The Cyclops Conspiracy (35 page)

As that thought crossed Jason’s mine, Tattoo pushed himself off the wall and moved toward the pharmacist, his steroid-engorged right arm holding something behind his back.

Shit!

“Time to die, motherfucker!” Tattoo Man hissed.

* * *

Everything happened in a split second that elapsed in agonizingly slow motion. The pounding on the door and the shouts jolted her. Christine jumped and turned her head toward the sound.

Oliver sprang.

Christine noticed the darting movement out of the corner of her eye and barely sidestepped his tackle. He grazed her, knocking her
into a wall table and spilling expensive knickknacks. The wall broke her fall. Oliver grabbed her arm and pushed the gun into the air. She wrestled with the behemoth. Oliver was on his knees when Christine slammed her own knee into his gut.

He shoved her backward. This time she landed on her backside and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash lit the room, and another deafening report pounded their eardrums.

Instantly, the commotion on the other side of the door intensified. The police were trying to kick in the massive oak portal.

* * *

Jason was halfway to standing when Tattoo Man landed on him. He extended his arms to stop the man’s forward movement, but was forced back onto the steel bed. Jason’s spine felt like it was going to snap. Jason used the momentum to roll Tattoo Man to the side. They landed on the floor, Jason on top. A large hand found Jason’s throat. Jason wrapped both hands around the massive wrist, trying to peel it away.

The metal shank arced through the air. Jason tried to block the blow, but only managed to slow it. The shank pierced his orange jumpsuit and the skin beneath. Jason let out an agonized grunt and rolled onto his back.

White-hot pain seared his left side. Tattoo Man buried the shank deeper, forcing a more rigid spasm from Jason. He fought the pain, reached down, and grabbed a handful of testicle, squeezing with all his strength. The gargantuan screamed, releasing the shank, leaving it protruding from Jason’s flesh.

Jason cocked his head and slammed it into the tattooed face, crunching the nose, all the while continuing to crush testicles. The pressure around Jason’s throat relaxed. Jason rolled off the man and began reaching for the object in his side. Before he could, the large assailant was over him. Jason hoisted a foot to the man’s sternum and kicked, propelling him backward. Tattoo
Man flew several feet through the dank air. Upon landing, his bloodied head bounced off the unyielding floor.

Jason instinctively withdrew the shank, tearing away a chunk of flesh, sending another swirling impulse through him. A quarter-size morsel dangled from the tip like bait on a hook.

Riding an adrenaline surge, Jason maneuvered the bloody weapon in his hand for a downwards thrust into Tattoo’s chest. But Tattoo Man recovered in time to counter the attack. His fist connected with Jason’s head, knocking him toward the stainless steel toilet. The shank clattered to the floor, the chunk of human tissue rolling with it. Tattoo Man staggered to vertical, lunging at the pharmacist like a drunken bull.

Jason snapped off a close-quarter front kick to the chin, snapping the lower jaw with a loud bone-on-bone crack. Tattoo barely slowed. Droplets of blood and sweat showered Jason.

Jason rolled under him, cutting the man’s legs as he did. Jason scrambled under the falling body and spun, preparing for the next attack

Tattoo pushed himself up as Jason unleashed a right cross that would have made a heavyweight champion proud, connecting with the shattered jaw. His fist met with a mushy tangle of skin and bone. Tattoo howled and dropped. The back of his head connected with the stainless steel commode, ringing it like a bell. He rolled over, blood, teeth, and mucous dripping from the hole that would not chew solid food again for months.

Chest heaving, Jason, winced at the carnage he’d inflicted. Barely conscious, Tattoo rolled onto his back, unintelligible noises emanating from his gurgling throat. The eyes were filled with pain, fear, and the knowledge that he’d been bested by a man he should have eaten for lunch. The eyes darted about, looking for a way out. Jason winced as he reached down with his right hand and pressed a finger into the left cheek and jaw. Chunks of bone grated under skin. Air escaped from Tattoo’s lungs, spewing Jason with a fine mist of red spittle. His high-pitched scream cut through the jail. “Do you even know why you were sent to kill me?”

