"Cowboys, Pair of Kings"
Copyright 2007 Penn O'Hara
T
Usual disclaimers apply.
Author Apology: I've just realized that my WORD program has been set in Australian English dictionary (as apposed to US English) for the last four or five chapters and so spelling inconsistencies would have crept into my writing – 'ou's instead of 'o's; double 'l' instead of single 'l'; 're's instead of 'er's … that sort of thing. Without WORD bringing these inconsistencies to my notice, I wouldn't have noticed.
Thanks gorengal and I-am-LMR for reminding me about the 'ring' versus 'call'. I knew this. Someone brought it to my notice a long time ago, and I sometimes remember to pull myself up about it, but that one slipped through. Nicole and Bree can 'ring' someone… Barek has to 'call' them. Got it:-D
And upon rereading my last chapters in order to get my head around where I'm at, I've made a vow never to use 'jab a finger at' ever again. If I do, roast me! LOL.
oOo
Chapter Ten
The police vessel nudged the pylon beside him, the slap of the water against the dock snapping Goren alert. He was impatient for it berth, needing to see with his own eyes the evidence he couldn't quite believe. Convinced that the ferry explosion had been aimed at him, it now seemed that Bree Archer was the target. He was also disturbed by Nicole's lack of motive. Coming after him made more sense than targeting Archer. Having Archer out of the way would hardly forward Nicole's legal claim on an estate in Australia. He couldn't see how, as mother of the deceased's dead child, Nicole had any legal rights of interest.
"McIntyre?" he asked the compact, sprightly officer who scrambled out of the boat. Despite the nature of his work, sifting through the debris for the living and dead victims of the ferry disaster, McIntyre's uniform looked crisp and clean.
"Yes?"
Goren produced his badge and held out his hand for the bag in the bottom of the boat. "Silvera authorized you to hand the evidence bags over."
"Only those relevant to a Bree Archer."
"That's all I need."
Goren donned latex gloves before opening one of the small sealed bags supplied by McIntyre. He carefully extracted the contents, moving his shoulder so Eames could observe, barely feeling the accompanying twinge of pain through the excitement of discovery.
The wet slim leather wallet contained bills totaling nearly two hundred dollars, several credit cards, and two driver's licenses, both international and U.S. Goren rubbed at the plastic pocket shielding one license and squinted at the photo. It wasn't a good one, they rarely are, but it wasn't the narrow visage of the red-head they had met yesterday. It was unmistakably a blonde with an overbite.
A mixture of revulsion and excitement rippled through Goren; the first, his gut reaction to seeing Nicole or hearing her name; the second, confirmation that she was here somewhere, alive or dead, close enough to apprehend.
Water-damaged receipts in the wallet were illegible and there was little else of interest, other than Bree Archer's green card, no doubt a forgery as well. The other bag held a very new-looking NYPD I.D. nameplate denoting Bree Archer an employee at the one-nine. This time the photo was better, even attractive, but still that of Nicole Wallace.
"It's her," he said, "it's Nicole."
oOo
Staring at the departing ambulance carrying Mike and three other injured to the hospital, Carolyn forced her feet not to follow it. Her chest was tight with worry for Mike and her fists balled with outrage that she couldn't be with him. She understood that he was with the professionals best trained to help him and that her expertise was needed here, but that didn't make the wrench more bearable as his hand slipped out of hers while one medic held him down on the gurney and the other eased Carolyn out of the crowded ambulance.
Her only comfort was something Silvera had said – a snatch of frustrated utterance while Mike was fighting them.
"I hope this Carolyn he's moving in with can handle him…"
Had Mike been talking to his ex-partner, seeking advice? Maybe even made his decision and shared it with an old friend and Silvera hadn't made the connection that she was the 'Carolyn'.
Making her way back to the ferry terminal and the waiting Silvera was like a compass fighting against north. Carolyn's heart was in that ambulance and it was being torn from her body. Sighting Goren and Eames with Silvera helped her bury her concern and plaster professionalism back in place.
A raised eyebrow from Bobby prompted Carolyn to explain her absence. "They took Mike to the hospital. I…I wanted to go with him," she admitted, her eyes flicking between Alex and Bobby. "He looked bad. Out of it." She took a breath, guilt twisting at her insides. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I never asked how you were—"
He waved a dismissive hand. "I was thrown clear. Took a tumble in the water…"
"You weren't hurt?"
"A dislocated shoulder. Somehow I managed to go in the water… without breaking anything. Silvera tried to get Logan into an ambulance." His lips pressed into a small smile. "Her persuasion wasn't as effective as yours. You have a way with him that others…can't match."
Carolyn's smile was brief. "He wasn't as lucky as you. I was told he was caught on deck, buried alive even." She set her jaw against the quiver in her voice and tilted her head at Bobby. "You have a suspect?"
