Driven Page 8

  Gavin knew that was impossible. “And?”

  “You go first. How’d you make out at the hospital?”

  “She’s still in a coma. They’ll notify me the moment she comes out of it.”

  “We should call them every day to make sure they don’t forget,” Chris said, pointing a pencil at Gavin.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to. She has a twin sister who seems on the ball. Maybe a little too much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. She’s just the helpful type. What do you have from Rogers?”

  “Good news, bad news. What do ya want?”

  “Good.”

  “Prints are positive,” Chris said as he handed Gavin the forensic report. “It’s the same guy that introduced himself to you at the aquarium. And check out those prints. They’re the biggest I’ve ever seen.”

  “So I’ve heard. What else?”

  “We think he’s blond. The girl had brown hair and there was short blond hair on the seat. Rogers is having the samples checked against hair found in the aquarium truck.”

  “They’ll match,” Gavin said without looking up from the report.

  “Probably, but I don’t understand how a guy that’s this elusive isn’t careful enough to wear gloves. He leaves his fat fingerprints everywhere. Maybe he wants to be known. Just not caught.”

  “What do you mean?” Gavin said, still reading.

  “Well, maybe he wants the attention. I know the feds have all but ruled him out as a terrorist, but maybe he’s a little jealous of all the attention they’ve gotten.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a Viking,”

  “A Viking?”

  “Yeah. He lives for the moment. He could care less about tomorrow. The battle exists only for today. Yesterday was yesterday, tomorrow is tomorrow, now is now.”

  “Viking, maybe; stunt man, definitely. Instead of an ax and sword he uses cars and trucks. One of those Hollywood daredevil crazies that drive off ramps into a stack of piled-up cars.”

  Gavin looked up from the report to see if he was serious. At the moment nothing seemed farfetched.

  “He’ll probably turn out to be one of those wrestling dudes. Some of those guys will do anything for attention.”

  “They wouldn’t do this,” Gavin said.

  “Well, probably not, but the media attention might spur on some copycats.”

  Gavin frowned thoughtfully.

  “Whatever he is,” Chris continued, “he certainly enjoys what he’s doing. Nobody puts himself through that much physical pain if he doesn’t have to.”

  “What did you find out about the girl?”

  “That’s the bad news. Nothing. She was a waitress at an archeological theme restaurant in East Norwich called The Dig. One of the other waitresses said she had complained about feeling shaky. She had a couple of drinks to try to settle herself down, then left before dinner was over.”

  “She left alone?”

  “They think so. Nobody actually saw her leave and she didn’t tell anyone she was going. And nobody recalls ever seeing her with any big guy with blond hair.”

  “Parents? Friends?”

  “Not much. Everyone’s in shock. A couple of close friends admitted she liked to drink at parties, but none would say she had a drinking problem.”

  “The blood test shows a .25. I’d say that constitutes a drinking problem.”

  “Point two-five?” Chris said. “I must have missed that. Another five hundredths of a percent and she wouldn’t have needed the crash to kill her. I’ve never seen so much alcohol in someone who was still able to function. A seasoned alcoholic would’ve been out cold. She must have been unconscious.”

  “She had her seat belt halfway around her, like she’d tried to latch it. How could she do that if she was unconscious?”

  “Well, then the .25 has got to be wrong.”

  “Tell them to do it over,” Gavin said, dropping the report onto the desk.

  “Why bother?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t got much and .25 stands out. It’s odd. I can’t see where it could bring us, but… it’s odd.”

  “Done,” Chris said, getting out of his chair. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

  “Headin’ out?”

  “Yeah. Pat’s already fed the kids, but she’s waiting for me with a juicy steak that needs grilling,” Chris said, smacking his lips. “I suppose you need a ride home?”

  “Yeah. My car’s probably done and waiting.”

  “It’s times like this I really miss being single,” Chris said sarcastically. “You going home to that toolbox you call a car; I’m going home to my wife and that juicy steak.”

