Radio Static
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Chapter Nine
It took several tries for the cutter to get through the link. But, much to Jake's surprise, the wire cutter freed him.
Now for the next step—clothes.
A quick rummage under the bed and in the tiny closet revealed a packet of scrubs. He didn't think twice before ripping open the package and pulling on the pants. The top proved to be harder, given the stitches in his side and the IV port in his hand.
Jake unplugged the other monitors quickly. As they started to beep, he ripped off the tape holding the IV in. Carefully he slipped the port out and tugged the scrub top over his head.
He snagged a cloth mask kept around for patients with flu symptoms—thank you, Swine Flu—and covered his mouth. He looked like an average hospital worker—once he cut off the bracelet.
Jake slipped out in his ridiculous slipper socks and pretended he was supposed to be out and about. He turned away from the guard and headed down a corridor.
He didn't run through the hospital. He moved slowly and deliberately out to the main entrance, where he hailed a cab back toward his apartment. The driver didn't seem to care he was shoeless and wearing scrubs.
He gave his address and sunk down into the cab's seat to lie across the back. His side was beginning to hurt and it felt wet, as if it might be bleeding again, through the bandage and scrubs.
Almost home… almost. Then… phase two.
Moira opened her eyes.
The room was dim, the lights burned out or turned down low. Certainly not what she expected from death—in either Heaven or Hell—at all. Even it even stank.
She sat up slowly and a sheet slipped off her. Huh, that's weird…
Her wrists were chaffed and red, her leg throbbed, and she was only wearing her underwear. Just like when she died. If she died. She really didn't want to wear underwear for the rest of her life.
"Oh good, you're up."
She turned her head to see Cochrane. Yup, this had to be Hell. Here was the king of the devils himself.
"You killed me."
"No, I just waited for you to pass out. Not that I didn't contemplate smothering you all the way…"
"Trust me, the feeling's mutual."
They glared at each other for a moment.
"Now, I got you some new clothes. Get changed. We have work to do."
"What kind of work?" Moira asked.
"The kind that pays millions. I've got bills to pay and so do you."
"What?"
He frowned. "You do know that I'm going to give you some for your time. Use it for a trip, buy a nice dress—I don't care."
"Why would you give me any money?"
Cochrane sighed. "For all the trouble. Okay? Also, if I pay you, you have to swear not to go to the cops. Our little secret. If anyone asks, you were there to steal the money."
"Why would I agree to that?"
"Because if you don't, something bad will happen to your cop… if he's still alive. If not, it'll happen to you."
Jake lifted up the scrub top, wincing. Yep, sure enough he'd started bleeding again. He probably tore a stitch or two escaping.
He undid the bandage and surveyed the damage.
His skin was puckered together, tossed into a crooked line by pieces of metal. There was no doubt in his mind he'd have a nasty scar later. He could see at least seven different sets of stitches on his side.
Feeling a bit like a modern-day Frankenstein, Jake cleaned the wound with water and wrapped his side back up in gauze he found under the sink. He would have to buy a better first aid kit when this was all over.
As he changed clothes, he turned on a radio scanner. It crackled with static as he tuned it to the frequency used by the police. He could only hope Moira was making herself known in some way.
Static came between transmissions. Radio calls were frequent, but nothing unusual.
There was a call that caught his interest.
"All units BOLO for Jake Eckehart, white male, 30, average height, wounded in the side. He's wanted for questioning in an ongoing investigation. Also BOLO in effect for Mike Cochrane, white male, late 30s, average height and weight, last seen in a blue uniform. He's also wanted for questioning and might be armed. The third is Moira Donovan, white female, 28, petite frame around 5 foot five, long dark hair. She is armed and should be considered dangerous."
Armed? Dangerous? This is Moira!
The details of the BOLO continued, but he ignored it. He had other things to worry about.
Jake tucked his back-up piece, an old .45 caliber handgun, into the waistband of his jeans. His untucked shirt tail covered it. It felt good to wear shoes again.
"Hang in there, Moira. I'll find you."
With the radio scanner in one hand and car keys in the other, Jake left the apartment.
Ashcroft sat across from Ty. "The cop's gone."
"He's dead?"
"No, he's disappeared from the hospital. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"
Ty nodded. "To find Moira. If he's gone, he's looking for her. Even when he was lying there, dying, she's all he cared about. He must've said her name a hundred times."
"The woman who called 9-1-1… was that Moira?"
"Yeah." He leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. "She came to the side of the truck, calling for Jake. She said she had a cell phone. I told her to go to the roof for a signal. She agreed and swore she'd be right back for Jake."
Ashcroft pulled out a tape recorder. "So you can confirm who this is?"
The tape clicked on.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"There's been a shooting. My…husband, Officer Jake Eckehart… he's been shot. We need help immediately… the steel mill… the radio's dead… please, he's an officer… officer down…"
"Ma'am, ma'am…"
"We need help! These men are armed… please, we need an ambulance…"
The tape clicked off. "That's Moira," Ty said.
"Good to know. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me? Do you know where they might have gone?"
"Sorry, I don't. I haven't a clue."
Author's Notes:
I don't know if wire cutters really can cut through handcuff links, but it seemed like an interesting possibility. Only one more chapter to go!
