Authors: John Lutz
To the police and FBI, Coop was still a wanted man. He knew that. Maureen’s phone call to Billard might raise serious questions, and he prayed it would bring help in time at Mercy Hospital. But it wouldn’t mean Coop was in the clear, or that Cara was out of danger.
When he reached busy First Avenue, he kept his head down and walked close to buildings, watching for a cab with its service light glowing. He thought about Nighklauer. Coop had gained plenty of experience in medical and hospital procedure during the past few years, even if it had been only from the patient’s point of view. He understood how an anesthesiologist could take advantage of his profession to learn more than he should about his patients. They usually saw you in your room or a cubicle where there was privacy. There they asked you a lot of precautionary questions, smooth-talking you to make you more at ease while they inserted the IV needle. Soon something to relax you was flowing through your veins, loosening your tongue along with the rest of you. Then something to make you forget; doctors didn’t want patients recalling painful or gory details of any medical procedure, or any embarrassing conversation by patient or medical personnel.
Coop remembered two nurses talking about whether operations were painful. If the patient didn’t recall the pain, one argued, then in effect there had been no pain. Coop didn’t see it that way. He’d seen too many crime or accident victims block memory of horror from their minds completely, and without the use of anesthetic. They had experienced plenty of pain.
As he strode he became incensed again that a doctor would take advantage of his patients, learn intimate details about them while they were sinking into unconsciousness, medicated so they wouldn’t remember. He could imagine Nighklauer wheedling everything he needed to know from them, bank account numbers, names of lovers, computer passwords. He must have stolen their keys and somehow had duplicates made and returned them before they recovered from the anesthetic he’d administered. That was why he visited them later that night in recovery, not because he was compassionate and diligent, but so he could be sure they wouldn’t know, that they didn’t remember what he’d asked, what he’d done.
Another terrible thought entered Coop’s mind. Had Nighklauer taken physical liberties with his future victims when they were unknowing and helpless? An initial indignity before stalking and killing them because something about them triggered his murderous impulse. Seeing Bette in his mind, recalling her from childhood on, made him grit his teeth with rage.
Very near him, water splashed and brakes squealed.
Startled, he jumped aside as a car with a light on its roof, lettering on its side, pulled to the curb alongside him, its front tire in a deep puddle of melted snow.
Police car?
No. A taxi! And without a fare!
Coop’s heart slowed and relief washed over him.
The driver was leaning down to see out the side window, staring at him expectantly. He was wearing a turban and smiling broadly. Coop was still standing motionless, getting over his surprise and instinct to bolt, as the cabbie used a forefinger to draw a question mark in the air, then pointed to the backseat.
Coop nodded and quickly climbed into the cab.
“Mercy Hospital! It’s—”
“I know exactly where it is, sir,” the cabbie said in flawless English.
As the cab accelerated, a recording by Joan Rivers came on, exhorting Coop to buckle his seat belt.
Sound advice. The first two blocks were fast.
Then they were in slowed traffic again.
The cabbie on Roosevelt Drive had been right. Coop stared out the mud-stained window in frustration, listening to the same discordant symphony of blaring horns, waiting for traffic to break loose and the cab to surge ahead.
Right now, he could be crawling faster to the next intersection.
Billard had met FBI Agent Fred Willingham before. He’d never liked or trusted the man. But he had to admit that now his distrust was heightened because of his fondness for and faith in his friend. Billard knew Coop was innocent of murder. He also knew that what Willingham was doing was proper and prudent. Still, he couldn’t make himself like it.
The FBI had arrived at Mercy Hospital moments after the NYPD and had virtually taken over the operation. Billard, standing in the lobby near the gift shop and elevators, had to admire how quickly and smoothly things were going. It was enough to give a city department cop an inferiority complex, like a bush leaguer suddenly finding himself part of Major League baseball.
No one at Mercy other than administrators knew what was happening. Not only would that be safer for patients, Willingham said—that was how he’d sold the idea to the chief of surgery—but it was imperative that the suspect not notice anything unusual. Unobtrusively, agents assumed the roles of attendants and nurses. A few of them were even roaming the halls in pale green OR scrubs, complete with plastic booties over their shoes and stethoscopes draped around their necks.
