Closer, just come a little bit closer, you bastard. I still have one last trick up my sleeve. One last hurrah before you put me to sleep forever. With any luck, I’ll get it right the first time. Because after that, I’m definitely out of chances.
His smug face, inches from her own now. The rubber tube and the syringe in his hand.
‘Go to hell!’ she screamed.
She spit the words out in his ear. The number-three scalpel was tucked in under her left hand, with the strap loosely fitted over her wrist. Using all the strength she could muster, she raised the blade and brought it down hard into his neck. Blood squirted like a fountain. His eyes, which had been locked on hers in a triumphant look of smugness at having figured her out, grew wide with shock.
He staggered back, away from her, his hands on his neck. He crashed into the metal cart, sending it careening into the wall. The surgical instruments flew on the cold black tile with a tinkle, scattering across the floor. One hand left his neck and he reached out for her, his eyes wide with shock, but then he fell against the wall.
Blood was everywhere. She must have nicked the carotid artery, and he was bleeding out all over his green scrubs. His eyes still stared at her, but his face was dark with anger. His words were choked, as though he could not breathe.
She rolled off the gurney, hitting the floor hard. A searing pain flared in her side and she felt bone snap. She
still could not fully use her legs, the powerful haloperidol making them useless, like deflated rubber tubes. With her hands she pulled herself to the black painted door that he had come through, reaching up and feeling the doorknob above her head, her eyes never leaving his. The pain in her side was intense, and it was difficult to catch her breath.
Blood from his neck wound began to seep across the floor toward her, making the black floor appear glossy, shiny. She tried to scream for help, but the sound was low and raspy and ineffective. He made a gurgling noise just then, and she saw one hand moving next to him, grasping for something.
She had to get out, had to get help. She turned the knob, but it would not open. Then she remembered the jingle of the keys.
He had locked them both in.
98
The keys. The goddamn keys! They were in his jacket pocket on the chair. Next to where he sat slumped against the wall, his fingers still moving like a crab, against the floor. His eyes were open, but they were not blinking and, but for his moving fingers, he looked dead. He was probably in clinical shock, his organs beginning to shut themselves down. She pulled herself through the blood, which now covered the tile, to the chair. The jacket sat draped on top of it. The pain in her chest was excruciating. With every move, it became even harder to find her breath.
She pulled the jacket down on to the floor and frantically dug through the pockets, her eyes not leaving him. His blood, still warm on the floor, was everywhere.
Breast pocket, nothing. Inside pockets, nothing. Left-hand pocket, bingo.
The jingle of a key ring. She pulled them out and began to drag herself back to the door. Her legs were tingling, but she still had no strength in them.
The hand fell on her ankle quickly, pulling her back to him. She screamed, trying to kick it off with her useless legs. She turned and saw that the other hand had moved off his throat, and in it he held the syringe.
‘No! No!’ she screamed. ‘God, no!’ Her hands moved across the slippery tile trying to pull herself back, but found nothing to grab onto. She slid in his blood back to where he sat. She saw the syringe, its body filled with a clear liquid, its sharp needle spurting drops of poison in
the air. His finger was on the plunger, ready to thrust it in her flesh, and he pointed it at her thigh as he pulled her toward him. That much Mivacron injected directly into the bloodstream without the dilution of an IV would kill her. Her hands thrashed about desperately seeking leverage, anything to hold her back from where she was going, but she found nothing and the needle came closer, until it was inches from the skin. Even as she was sure that he sensed his own death was near, a look of triumph passed on his face at the thought, probably, that they would die together.
Then her hands found something cold, something metal on the floor. Scissors. She grabbed at them and with all her might pulled herself forward, at him, on him. Her hand flew out first, the scissors finding his chest. His grip lessened suddenly, and his hand slipped to the floor off her ankle. The syringe dropped to the floor, rolling in the blood to the wall. His eyes remained open. The look of triumph never passed.
She pulled herself back to the door and felt for the handle above her. Grabbing it, she pulled herself up and found the lock. Her right hand, wet with blood from the gaping wound in her palm, slipped off the knob and she landed hard on her chin on the floor. Intense pain ran through her head like a shock wave, and the room began to blacken.
No. No. Get up! Don’t pass out here! Not here, not now!
