Sullivan's Justice (46 page)

Melody had suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Neil had held her hand in the ambulance, terrified that she wouldn’t survive. She’d be going into surgery to remove the bullet, as well as a portion of her damaged intestines, within the hour.

A tall, dark-haired man walked up to him as he was waiting for the elevator. “Are you Neil Sullivan?” Dr. Graham asked, his voice laden with emotion. “You don’t know me, but I saw your picture in the newspaper. Detective Sawyer called me. He said you were with my daughter when she was shot. How bad is she?”

“She’ll survive,” Neil said, thinking the man was a sleazy reporter. “She told me her father was dead. Pretty nasty trick to get a story.”

“I’m not a newsman,” Dr. Graham told him, his face laced with concern. “I flew in from New York. I was at her house the other night, but I’m not surprised that she didn’t tell you.”

Neil wasn’t certain what to think. The man sounded sincere, though, and Melody had told her share of lies. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

The elevator door opened, and he followed Neil down the corridor to the fifth-floor surgical center. Before they stepped up to the counter at the nurses’ station, Dr. Graham took his arm. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me, she’s my daughter.”

A stern-looking female nurse directed them to the last cubicle. Dr. Graham lingered behind as Neil parted the curtains and stepped inside. Melody’s eyes were closed, and her face was alarmingly pale. A woman in the bed beside her was moaning.

By all rights, he should be the one about to go under the knife. Melody had fired at the man rushing toward him and taken the bullet that was intended for him. He touched her shoulder. Her eyes blinked opened. “Neil?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “How do you feel?”

“With my hands, dummy,” she said, then grimaced in pain. “Fuck, I think I’m going to die.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Neil told her, squeezing her hand. “The doctor said you’ll be fine. All you have to do is get through the operation.”

No matter how tough she talked, the glamorous veneer was gone and she looked childlike and vulnerable. “You saved my life, Melody.”

“All I did was react,” she told him, running her tongue over her dry lips. “I had a gun, so I used it.” She released his hand and turned her head away.

“I care about you.”

“Sure you do,” she said, rotating back toward him. “I’m not scared of dying. Death may not be that bad. Isn’t that what you were looking for the other night?”

Neil was stung by her sharp remarks. “I was wrong, Melody. No one should take his own life.”

“Death is death,” Melody said, pausing to catch her breath. “You care about me, huh? All I am is a good piece of ass with a fat bank account. That’s why you stuck around for so long, isn’t it? Then you were banging a schoolteacher behind my back. You were going to dump me and marry her.”

Neil’s mind was spinning. His love for Laurel had been an illusion. She had slept with a student. She’d also failed to tell him that she was still married. Maybe Laurel had been the piece of ass instead of Melody. He had her all wrong. She took a bullet for him. The wild party girl was just a protective shell that had finally cracked. He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Once you’re back on your feet, we’ll be together. Think you can handle that?”

“We’ll see,” Melody said, her eyes closing.

He walked out and sat down in a chair beside Dr. Graham. “You can go in,” Neil said, “but I think she’s too doped up to talk.”

“Thank you,” he said, extending his hand. “Michael Graham. I practiced medicine years ago. The doctor let me look at her chart. Abdominal wounds are extremely painful, but I’m fairly certain she’ll do well in surgery.”

The nurse came in and told Neil he had a phone call. He followed him to the nurses’ station. Dr. Graham walked toward Melody.

“This is Detective Mary Stevens,” the voice said. “There’s been an accident involving your sister.”

 

 

Standing beside his daughter, Dr. Graham felt tears roll down his cheek. He never imagined how much he needed to have Jessica back in his life, to be a father again, to love again. The recovery was going to be slow and painful. If she allowed him, he would take care of her every step of the way. Time was suspended as he stood there in silence. He’d missed most of her childhood—birthday parties, Christmas mornings, graduation, and watching his little girl blossom into a woman. The years to follow would be their time together as father and daughter. No matter how long they’d been apart, there was nothing now to stand between them.

