The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) (32 page)

Someone’s voice echoed in the distance of his charged mind.

“Cole. Over here.”

There was familiarity in the tone and timbre of the voice but it could not displace the terror Derek was feeling. He had seen his wife in her final moments, then, he watched Lucy transform into Nikkie.

The window.

He needed to get into the window. He felt she was gazing through the window at him, pleading with a silenced voice for him to rescue her. He needed to get to the window.

“Goddammit, Cole. Over here!”

Derek felt a strong hand grab his shoulder and twist his body around. Derek’s eyes were wild with fear and confusion.

“Derek? You okay? Man, I didn’t mean to hit you so hard but I couldn’t think of any other way to stop you from killing yourself. Come on, Nikkie’s in the ambulance. She wants to see you.”

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Nikkie was wide awake when the attending doctor walked into the small patient room she shared with a seventy-five year old woman, who had fallen, broken her hip and was more intent on blaming her children for leaving her alone in her house than in answering any of the medical staff’s questions regarding her list of medications.

“I’m fine,” Nikkie said before the doctor could begin his examination. “A little worse for wear, but I’m fine.”

The doctor spoke with a very heavy Indian accent. “I am certain that you are fine, Miss…Armani,” he said looking up from her chart. “But you were just pulled out of a burning house and inhaled more than a few lungfuls of toxic smoke. Let us get you hydrated and take a few chest X-rays to rule out any lung damage.”

Nikkie looked through the short-statured doctor and towards a nurse she recognized from the ICU wing. “Excuse me,” Nikkie called. “Nurse?”

The nurse acknowledged Nikkie’s call, walked into the exam room, gave a quick glance at the doctor, then said, “Can I help you?”

“I saw you in the ICU,” Nikkie started, “when my friend, Victoria Crown’s heart stopped.”

“Ma’am,” the nurse said, “I’m sorry, but I see a lot of patients every day.”

“Victoria Crown? The middle-aged woman with the head injury? It was just yesterday when you were in her room.”

The nurse paused a beat, glanced at the doctor again, rested one hand on the side of her expansive hip, then said, “Okay, sure, I remember her.”

“Can you tell me how she’s doing?”

“I can’t really give out patient information,” the nurse said, “but I’ll make a call and see how she’s doing today. Okay?”

“Fine,” Nikkie said. “And, thank you.”

The short doctor with the strong Indian accent was standing beside Nikkie’s uncomfortable hospital bed, arms crossed over his chest, glaring down at her. “Miss Armani?” he said. “May I begin my examination now? The sooner I can examine you, the sooner you can leave.”

It was nearly three hours before Nikkie’s hospital bed was wheeled out of the Emergency Room wing of the hospital, and into a room on the hospital’s third floor.

“Doctor wants you under observation for one night,” a nurse told Nikkie.
 

“Can I at least go visit my friend in ICU?” Nikkie asked.

“If you’re asking about Victoria Crown,” the nurse said with a smile, “you won’t find her in ICU. She’s been moved to critical care. And, yes, I can take you to visit her. But right now, you need to let us get all your monitors connected and an IV started.”

Nikkie fell asleep ten minutes after being rolled into her new, private room.

It wasn’t until nine the next morning when Nikkie was escorted to the critical care wing of the hospital. Crown was in room 522. A doctor, who had been standing near the nurse’s station drinking coffee while reviewing patient notes, saw Nikkie approaching Crown’s room and waved her over.

“I’m Dr. Matthews,” he said. “Before you visit with your friend, there are a few things you should know.”

Nikkie sighed then tentatively nodded her head. “Okay,” she said. “What do I need to know?”

“Victoria sustained a skull fracture, a severe concussion and the brain swelling she experienced has caused some brain damage. I’m not sure if the damage will be permanent or temporary; that’s why we are recommending a long-term facility that specializes in traumatic brain injury rehabilitation for her. She won’t get the treatment she needs in a hospital and she certainly won’t be able to return to her home for quite a while.”

“How…” Nikkie struggled to find the right combination of words to ask the questions burning in her mind. “How much brain damage is there? I mean, can she talk? Does she know what’s happening?”