  KROGAN SMILED from behind the wheel of Karianne’s Jeep when he saw the man that matched the face in the newspaper emerge through the glass doors. To take him out in the police department parking lot would be fun. The smart man in the paper deserved to be humiliated in front of the other cops.

  Karianne, whom Krogan knew as Sabah, was more interested in the bottle nesting safely between her legs. It reminded Krogan of the first time he’d seen Sabah drinking, cradling a wineskin.

  The cop from the newspaper entered a car with someone else. Two cops, Krogan thought. The more the better. He started his engine, but cursed when he realized the cops were parked next to the exit and he wouldn’t be able to get to them in time. Whatever, he would have them soon.

  CHRIS DROVE A WHITE MINIVAN—a family car for a family man. He and Gavin chatted and traded insults as he drove toward Gavin’s place. At Gavin’s, the garage door was open, the light was on, the car’s hood was closed, and John Garrity was sitting back in a plastic patio chair with a bottled drink in his hand.

  “Say, Gav,” said Chris. “The transmission in this beast has been slipping a bit. Do you think your buddy would check it out for me?”

  “You want my mechanic to look at your car? I’m surprised you think he’s worthy.”

  “Hey. If he can get that thing of yours running, mine will be a piece of cake.”

  “Well, you can ask him yourself,” Gavin said, seeing Garrity on his way down the driveway. He climbed out of the car, noticing as he did so a dark-colored Cherokee driving slowly by. Garrity smiled easily as he came up to the car.

  “Hey, partner,” he said to Gavin, then waved to Chris.

  “How’d it go?” Gavin asked.

  “Done. No big deal. I haven’t been here long.”

  “Good. John, meet Chris. Chris, John,” Gavin said. “Chris wondered if you could take a quick spin around the block and check out his tranny.”

  “Sure. Be happy to.”

  “Great,” Chris said. “Gavin tells me you’re the only one he trusts with his car.”

  Garrity laughed. “That’s because he’s scared how much the other guys would charge to work on that thing.”

  Chris and Garrity laughed as Chris slid over to the passenger seat and Garrity hopped behind the wheel.

  “Hey, Gav. Wanna join me and the missus for dinner? There’s a juicy steak with your name written on it,” Chris said.

  “Another time,” Gavin said.

  “Okay, but just remember when you’re pulling out that last slice of salami from last week’s cold cuts, I’m gonna be strategically placing sautéed mushrooms and onions on my hot, dripping steak. Then I’ll follow it with hot mashed potatoes and—”

  “Enough! Get out of here.”

  “—Greek salad with just the right amount of feta cheese. Hot, buttered asparagus—” Gavin shut the door on Chris’s culinary barrage. Chris promptly rolled down his window and continued the abuse as they drove away. “Hot apple pie, à la mode…”

  Gavin shook his head as he watched Garrity drive slowly up the block. He was about to turn away when he saw something that froze him in place. He could see the headlights of another car coming out of a side street. It was going much too fast to stop at the corner
.

  “No!” he cried, emptying his lungs as the car smashed head on into the driver-side door of Chris’s van, slamming the car sideways until it bumped over the curb. As explosively loud as the impact had been, there was suddenly silence.

  Dead silence.

  15

  Gavin’s legs couldn’t have gotten him to the crash any faster. All he could think about was Chris and Garrity. As he neared the collision he could see that the car that had hit the minivan was a Cherokee—the same one that had driven by them minutes before. He slid on the wet asphalt, stopping at the minivan’s passenger door. His heart hammered as he grabbed the handle and yanked.

  “Oh, God!” he cried, and meant it, as Chris’s limp body fell toward him. Gavin caught him by the shoulders. He was out cold, but Gavin could feel his warm, shallow breath on his own neck. He pulled him out and lowered him gently to the hard concrete sidewalk, then went back to Garrity, who had been on the impact side. The interior light revealed Garrity facedown on the passenger seat. Steam from the Cherokee’s radiator was billowing through the smashed-in door of the minivan, making it almost impossible to see. Gavin heard the creaking, popping sound of metal. It was the driver-side door of the Cherokee. A large shadow staggered across the fogged windshield.