Dr. Graham got up and went to the bathroom, soaking a washcloth in cold water. He returned, then gently stroked her face. “Jessica, Jessica . . .” he said, “Daddy is here.”

Her eyes opened, connecting with his. Although filled with pain, these were the eyes of his beautiful little girl. “How did you—”

“Stay quiet,” he said, interrupting her. “Save your energy, you’re going to need it for the surgery.” He continued to move the moist rag around her face. Her chin moved up as she closed her eyes. He saw a hint of pleasure. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m here to help you, Jessica. I’ll never leave you again.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said in a whisper.

 

 

FBI agents Gray and Tushinsky had contacted Vandenberg Air Force Base and arranged to have a fleet of SH-2G Super Seasprite helicopters on the crash scene within fifteen minutes.

Hank’s car screamed down the 101 Freeway heading toward Santa Barbara. He wanted desperately to talk with Carolyn, but there was no way to contact her again, since she hadn’t given him enough time to trace her call. Her purse and cell phone were sitting beside him on the seat. When they reached the restaurant, they’d bailed out so fast, she’d left them behind.

Trying to save Carolyn by telling her to take the car was stupid. He knew that the men were after the Ferrari. In the heat of the moment, he’d gotten her out of the line of fire and put her into, as she had called it, a rolling bomb.

The dispatcher’s voice blared out of his console, “Unit two-twelve, do you copy?”

“Ten-four.”

“CHP reports that a red car was seen catapulting into the ocean just north of Goleta. What’s your ETA?”

His hands shook on the microphone. He should have explained to Carolyn that just because the car might have nuclear material in it didn’t mean it was explosive. She’d sacrificed herself for what she’d thought would save the lives of innocent people.

“Unit two-twelve, copy?”

“My ETA’s twenty.”

Through the darkness, he could see the roadblock in the distance. In the sky, four choppers were flying in circles, their large beams of light zigzagging across the cliffs and into the water. The trail of cars came to a stop. His head dropped. The situation was too similar to the death of his brother. Andy had been out drinking and partying with his friends. A thirty-year-old surfer, Andy had skin that looked like leather and he smoked his first joint before breakfast. They’d built a bonfire on the beach. When Andy had left, speeding to show off his new Corvette, his tire had blown, causing him to lose control and drive off a cliff.

Hank had to make certain the military didn’t call off the search for Carolyn. Their priority would be to recover the car.

Several men in military uniforms holding M-16s were signaling for the cars to cross to the opposite side of the highway and turn back.

“I’m Detective Hank Sawyer, of the Ventura Police Department,” he said, pulling out his badge and draping it over his belt.

“I’m sorry, sir, we were told not to let anyone through, even police officers. We’re evacuating the area. Move on, please. It’s for your own safety.”

Hank’s frustrations ripped through his gut. He held back getting out of the car and causing a scene. Taking a deep breath, he told himself the soldier was just doing his job. He reluctantly drove away.

After his brother’s death, he had familiarized himself with ocean currents. Andy had been caught in an upwelling. Along California and Oregon, warmer water pulls surf away from shore, then cold water moves up to take its place. These strong, cold currents could move bodies miles from their point of entry. The water pulled them into deeper waters from north to south along the coast. If he was lucky, it would dump Carolyn back onto the shore through underwater canals. In the Ventura area, there were only about three spots to look. The rescue teams from Vandenberg might not know where they were.

What was he going to do now? He couldn’t sit back and leave Carolyn’s fate in the hands of strangers. They didn’t care about her. They were military—their primary objective was national security. He refused to abandon her, as he had his brother.

“Station two,” he said into the microphone, “get in touch with the rescue party from Vandenberg. Tell them to check near Naples Beach. I’m heading there now.”

Five miles down, he pulled off to the shoulder and stepped out onto the roadway. Carefully crossing the highway, he reached the cliff leading to the dark ocean. A gust of wind shot up the rocky hillside. He stepped back, realizing the risk he was taking. A fall could kill him.

