The police commander slammed the communiqué down on Stan's desk, causing the captain to jump slightly.
"If you know anything about this, Donovan, you'd better spill it now. The FBI is out for somebody's head to roll, and I'm telling you, Stan, it's not going to be mine."
Donovan swallowed trying to alleviate the dryness in his mouth. "Alan, I already told you, both Monahan and Brill turned in their guns and their shields; I have no idea what they're doing."
"Stan, I'm warning you, if you try to protect Monahan in this, you're going to go down with him."
"I take it Sequana had to let Vandano and his men go."
"That's right. And all because your boys busted in where they had no business interfering, impersonating federal officers. Stan, this is bad. Sequana is ranting and raving about the helicopter incident, and I'm having a hard time keeping the mayor and his people off of my ass. I'll ask you once more: did you have anything to do with this? Are you holding anything back?"
Stan sighed. "Frank called in earlier."
"And?"
"And he said Quincy'd been shot and needed Asten."
"And?"
"And I told him that I thought Asten was a man of resources."
"That's all?"
"Yeah, that's it."
The commander stared at the captain. "It had better be."
Alan turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving Donovan to stew in his worry.
"Are you sure about this, Rocky?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Our man on the inside, he said Sequana dumped the bones here, and the boss said he'd like we should get 'em. Bones," Rocky sighed. "I'm sitting out in front of a morgue waiting to break-in and steal some bones... this ain't Halloween, and I don't like it."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Mickey, it's desecration of the dead, and I just don't think we oughta..."
"But the boss said them bones could cause a lot of trouble if the wrong guy looked at 'em."
"Uh-huh. I still don't like it."
"Are ya scared, Rocky?"
"No I ain't scared, you meathead. It's just that places like this, they gimme the creeps."
Mickey laughed slightly and lit a cigarette: they just had to wait awhile longer until only the night duty staff remained.
Brill pulled Anselmo's car up near the delivery entrance at the Clark County Morgue. Danny fidgeted nervously in the seat next to him.
"Calm down, Danny."
"Calm down? I'm the very picture of serenity," Danny quipped sarcastically.
Brill stared at Danny's hands which were playing with every knob and switch in the car. "Yes. I can see that."
Danny glared at the ex-cop. "Morgues...I don't like them. They give me the willies."
"You've been in Quincy's morgue."
"Only twice, and both times it was against my better judgment. Let's just say I'm not comfortable around Quincy's patients..."
Brill shook his head. "They can't hurtcha, Danny, they're dead."
"I know they're dead. That's exactly what I don't like about them."
Brill kept his eyes on the building then glanced at his watch. "Okay."
"Okay, what?"
"Okay, let's go."
"Go?"
"Yes. Inside." Danny glared unhappily at Brill. "Here," Brill held out his revolver, "Why don't you hold on to this, and if any of the stiffs threaten you, you can shoot 'em."
"Very funny."
Brill laughed and put the gun away. "Come on."
Reluctantly Danny followed Brill out of the car and over to the delivery entrance. In less than a minute, Brill had jimmied the lock and they were on the inside.
"Tell me," Danny whispered, "why is it all you cops are so good at breaking into places?"
"Basic training at the Academy, but it's meant for breaking out, not in."
"Oh."
Brill and Danny silently moved through the corridor and over to the check-in counter, which was unmanned at night. Brill slipped behind the counter and began rifling through the files.
"Keep a watch on the corridor, Danny."
"Yeah," Danny said nervously, "as long as it ain't no stiffs I'm watchin' for."
After a few minutes, Brill found the receipt he wanted, memorized the drawer number and put everything away, restoring the area to the way it was before he began searching.
"Come on," Brill motioned to Tovo, "down here..."
Danny could see they were heading for the huge storage doors and he stopped moving. After a moment, Brill realized he was alone.
"Danny, come on!"
"The heart is willing, but the feet ain't moving."
Brill grabbed Danny by the sleeve and pulled him along. "I'm gonna have to have help to carry it."
"W-what?"
"You're going to have to help me carry it."
"I ain't touchin' it!"
"Danny, we don't have time for this..."
"Okay, okay..."
The two men proceeded into the cold storage room and after finding the right drawer, Brill slid it out, unzipped the body bag and checked the contents to be sure it was bones. Together with the reluctant Tovo, the two men carried the bag out of the room and down the corridor heading toward the delivery door. But as they turned the corner near the check-in counter, Brill saw that their luck had run out; before he could duck into another room, he caught the attention of the men he recognized from Vandano's penthouse. The mobsters looked up and it was obvious that the recognition was reciprocal.