Willingham had instructed Billard where to station NYPD personnel. The FBI SWAT team was present. Billiard thought that was, to put it succinctly, overkill. Yet what choice did Willingham have? What they were dealing with here, the Bureau had finally decided, was the most desperate and dangerous kind of serial killer. So trained marksmen walked the hospital halls, and snipers were stationed on the roof over the main entrances.
Billard glanced at his wristwatch. The orders had been issued to everyone involved in the operation only a few minutes ago, but he imagined that by now most of them were in place and on the alert.
Late visiting hours were over, and the elevators were mostly full when they opened onto the lobby. There was also some kind of shift change going on, uniformed nurses and other medical types leaving and arriving. A man in his thirties, wearing work clothes and carrying a teddy bear, emerged from an elevator trailed by a woman and two small kids. Billard saw that there was a third child, an infant in a kind of sling arrangement backpack, peeking over the woman’s shoulder.
Get your family out of here,
he shouted silently to the man as they leisurely strolled past on their way to the exit.
Billard caught sight of Willingham striding across the lobby toward him. Nice-looking guy in a neat suit and tie, might have been one of the doctors. He seemed calm, expectant, and exhilarated as a game show host. On the hunt. For Coop. Billard felt himself getting irritated again.
“Everything okay?” Willingham asked.
“As instructed,” Billard said.
Willingham must have noticed the coldness in his voice. “Remember, I’m also a friend of Cooper’s. But we’ve got no choice here. This has got to be done.”
Billard nodded, not liking being wrong. Not appreciating the lecture.
“Undercover cops on floors five and seven?” Willingham asked.
Billard said his men were in place. FBI agents were patrolling six, the surgery and recovery floor. “What about Nighklauer?” he asked.
“He’s not due in tonight, but the nurses say he often shows up to check on patients. We’ll detain him when he comes in.”
“And if he doesn’t show?”
“We’ll deal with Dr. Nighklauer after we deal with Cooper, if
he
shows.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea to wait?”
“You know Cooper’s wife, Lieutenant Billard. She says the same anesthesiologist was present during medical procedures involving a variety of victims. That’s not actually the kind of evidence to march on.”
What Willingham was actually saying, Billard knew, was that Coop was still a stronger suspect than Nighklauer. Billard almost asked Willingham about the plastic saints; then he remembered that the NYPD hadn’t shared that information with the Bureau.
And why should we have shared?
Billard asked himself. The FBI only deigned to join the case hours ago. “What about the footprints, identical sole patterns?”
“We inquired,” Willingham said. “Dr. Nighklauer’s not the only one who does that cutting business to his shoes.”
“And Cara Callahan?”
“Whatever her involvement is,” Willingham said, “she’s apparently left the hospital.”
Billard was getting the idea and not buying into it. “You think Nighklauer is something Coop tossed out to mislead us, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s possible. If Dr. Nighklauer turns up here, fine. If after we talk to Cooper he gives us more to work on, then we’ll move hard on the doctor.”
“You have to know you’ve got something solid before you tangle with a solid citizen like Nighklauer, right, Agent Willingham?”
Willingham arched an eyebrow. “Exactly right, Lieutenant. Is the parking garage below this wing covered?”
“There’s a security guard there.”
“Better send one of your men down there, too.”
“If Coop is guilty, he’s not likely to drive right up and park in the hospital garage. Besides, the men we have watching his apartment say his car’s still parked down the street from where he lives. And we’re short on personnel—it’s a big hospital.”
“I know how big,” Willingham said, “to the square foot. Send a man down, Lieutenant.” He walked away before Billard could reply.
Billard watched Willingham disappear around a corner, then reached for the two-way clipped to his belt so he could pull a man off the cafeteria watch and assign him to the garage.
What a shit night this was turning into, he thought. Whatever the deal was with Coop or that nutcake ex of his, he hoped Coop wouldn’t show up any time soon at Mercy Hospital.
