For Everything a Reason (15 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Although Joseph did not consider himself overly
politically motivated, his recent predicament presented him with a small
measure of sympathy towards the nation’s leader. Five armed police officers
accompanied him, each with his weapon drawn and eyes alert to trouble.
Detective Carter led the way, a two-way radio pressed tightly against his ear,
as he barked out instructions to waiting officers. Joseph found it difficult to
draw breath. The tension was unbearable. Sitting in a wheelchair, pushed by a
sixth officer, he felt totally exposed. His escort did little to make him feel
safe. This, Joseph thought, is how the President of the United States must feel
on a daily basis, under the constant threat of harm.    

Immediately after Carter had
taken off in pursuit of the killer, Joseph had been swamped by a group of
overeager staff, all offering help and assistance, quickly getting him back
into bed. It was the last place he’d wanted to be: flat on his back, surrounded
by strangers, any of whom could be plotting to kill him. Thankfully, not long
after he’d disappeared, Detective Carter had returned, red-faced and out of
breath. He’d ordered all but one of the hospital staff out of the room, and had
then called for back-up. Within the space of five minutes a team of armed
police officers had arrived.

The bodies of Officer Gore and
his missing replacement had been found, prompting Carter to shut down the
hospital instantly. It was highly unlikely the killer would still be in the
building, but the detective wasn’t taking any chances. Half of Carter’s
department were either here already or on their way. Detective Tyler was making
her way across town to pick up Marianna.  

With the elevator out of
bounds, now cordoned off awaiting the forensics team, Joseph had had to endure
an agonising trip down the stairs. He’d been forced to suffer the indignity of
being carried by two burly officers, each taking him by one arm and a leg.
Wanting to tackle the steps alone, Joseph had been silenced by Carter, stating
that they didn’t have time for such a thing and to shut up and allow himself to
be carried. The detective had also flatly refused to allow them the use of an
alternate elevator, unwilling to have them caught in an enclosed box, and
unable to see what lay ahead. At least Joseph had been able to find time to
dress. He’d slipped into a clean set of clothes that Marianna had brought him
the day before. At least this small measure of mercy had saved Joseph the
embarrassment of being manhandled, and, having his ass on show for the whole
world to see.

Now, Joseph was back in a
wheelchair and heading for the lobby. A scattering of staff looked on,
surprised to see one of their patients being wheeled out, flanked by an armed
escort. The hospital’s security manned the exit and, as Joseph’s party arrived,
they stepped aside.

“You got this place shut
tight?” Carter asked one of the guards.

The guy looked worried and out of
his depth. This wasn’t your average security job. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Place is a big institute. Would be impossible to do such a thing with so few
men.”

“Great…” Carter grumbled. “What
about missing vehicles or hospital staff?”

“Nothing so far.”

Carter shifted his attention to
Joseph. “We’re getting out of here. This guy could be anywhere – just waiting
for another chance.”

“Where?” Joseph asked.

“I’ll take you to the precinct.
We’ll figure something out from there,” Carter explained.

“What about Marianna and my
son?”

“Detective Tyler will bring
them. Don’t worry, Joseph, we’ll get you all safe.”

Joseph nodded, reluctantly,
feeling inadequate and angry that he couldn’t protect his own family.

Carter read his distress.
“They’re in good hands. Now, we need to get out of here.”

The detective turned towards
the outside lobby, ready to call for a car to take them to safety. As if
conjured from his very thoughts, a black-and-white patrol car pulled up outside
the lobby entrance. The passenger side opened and the bulky figure of Captain
Mendoza climbed out. He made the short trip to the entrance.

“Captain,” Carter acknowledged.

The captain wore his badge on
the outside of his shirt pocket, and his sidearm was strapped at his hip. He
looked phased but still in control. Losing two officers in one night had shaken
him to his foundations.  

“What we got here, Detective?”
he asked.

“Never seen anything like it,”
Carter replied. “Place is a bloodbath.”

“What about the two officers?” Mendoza
asked, hopeful that his initial information had been wrong – somehow
misunderstood – and the two young rookies would be found here safe and sound.
Carter’s frank reply quashed any hope of that.

“Dead,” he responded. The word
seemed strange to Carter, not real, and didn’t seem to convey what he’d
witnessed up on corridor 2 – not nearly enough.

“Who the hell did this?” Mendoza
demanded.

“God only knows,” Carter said.
“Didn’t get a look at the killer. I’ve no idea who we’re looking for or what
the hell his motives are.”

Joseph spoke up. “He was
Russian – I think.”

Both Carter and Mendoza turned
to him.

“What?” they said in unison.

“That’s how the guy sounded –
Russian.”

“You sure?” Carter asked.

Joseph nodded. “Yeah –
positive.”

Carter turned back to Mendoza.
“What do you think?”

“Could mean anything, but you
need to get out of here – right now. Take Ruebins back to the precinct and
start digging straight away. Get as much help has you can. Call everyone in if
you have too, I don’t care.”

