DIVA (39 page)

No wonder folks didn’t respond when the cops asked for help. Call in with important information and they paid no attention.

He went back to the kitchen, got on the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

______

Frank slewed around the corner of the rain-slicked street and stomped his brakes, unable to believe his eyes. Belinda Scully was running down the middle of the street. He jumped out of the car and grabbed her.

She collapsed in his arms and clung to him, trembling. “Frank! Thank God you’re here. H-h-he was in my bedroom when I woke up and I couldn’t make him leave and . . . he made me . . . h-h-he’s a maniac!”

Ignoring the pelting rain, he rubbed her back, eyeballing the area behind her. The street was deserted, the gutters flooded with rainwater. No cars, no people, no sign of Stoltz. “It’s okay, Belinda. You’re safe now.”

He helped her into his car and got behind the wheel. Rain drummed the roof, cascading down the windshield. Belinda slumped in the passenger seat, arms hugging her chest, staring straight ahead. Stringy strands of hair were plastered to her forehead. After a moment she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes had that hollow vacant look, the thousand-yard stare he’d seen in the eyes of people who had narrowly escaped death.

“I stabbed him with a screwdriver.”

“Where is he? Someplace near here?”

She made a vague gesture with her hand. “Back there in a gutted house. I don’t know which one. When I got out, I just ran away as fast as I could.”

He squeezed her shoulder, felt the fragility of her bones through her sodden sweatshirt. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him.”

He did a U-turn, got on his radio and called Dispatch. He told the dispatcher that Belinda was safe in his car, but the subject might be holed up in a nearby house. He gave the location and told the dispatcher to send a SWAT team ASAP.

“He’s got a gun,” Belinda said.

He looked over and saw her shudder. “A hand gun?”

“No, a rifle.” In a flat listless voice, she said, “This has been the longest day of my life.”

“I’m sure it has.” And it wasn’t over. He felt less frantic now that Belinda was safe in his car, but Stoltz was still at large, armed with a rifle. And way more dangerous now that his love object had escaped.

The worst possible scenario.

“I dropped my flute,” she said tonelessly. “Back in that house.”

Amazed that she was worried about a flute, he studied her slack expression. She was in shock. He’d seen it before, traumatized survivors worrying about inconsequential details. She was lucky to be alive.

“Forget the flute. You can buy another one.”

She gave him an unfathomable look, then leaned back against the headrest, frowning as though she was working out a complicated puzzle.

The sky darkened to a deep charcoal-gray and a deluge of rain splattered the windshield. In the distance he heard sirens amidst claps of thunder.

“Is there someone you want to call? You can use my cell phone.”

Anguish twisted her mouth and a muscle bunched in her jaw. She took a deep breath, and her face settled into a familiar mask of tranquility. “No, but thanks for the offer.”

Her matter-of-fact tone tore at his heart. Belinda had no family to call. No friends. A sad commentary on the life of a beautiful and celebrated flute soloist. Ziegler had been her only friend, but Ziegler was dead.

Audiences adored her, but when disaster struck and she needed someone, Belinda Scully was all alone.

_____

Excruciating pain ripped his forehead. Fuck-all! He could barely see.

Blood was still oozing from the wound, dripping into his eye.

Damn that bitch to hell! Everything she’d said had been a lie, everything she’d done a deception. Even the music she’d played had been designed to make him think she cared for him. His cherished dream that she might come to love him as much as he loved her had been a grand delusion.

She didn’t give a flying fuck about him. To her he was nothing. Less than nothing. A cipher. The traitorous bitch had ripped a three-inch gash from the bridge of his nose through the flesh of his shaven eyebrow. Thanks to his survival kit, he had staunched the worst of the bleeding.

Survival 101: Tend your wounds and retaliate. Fury flamed his cheeks.

He might not be able to settle the score with The Diva, but before this day was done, she would know how powerful he was. The whole fucking world would know how deadly he could be, cops included.