"I saw Nicole before the explosion, and they've recovered I.D. for Bree Archer with Nicole's picture on it."
"Archer!" Carolyn jolted with the realization that she had given the woman no more thought. "I was with her!" She gasped when Bobby's hand closed over her upper arm with bruising force.
"Where?!"
"I left her on the other side of the bridge. We were in a taxi— I don't know…if she stayed in the taxi or got out—"
"I want her!" Bobby's eyes were intent and searching, his big body in her personal space, intimidating. Carolyn experienced a twinge of compassion for his suspects during interrogations.
"For Nicole to have access to her I.D.," he said, his excitement bubbling over, "Archer has to be involved somehow."
"You want her?" Carolyn looked him up and down doubtfully, picturing him on the back of a motorcycle. "You up for a bike ride?"
oOo
Bobby didn't need to swing a leg over the back of a bike, though Alex would have liked to have seen it.
After chuckling at her own joke, Carolyn called Archer on her cell phone. Alex wasn't surprised when it didn't answer. If both she and Wallace were on or near Staten Island, it was too big a coincidence for it not to be orchestrated. It was also too much to expect Bree to answer phone calls from NYPD Detectives.
Convinced Nicole was in the vicinity, Bobby split them up, setting goals of maintaining vigilance at each of the emergency stations. Bobby went back to the temporary morgue, after cautioning Silvera to preserve the police net she had set up to prevent departures from the perimeter, sending Carolyn to chase down the last known whereabouts of a woman in a taxi detoured from the V-Narrows bridge and directing Alex to the medical unit to search the wounded.
Alex figured no one had an easy job of it, but searching the injured huddled under makeshift tents erected a few hundred yards away from the temporary morgue, was just as heart-wrenching as scouring the dead.
In the fourth tent, a doctor halted Alex as she spoke briefly to an injured woman sitting on the ground with a bloodied bandage around her leg and a toddler clutched fiercely in her arms.
"Any idea as to why yet, Detective?" he asked wearily, his height forcing him to stoop as he joined her.
Alex straightened, her head nearly touching the roof of the sagging tent. The dank canvas walls kept out the distressing sight of the burning ferry, but couldn't staunch the creep of the early evening cold.
"I'm sorry, Doctor," she said, eyeing the harassed medic who looked too young to be out of University.
"An attack of this magnitude has be terrorist-related," he insisted. "What is being done?"
"We don't know anything yet, but every step is being taken–"
"To what? Protect the living? Contain the situation? What can you possibly do to help us after the event?"
Alex bit down on her retaliation, used to this criticism from the public. "We can investigate any lead, any information from those that survived–"
"Good luck," he griped. "These people know nothing except that they were traveling on a ferry one minute and their world was turned upside down the next. Most of these people are too shell-shocked to remember anything."
Looking around the tent at the bent heads or baleful stares of the survivors, Alex had to agree. "Is there anyone… lucid enough… composed enough to talk to me? Someone who is less shell-shocked than the rest."
"Well… there was a Doctor on board… off-duty… He was on the lower deck of the ferry and went into the water." The Doctor looked around vaguely. "He's around here somewhere, helping us out. And… a nurse… she was with him, but she recently left in one of the ambulances…"
Alex' chin tipped. "She wasn't injured?"
"Ah… no. Didn't appear to be, anyway. But she was most helpful. Really pulled her weight while she was here."
"And now she's gone." Alex stared at him with impatience. "Are you aware that able-bodied ferry passengers are not allowed to leave the perimeter?"
"She was a nurse. She went with the injured–"
"Please describe this… nurse."
The Doctor shrugged. "Short, petite, blonde. A looker."
Alex pulled out her cell and thumbed through her picture files. "Which hospital was the ambulance routed to?"
"University Hospital, North. They're still able to take the bad cases."
Alex stopped at a photo of Nicole and showed him her cell.
"Ah, yes. That's her. I was glad of her help–"
Alex didn't hear the rest. She strode out of the tent back toward St George Terminal, dialing her phone as she went. When it connected, she didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Bobby? We've got her."
oOo
Overhead lights flashed in staccato unison above him as Logan tried to focus on his surroundings. Faces came close and retreated, hands pulled at and pushed him, hoisted him onto something smooth and cool and then an electronic wheeze preceded his body being guided into a tunnel that was metallic and claustrophobic.
"Wha–?!"
"Lie still, please, Detective," a disembodied voice directed him from an audio link. "We're just wanting a picture of your brain. You've had a few nasty blackouts we need to check out."
It took superhuman effort for Logan to stay where he was. His skin crawled at the predicament in which he found himself. He hated hospitals and he hated being at the mercy of others, and he was two for two at the moment. He forced his body to go limp, waiting for the moment when he could convince someone he wasn't supposed to be here.