The doctor clasped his hands and held them low across his body. He moved his head in short, quick nods. “Her speech is heavily affected by the brain injury and she has some paralysis that, with proper treatment, should resolve over time. But, yes, she is aware of her surroundings but it’s very difficult to tell whether or not she is aware of her condition. I do have to qualify her awareness, however. She’s only been conscious for less than twenty-four hours, so our window of observation is still quite limited. If she follows the recovery path that most TBI cases take, her awareness will slowly improve. She is aware of her surroundings, like I said, but she seems unable to respond appropriately. I think the hardest thing she is struggling with is knowing what she wants to communicate but not knowing, or not remembering, how to express it. She has a very long road of recovery ahead of her.”

When Nikkie tentatively entered the room—fearing what Crown would look like—she was both surprised and relieved to see Crown, propped up against several pillows, staring directly into her eyes. Crown’s head was still heavily bandaged and a plethora of tubes and monitoring devices stretched across her body.

“My God, Crown,” Nikkie said, “I’m so glad that you’re awake. You look wonderful.”

Crown’s lips twitched and then her mouth opened, but only a faint grunt was formed.

“It’s okay,” Nikkie said as she held Crown’s hand in hers. “You don’t need to say anything right now.”

Crown began to cry.

Bo Randall stood, head held low, shoulders slumped, breathing in shallow patterns, before the Judge. The plea his father had arranged with the district attorney was now, thankfully, taken off the table. Instead, in light of the recent discoveries surrounding the circumstances behind the arson, his newly appointed attorney reached an amended agreement with the DA that would find Bo not going to prison, but to a year’s worth of drug and alcohol rehabilitation. That was, of course, if the Judge, who sat glaring down at him between his glances at the stack of papers he held in his hands, agreed with the district attorney’s recommendation.

“You understand the agreement your attorney has arranged with this court, Mr. Randall?” the judge asked in a voice so raspy that Bo wondered if the judge’s throat was part flesh and part sandpaper.

Bo stood silently, his eyes sending his gaze to his shoes. The attorney standing beside him, nudged Bo with a quick elbow. “Yes, your Honor. I understand.”

“From what I understand, Mr. Randall, you now admit to starting the fire that killed Brian Mack and his mother, Claire Mack?”

“Yes, your Honor. I started the fire,” Bo said.

“And, furthermore, you’ve stated that you were under the influence of a type of cocaine during the time you set the fire? A type of cocaine, I am told was developed right here in our little old town of Ravenswood?”

“Yes, your Honor. I used cocaine that I purchased from Alex Manner. And, yes, that cocaine was manufactured right here in Ravenswood.”

“And this cocaine,” the judge continued, “has a few side effects. Two of these side effects include short-term memory loss and an extreme propensity to be influenced or controlled by another person.” The Judge was spitting the words out, as if having them in his mouth was turning his stomach. “And, according to my brief, this Alex Manner, from whom you admit you purchased the controlled and illegal narcotic, was able to control your actions and thoughts once you were deeply under the influence of the drug. Am I understanding everything correctly, Mr. Randall?”

“That’s what I’m told. Like I’ve said, I don’t remember much about that night. But, I know I used cocaine and I believe I started the fire that killed the Mack’s.”

“The challenge we have here, Mr. Randall, is that this Alex Manner has not been apprehended. That means, Mr. Randall, we cannot confirm the role you are accusing him of playing in this tragic event. Furthermore, the owner of the compounding facility where this cocaine with magical powers was created, a Mr. Leonard La Salle, passed away as a result of an overdose. Meaning, he cannot confirm or deny that those using his cocaine formula can be controlled while under its influence. And lastly, La Salle’s partner, TJ Harris, while in the custody of law enforcement, is choosing not to say a word about his possible involvement in this situation. Which means, he may not ever fill in any of the gaps in your story. Have I missed anything?”

“Just that Brian Mack was my friend. Someone I respected. Someone whom I would never do anything to harm.”

“But you did, Mr. Randall. You not only harmed Brian Mack, but you killed him with your actions, intended or otherwise. Your actions brought about his death. And that, coupled with this court’s inability to confirm your story, creates the challenge I have in accepting the agreement your attorney reached with our distinguished District Attorney.”