His last image of Carolyn flashed in his mind. When she had glanced back toward him, he had seen fear and confusion in her eyes. Her beautiful dark hair had been framed inside the backdrop of the red Ferrari as she sped away.

Was she already dead? It was his direct order that set the events in motion. Her children would be motherless. How could he live with himself?

His decision was made.

He couldn’t wait for the rescue team to respond. In a situation like this, seconds could save a life. He stretched out his right leg, then planted it on the first of many rocks. He shone his flashlight downward, becoming light-headed. Although he had done everything possible to conquer it, he suffered from vertigo. He had fifty feet of cliffs, rocks, and sand to navigate. Fortunately, he could see an opening. Slowly he moved one foot after another, trying not to look down. Had he lost his mind? In the distance, he heard the whirling blades of a helicopter.

Hearing voices in the street above, he knew that they had found him. Looking up, he saw the flashlights pointing at him. His right foot slipped on the loose gravel. Reaching back, he tried to regain his balance. It was no use. His body slid down the rocks. He went airborne, crashing into the ocean. The waves tossed him around before sucking him toward the deeper water. Trying to find his footing, he discovered his leg was injured. He could see the flickering of the moon as the water lapped over his face. He knew that struggling would only deplete his energy. Gasping for each breath, he let the water take him.

The strong upwelling carried him rapidly down the coast. This was it, he thought, the sins of his life were finally catching up to him. Then his back hit sand. He’d washed into a canal created by a storm drain. The erosion from the runoffs had created a crevasse that led deep into the sea. In high tide, the water was forced toward land. He rolled over to find the beach. He could see the moon lighting up white water as it rushed in. Small sand crabs were digging their way back into the sand with each wave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a piece of metal. Supporting himself with his hand, he reached out with his other and touched what looked like the door of the Ferrari. Once on his knees, he could see something else floating nearby. Shaking his head, he attempted to clear the stinging salt water from his eyes. It was a body. He struggled to stand, limping a few feet over until he reached her.

Carolyn wasn’t breathing.

Pain shot down his left leg as he tried to get her to the shore. He struggled in the ebbing shallow tide. Supporting Carolyn’s back, he placed his index finger and thumb over her nose as he began ventilating. Endless moments later, water spewed out of her mouth and she began breathing.

“Hang in there, Carolyn, I’m going to get help.”

“Don’t leave me, Hank,” she choked out. “I don’t want to die alone.”

“Then I’ll have to carry you.”

He reached down and picked her up, cradling her shoulders and legs in his arms. The FBI’s helicopter was flying down the coast directly at them. Walking in the wet unstable sand, his left leg gave way and he fell. The surf washed up and swept Carolyn out of his arms.

“Don’t let me go,” she yelled, holding on to his hand as the water fought his grip.

The helicopter was directly over them, its light illuminating the stretch of beach. His fingertips no longer had the pressure of Carolyn’s hand. She’d slipped back into the sea. Hank crawled toward the water. A wave crashed to the sand, consuming him. He flopped around like a rag doll, until it deposited him back on the beach.

Hank looked up at the barrel of a machine gun. “Stay still, sir.”

“I found the driver of the car,” Hank yelled, frantic. “S-she was here. The water took her away. You have to find her!”

“Spread out and search for a female body,” the officer ordered the group of five men.

Very soon, a voice rang out: “Got her.”

 

 

 

 

 

I
t was a miracle that Carolyn didn’t die in the crash. Her movements were still limited. She’d suffered a severe concussion, a broken collarbone, and had fractured her left ankle. Alex Pauldine at CSI told her that the impact damage suggested the Ferrari had slammed into a rocky protrusion halfway down the cliff and flipped in the air. The car entered the ocean tail-first, ripping off the driver’s door, which Carolyn had managed to open. She never saw the Ferrari once she was in the water. The crash had thrown her away from the wreckage. Fortunately, Carolyn was able to survive by floating with the currents. She would never forget Hank’s face as he rescued her.