For Everything a Reason (13 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Thomas Carter was seated in his car. About two inches of
the driver’s window had been cranked open, and a steady stream of smoke
billowed out in a grey cloud. Carter closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to
drift away, as if they themselves were caught on the mist of cigarette smoke,
to be taken away up into the heavens, where perhaps the person of Carter’s
interest would be able to read them. His son.

Both Carter and Tyler had
called it a night an hour earlier, and the young detective had taken her leave
almost instantly, eager to get home and spend time with her family. She’d
paused for just a second, to ask if Carter would like to join her for a late
supper, but when he declined, she had quickly headed out of the Department.

Carter had lingered at his desk
with little or no reason to leave. Where would he go tonight anyway? He’d
promised Captain Mendoza that he’d stay out of trouble for the next 48 hours.
That left all tonight and tomorrow night to fill. And tonight, he just couldn’t
bear the thought of spending the dark hours alone in his empty apartment. He’d
waited long enough for the Audio Visual Unit to generate the photo and then
made his way to the hospital.

The detective opened his eyes
and then shook his head in an attempt to clear away the feeling of guilt. Since
being handed the case this morning, Carter had had little time to focus on his
grief. For most of the day his thoughts and attention had stayed on the
present, not on the past. He’d had little time to stop and ponder Billy’s death
and, now, sitting silently alone in his car, he felt an overwhelming rush of
betrayal for not having done so.

Only three months had gone by
since he’d been forced to walk along the bleak corridors of the city’s morgue,
assisted by Captain Mendoza, as he headed towards the pathologist’s lab on
trembling legs. That was the place where they’d taken Billy, and the last time
Carter had seen his only son.

His son’s face formed within
his mind. It wasn’t a picture full of pain or brutality, either, just a desperately
sad one. Billy had been prepared in one of the adjoining rooms, away from the
main examination area. Laid out on a bed, he’d appeared to be merely asleep,
ready to be woken and join the living at any moment. Pale, yes, but not overly
so. Only a few hours had passed since the fatal shooting, and Billy had not had
sufficient time to take on any real characteristics of a cadaver. His face
didn’t look sallow, or wax-like, the need for an undertaker’s hand not yet
apparent. Instead, his face had been recently scrubbed, the pathologist’s
attempt to save Carter the pain of seeing his son covered in blood. He’d done a
good job, too. A single crust of dried blood in Billy’s ear was the only slight
indication of injury. Even the gunshot wound looked nothing too severe – little
more than a dark red scab.

Now, he found himself parked in
this near-empty lot, with his thoughts turning almost as dark as the night sky.
He patted at the holster that lay just under his right armpit. His usual Smith
and Wesson snub-nose had now been replaced by Presley Perkins’ discarded
weapon. A weapon that had been taken from the collection of evidence. Taken
without anyone ever knowing about it.

Detective Thomas Carter had
replaced the original small revolver with one almost identical to it. It had
been a hard task considering the importance of the weapon. Both that and the
pile of excrement found near the crime scene were what had led the
investigation team straight to Perkins. A simple DNA test and fingerprints had
conclusively put Perkins near the scene, followed by ballistics on the bullet
that had killed Officer William Carter, and that was all the authorities needed
to secure a conviction.

Considering his background,
Perkins had only once brushed against the law. As a young teenager, he’d been
arrested for taking his father’s Caddy, unbeknown to old Dolly himself, and had
subsequently been arrested for grand theft auto. The arresting cops had taken
prints and a DNA sample and put these on record. Dolly had then sworn he’d
simply suffered a severe but short bout of amnesia, explaining that he’d
knowingly allowed his son to take the car. Unsurprisingly, all charges had been
dropped. Still, Presley’s identity was stored for all eternity in the police
database.

Having all they needed, the
detectives running William Carter’s case just had to bring in their number one
suspect.

Only Perkins wasn’t willing to
play ball.

And now, Thomas Carter had
taken charge has lead detective – unofficially, of course. It had taken a great
amount of cunning and resolve to get his hands on the weapon used to kill his
son, replacing it with one that looked identical. A task that he would have to
do in reverse, replacing the original gun, once he’d carried out his plan. Not
a plan as such, but a punishment.