He managed a feeble shake of the head. Jason didn’t care; he could already guess who’d sent him. Two deputies arrived at the cell door and charged in. One was the same deputy who had allowed Tattoo Man access. The shock and disbelief on his face told Jason he was part of the conspiracy.

Jason slumped, his eyes never leaving the shocked deputy. Reaching across his body, he touched his left side. His jumpsuit was soaked in red. His fingers found the gaping wound. The room began to waver, shimmering like a mirage on a summer day. Jason was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Panic overtaking her, Christine fled, bolting through the house. Oliver was still on his knees, clutching his abdomen. Christine crashed through the french doors into the backyard. The front door continued to rattle as she made her escape. She dashed down the sloped lawn to the water’s edge, afraid to look back. Her arms pumped like a sprinter’s. Her eyes alternated between the ground and the yardage beyond. The heavy Colt was still clutched in her right hand. At the pier, Christine turned, veering north across the neighboring yard.

* * *

With the tenth kick, the dead bolt splintered the frame. The door swung wide. Zanns watched as a tall, thin, plainclothes police officer charged in, gun leveled. Two more men followed. The tall man, the leader, pointed and shouted commands. One man went left, disappearing into the kitchen, while the leader and another man turned right into an enormous living area. They moved cautiously, crouched, weapons ready.

“Freeze! Hold it right there!” Palmer yelled, aiming at the woman. “Let me see your hands!”

Zanns tried to look shaken and nervous, which wasn’t hard. “She tried to kill us. She went that way. Hurry!”

The tall police officer motioned with a flick of his head for his partner to give chase. The younger detective jogged off toward the river and the dock. The tall man lifted a radio, calling for backup. K-9 units would arrive within minutes, he was told.

* * *

Christine’s lungs burned. She stopped and rested with hands on knees, wheezing as if sucking air through a coffee straw. She had put four spacious properties between her and the mansion, each separated by tall hedgerows. She could hear a body crashing through bushes in the distance behind her.

The gun felt as if it were growing heavier with each second. She waded into the shallow, murky waters of the James and released the weapon, letting it sink out of sight. The sound of rustling bushes grew louder. Christine sucked in three deep breaths, climbed out of the river, and jogged through the next yard, staying low.

Lily Zanns, she knew, was spinning this incident, accusing Christine of attempted murder. Christine hopped over a row of low shrubs and, ignoring the pain in her limbs and burning in her chest, turned her jog into a dead sprint.

* * *

Zanns informed Palmer that the intruder was named Christine Pettigrew.

“Why was she trying to kill you?” the detective asked. He flashed a badge and introduced himself as Detective John Palmer.

Zanns placed the flat of her palm on her cheek, thinking. “It seems she blames me for her father’s death. She wants vengeance.”

“By her father, you mean Thomas Pettigrew?”

“That’s correct. How did you know that?”

He ignored the question. “Why does she blame you?”

“I purchased her father’s pharmacy several years ago. Had I not, the business would have failed. But she does not see it that way. To her, I am the person that destroyed her father, drove him to drink, and ultimately into a tree in Smithfield.”

“I see,” Palmer replied. “She won’t get far on foot. We’ll have more units and canine patrols here in a matter of minutes.”

He moved to a virginal white sofa on the opposite side of the sunken living area. Oliver returned with a gleaming, sterling-silver tea service. He placed it on the coffee table and offered a cup to Palmer, who declined, and then served his boss.

She sipped the pungent liquid. “It’s quite good. I have it imported from Egypt.”

“Can you continue?” Palmer asked, seemingly annoyed.

“Of course. The tea helps to relax me,” she said, reading his mood. “That whole episode was quite frightening. How on earth did you show up at the moment she was about to shoot us?”

“Ms. Zanns, that was pure luck. We were coming to ask you about certain…irregularities with the billing of some of your prescriptions. Does this incident have anything to do with these irregularities?”

“And how did you come across this information?”

“I would rather not say for the moment. So, what do you know about it?”

“You are well informed, Detective. I have recently been made aware of some problems in that regard. I found out earlier this week. I have been consulting with my attorneys.”

“What are you doing about it?”

“We are going to investigate it thoroughly. And the perpetrators will be fired and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Perhaps you may be of assistance?”

