The Warhol Incident (25 page)

Abelard released his grip just before the entire world went dark, and I crumpled to my knees, fighting for breath.
My head pounded as blood rushed to my brain. He slipped something around my neck, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and shoved me into my apartment and slammed the door.

“You didn’t think I would
let you escape into the darkness, did you?” he asked teasingly in my ear. He pinned my arms and stood behind me, pressing a knife into my side. “That would be too easy, non?” His French accent was thick, making him hard to understand. The blade punctured my skin, but it was meant to be a warning. “We should have some fun first.” I was still coughing and dizzy, fighting to rein my thoughts into an attack strategy. He released my arms and tugged on whatever he placed around my neck. Metal dug into my throat, cutting off oxygen and blood. Using both hands, I tried to get my fingers under the metal chain before Abelard could properly garrote me. He pulled tighter, and I tried to fend off the choke-chain more emphatically. The wrist he slammed into the wall was bleeding profusely, making my hand wet and sticky, and it slipped from the metal. The darkness was encroaching again.

Abelard dropped the knife
, realizing I wasn’t able to fight against him and the garrote, and he took the opportunity to run his free hand along the curves of my body as I fought against the metal chain. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re coherent enough for everything that’s still to come. It wouldn’t be as enjoyable for me if you were dead.” I bucked backward, hoping to slam him into a wall, but we were in the center of the room. He was significantly larger and had come prepared. He released the pressure on my neck just enough to ensure I wouldn’t pass out. Water-boarding must be a similarly horrible experience, I surmised as I choked and sputtered briefly before he yanked again, cutting off my air supply.

There was only
one obvious conclusion; I had to stop struggling against the chain and focus my energy entirely on him if I had any chance of escaping. Pulling forward on the metal with all my strength, I gasped down a lungful of air before dropping my hands and slamming my foot into his shin. My elbow came up and struck him in the solar plexus, and I pulled partially away. The chain acted like a tether, and I was forced to remain close to him unless I wanted to choke myself out. Turning at a ninety degree angle, I kicked into his kneecap with everything I had. He hit the ground, howling in pain and temporarily losing his grip on my leash. Collapsing onto the floor, I gasped for breath and frantically tried to free myself from my metal captor.

“Salope,” he
sneered, cursing in French and clutching his knee. He reached for the cold metal, desperate to regain his only remaining method of controlling me. Giving up on shaking the metal collar from my neck, I launched myself toward the wall and reached for my gun. He lunged and took hold of the metal chain just as I pulled my back-up free from my ankle holster. My gun was aimed at him, and I was nanoseconds away from pulling the trigger when O’Connell burst through the door.

“Let her go,” O’Connell barked.
His gun was at the ready, and his finger was tensed over the trigger. Abelard dropped the chain and put his hands in the air. O’Connell kicked the discarded knife further from Abelard’s reach. “Just give me a reason, you sick son-of-a-bitch.” O’Connell positioned himself in front of Abelard, separating him from me. Scrambling to my feet, I finally threw off the choke-collar, coughing spastically as tears ran down my face, but I had yet to lower my weapon. “Facedown, on the ground.” O’Connell kicked Abelard over until he was prone on the floor, and then he frisked and cuffed him. “You okay?” he asked me.

I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t. I had temporarily managed to stop choking, but I was having a difficult time lowering my weapon. All I needed was to apply less than ten pounds of pressure to the trigger, and it would be over.

“Alexis.”
O’Connell took a step toward me. His own gun was holstered, and his hand reached for mine. “He’s not worth it.” I snapped my glance to O’Connell for a brief second before focusing back on Abelard.

“He’s a monster, Nick,” I whispered.
My throat was sore, and I wasn’t sure I could speak any louder than that without setting off another coughing fit. Abelard pulled himself to his knees and grinned maniacally. “I can end this. Right here. Right now.” My finger twitched slightly, and Nick faced me completely. If I were to kill a handcuffed man, he didn’t want to be able to testify against me. 