Cara was rushing smoothly through translucent water. First she had sped through patterns of blackness and light. Then she was sure she’d been in an elevator. Almost sure. Difficult to know, when you’re weightless.
How long ago had it been? Forms of people walking, towering rectangles of shadowed doorways, glided past on either side. People talking, sometimes laughing. She tried to say something, anything, to them, but her tongue wouldn’t budge in her mouth; then they were past, in the past.
A long hall, cooler than before, then a door and even colder air. The drop in temperature made her more alert, but only for a moment. Pressure on her limbs was released. She could move her arms and legs now. Someone was working over her, bending, straightening. She could hear him breathing. Smelled oil or gasoline. A car? Motion before her. Car door opening?
She was rising, her head tilted back. Above her was darkened concrete, very near, dots of wavering light.
Then she was sitting down again, became stuck to wherever it was she was sitting. In the car! Yes! Safety belt. Good.
Hands folded in her lap. Like a good girl. Touch. One wrist on top the other. Something holding them together. Softness, a blanket settling over her from the neck down. For some reason she couldn’t make out its color. It felt very warm. She almost smiled.
Then she remembered. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be here.
But she couldn’t recall why not. Was there a problem? She closed her eyes and tried to think about the past, but there was only the delicate present, so soon gone.
She heard a car door slam shut, very near. Then another.
The Night Caller hadn’t passed anyone who might have recognized him as he’d wheeled Cara from the service elevator, then on the brief journey through the parking level halls to the garage.
His black Mercedes was parked nearby. Not the only black Mercedes in the garage. Many of the staff doctors drove them and had reserved spaces.
There was Eddie the security guard way at the other end of the garage. Old black guy, pensioned-off cop, friendly and with glasses with lenses so thick they made him look fish-eyed. Even with perfect eyesight, Eddie wouldn’t be able to recognize him from such a distance, and not being on permanent staff, the Night Caller didn’t have a reserved parking space.
He gave Cara a final check to make sure she was sitting up straight enough. Her eyes were open now, staring about vaguely, but that was okay. Plenty of patients were driven home while still in an anesthetic daze.
Eddie had glanced toward him, but now the old man was ambling back toward his heated kiosk.
Excellent. The Night Caller could leave by the far exit, away from the kiosk, using his courtesy card so the wooden gate would rise and let him pass.
He twisted the ignition key and the big car’s motor growled to life. Its power and smoothness lent the Night Caller confidence. He was the one doing the thinking here, the one who was real and moving in a dream of a dream.
This was going to work. Everything was going to be wonderful. Soon, soon he would have his world back.
Soon.
Traffic bogged down the cab only blocks from Mercy Hospital, so Coop again paid his fare and got out to walk. He thought God must have put New York traffic on earth as some kind of test.
When he was half a block away from the looming hospital, he began thinking about the best way to enter. It was possible that Maureen hadn’t gotten her message across accurately to Billard. But even if she had, Coop knew he was still a wanted man. They might be waiting for him at the hospital, and he didn’t want to be taken into custody and spend the next several days trying to extricate himself from the system.
If they were waiting for him here, surely they’d also be staked out near his apartment. They’d know his car was still parked nearby. Maybe he should enter Mercy through the garage, where he might be least expected.
The traffic light changed to red, and he stopped at the intersection and waited for the walk signal. He didn’t want to barge out in front of traffic, didn’t want to do anything that might draw attention.
That was when he saw the black Mercedes sedan emerge from the hospital garage. It accelerated to make the green light, then glided past him only to be stopped by traffic down the block.
Coop stood stunned, trying to grasp what he’d just seen. Had he wanted so badly to see it that he’d formed the image in his mind?
He didn’t think so. He was sure he’d glimpsed Cara in the passenger seat of the Mercedes. Her eyes were half closed and there was a dazed expression on her face, pale as bone against the black leather upholstery.
He whirled to run after the car, then saw that traffic was moving again. Brake lights dimmed and the Mercedes moved with the traffic.
