavement like stampeding horses and radio transmissions from the police cars interrupted and cross-talked orders, but she couldn’t discern the words and from her position on the ground, trapped against Clay’s truck, she couldn’t see. Fear gripped her belly in a vice.
“Silver Mercedes. Southwest corner. Go! Now!” her long legged jailer yelled. Suddenly he turned and grabbed her by the arm. “C’mon, we need to get you inside.”
He yanked her from the ground, shoved her around the opened truck door, and pushed her toward the hospital entrance.
“No,” she shrieked, wrenching her arm from his grasp. “No more. You can’t frighten me anymore.” Her outburst stunned him, giving her the opening she needed to raise the gun and point it directly into his face. She gulped for air, aware that the pistol shook in her hands, but determined once and for all to fight to the end.
Tires screeched and Cassidy and the black man turned in unison to see the Mercedes zooming toward them, the passenger leaning out of the window to aim at them. “Get down,” her stalker yelled, dropping to his knees.
Cassidy sank to her knees, raised her gun, zeroed in on the steering wheel and pulled the trigger, once, twice, again, and again. The car crashed into a light pole, its horn blaring and steam spewing from the crumpled hood. Kneeling beside her, the black man also fired three rounds before reaching out to ease his hand over hers, smiling that bright, white smile as he lowered her weapon. “It’s okay, Cassidy, it’s okay. It’s done.”
She struggled to catch her breath.
“Are you all right, Sugar Plum? Your face is bleeding. You and parking lots are having a real bad time tonight, aren’t you?”
She had no voice to speak, couldn’t slow her rapid breathing, and failed to squelch the tears.
“Sorry I had to be so rough, Princess. We’ll get you inside and have the docs take a look at you.” He made to stand and reached for her hand.
“Who, who are you?”
She could swear his eyes twinkled. “Marcus Bassman. C’mon, I’ll help you up.”
“I saw you at the bus station.”
If it was possible, his smile grew wider. “Yes ma’am.” He reached and gently pulled her to her feet, clinging to her when her legs refused to support her bodyweight.
“And you were at the apartments.”
“Yes ma’am. You want me to get a wheelchair, Pumpkin? You don’t seem to have your sea legs.”
A sharp pain shot through her side and she clutched his meaty forearms. “It’s hard for me to breathe.”
“Let’s get you inside. You’re a pretty good shot. Clay must have taught you. He’s going to be proud when he hears how well you did.”
She gasped. “What did you just say? Who are you?”