  Could it be the killer? At first the notion seemed absurd. But how absurd must the car flying through the air have appeared to Mitchell Clayborne before he was decapitated? But if it was the killer, what was he doing here? Had he followed them from headquarters? Were the hunters now the hunted? The sudden likelihood opened the door to questions Gavin had no time to consider. If he moved now he could catch the man, arrest him—or better, shoot him—and end it here. End this useless carnage of human life. He wanted that murdering scum so badly he was trembling.

  He looked back at Garrity. Through the oily cloud of water and antifreeze vapor he saw blood spreading on the seat like spilled ink on a blotter pad. A coiled black cord led to a car phone lying on the floor. He grabbed it, pressed the power button, and punched in 911, praying for a connection. Instead he heard two low-toned beeps indicating the need to enter Chris’s security code.

  “I don’t know the password,” he screamed at the phone.

  “Is anyone hurt?” called a voice from behind him.

  Gavin turned to see an elderly woman standing in a nearby driveway.

  “Call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance. Hurry!”

  The woman stared.

  “Go!”

  The woman turned and hurried back up the driveway as Gavin turned back to Garrity and gently maneuvered him so his face wasn’t buried into the seat cushion. The heavy limpness of his head brought tears to Gavin’s eyes.

  “Please, John. Hold on,” he said, searching Garrity’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He grabbed the rearview mirror and ripped it off the windshield, quickly dried it off with his shirt, then placed it by Garrity’s lips and nose. Nothing. No fogging. No breath. No life…

  Gavin backed away from the car and looked at the sky. The dark clouds had broken up; moonlight illuminated their edges as they slowly scudded by.

  “No! Not him, too. Not John,” he sobbed, unable to control his emotions. “Why?”Why was this happening?

  A groan. Gavin snapped his gaze toward Garrity. Another groan. It wasn’t coming from Garrity. It was coming from the Cherokee.

  He ran over to the passenger side of the other car. The door was hard to open, making the same metal-popping sound he’d heard when the driver’s door was opened. Inside, in the dim light, he saw a girl moving slowly in her seat, groaning, her head hanging forward so that her very blonde hair touched her thighs. Her seat belt was unbuckled, but the airbag, which was now half deflated, had done its job.

  As Gavin peered into the interior, his breath suddenly caught. A copy of The Daily Post was folded and wedged between the seat and the center console. Chris’s face was clearly circled in red. Gavin reached past the girl and grabbed the paper. He opened to the print on page three and saw another red circle around Chris’s quote: “Turn yourself in.” Scribbled boldly across the page in the same red ink were the words “Here I am.”

  Gavin heard sirens approaching behind him and saw the reflection of flashing lights dancing on the macabre message in his hands. He folded up the paper and turned his attention back to the girl, grabbing her hair and pulling it back so he could see her face.

  “Stay alive,” he commanded through gritted teeth. “You’re not dying on me, baby. I’m gonna latch onto you like a pit bull and you’re gonna tell me who the driver is. And when I get hold of him, I’m gonna beat him to death with my bare hands.”

  Staring at the girl, he fought back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. It was then that he looked past her to the open ashtray and saw the lobster claw.

  AN HOUR LATER Gavin found himself once again in the emergency room at Glen Cove. Again he raised his head at the mechanical sound of the sliding glass doors opening. This time, to his dread, he was right. Susan Garrity. She wore gray sweats and slippers. She had probably been cozying up on the couch watching TV when she got the call. She took tiny, uncertain steps across the floor, clutching her chest with her right hand as if she were having a heart attack. Her black mascara ran down her face like burnt wax. She was sobbing, her eyes searching for answers in the faces around her.

  “Susan.” Gavin sprang out of his seat to meet her. As he hurried over, he saw a nurse coming from across the room to intercept her as well.

  Susan turned to his voice. “Where’s John?” she cried in a pleading tone.