“If you’re going to do it, at least let me take the cuffs off first.”
O’Connell was reasoning with me, and I shut my eyes and dropped my trigger finger. Nick turned back to Abelard. “Stay down.” He reached for my gun, and I surrendered it to him reluctantly. “It’s over,” he said quietly, putting the safety on and laying my firearm on the table.

Abelard was muttering to himself in French and rocking back and forth on the ground.
He turned to face us, and O’Connell shoved him to the ground. In the blink of an eye, Abelard slipped free from the cuffs and pulled O’Connell’s back-up revolver from his ankle holster. I watched as Nick, without missing a beat, pulled the gun from his hip and double-tapped Abelard in the chest. In one fluid motion, O’Connell kicked his back-up out of Abelard’s reach and checked for a pulse. Somehow, my gun was in my hand, safety off, and pointed at the now dead Abelard.

Without even flinching, O’Connell unclipped his radio.
“The suspect has been subdued. We’re in Parker’s apartment.” He gave them my address. “Send a wagon to pick him up and a bus. She’s been injured.” I continued to stand there, completely stunned. “Now, it’s definitely over.”

“Finally,” I eked out.
For some reason, the room spun ever so slightly. I stumbled, and Nick wrapped an arm around my waist and helped me into the kitchen. I sat at the table while Abelard made a bloody mess on my floor. I needed to find a new apartment. “Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.

“Yeah.”
He nodded his head and shifted his gaze, thinking. Checking my side and wrist, he went to the counter and handed me a dish towel. Wrapping the towel tightly around my bleeding wrist, I thought about my gun lying on the floor in the hallway. One of the cops could pick it up on their way in, I reasoned. “You’re going to the hospital, no argument.” He offered a small smile. “I just dealt with him, so you can do that much for me.” He was worried about the IA investigation that was mandatory following an officer involved shooting.

We sat silently
, waiting for back-up to arrive, along with the ME and some paramedics. O’Connell was forced to surrender his weapon and was ushered away for a proper debriefing. He threw a small smile and nod over his shoulder before being escorted out of my apartment. The paramedics were evaluating my vitals as I tried to explain what happened. Eventually, I gave up trying to talk between the coughing fits and just pointed to the metal choke-collar on the floor. Thompson and a few officers were watching the exchange out of the corners of their eyes. I had yet to be asked about the shooting, but that would soon change. Eventually, I was moved downstairs and away from the scene.

In the ER, my wrist was X-rayed, my side was bandaged, and my neck was examined.
My blood pressure was elevated, but everything else appeared normal. I attempted to give my detailed statement to the police, but my speech was impaired from my larynx almost being crushed. The authorities would just have to come back after the doctors finished their poking and prodding if they wanted more information. 

By some miracle
, my wrist was not broken, and I had not sustained any permanent damage to my neck or throat. However, I was to avoid speaking or straining my neck in any way until it had some time to heal, and I was to remain awhile longer under observation because of my elevated BP and failure of my wrist to properly clot. My previous injuries, courtesy of Abelard, were also reassessed.

At least it provided the opportunity to evaluate all the pertinent information surrounding the shooting.
O’Connell’s review would be expedited after everything that happened, especially after the police considered my statement, my injuries, and the wireless surveillance camera which recorded the altercation in the hallway. The shooting was justified; O’Connell was acting in his own defense and in the defense of another, namely me. But how did Abelard slip the cuffs? O’Connell secured them tightly, but his comment about taking them off would appear suspicious if these details were divulged. There was a practical explanation, and I wanted to figure it out just in case it became an issue.

O’Connell’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Moretti, stopped by my hospital room to ask some questions.
Luckily, I wasn’t up to talking. Providing him with a brief recount of the events, I agreed to have all the Abelard files forwarded to him. “The Police Nationale can fax over my original report and involvement.” I reached for my cell phone and dialed Ryan, requesting the information and promising to call later. I didn’t want to give him any details other than the good news that Abelard was no longer a threat to anyone.