Carter checked his watch.
8:20PM. He pulled on the cigarette one last time before stubbing it out in a
half-full ashtray. Then, after winding the window back up, he popped open the
door and stepped out into the night. The cold wind battered him for a moment,
grabbing his coattails and whipping them about his thighs. He tucked his head
down and headed for cover.

A set of automatic doors opened
for him. He stepped out of the dark, windy night and into the glare of overhead
strip lights. The hospital lobby was relatively quiet; just a few staff filled
the entrance, either taking a cigarette break or milling around the coffee
machine. For a second, Carter just stood there, not really sure why he’d chosen
to come here. He unbuttoned his coat, shrugged it off his shoulders and draped
it over his arm. A few hospital staff had gathered around the elevator, waiting
for it to arrive.

Carter stepped over to join
them. He looked up and watched as the indicator dropped from the 8th to the
2nd. The light held at
2
for what seemed
like a long time, before it fell to
1
and
then finally to ground level. The doors opened with a metallic ping.

Carter climbed in with the rest
of the passengers.

Chapter
Twenty-Six

The floor underneath Joseph drew heat from his body like
an elemental magnet. He pushed himself into a sitting position and then scanned
around. The room was almost a mirror image of his. Same size, same layout,
albeit everything opposite to his, and the window in this room had the added
effect of snow blowing against it.

The bed behind him was empty.
Not even sheets could be found. A bare mattress lay flat on bedsprings, and a
couple of coverless pillows had been piled at the foot of the bed.

Joseph shivered. The
temperature in this room was almost as bleak as the room itself. Barren,
soulless, empty, were words that formed in his mind. The room was clean, too
clean, as if it hadn’t been graced by a human soul for quite some time. He
shuffled over to the bed, sliding on his butt until his back pressed against the
cot.

Favouring his left side, he
drew himself onto the bare mattress. The bedsprings beneath him sung a short,
high-pitched tune, as they contracted under his weight.

What now?

Should he wait here for a while
and gather his strength? And, in doing so, alarm his present guardian. Surely
by now Gore’s replacement would have arrived – to find Joseph missing. No,
Joseph realised, the right thing to do was to return to his room and rest. He
wiped the sweat off his brow. As his hand dropped away, he spotted a mop
propped up in the corner of the room. Just to the side of the mop lay a rusty
old bucket. Joseph nodded in understanding. The room had recently been cleaned,
and that’s where the overpowering smell of chemicals had come from.

An idea sprang to mind. Once again,
he climbed onto unsteady feet. He shuffled over to the corner of the room and
took the mop. Then, spinning it around, he fixed the mop head underneath his
right armpit. Perfect. The wooden handle reached to the floor, allowing Joseph
to use it as a makeshift crutch.

He laughed slightly, pleased
with his ingenuity.

Maybe there’d still be time to
call Marianna after all?

Finding movement easier now,
Joseph hobbled to the door and pushed it open. The glare of the lights outside
stabbed painfully at his eyes, forcing him to blink a couple of times. He
stepped out into the bright passageway, and as he did so the door to his room
opened. The unexpected arrival of another person caught him by surprise.

“You,” the guard said, raising
something metallic for Joseph to see.

The guard jabbed the sharp
blade out to show his intentions. Joseph reacted by taking an awkward step
back. Matching him, the guard stepped forwards, keeping the distance between
them equal. Joseph raised the mop handle off the floor, and then levelled it
out in front of him in an attempt to hold the guy back.

The guard laughed maliciously.
“That all you got?”

“What do you want?” Joseph
asked foolishly.

No explanation came. Instead,
the sharp weapon was jabbed aggressively in Joseph’s direction. And although
the motion was only meant to intimidate, merely an exaggerated gesture with no
real threat, Joseph still jolted back instinctively.

The cackle of cold-blooded
amusement came again. “Not such the tough guy after all.” The words were broken
and clumsy and full of mispronunciation.

Joseph’s mind flipped into
overdrive, his heart pounding quickly in his chest. It was obvious to him who
this guy was. His intuition washed away the guard’s façade immediately. The
uniform looked all wrong: too neatly pressed, too new, and worst of all, a
perfect fit. Gore’s had been tight around the midriff and washed to a lighter
blue. This guy looked too seasoned to be a rookie, his face was deeply lined
and greying hair, cropped closely to his scalp, bristled at the sides of his
cap. His shoes reflected bright white slivers of light off their polished tips,
and the peak of his cap looked like glazed ebony. This guy had never seen the
streets, let alone served and protected them. In all, he looked like he’d just
stepped out of a TV cop show.