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin said. The words sounded ridiculously inane, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He reached out to embrace her and she shook off his touch, bending over as if her stomach was cramping.

  “I want to see my husband. I want to see John.”

  The nurse had tears in her own eyes as she looked at Gavin. He closed his eyes and slowly nodded.

  “Your husband’s in the other room, Mrs. Garrity,” the nurse said. “I’ll bring you to him.”

  Gavin stepped back and watched the nurse walk the grieving woman through the swinging doors, her arm at the small of Susan’s back. They were the same doors Chris and the blonde woman had been rushed through earlier. The doctors had told him the preliminary prognosis looked good for the both of them. Chris appeared to have a mild concussion and a broken left arm. The girl had broken her left leg, but the air bag had saved her from any other serious injury. In fact, if not for the air bag, treating her broken leg would not have been necessary. She and Chris would both spend the night in the ICU and in all probability would be moved into private rooms in the morning.

  “Pierce!” Gavin looked up and saw Mel Gasman hurrying toward him. Gavin smiled grimly.

  “Gasman,” he said. “You’re just the guy I want to talk to.”

  Gasman looked as though he must have heard wrong. “You want to talk to me?” he said, pointing to his chest.

  “Yeah! How would you like to help me catch the Ghost Driver?”

  “I get the exclusive?”

  “The story will be yours.”

  “Then I’m yours.”

  “Don’t you even want to know what you’ll have to do?”

  Gasman shrugged. “What’s the difference? As long as I get the story.”

  “Good. I’ve got breaking news. And I want tomorrow’s front page.”

  16

  After blindly fumbling with several buttons and switches, trying to quiet the buzzer on his new, overly optioned, alarm clock, Gavin gave up and reached for the plug. He wished he were a morning person. He had regularly tried to make the conversion, but it was hopeless. Morning people had regular bedtimes and seemed to enjoy snuggling under their covers at night and hopping out from under them in the morning. Gavin, on the other hand, found once he was asleep, he wanted to stay asleep and once he was awake, he wanted to stay awake. While awake, he didn’t want to leave any problem unsolved and his mind would di
g and search and build up and tear down until his cowardly eyelids gave in. Then he would sleep, so deeply that hurricanes and thunderstorms and sirens could rarely stir him to consciousness.

  But not today.

  Gavin immediately grabbed his phone, called the hospital, and was informed both Chris and Karianne Stordal were stable and asleep. Although she had no serious injuries, the flight attendant would be no good for questioning until later because of the high levels of alcohol in her system. Amber Clayborne, he was told was still in a coma.

  Gavin then broke his usual morning sequence by heading directly for the paper. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of impact his conversation with Mel Gasman had had. In exchange for all the seedy details and likelihood of more to come, Gasman had promised to emphasize a particular message Gavin wanted to send to the killer.

  Gavin opened the front door. To his surprise, the paper wasn’t on the stoop. He ventured out a bit further, wearing only a pair of The Far Side boxer shorts that he’d received as a joke gift from Chris for his last birthday. Standing with his hands on his hips and surveying his meager landscape of fenced-in lawn, he noticed a bicycle in the driveway. It was a mountain bike, full-suspension, expensive—a serious piece of equipment.

  He took a few more steps toward the bike and looked up the driveway toward the garage. Well, there was his newspaper, opened wide and being read by someone sitting in the same white patio chair John Garrity had relaxed in the night before. The paper shielded the trespasser’s body, but he had an idea of who it was. Crossed below the paper were a pair of well-tanned, athletic, female legs wearing black biking sneakers.

  “Can I help you?” Gavin said.

  The paper lowered. It was Amy Kirsch.

  “Detective Pierce. Anyone ever tell you that you look like… what’s his name… Russell Crowe?”

  Gavin grimaced. “What are you doing here, Amy?”

  “Hey, I’m, um, really sorry to hear about your mechanic and partner,” she said somberly. “I found out early this morning. The paper says you’re all right. Are you?”