She shook her head to lift the fog, and pulled herself back up on the knob, the fingers on her hand finding the lock above it. The key ring jingled, her shaking hands fumbling to find the right one. The pain in her right palm was intense, and she could not grasp with her fingers. The third key finally found the lock and slid in and she
heard the click. She turned the knob and pulled it open a crack, slipping to the floor. Her fingers found the small opening and she pulled the door, finally falling into a carpeted dark hallway. The tick of a grandfather clock could be heard somewhere.
Where was she? Where the hell was she? What other surprises did he have in store for her?
She cast one more look behind her. He sat still and motionless against the wall, his vacant, lifeless eyes open wide. She pulled herself down the hallway looking for a phone. The hallway was dark, almost as black as the room she had just left behind her. There were no windows, no light.
Find a phone. The police can trace the call. They’ll know where I am. I’m probably at his house, wherever the hell that is.
It was now almost impossible to breathe. The air was heavy, the pain numbing.
Not here. Don’t pass out here, Chloe!
Some ten feet later she found wooden stairs and, holding on to the railing, slid down them, landing in the dark on cool tile. There was more light downstairs than up, and there were windows. Outside she could see it was dark, nighttime. Streetlights sent soft light through the wooden blinds. Down the pale-yellow-and-blue hallway, on a wooden antique desk stacked with pictures of Estelle and her family, was the phone.
She knew exactly where she was, where she had been all this time. And in the nice Spanish-style house on Almeria, in the comfort of her psychiatrist’s office, she lay in the dark crying on the cool Mexican tile floor, just waiting for the police to come.
99
‘Counselor, you are one fucking lucky lady. That place looks like a scene from a bad horror movie. Blood everywhere,’ Manny said when he walked into the room, his clothes disheveled, his face a carpet of black. In one hand he held a basket of exotic tropical flowers. In the other, he held a plateful of
pastelitos.
‘The flowers are from the guys. Even Bowman, that cheap fuck, pitched in. And the
pastelitos
are from me. The doc outside said no
café con leche
for you for a while, so it’ll have to be milk.’
‘Lucky?’ C.J. grimaced from her bed. ‘You go buy the Lotto ticket, Bear. I don’t think I’m up to it.’ Breathing was painful. Talking was worse. ‘Thank you. They’re beautiful.’
Well, you do look like shit, but at least you’re alive. More than we can say for Dr Friendly. I just came from his office. Nice hole you left in his chest, Counselor. Even nicer one in his neck. Remind me not to get you mad. What does the doctor say? Will you be coming back to us, or do I need to find another ASA who will let me prefile on the phone?’
‘Three cracked ribs. A severed tendon in her right hand. Concussion. A collapsed lung. But she’ll be fine,’ said Dominick who was sitting at the side of the hospital bed in an armchair, where he had been all night, ever since she was brought in.
‘I’ll just put them flowers here. Right next to the forty zillion roses someone sent you. I wonder who that could
be?’ He laughed and shot Dominick a knowing look. ‘You look like shit, too, Dommy Boy. But you don’t have no excuse.’ Then he turned to C.J. again, and his face grew soft. She could see the worry hidden deep in his otherwise-tough-looking face. ‘I’m glad you’ll be okay. I’d miss you, Counselor. You had us worried there.’
‘What did you find –’ She swallowed, trying to finish her sentence.
‘Don’t talk. It’s painful hearing you,’ said Manny, his gruff demeanor making a welcome comeback. ‘There’s not much to find, tell you the truth. Dr Friendly’s death chamber had the makings of an ER operating room in tools and bodily fluids, but so far, that’s it. We can’t find the heart you think you saw. The crystal ice bucket is clean. No dead body in the office or at his house, which we’re ripping apart right now. Everything is spotless. No prints, no blood, except, of course, the evil doctor’s, which is everywhere and on everything. He was drained when we found him. If there was anyone else’s blood in that room, we’re sure as hell not going to find it now. Fort Lauderdale P.D. is going over the club on Las Olas where that college student disappeared, but at this time of year, it’s mainly tourists and so far, no one’s recognized him.’
‘I don’t think we’re gonna find anything, C.J.,’ Dominick said softly.
‘What? You think I imagined what I saw?’
It all made sense now. Too much sense. Chambers had the police connection. The police credentials as a consultant. The inside scoop.