Coop hurried across the street with the
WALK
signal and strode into the parking garage where the Mercedes had emerged.
A tall, slender black man in a security guard uniform stepped out of a lighted kiosk and ambled toward him. There was a gun on his hip, not one of the new 9mms but an old service revolver like the one Coop had given Cara after hers was stolen.
The guard smiled, squinting at Coop through thick-lensed glasses. “Help you?”
“Do you know who was in the car that just left here? Big black Mercedes?”
“Couldn’t rightly say. One of the doctors, most likely. Seems they all drive that kinda car.”
Coop could feel time rushing around him, past him. He had to do something fast, had to act.
“You got a car like that?” he asked.
The guard grinned wider. “Sheeeit, no! I drive that old Dodge Aries over there.”
“Blue one?”
“Don’t see no other.”
“Listen,” Coop said, smiling and stepping closer. He punched the old man hard in the stomach, feeling a metal belt buckle sting the knuckle of his little finger.
The guard folded up, air rushing out of him in a fog in the unheated garage.
Coop had the gun out of the man’s holster even before he was on the ground. Then he was rummaging in the guard’s pockets for his keys. Found them!
The guard had lost his glasses and was staring up at him, unable to breathe and terrified, thinking he was going to be shot.
But Coop was already sprinting toward the parked Dodge.
The old car started at once. Coop tromped the accelerator and steered toward an exit.
The wooden drop barricade splintered and gave easily, and the car was out in the street.
Coop spun the steering wheel and made a hard right, accelerating to catch up with traffic. A tiny cutout pine tree deodorizer swung like a pendulum below the rearview mirror. Something was rattling like crazy, and there was a lot of play in the car’s front end. He tried the headlights. At least one of them still worked after the crash through the gate.
In the mirror he glimpsed someone running toward him, then giving up and standing bent over with hands on knees. He didn’t have time to wonder who it was.
The theater crowd was still wending its way to hotel or home, or to late night dinner or drink. Traffic on West 54th Street was jammed almost solid. Cara remained upright but slumped in the passenger seat of the Mercedes, her eyelids occasionally fluttering. Soft, sighing sounds occasionally wafted from her lips. Along the canyon of the avenue, horns blared and frustrated drivers lowered their windows and shouted futilely. Pedestrians bustled ahead on the sidewalk, only to be caught up with when a light changed or an obstacle of some sort was removed, and traffic lurched forward half a block or so before getting bogged down again. The narrow cross streets of New York.
The Night Caller didn’t mind. Everything was again under control, and there was the anticipation living and coiled in the core of him. He had let the hospital blanket slip down to Cara’s waist and could feel heat emanating from her. Her scent lay on his tongue like nectar.
He wasn’t concerned with the delay. Seated so near to Cara, listening to her breathing, his body and his senses were one with hers. He could feel the internal movement of her heart and lungs, know the rush and calm of her respiratory system and the tense and release with the silent hammering of her pulse. It was as if her blood were running in his veins; that ability, that total empathy, was the rare quality that made him one of the best at his profession. Cara wouldn’t regain full consciousness a minute before he intended.
Though it was irritating, the traffic delay was actually a gift of good fortune; enough time had to pass for Cara to be marginally aware and remain upright and walk with his support. He knew he couldn’t park in his usual spot in his apartment building’s underground garage. Security cameras covered the garage from every angle. It would be better for him to park on the street, then walk a semiconscious Cara into the lobby, where there was only one security camera mounted just inside the door to record people as they entered or left. That camera he could disable long enough so it wouldn’t record his and Cara’s passage—at least not in any way that would make them recognizable. Although there was a security code used by residents to enter, there was no doorman, and there was seldom anyone in the lobby this late at night. If anyone did happen to see them, it would appear that Cara had drunk too much and needed his support. A couple of lovers. It wasn’t the kind of building where people knew their fellow tenants, or cared much about them.