About an hour later, I was still in the damn hospital in a trauma room when Agent Farrell appeared at my door.
He was given the contact information for O’Connell’s precinct, and I felt like a switchboard operator, having to relay one message from one person to another and put people into contact with each other. Finally, after briefly speaking, or squeaking since my voice wasn’t cooperating, to a dozen different people, I was left alone. Lying in bed, I shut my eyes. If I was being held hostage, then this time should be used productively to catch-up on some rest. The doctors had given me some kind of painkiller or sedative that made me a bit drowsy.

I was just about to doze off when the doctor returned.
My blood pressure had returned to normal, and my wrist clotted temporarily. But it needed stitches. My neck was a different story. While there was no permanent internal damage, the flesh was bruised and sore. The doctor wrote out a prescription for some type of ointment to aid in healing, and he recommended ice and time. For my sore throat, some lozenges and sore throat spray should suffice. Why didn’t I have a medical degree? He promised to send someone from plastics to do the stitches to minimize scarring.

Lying back against t
he pillow, my hopes for a nap vanished. Instead, I watched people walk back and forth until a nurse came in with some forms to sign.

“How are you feeling, sweetie?” she asked kindly as I sat up and held the pen awkwardly in my bandaged hand.

“Ready to go home,” I whispered. “Or somewhere else.” I was signing the paperwork when I happened to notice a man in a three-piece suit and tailored overcoat throwing a fit at the nurse’s station. “Do me a favor and tell the obnoxious guy in the expensive suit to stop making a scene and get in here.” The nurse was confused, but she went into the hallway and brought Martin to my room.

“Alex.”
He hurried to my side, unsure of how to proceed, looking both relieved and worried at the same time. “Are you okay? I got here as soon as I could. Obviously, you aren’t okay. You’re in the emergency room. That was a stupid question.” His speech pattern was rushed, bordering on frantic. I leaned my head against his chest and hugged him awkwardly with one arm.

“Calm down, I’m okay.”
I had no idea why he was here, but I was happy to see him. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders in a slight embrace as I signed the paperwork and handed it to the nurse. Taking the clipboard, she left the room. “What are you doing here?” I tried to speak normally, not quite succeeding.

“O’Co
nnell called. He said you needed someone to pick you up. What happened?” I shook my head. It was too long of a story to launch into right now. Martin pulled away and scrutinized my injuries. He tentatively brushed my hair away from my neck. His jaw muscles clenched.

“He shouldn’t have called,” I whispered, but Martin shushed me.

“More importantly, are you sure you’re okay?”
Before I could respond, a doctor came in. “Is she okay?”

The doctor looked for permission, and I nodded.
He gave Martin a synopsis of everything I had already been told. Relieved, Martin took a step closer, and I buried my face in his shirt as the doctor proceeded to stitch my wrist. When the doctor finished, he promised to send someone in with discharge papers.

“I didn’t realize you were squeamish.”
Martin was trying levity. He was calmer now than he had been when he first entered the room. I was glad because I would have hated to ask the nurse for a tranquilizer.

“After the month I’ve had, I can’t do it anymore.”

“You’re not supposed to talk,” he insisted teasingly.

The nurse came back, and I signed my walking papers, got off the bed, and headed for the exit.
I hated hospitals. Martin followed closely behind. He was holding car keys which meant Marcal wasn’t here and neither was Bruiser.

“Where’s Bruiser?”

“Dammit, Alex, for once, just shut up.”
He put his hands on my hips and kissed me. I pulled back, seeing the concern evident on his face. “I got a call from O’Connell,” his tone was dropping in volume, “and thought you were dead.”

“Then why would I need
a ride?” I teased, my tone not convincing in its whispered state. “Is there a hearse in your garage that I’ve never noticed?” I really needed to work on my decorum.