“I am referring the case to the state police’s white-collar crime unit. I’m sure you’ll be able to talk to the trooper in question, Trooper Levinson. At the moment, he is chasing down Ms. Pettigrew.”

“That would be perfect. I wish to cooperate with the authorities in any way I can. I hope it can be handled quietly.”

“I can’t guarantee anything.” Palmer hesitated. “Jason Rodgers is one of your pharmacists, correct?”

“Yes, he is. I hired him a short time ago.”

“What kind of an employee is he?”

“He has been a disappointment. It seems he is not focused on his job, but on other issues.”

“What kind of issues?” Palmer scribbled in a handheld notepad he’d pulled from his suit.

“Christine Pettigrew has convinced Rodgers—they are former lovers—that her father’s death was a murder and not an accident.”

“And she thinks you murdered him? Is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you?”

“I am a business woman, not a killer.”

“Who is Douglas Winstead?” asked Palmer.

Zanns looked surprised, then confused. “I believe he is one of the persons involved in this insurance fraud.”

“You mean ‘was.’”

“Was?”

“Winstead is dead. He was murdered yesterday.”

Zanns brought a hand to her mouth
.
“Mon Dieu!”

“Where were you last night between five and nine in the evening?”

“I was here all night.”

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Oliver, my servant, can.”

“Anyone else?”

“I was here with Dr. Jasmine Kader and my other pharmacist, Samuel Fairing. I’m sure they can vouch for me as well.”

Palmer flipped the notebook closed and stood. “Thank you, Ms. Zanns. There will be some activity up and down the street while we track down this woman. If you think of anything else which could be helpful regarding this incident or the killing of Douglas Winstead, please call me.” He handed her a business card.

Zanns made a show of trying to get out of the chair. Palmer assisted her. She shook his hand weakly and led him to the front door. “Trust me, Detective. We will be securing the house immediately. I do not want that crazy woman coming back.”

Five more cruisers and two canine units, lights flashing, rumbled to a stop out front.

* * *

Christine knelt in the water before the concrete pipe. Two feet in diameter, it was barely wide enough to squeeze her shoulders through. At its mouth, a stream of water trickled into the river. Beyond that, thick blackness quickly overtook the gray concrete of the pipe’s interior.

Her clothing was soaked to midchest. Her muscles trembled. Outrunning the cops would not happen. Their voices were getting closer. Police cars sped past on Riverside Drive, no doubt en route to Zanns’s.

So much for being brave and not worrying about consequences
, she told herself. The police had showed up at the precise moment she was about to kill Lily Zanns.

How had they known? Who had tipped them off?

Stretching her arms in front of her, she squeezed into the pipe to the waist. Her delicate hands found the rough concrete, and she dragged herself inside until her soaked tennis shoes were blanketed in shadow. The pipe seemed to constrict around her.

“Oh God,” she whispered, fighting the urge to back out. “Please help me!”

Inchworming her way, Christine pulled her body through the rivulet of water. She scraped her head looking back to check her progress.

Keep moving!

The circle of light shrank slowly. Her heavy breathing echoed inside the pipe. Soon her hands, elbows, and knees became raw. In time, the circle of light grew to a tiny, glowing speck. Christine could only guess how far she’d crawled. Unable to pull herself farther, she stopped. Her body would not produce another ounce of energy. This would have to do.

She lay on her stomach. The water, coming from God only knew where, cascaded around her. Her thoughts turned to Jason, the man who’d abandoned her so many years ago. The same man who, hours ago, had run to warn her. Christine wished she’d heeded that warning. Now she wanted him beside her. Jason would know what to do. He always did.

“You have a lacerated kidney. You’re going to need surgery,” the young female doctor informed Jason.

He writhed in pain on the gurney. She lifted her bloodied, gloved hand to avoid his restrained thrashing.

The trauma room at the Tidewater Regional Medical Center in Newport News was crammed with medical equipment mounted from floor to ceiling, from an X-ray console and crash cart to cabinets stuffed with intravenous solutions. The two guards that had appeared after the attack stood outside the door. Jason lay naked except for his blood-stained underwear and flip-flops. His legs were covered by a hospital blanket. The orange, blood-soaked jumpsuit lay in a heap in the corner. Jason could hear shouts and orders being barked from the hallway. A patient was making some sort of commotion.