A small gray car tried to edge its right front fender in front of the Mercedes, gaining a few feet of valuable pavement. The Night Caller played the steering wheel to the right, tapped the accelerator, and the intruding car was left behind. Its driver angrily leaned on the horn. The well-insulated Mercedes muffled the sound. The furious driver in the gray car couldn’t touch the Night Caller in the world that was real. None of them could touch him. Beside him, Cara seemed to smile along with him.
Faintly, but he was sure she’d smiled.
Coop was sure the Mercedes containing Cara was in the block ahead. He considered leaving the security guard’s old Dodge and sprinting the half block or so toward the Mercedes, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea. Traffic might decide to move, and the gleaming black car would move with it, out of Coop’s reach forever.
Good decision. The snow-crusted Buick a few feet ahead of Coop suddenly lurched and picked up speed. Half a block this time before traffic began to crawl again, almost coming to another complete stop.
But steady movement continued, even picking up to about five miles per hour. Coop was passing pedestrians he’d seen stride past him several minutes before.
Continuing this slow progress, stopping completely only now and then, they drove past Fifth, Madison, Park, Lexington…Coop kept a careful eye on cross streets ahead to make sure he’d know if the Mercedes turned a corner. He figured the old Dodge must have an exhaust leak. Fumes were finding their way into the interior. The little cardboard pine tree deodorizer dangling from the rearview mirror had no effect. He cranked down his window a few inches.
By now the fact that he’d taken the security guard’s car would be widely known. Its description and license plate number would have been transmitted to NYPD patrol cars. Coop wasn’t too worried about that. It was a nondescript car, and locked as it was in heavy traffic on a one-way street, there wasn’t much likelihood that a police car would appear behind it. The situation was tense and precarious, but so far nothing he couldn’t handle. As long as he knew where the Mercedes was and had the wheels to follow, Cara was alive and so were her chances.
Despite the window he’d cracked to let exhaust fumes escape, the old Dodge’s heater worked so well that Coop unbuttoned his coat. He touched his forehead and discovered he was perspiring heavily.
The car ahead moved forward again. Coop nudged down on the accelerator and the Dodge gained a few yards, then shuddered. Its engine began to clunk and sputter.
Alarmed, Coop tightened his grip on the steering wheel and his eyes scanned the dashboard.
The fuel gauge needle rested on empty.
There were still several yards between the Dodge and the car ahead. With what remaining gas there was, probably only fumes, Coop managed to maneuver the old car to the curb and park it illegally in a loading zone. There was no need to kill the engine. He switched off the lights and turned the ignition key only out of habit.
He climbed out into the cold. He had no choice now. Unless he could somehow find a cab, which seemed impossible, Coop had to try to keep up with the Mercedes on foot.
He rebuttoned his coat and turned up his collar as he walked. Here and there he had to be careful crossing patches of ice or snow, sidestepping slushy puddles too impregnated with rock salt to melt. Once he did step in a deep puddle and felt icy water penetrate his shoe and sock.
But following the Mercedes this way was possible. Traffic moved ahead intermittently, sometimes as much as a block, and he had to pick up his pace. But invariably the long line of cars resumed a crawl or stayed motionless long enough for him to catch up.
He was within half a block of the black Mercedes when he saw it turn right on Second Avenue, where traffic was moving swiftly.
I’m going to lose it! Lose everything!
He clenched his teeth and ran, almost slipping on a patch of ice. Elbowing aside a woman walking a dog, he momentarily became entangled in the leash. “Easy! Take it easy, for Gawd’s sake!” she implored, helping him to free his left leg. Then he was running again toward the intersection, weaving among knots of pedestrians. His heart was booming in his chest, his ears ached from the cold, and the back of his throat was raw from breathing icy air. This had to be bad for him, but he wouldn’t slow down. He wouldn’t give! He couldn’t!
When he reached the intersection he stopped, slipping and almost falling again. Leaning against a building and huffing fogged cold air, he peered down Second Avenue.
Traffic was stopped at the next intersection for a red traffic signal. Neat rows of cars spanned the wide street as if it were a race track and they were waiting for the starter’s green flag.
But the Mercedes wasn’t among them. It had made the light and was lost to Coop, along with Cara.