“Your honor,” Bo’s attorney spoke up, “independent labs have confirmed that the cocaine manufactured at the La Salle Compounding Facility and used by my client, as well as several other Ravenswood citizens, was mixed with a highly hallucinogenic plant extract. In addition, several narcotic experts and independent labs agree that this mixture, once ingested, will make the user prone to being controlled.”

“Did those independent sources suggest that this magical cocaine also possessed the ability to force itself up and into your client’s nose?”

“No, your Honor. The cocaine was willingly used by my client.”

“And,” the Judge continued, without missing a beat, “unless I am mistaken, cocaine is illegal in this state and lacks the governmental seal of purity and approval. Which means that your client willingly used an uncontrolled, illegal drug, and had no reasonable assurances of the consequences of doing so. Have I got that right, council?”

Bo’s attorney agreed with the judge, then stood still and quiet next to Bo.

The judge gave Bo a long, hard, stare. To Bo, it seemed like the judge was bouncing options around in his head like people bounce a beachball back and forth in a pool. The only question Bo had was where the beachball would land. Bo took a small step forward, and, in spite of what his lawyer had suggested, he spoke directly to the judge. “Your Honor,” he began, “I know I’m guilty. I started the fire that killed my friend and his mother. I admit to using cocaine, drinking too much and losing control of my mind and actions that night, and no matter how severe of a penalty you give me, I deserve it. Probably deserve more than the worst you can dish out. But let me tell you about my last few days and about some realizations I’ve made. My father turned out to be more interested in covering his own ass and in protecting his reputation than defending me. My mother was attacked, put in the hospital, and while she will be fine, the doctors say that she’ll always have a degree of disability because of what happened to her. She wouldn’t have been in Ravenswood and wouldn’t have had her skull cracked if I hadn’t done what I did. I’ve lost any hope of becoming chief at the fire department and will be lucky to ever be allowed to become a member again. And lastly, someone I respected, cared for, looked up to and loved, was killed because of my decisions. Your Honor, this may not be the smartest thing I can say to you, but, it really doesn’t matter what you sentence me to; I have to live with myself for the rest of my life. And that, your Honor, is the very definition of a life sentence.”

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

Nikkie was released from the hospital Monday evening around eight. She was instructed to drink plenty of water, get plenty of rest and to see her own doctor if she developed any severe headaches or experienced any breathing challenges.
 

“All things considered,” the doctor said before signing Nikkie’s discharge paperwork, “you’re one extremely lucky young lady. No burns, no permanent injuries, just some tired-out lungs and a few scratches from being pulled out through a window. Very lucky, indeed.”

Hospital policy insisted that Nikkie be taken to the hospital’s main entrance in a wheelchair. The last thing they wanted was for a patient to fall in their hallway, sustain injuries and sue them for malpractice. As Nikkie and Derek waited in her hospital room for someone to bring up the wheelchair, Derek’s cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID told him it was Investigator Mark Mullins calling.

“Nikkie doing okay?” Mullins asked. Then without pausing for Derek to answer, he continued, “I heard what happened at the fire. She’s damn lucky our fire department boys are as good as they are.”

“We both are,” Derek said. “I was getting ready to crash through the window to get her out. I would’ve killed us both if John Mather hadn’t knocked me out. I have a sore jaw but things certainly worked out for the best.”

“I suppose they did. I suppose they did. Tell me, Cole, what are your plans for the rest of the evening?”

Derek glanced at an elderly man, dressed in blue hospital scrubs, entering Nikkie’s room. He was smiling a broad, brilliantly white smile, and said as he gestured to the wheelchair he was pushing, “Madam, your chariot has arrived.”

“Nikkie is getting busted out of here right now. As far as what my plans are, not exactly sure, but I’d imagine I’ll take her back to the hotel so she can get some rest.”

“If you are planning to drop me off while you and Mullins go out to have a drink,” Nikkie said as she sat in the surprisingly comfortable wheelchair, “you can forget it. I
 
feel fine and will have plenty of time to rest tomorrow.”

“Looks like my evening plans have changed,” Derek said. “What did you have in mind?”