“Tough guy,” he said again. His
words were unclear, like a drunkard’s, and laced with Slavic undertones.

“The guard’ll be back any
minute,” Joseph said.

The guy just shook his head
with a resolute no. “He’s got a sore throat. Not be back tonight, or any other
night.” He drew the blade across his throat to show Joseph what he meant.

“His replacement’s on his way
now.”

The guy’s eyes crinkled at the
corners. “He busy too. He got himself a splitting headache.” Two fingers and a
thumb formed themselves into the shape of a gun. He placed his fingers to his
temple and then dropped his thumb.
“Kaboom..!”

Joseph looked at the guy’s
belt. A dark leather holster held a firearm tightly against his hip. His heart
skipped a beat, and the corridor tipped forwards slightly as fear threatened to
force him into the killer’s embrace.

The attacker recognised
Joseph’s terror. He reached down with his free hand and patted at the weapon.
“No worries. I like to get up close and personal.”

The blade waved backwards and
forwards a few feet from Joseph’s face.  

“I wrestle with big bear – like
back home. You big brown bear,” he said, flipping the blade over in his hand.
Now, the blade pointed to the floor, and the guy had the option to either hit
out with his fist or strike down with the knife.

He made the wrong choice. He
threw a punch towards Joseph’s head. Standing square-on, Joseph managed to
block the punch by catching it with the inside of his left wrist, then
immediately launched his own counterattack. His left hand skipped over the
failed assault and landed squarely against the guy’s jaw. The counter-punch
carried speed but little power. Still, the man staggered back, caught off
guard.

Wasting no time, Joseph swung
the wooded handle towards his assailant’s head. Again, his attack carried
little power. His right side was still weak, and the handle bounced uselessly
off the guy’s shoulder.

The guard grabbed at the
handle. He caught it under his arm, trapping it in a tight embrace. Then,
pulling it towards himself, he tried to rip it out of Joseph’s grasp.

Joseph used the momentum to his
advantage. Instead of trying to resist, he pushed the mop forwards and forced
the attacker against the closed door of his room. It opened with a hollow boom,
and the guy fell backwards, losing his grip. He back-pedalled, lost his footing
and then landed heavily in the centre of the floor. 

Joseph stepped forward to grab
the door handle as it swung back. He pulled it tight and then fed the wooden
stick through the handle, turning it into a makeshift deadbolt.

Now, in the centre of the
corridor, Joseph scanned quickly right and left. The elevator lay to his right,
both doors closed now, and out of reach. The left side offered either the
washroom or the fire escape. Joseph took a few steps to the left, hobbling
dangerously, before stopping.

Behind him, the elevator
arrived. He spun around to see Detective Carter stepping into the passageway.
Joseph changed direction, and then staggered awkwardly towards the detective.
He passed his room and heard the muffled sound of gunfire come from within.
Chunks of wood exploded outwards in a hail of splinters, and the mop handle
snapped down the centre, breaking into two. In the next second the door flew
open and the guard stepped out into the passageway.

Moving with too much momentum,
Joseph tipped forwards and went down hard. It saved his life. A bullet zipped
over his head before punching a hole into one of the elevator doors. Another
bullet whizzed by, this one going in the opposite direction. Joseph heard a cry
of pain. He chanced a look behind him and saw his attacker stagger against the
wall.

In the next instant, Carter was
at Joseph’s side. He aimed and fired again, but the guard was already rounding
the corner. A second later the corridor was filled with the deafening wail of a
fire alarm.

Carter yelled over the noise.
“You okay?” 

Joseph nodded. “Am now.”

“You hurt?”

“No.”

Carter remained poised, clearly
unsure if he should remain here to assist or give chase.

“Go,” Joseph said,
understanding the detective’s dilemma. “I’m okay. He was alone.”

“Okay,” Carter said. “Help will
be on its way.” Almost as quickly as he’d arrived, the detective disappeared
from view.