"I told you I didn't wanna come in here," Danny muttered.
"Rocky, look, it's our friend from the IRS!"
The two mobsters pulled their guns and moved toward Brill and Danny, who ran back toward the storage room, dragging the bag of bones with them. As quickly as he could, Brill found an empty storage drawer and motioned to Tovo.
"Get in."
"What?"
"Get in, hurry!"
"No way. I ain't lyin where no stiff's been."
Brill grabbed Danny by the collar. "You either hide in here with the bones, or face big and bigger with me. What's it gonna be?"
Danny shook his head. "If you're gonna put it that way..." Brill shoved Danny into the drawer with the body bag. "I ain't never steppin' foot in no morgue ever again."
"Just be quiet and don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."
"I'll be as quiet as the rest of the residents."
Brill closed the drawer and hid behind some draped gurneys in the back, his gun in his hand. Not seconds later, Rocky and Mickey carefully walked in, their guns out and ready.
"Hey, taxman," Rocky called, "I think I made a mistake on my return. I think I owe you somethin'..."
Brill remained silently crouched in the dark, waiting.
"Come on, taxman, don't you wanna collect on what I owe?"
Rocky nodded to Mickey, indicating they should split up. Slowly and quietly, the two men moved through the room toward Brill.
"You don't stand a chance, taxman, and by the way, that's a nice BMW you're driving. Saw it out by the delivery door. Bet you've been pocketing some of that dough you've been collectin' from decent citizens."
Brill grimaced: if the guy had seen the car then he had made a note of the plate, and it could be traced right back to Anselmo, who would tell Vandano anything he wanted to know. It would only be a matter of time before they'd trace the place in the desert to Monahan. Brill shook his head: the mob would probably find it long before the FBI. He carefully peeked out over the gurney, then pulled his pocket knife from his jacket and lobbed it to the other side of the room. The two men turned toward the noise. Brill stood then, his two arms extended, the gun pointing directly at them.
"Drop the pieces, boys. I've got you cold."
Neither turned around, nor dropped their weapons.
"You heard me, drop 'em."
"I heard you, but I ain't heard your friend, taxman. He still here? If he ain't, then it's two against one. By the time we turn to face you, you'll only have time to shoot one of us, and then the other one'll kill you."
"Maybe I'll just shoot you in the back."
"You won't do that."
"Oh, I won't?"
"Nah. See I know who you really are, Sgt. Brill of the LAPD. You'll wait until we turn and it's clear we're gunning for you. That's how all of you cops are trained, you can't do nothin' else."
"The only problem with that is that I'm not a cop anymore. The way I see it, it's either the two of you or me. I'd rather it was me." He could see the man's muscles tighten as uncertainty creeped in; the bluff might work. "What's it gonna be? You two gonna join the other stiffs in here?"
"Damn..." Rocky muttered.
"Put the guns down, and put your hands in the air."
Reluctantly Rocky and Mickey put their guns down and their hands in the air. Brill moved in and cuffed Rocky to a metal pole against the wall, then he tied Mickey up with some telephone line and gagged both of them with hand towels. He put away his gun and went to the drawer where Danny was hiding, opened it and helped Tovo up.
"You okay, Danny? You look a little funny."
"You lie in there awhile and see what it does for your complexion."
Shrugging, Brill picked up one end of the body bag and headed toward the door.
"Ta-ta, boys, try and stay cool now, okay?" Brill said as they ducked out of the room.
The two men walked out of the delivery entrance carrying the body bag, jumped into the car and headed toward Victorville.
Asten turned up the dirt road and headed into the pitch blackness of the California desert on a moonless night. Sam glanced over at his boss and noticed how tightly Asten was gripping the steering wheel.
"Are you all right, Dr. Asten?" His lilting voice asked.
"Yes," came the curt reply.
Taking an educated guess regarding the director's anxiety, Sam said, "How long has it been since you've performed surgery?"
Asten blinked his eyes and swallowed. "Not since residency."
Even though Sam figured it had been a long time, he hadn't expected such a response. "Oh."
"It doesn't mean I've forgotten how, Sam," Asten said defensively.
"I didn't mean to imply such a thing, Dr. Asten."
But Asten could feel Fujiyama's growing apprehension regarding Quincy's continued existence under Asten's scalpel.
"I won't lie to you, Sam, I'm nervous. It's particularly disturbing that the patient is--" But he cut himself off, unable to say it. Asten reached over and squeezed Sam's arm. "I'm not going to let Quincy die. You have my word on that."