They were already here. From his sniper perch at the second floor window, he watched them barricade the end of the street to keep out curious onlookers and television crews. If he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, it wouldn’t be hard, not with his handy-dandy Bushmaster M4 Carbine and high-powered Nikon scope. It was raining like hell, but he’d taken out targets at two hundred yards in worse weather during Special Ops exercises. His marksmanship scores had been excellent.

But not as high as Pa’s, a fact the prick had taken great pleasure in cramming down his throat.

His forehead throbbed, a kaleidoscope of pain: bright yellow, brilliant red and dark magenta. He should have killed the bitch as soon as they got here. An icy rage settled over him. She'd tried to blind him, had missed his eye by less than a half inch. Then, while he stood there in agony, she had escaped. And told the cops where to find him.

He looked out the window. Reinforcements had arrived, two big black Hummers rolling down the street toward the house.

“Benjamin Stoltz.” An electronically magnified voice floating through the window. “You’re surrounded. Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up and you won’t be hurt!”

Won’t be hurt.
The cops giving him the Big Lie.

He peered out the window. Forewarned by the Belinda-bitch, the cops would be wearing body armor. That would lower the body count. He needed a better victim pool. And pain meds. He wiped blood from the bridge of his nose and laughed aloud, delighted at the conjunction of needs. His mind fizzed like Coke shaken in a can, foaming with possibilities.

Time to leave this filthy gutted house and go to a hospital.

He raced downstairs to the cupboard below the smelly sink where his arsenal was hidden. Those cops were in for a surprise.

Five minutes later he opened one of the second floor windows that faced the back yard. Two uniforms were creeping alongside the one-story house behind this one. Pelted with rain and drenched to the skin, the lead officer, a tall rugged-looking guy bulked out with body armor, reached the corner of the neighboring house and stopped. The cop behind him was wearing body armor too, but he was short and stocky, with a thick neck.

Perfect. Special Ops rules: In an ambush, pick off the rear man first.

He took out an all-carbon Blackhawk-4000 arrow and set it onto his crossbow. The 30-inch projectile had three yellow feathers at one end, a killer hunting tip at the other. The shot would be tricky due to the wind and rain, but he had confidence in his ability. Months of practice at the Special Ops target range had prepared him.

He took a deep breath, held it and released the arrow.

The short stocky cop fell to the ground with an arrow through his neck.

The first cop heard him fall and turned to look. No chance at that cop’s neck. He set another Blackhawk onto the crossbow, took aim and let it go.

His target went down, clutching his thigh. The other one wasn’t moving.

Excellent. The bow had served its purpose, a silent deadly weapon to create a diversion so he could escape. But he didn’t have much time.

He ran downstairs to the side door. The Diva’s flute lay on the floor. He planted his foot on one end, grabbed the other end with his hand and yanked. The Diva’s precious flute bent in half like a platinum Gummy Bear. With a grim smile, he threw it on the floor.

“The bitch will never play
this
flute again, Oz.”

Inside the wire-mesh cage, his precious little bunny gazed up at him.

His heart melted. Oz had been his faithful companion for the last three years. Always overjoyed to see him. Delighted to snuggle against him. Always wanting to be petted and stroked. Someone else would have to take care of his Wizard of Oz now.

“I hate to leave you, Oz. You’ve been my one true companion, the only creature in the world that loves me. But you can’t come with me.”

Couldn’t come with him because he was on a mission, the most important mission of his life and probably the last.

He broke down the Bushmaster, jammed it into his knapsack with the ammo and other supplies. Holding the Ruger, he ran to the back of the house and looked out a window. Forty yards to his right, pelted by rain, a crowd of cops encircled the two men he’d shot with the crossbow, dismayed and distracted, all thought of capturing the fugitive forgotten. For now.

He eased open the window. Rain stung his face. Levering himself over the sill, he dropped to the ground and took off running, the knapsack in one hand, the Ruger in the other. Seconds later he vaulted a low cedar-plank fence and sprinted to the street that paralleled the rear of the gutted house.

The safe-house that was no longer safe, thanks to the Belinda-bitch.

Pain pounded his forehead. She would pay for this. He didn’t know how, but he intended to find her and make her pay. His final mission.