The electronic wheeze continued unaffected by his resistance, and Logan heard the audio voice reassure him occasionally. The platform on which he lay moved again, out of the tunnel, until it came to a gentle stop, then faces swam into view and hands grabbed him and deposited him back onto a gurney which was wheeled at practiced speed once more along a brightly lit corridor. Logan gritted his teeth against the ignominy of it, flexing his fingers into the cool sheet beneath him as he waited for the opportunity to escape.
A sudden turn and Logan was wheeled into a ward that seemed crowded with beds. Hands hefted him onto an empty one and Logan lay still and unresponsive. Soon, he thought, soon. They would leave him and he could get out of there, giving up the bed for someone who needed it.
"Nurse, this is Detective Logan." Logan looked for the speaker, and winced as a gentle hand manipulated a bright light into his eye. "He's to remain under observation. Possible concussion. We're waiting for results from a cat scan."
"Understood, Doctor."
"How do you feel, Detective?"
Logan focused on a knowledgeable, weary-worn face above a white coat. "Gro…groggy…"
"That's to be expected," the doctor said, straightening. "Nurse Clarence will look after you. I'll be back shortly."
Logan nodded, projecting false acquiescence and turned his head on the pillow, wishing them both gone. Where the hell were his clothes? He eyed in horror, the hospital garments draped over his body.
"Thank you, Doctor," the soft voice of the nurse supplied Logan's withheld gratitude. "Now, Detective, let's get you tucked into this bed," she said, straightening his hospital gown, pulling at its hems.
Not on your life, Logan thought. He batted her hands away. "I don't show you mine until you show me yours, Nurse," he said nastily.
"Now, that's not very nice, is it?"
"Take the good with the bad, la–"
"–you mean, the hospital's in lock-down?" A strident voice hurriedly passed the ward's opened doors and Logan craned his neck to catch the conversation.
"That's what I heard. No one leaves–"
The voices dispersed and Logan pushed himself up and off the bed. Lock-down? Something was going down and Logan needed to be a part of it. "This is where we part company, Nurse," he said, slipping out of the ward and breaking into an unsteady trot.
With a five minute window to discover why the hospital was suddenly sealed, Logan ignored Nurse Clarence's protests and disappeared through the nearest fire exit. Willing away dizziness and nausea and operating on pure adrenalin, Logan headed for a lower floor. He was unsure as to how he was going to escape, but he'd seen it done in the movies. You simply find a janitor's room or a Doctor's staff lounge, don their uniforms and slip out to mingle with the hospital populace. Simple.
With a cursory look out of the next fire exit, Logan saw that he was already on the ground floor. Squeezing his eyes shut against another wave of dizziness, he put out a hand, seeking the door jamb for support. Opening them again, he forced his eyes to focus, seeing a large foyer in front of him, lounge chairs to the right and a reception desk to his left. Another stab of strength re-energized him when he spotted Carolyn waiting at the counter behind Goren and Eames. Her head turned toward him and he watched her eyes widen as he staggered out into the foyer.
"Mike? Oh, hon, what are you doing?" She rushed toward him and he all but collapsed in her arms. "Shit! You idiot! What are you thinking? You look terrible!"
That was the second time today a woman had said that about him and Logan was starting to believe it.
"What's going on, Carolyn?" he panted. "Someone mentioned a lock-down…"
"Nicole…masquerading as a nurse. She may still be here."
"Then we'll find her–"
"You!? You are going nowhere except into a bed–"
"There he is!" A voice called from an opened elevator and two orderlies accompanied Nurse Clarence out of the car to walk purposefully toward him.
"Oh, no you don't," Logan gritted and pulled out of Carolyn's arms. "I'm not going without a fight." He turned to appeal to Goren, ready to offer his services in tracking down Wallace, when he was seized by the orderlies, who supported an arm each as they half-walked, half-dragged him back to the elevator.
The fight went out of Logan, his last rush of energy draining him.
"You know Detective Logan?" he heard Nurse Clarence ask Carolyn, then the elevator doors closed on the three of them and he felt the car rise back into the bowels of the hospital.
The door opened on the next level and he was assisted along the corridor to his ward. The room flexed and shrank around him as he was placed back on the bed.
"I'll take it from here," a cultured, accented voice assured the orderlies. A cotton-wool pressure sent Logan's head spiraling as he looked vaguely for the owner of the voice.
"Detective Logan, we meet again. How charming! But we haven't actually been formally introduced."
"Whaa–at?" Logan forced his eyes to stay open but they refused to focus any better on a blurred visage with long straight pale hair.
"Last time I saw you, you were skulking around the Mateus boathouse. I'm very annoyed with you, you know. Leading Alicia along like that, turning her against me. And in the end, you couldn't even protect her–"
oOo
tbc…