Sam nodded and looked away, out into the darkness of the night. And then he saw the pale yellow light. "Over there, Dr. Asten. That must be it."
Asten pulled next to the blue rental sedan and grabbing his medical bag, he and Sam went to the door, and knocked loudly.
After a moment or so, Monahan's voice asked, "Who is it?"
"It's Asten and Sam," Bob replied.
The door opened and Asten was slightly startled by the former lieutenant's disheveled appearance. He noted the soiled bandage on the man's forehead and started to reach for it to check the wound, but Monahan shoved his hand away.
His voice was tired and brusque, "Quincy's back here."
The two men followed Monahan to the bedroom and Asten's heart dropped to his knees when he saw his pale medical examiner lying on the bed. He sat softly on the edge, opened his bag and pulled out his stethoscope. He listened to Quincy's heart, checked his pulse and blood pressure then as gently as he could, lifted the towel of ice off the wound. He examined Quincy's belly, and felt his eyes sting slightly with overwhelming fear.
"Well?" Monahan prodded.
Asten stood, pulled his stethoscope off, and angrily tossed it into the bag. "It's worse than I imagined. Much worse."
"What in the hell are you sayin'?"
Asten's face colored with anger. "You should have taken him to a hospital, Monahan. What in the hell were you thinking?"
"I didn't have a choice, I couldn't do that," Monahan's voice was tinged with rising tension.
"And if he dies, it's on your head," Asten growled.
Whatever was left of either man's emotional control, burst wide open.
"How dare you lay this on me," Monahan snarled, his face red with fury. "It was your butt Quincy was trying to pull from the sling that got him into this mess in the first place - or have you forgotten?"
"And you were supposed to protect him from the mob, not get him shot!"
Sam tensely observed as the two men moved dangerously close to one another, their statements of blame becoming more fierce with each passing retort; he was afraid that it might come to blows.
"Are you gonna just stand here and scream at me while Quincy's lyin' there dyin'? Or are you just blowin' smoke up my ass because you're afraid you're gonna kill him with your rusty scalpel?"
Whether it was fear that the man's words were true, or anger at his audacity in saying it, Asten didn't know, but suddenly he had Monahan by the shirt collar, and he was preparing to slug him.
"Stop," the pained voice croaked from the bed, "please stop it. No one's to blame. You're tearing each other apart because of me, and I won't have it. Settle down, both of you before one of you does something we'll all regret."
Monahan and Asten glared at each other for a long, tense moment, then slowly, Asten released his hold on the ex-cop and sat, ashamed on the bed.
"I'm sorry, Quincy," Asten said softly, "I...I don't know what got into me just now." He looked down and muttered, "Monahan, I'm sorry."
Monahan slipped a caring hand on Asten's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "We're both upset and on edge, Asten, I'm sorry too."
Asten laid a deceptively calm hand on Quincy's brow. "You're awfully warm..."
"For a couple of days now," Quincy said meaningfully.
"Your ulcer started to bleed..." Quincy nodded and Asten continued, the fear in his voice apparent, "It could present complications..."
Quincy felt the trepidation in his friend's voice, and he looked deeply into Asten's dark eyes. "I trust you, Bob. There's no one I'd rather have fighting for me right now."
Asten blinked away the moisture that had pooled in his eyes and he pat Quincy's cheek. "Pain bad?" Quincy nodded and Asten continued, "I'll give you something to help pull the edge off."
Quincy nodded again and closed his eyes. Asten filled a syringe with an ampule of morphine, then dabbed the inside of his friend's elbow with alcohol. He inserted the needle, pressed the plunger, pulled the needle out and gently massaged the area he injected, helping to push the drug into the bloodstream. After a few minutes, Quincy's body visibly relaxed.
"Asten," Monahan said, "What do you need us to do?"
"We need a table."
"There's one in the dining room."
"Sam, set up a makeshift sterile field in there, and prep the table for surgery. Monahan, if you could help him with that, I'd be grateful."
Sam moved immediately, relieved to have something to do, and to get away from the out of control emotions that were threatening to pull down his own thinly covered veil of fear.
Monahan squeezed Asten's shoulder. "I'm sorry about before Asten, I didn't mean it."
"I know that. I didn't either."
Monahan slipped quickly from the room to help Sam, leaving Asten to care for Quincy. The director tenderly picked up the coroner's pale, still hand, holding it softly between both of his.
His voice was filled with the fear of one man for losing another. "Don't you die on me, Quincy," he whispered, "Don't you die."
