The Nephilim (34 page)

“Or,” replied Detective Warren, in measured tones, “and let me put this out there just for another point of view; you knew they were coming. You'd expected them to. And so you set a trap for them. You simply sat in the bathroom and waited for them instead of calling the police. Then you gunned them down in cold blood, and it's mere luck that neither of them is dead.”

Detective Warren stared right at him, his eyes accusing him of some crime. Garrick didn't quite know what that crime was though. Being prepared to be assassinated? Was that a crime? He supposed it could be. And it didn't help that the detective was uncomfortably close to the truth.

“The first I knew of them Detective was when I heard them outside the door, trying to pick the lock. How could I possibly know they were coming? I'm not a mind reader. And they didn't exactly ring me up and tell me they were coming. Besides, if I wanted them dead they would be dead. I crippled them on purpose so they could talk. I wanted to know who they were.”

“So you say.”

Garrick stared back at the detective, wondering if he was actually suggesting that he was some sort of mind reader? Fortunately it seemed that he wasn't the only one to be confused. The other two detectives in the room were staring at the detective as well, no doubt starting to wonder if their lead interrogator was slipping. 

“Yes I do say! If I'd known they were coming I would have had the police there waiting for them. After all, I was already injured and there were two of them – both armed. And it was the middle of the damned night!” He turned to his last recourse – bluster, and hated himself for it. It was exactly what criminals did when they were cornered.

“All of which I might even believe if it hadn't been for your little slip up Agent. You had your companion Maricia Dylan staying in another room. Now why would you do that unless you knew there were bad guys coming?”

“Because we aren't “companions” as you put it. We’re just friends. She's driving me around since for fairly obvious reasons I can't drive, and I have to keep moving as the press keep hounding me.”

But even as Garrick gave the detective the obvious reply, he was thinking that the detective was being quite astute. Remarkably so in fact. It was almost as though he had some inside knowledge.

The detective continued. “Well let's just park that to one side for the moment while we talk about the other part of this bizarre tale of yours. These two killers just happened to tell you where Benedict was? Criminals don't just do that.”

He was actually right about that. Criminals didn't do that. Warren had him there. Criminals almost never confessed to anything until they were completely out of other options. But Garrick had a ready answer. Of course he doubted the detective would accept it. He didn't know why the man had such a hard on for him, but he certainly thought he was guilty of something. Then suddenly the scent hit him and Garrick realised on the shocking truth. The thief’s scent was all over the detective. This was Benedict's man.

“Again these two did. Or one of them did. But they were lying on the floor, wounded, in pain and frightened, little by little bleeding to death and I was sitting over them with a gun having shot them. They knew they were either going to die or spend the rest of their lives in jail. Unless they made a deal. Besides, they were slowly running out of blood. They probably found it difficult to concentrate on being arseholes just then.”

“Or” countered Warren, “and again I'm just putting it out there; you already knew. They told you nothing at all – you just pretended they did.”

“And how exactly would that work detective?”

“Well, why don't we start with the Treasury agents? You know the ones. The ones who said you were working with Benedict. Maybe they were right all along? Maybe you and Benedict are an item. But there was a falling out, as there often is with him. He sent two of his boys after you, as you thought he would. You shot them, and then played a little game of tit for tat by leading the police to his hide out.”

The detective started leaning forward in his chair, trying to intimidate him. Having used the same technique himself, it didn’t work on Garrick. In fact he decided, he'd had enough of this. It was time to turn the tables.

“You have quite an active imagination Detective Warren. But let me put out another theory, just for another point of view. You work for Benedict don't you?”

There was a general drawing of breath from the other side of the table. The other detectives were shocked. But that was only reasonable when Garrick was himself shocked. Both that he had actually said it, and that he knew it was true. He had known that the thief had moles throughout the various agencies. Maricia had said as much. But to actually see the marks of his quarry so deeply etched in the soul of the detective was appalling. To see them for the bloody gouges that they were was worse.

“I do –.”

“What does he have on you?” Garrick quickly turned the interview around knowing he had to. This was about more than just a crooked detective trying to cover up his crimes and those of his boss. He had something darker in mind than simply making Garrick's life difficult.

“He –.”

“The truth!” Garrick smashed his hands down on the steel table making everyone jump. “Is it money? Gambling debts? Drugs? Or something personal?” He stared directly into the detective's eyes and also into his soul, looking for the signs of Benedict. And he found them. But not where he'd expected to.

“It's personal? Something to do with family?”

It was exactly that and he could see the detective squirming in his seat, trying to get away from him. He could see the fear and horror in his face. And he knew it would be so easy to crack him. To compel the truth from him. He was already nearly there. But that would reveal his gift.

“No!” But the detective's voice was too high and it betrayed him. Everyone at the table heard it. They heard his fear. And they knew the truth. Heads were turning. Eyes were staring at the detective. And questions were about to be asked.

“What does he have on you?” Garrick yelled it at him, trying to dominate him in turn.

“Nothing!”