“What about my family?” Joseph
asked. “They can’t stay there.”

“You want them safe?” Mendoza
asked.

Anger crept into Joseph’s
reply. “Of course I do.”

“Then follow Detective Carter
and do as he says.” Mendoza turned his attention away from Joseph, his thoughts
on more urgent matters. He nodded to Carter, signalling for him to continue
with the task at hand, and then strode purposefully into the maelstrom that was
waiting for him, ready to take charge.

Carter gave the signal for the
armed guards to carry on. Just before they did, Doctor Greenwood came rushing
over, his face ghost-white and wide-eyed.

“Detective – wait,” he called. Greenwood
now looked more dishevelled than ever. He had dark sweat rings underneath both
arms, and his tie had been removed, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
What had started as a bad morning had now descended into the realms of a
nightmare.

“Detective, where on earth are
you taking my patient?” he demanded. “You can’t simply take my patient out of
here without medical assistance.”

“What the hell are you talking
about?” Carter responded, angrily, now eager to put this place behind him.

“Joseph may still suffer a
relapse. I just cannot allow it,” Greenwood stated.

“It’s not your call, Doc. If we
don’t move him, you may not have a patient for much longer.”

This uncompromising statement
sent fear running down Joseph’s spine. Carter patted Joseph on the shoulder, as
if to dispel this most disturbing predicament.

“Look – Doc,” Carter began.
“Something’s going on here that none of us can understand. Or predict. Whatever
happened last night in Joseph’s room goes beyond comprehension. But I do know
that if he was to stay here, then he’d be in serious danger.”

“But what about his treatment?”

“Like what?”

“He needs antiplatelet and
anticoagulant drugs every few hours, plus what if the MRI results show
something tomorrow? We still do not know what caused the initial transient
ischaemic attack.”

Carter looked back blankly.

“What caused the mini-stroke,” Greenwood
explained.

“Then call us when you do
know,” Carter replied abruptly. “Get me his medication and a nurse, and hurry.
We ain’t got all day.”

Greenwood stood for a moment,
not used to being given instructions so forcefully. Then his professional
instincts took over, and he quickly headed off in search of a nurse and Joseph’s
medication.

“Hurry, Doc,” Carter called
after him.

They held position in the lobby
for a few agonising minutes, watching carefully as different teams of law
enforcers arrived in their droves. Crime Scene Units appeared, some already
suited in protective jump-suits, and more patrol officers filtered through to
take up positions throughout the hospital.

Eventually, just before
Carter’s nerves gave out, Doctor Greenwood returned with an attractive nurse in
tow. The nurse had a pack in her arms, and was struggling to keep up with the
consultant.

“Okay,” Greenwood said. “Nurse
Walton will go with you. She’s one of our most trusted staff. She can report to
me directly if anything happens to Joseph.”

Carter acknowledged the nurse
with a simple, courteous nod. “Right, let’s go.” He spoke into his radio,
ordering a patrol car to move around to the front, and then turned to lead the
way.

“Just one more thing,” Greenwood
called.

“What?” Carter asked, already
halfway outside.

“If Mister Ruebins suffers
another attack, or worse… Then you’ll be responsible.”

Joseph and Carter looked at
each other.

Carter grinned apprehensively.

And Joseph shuddered with
dread.

Chapter
Thirty

Viktor Mikhel looked away from the TV screens and at
Presley standing by the open doorway. His face remained impassive for a second.
Then, as if addressing a welcome friend, he jumped to his feet and strode
towards Presley with open arms. The Boss was an imposing figure. Short yes, but
thickset with a bull neck and broad shoulders. His eyes were two slashes of
Mongolian heritage, cut on either side of a flat face.

“Comrade Perkins, you have
returned to us unharmed,” he said, his words thick with Slavic tones.

Presley twitched nervously.

Viktor put his arms around him
in a crushing embrace. “You fell out with old Viktor? You seemed quick to
forget who your friends are.”

Presley truly believed Viktor
was no such thing. A friend to him extended to no more than an obedient dog.
Still, Presley grinned back and said, “I had business to attend to.”

“Business?” Viktor quizzed.   

“Yeah.”

“You know old Viktor, he
respects people who appreciate good business.” Viktor stepped back to look over
Presley’s face. “You lost weight since I last saw you.”

“Had a lot on – you know, this
n’ that.”

“This n’ that…” Viktor echoed.
His Mongolian eyes narrowed slightly with amusement. “This n’ that,” he said
again, finding something funny with the simple saying. He turned to the four
heavies on the sofa and laughed: “This n’ that!”

They broke into an
uncomfortable bout of laughter; clearly knowing that it was expected, but not
sure why.

Viktor turned back to Presley.
“Come – sit,” he said, with a gesture towards the sofa.

Presley moved over to the sofa,
having to forcefully drag his feet just the few yards to get there. Now, in the
presence of the Russian crime boss, his idea of atonement seemed foolhardy,
desperate, suicidal.