He heard more sirens approaching, an undulating wail. He sprinted across the street and ran alongside a house with boarded-up windows, feet squishing in the rain-soaked grass. This was the danger point. He didn’t know how wide a perimeter the cops had established. If he ran into a patrol car, he would have to shoot it out and he didn’t want to do that. Not yet.

Breathing hard, he raced through tall weeds between two gutted houses, slowed as he approached the next street. Solid sheets of rain had drenched his clothes, and his skin felt clammy. His mind churned, ordering priorities.

First, he needed a vehicle. During the torrential rains that often hit New Orleans, most residents stayed inside unless they had urgent business. All he had to do was find someone who
did
have urgent business.

Someone in a vehicle. Someone to drive him to a hospital.

Then, badaboom. Doomsday in New Orleans.

CHAPTER 41

Frank flipped through an old issue of
Sports Illustrated
with unseeing eyes. The hall door was closed, but faint announcements from the PA system filtered into the small windowless waiting room. City Hospital had replaced Charity as the go-to facility for trauma victims. Charity was much larger but it had sustained massive damage during Katrina and hadn’t reopened.

A lamp on the corner table gave off a cheery glow, but he didn’t feel cheery. He felt stymied. Frustrated. He wanted to go capture Stoltz.

A rap on the hall door, then Kelly’s voice: “Frank, you in there?”

About time. He set the magazine on a table and stood. “Come on in.”

Dressed in a rain-soaked hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans tucked into all-weather boots, Kelly stepped into the room, tracking mud over the institutional-gray carpet. “Where’s Belinda? How is she?”

He gestured at an inner door that faced the hall. “In there with the doctor. When I picked her up she looked like a war refuge, face streaked with dirt, hair matted to her head. I snuck her in through the side entrance. A nurse brought us up here to wait for the doctor.”

“Who’s the doctor?” Kelly said.

“Iris Golden.”

“Excellent. She does a lot of the rape exams. How’s Belinda?”

“Hard to tell. When the nurse asked if she wanted to wash up and brush her hair, Belinda said she just wanted to sleep. I think she wants to pretend this is all a bad dream, but Stoltz is still out there. She’s lucky to be alive.”

“That’s for sure. His sister said he served in the military.”

“Yeah? You didn’t mention that before.”

Kelly flashed a cool-your-jets grin. “The damsel detective did her due diligence, called Rachel back and questioned her. She said they lived in Rhode Island until 1985. Then they moved to Massachusetts.”

“That’s where Belinda met Rachel, in an All-State Orchestra. Maybe he spotted her then. But his parents are dead now, and Rachael lives in Atlanta.”

“So Rachael said, but who knows? I could tell she didn’t want to talk to me. If Stoltz was in the military, he’d have had weapons training. We need a warrant to access the military data base.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, imagining various scenarios, none of them good. His cell phone rang. When he answered, Vobitch yelled, “He shot two cops with a fucking bow! One’s got an arrow through his neck. The other cop took one in the thigh. SWAT’s ready to enter the house, but I’m not sure he’s still there.”

His gut lurched, a sickening freefall. “Did anyone see him leave?”

“No, but the cops he shot were behind the house. It was fucking chaos back there. He might have escaped during the confusion.”

“What about the van?”

“Still there. If he split, he’s on foot, but who knows for how long?”

“Kelly’s here. I asked her to come to the hospital in case we needed a female cop in the exam room. She talked to the sister again. Stoltz served in the military. Can we get a warrant to get into the military data base?”

“Military. Jesus-fucking-Christ! Frank, I saw some bad shit in Harlem, but I’ve never seen anything like this. The fucking arrow’s embedded in his
neck!
In one side and out the other.”

His stomach churned like a coffee-grinder. “We need that warrant. If we access his military records, we might get a better handle on him.”

“I’ll take care of it. I already put out another bulletin to the radio and TV stations. Where’s the Scully woman?”

“In a critical-care suite on the top floor of City Hospital. A doctor’s with her now. Kelly and I are right outside in a waiting room.”

“Let's keep in touch by cell phone,” Vobitch said. “The radio chatter will be fierce once SWAT enters the house.”