“I don't believe you Detective. Look around. No one believes you. Now tell us the truth.”

But the truth wasn't coming. Or at least not in the form of a confession. Instead the detective suddenly reached for his gun.

“Shit!”

It was madness! It was stupid, desperate stuff. But the man was desperate. Whatever the hold was that Benedict had on him it must have been powerful. The man was terrified. And so he had gone for his gun. Everyone in the room reacted, but Garrick was ahead of them, if only by a little. Though hampered by his leg he still somehow managed to reach across the table, grab the detective's wrist even as Warren was drawing his weapon, and twist it to the side. Then he smashed his hand down hard on the steel table and causing him to squeeze the trigger.

The explosion in the little interview room was thunderous, and everyone was shocked by it. Still, Garrick managed to hold on to the man's wrist and keep the gun pointed at the concrete wall. Long enough that the others could finally find their feet and jump on the detective.

After that it was over. The detective was on the floor with the other two detectives on top of him, holding him down. The gun had slid across the floor, no longer a danger to anyone. People came flooding into the room. And Garrick was suddenly able to breathe again. He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath until just then.

Garrick collapsed back into his chair, breathing heavily and wondering just how this had happened. Benedict was on the run. He had nothing left, or at least very little. And yet still the thief had reached out for him and tried to have him either killed or discredited. Just how many people did Benedict have under his sway?

“You all right?”

One of the other detectives asked the question eventually, his face completely ashen. Garrick just nodded and waved him away. He wanted to think. He needed to think. Maybe just to unwind.

“You need a doctor?”

The detective asked again and Garrick wondered why. Hadn't he just said he was fine? He told him as much.

“No. You need a doctor!” The detective pointed at him and Garrick wondered why. But still he let his eyes follow the man's finger down to his side. Down to where a red pool of blood was slowly running down his shirt. And it was then that he realised the bullet hadn't missed him after all.

“Oh crap! Not again!”

Chapter Twenty Two

Garrick perched awkwardly on the edge of the hospital bed feeling somewhat sorry for himself. Shot again! It was getting tiresome. As were the nurses rushing about, the doctors with their long faces, and even the white walls and curtains of the hospital. As were the comments from Maricia and Katarinka who were clearly enjoying his discomfort. Something about how every cop in the world wanted to shoot him. That he was obviously public enemy number one.

The two of them had been worried at first when they'd seen the blood. Truthfully, Garrick had been worried too and when he’d looked at the blood leaking all the way down to his pants and onto the bed he’d wondered if he’d need a transfusion. But then the doctor had said it was only a scratch. Hearing that the attitude of his colleagues had changed. The worry had vanished and the amusement had arrived. And all of it was at his expense.

Meanwhile he was starting to wonder just how many more bandages he could wear? One leg was already in plaster up to his thigh. His left hand was taped up and there was a metal brace keeping the hand straight. His shoulder was still padded. To add to that he was now bandaged around the middle with yards and yards of cloth. It was beginning to look as though he was cornering the market on medical supplies.

At least it wasn't a bad wound, Garrick thought, even if the twenty stitches running along his ribs were going to leave a scar. Another scar. According to the doctors, all he needed now were some more antibiotics and of course the requisite rest and recuperation.

After that of course there would be more formal interviews, as the Police investigated the latest incident. He wasn't looking forward to that. Not after having been through what was supposed to have been an informal one. The police weren't happy with him – he could understand that.

Being a member of the police was more than a job. More than even a career. It was a brotherhood. Family. And one of their brothers was now locked up. Rightly or wrongly Garrick was being blamed for that. That had come through quite clearly in their questions at the scene.

Actually it had only been one question repeated over and over again in dozens of different ways. How had he known?

The truth of course he couldn't tell them. Because who would believe him if he had said that he’d seen the marks of Benedict in the detective's soul? So instead he'd had to look for some objective evidence he could point to that had led him to conclude Warren was working with Benedict. And he'd had to go back to the basics of police interviews. He couldn’t point to anything concrete. Only that it was in the way Detective Warren had asked him the questions that had made him suspicious. It had been in the man’s tone of voice. The way he had looked at Garrick. That didn't track so well with them. They wouldn't have believed that he could work out all of that simply from the man's tone and questions. And the police wouldn't have given his charge against the detective any weight at all. But whether they would have believed it or not the moment that the detective had drawn his weapon he had indicted himself. Now it was only a matter of time until they had the whole story out of him.

As for Detective Warren, he was saying nothing. It was probably best for all of them. As yet Garrick had no idea what the detective had been charged with. Depending on what the detective said and what the witnesses said, the charges could range from unlawfully brandishing a weapon to attempted murder or anything in between. It would all come down to the detective's intent and that was something only he could tell them. Garrick wasn't even sure if he'd been supposed to be wearing his side arm in the interview room. All the stations and police forces were different on their procedures with interviews. If he had been expected to be carrying, then he could simply say something about having only reached for his weapon as an interview tactic. If he hadn't been the prosecution could paint a picture of attempted murder.