You just had to know where to look.
Of course, every action has a reaction. And if one theory was pushed too far, exposed too much, then the reaction could prove just as deadly. He was careful
not to push this one. Some things were better left alone.
‘No. I think maybe he wanted you to think that’s what you saw. I think he was obsessed with you. Maybe he was going to try a copycat. That’s the theory we’re progressing on.’
Manny nodded. ‘We got the right nut behind bars. This one was just a work in progress. Hey, I gotta head out and keep Bowman awake at Chambers’s house. He was at a bachelor party when we got the call. I yanked him out of there right before it was his turn for a lap dance. Now he’s crying exhaustion. So I’ll call you later to tell you what we’ve found.’ He turned at the door and said again, ‘Glad you’re with us, Counselor. Real glad.’
The door closed, and they were alone. Dominick’s hand found hers on the bed. ‘You’ll be fine. Just fine.’ She could hear the relief in his voice. The fear, too.
‘Did he?’ Her voice cut off with a choked sob. She couldn’t look at him at that moment. She just stared up at the ceiling.
‘There’s no evidence of that.’ He knew what she was thinking. The rape kit had come back clean.
She nodded, feeling the tears stream down her cheeks. She gripped his hand even tighter.
He had been in that house, and she had been right there, right above him, in the web of a monster, but he had missed her. He had walked out, and the unthinkable had almost happened. Again.
‘It’s going to be okay this time, C.J. It will. I promise.’ He raised her hand in his and kissed it hard. His other hand stroked her cheek softly. His voice was choked, his words shaking with conviction. ‘And I never break a promise.’
Epilogue
November 2001
The door to Courtroom 5–3 opened on to the crowded hallway, packed with weary and confused family members of both victims and defendants alike, waiting for their cases to be called up on calendar. Judge Katz, in a particularly foul mood at being forced to actually work the day before a holiday, commanded court inside, buzzing through the morning’s First Appearance Hearings, dispensing justice and setting and denying bonds at a blinding pace.
C.J. stepped out of the courtroom, letting the door close on yet another Judge Katz tirade in progress. ‘No bond! Not now, not ever!’ the judge yelled. ‘If you love him that much, go visit him in jail. And get your eyes checked by an optometrist before you walk into any more baseball bats!’ was the last thing C.J. heard before the door closed completely. Just another day in paradise.
Paul Meyers, the Division Chief of the SAO Legal Unit, was waiting for her in the hallway, leaned back against a wall, legal books in hand. His expression was serious, reserved.
‘C.J.,’ he said, pushing himself off the wall and making his way toward her in the crowd, ‘I knew you had a bond hearing this morning. I need to talk to you. Before this gets out and the phone starts ringing.’
A knot tightened in her stomach. So much for a quick escape to a four-day weekend. A personal visit in the
courthouse from the Chief of Legal was not usually a good thing. ‘Sure, Paul. What’s up?’
‘It’s the Bantling appeal. It just came back this morning. We got it faxed from the Attorney General’s Office, who just had it faxed from the clerk at the Third DCA. I wanted to be the first one to go over it with you. I’m sure the press will be calling.’
Oh, shit. Here it comes. Pick a new exciting destination for your life because he’s a free man.
The nightmare that she had put in the past for almost a year was about to start up again. The knot in her stomach tightened, and her mouth went dry. She nodded her head slowly. ‘And?’ was all she could say.
‘And? And, we won. On all the issues.’ He finally broke out in a smile. ‘The court unanimously upheld his conviction. I have the opinion right here.’ He flashed a stack of papers in her direction. ‘I’ll have to get you a copy. But basically, they said that there was no conflict with your prosecuting him. They said his argument that he had been the one who, well, had assaulted you was “opportunistic and inflammatory and was not corroborated by independent evidence.” They said that if they found merit in his argument, it would, and I quote, “open the floodgates to other defendants to dig up dirt on the prosecutor or judge handling their cases in the hope of diverting justice off its course. To simply allow a mere allegation to support a conflict or recusal argument, conveniently made in this case after the statute of limitations had expired, would thus permit a defendant to not only forum-shop, but also now to prosecutor-shop, without any substantiation required of his prejudicial claims.”’ He pointed out the highlighted portion of the opinion and let her read it.