The four heavies shuffled over
in anticipation of his arrival. He wavered for a moment, knowing all too well
what kind of mind games Viktor was capable of, before sitting unwillingly
between them.

Viktor clapped his hands like
an excited child. “Good – good.” He stood looking down at Presley for a moment
before bringing one finger in front of his face. “Tut, tut – Presley been a bad
boy,” he said, waving the finger from side to side.

Presley gulped.

“You take old Viktor’s money
and then disappear without letting me know where,” he reprimanded.

Presley’s hands rose in
submission. “I got your money, Boss. All of it.”

Viktor’s hands rested against
his hips. This was an unexpected development. “You got Viktor’s money?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Safe.”

“Where Presley?”

“Here,” Presley said, digging
in his pocket. He presented Viktor with a thick roll of green bills.

Viktor just laughed coldly.
“What is that?”

Presley misunderstood Viktor’s
apparent confusion. “It’s money. What I owe you.”

Viktor snatched the roll of
bills out of his hand. He rolled the rubber band off and then began to count
the amount. “Comrade Perkins, there is only five thousand here?”

“I’ve got the rest.”

“Then let me have it.”

“I don’t have it on me, but
it’s somewhere safe.”

Viktor shook his head. “What is
this? What are you trying to do?”

Presley shuffled awkwardly on
the sofa. “Viktor, I need your help.”

The Russian’s face almost
collapsed with shock. “What?”

Presley shuffled to the edge of
his seat, leaning forward now, ready to make his play. “I need you to set me up
– in Mexico.”

Viktor looked shell-shocked. He
turned to look at each of his men, individually, to make sure that what he’d
just heard was indeed correct. All stared back at him equally amazed.

“Mexico?” Viktor echoed.

“Yeah,” Presley replied.

Viktor’s face started to lift.
He went from complete confusion to total amusement in a matter of seconds.
“Presley, you had me going then. What is this, a trick?” He spun around to face
the bank of TV screens. “Am I on camera? Candid Camera?” He started to look
towards the corners of the room, in an exaggerated pantomime show of surprise
and delight, looking for the hidden lens of a camera.

Presley twitched nervously.
“I’m serious.”

Viktor stopped his performance
instantly. “What – with this?” he said, waving the handful of bills in
Presley’s face.

“Like I said – I got the rest.”

Viktor stood back.

For the first time since
Presley’s arrival, Pyotr Krylov stepped away from the entrance and moved
towards Viktor. Bending into his boss’s ear, he spoke in hushed tones. Viktor
nodded as they spoke. Pyotr took the handful of cash and then disappeared
towards the rear of the room.

“Mexico?” Viktor asked, now
turning his attention back to his surprise guest.

“Yeah,” Presley croaked.

“They have lots of girls,” he
said, winking to Perkins and to the men flanking him.

Presley endured a short bout of
laughter from the heavies. “So you can help?” he asked, after it had died down.

Viktor paced up and down before
him. “I am not an unreasonable man. You get me the rest, come back and we’ll
talk.”

Presley relaxed a little,
understanding that he wasn’t about to be harmed. Yet, he also knew that it
would be foolish to just return with his pockets bulging, leaving him little or
no leverage.

“How long will it take to get
me tickets, and somewhere to stay – once I’m in Mexico?”

Viktor’s brow creased as he
worked it out. “Not long, comrade Presley. I have friends in many places. I can
get you tickets, papers, and an address for a safe-house for as early as
tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Presley repeated.

Viktor’s head flicked from side
to side. “Mmm – yes, this I can do.”

“And we’ll be okay?” Presley
asked. “No hard feelings. You get your money and I get a simple bus ride out of
here?”

“Simple.” Viktor said, his face
forming into a smile – eyes tight unreadable slits.

“Okay,” Presley said. “Where do
you want to meet?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, for the money and
tickets,” Presley prompted.

“Oh – yes, we should meet
somewhere beneficial to us both – yes?”

“Yes,” Presley agreed. He had
no wish to return here with the rest of the money, only to have a bullet
waiting for him, ready to send him on his way.

Viktor stood thoughtful for a
moment. Then, after nodding to himself, said, “Union Station?”

It took a few seconds for
Presley’s mind to calculate the potential of Viktor’s suggestion. “Union
Station?” he echoed.

  The Russian’s face became
impassive.

“Okay – sounds good to me,”
Presley conceded.

Viktor beamed now. “Let us
toast tomorrow.” He moved away from the sofa and crossed to the opposite side
of the room. There, he busied himself with the task of pouring out two drinks.
With a glass in each hand, he returned to offer Presley one. Viktor raised his
glass high, said “Salute!” and then downed the shot of Vodka in one.

Presley tipped his glass back
and drank. And as the fiery liquid burnt his throat, he sat there, praying that
this wasn’t the start of his descent into the flaming bowels of hell.