“The plates were stolen,” Ben was telling me. “We tracked the VIN on the panel van but didn’t get much. The artist sketch from your description hasn’t matched up ta’ anything, and the prints he left on your truck were too smudged to be much good to us at all. The two partials the CSU pulled off the bruises on your neck still haven’t hit on AFIS yet, so that’s lookin’ like it’ll be a bust. Either way, we sent all of ‘em along with the blood samples to the crime lab in D.C.”
I was staring out the window of my hospital room, watching as winter tried to rally back with a sudden cold front. The grey sky spit wet flurries in a thwarted attempt at actual snow, and the look of it all gave me a slight chill. Gloomy was the only way to describe it, and it matched my mood well.
Five hours of surgery had gone into repairing my arm and shoulder, so I was told. All I knew of it consciously was the fact that my left arm was now completely immobilized, and the incisions were already starting to itch mercilessly as they began to heal. My voice was weak and hoarse from a bruised larynx, and the rainbow of colors ringing my neck formed a hand-shaped contusion that still throbbed with tender soreness. I didn’t even remember the CSU tech taking the close up photos of the two fingerprints that had been temporarily pressed into my flesh.
A burn scar in the perfect shape of a nine-millimeter shell casing graced my left cheek, and beneath the rope bruises on my forearm, a faint pink outline of Christ’s Monogram still remained. Other than that, physically I was on the mend. Emotionally, however, I still wasn’t entirely sure what kind of damage had been done. Daily visits from a psychiatrist didn’t do much to determine that fact, either.
I had given them my description of the killer shortly after waking up from a twenty-four hour sleep. To the best of my ability, I had relayed the events to Ben, and he had filled in some of the blanks for me.
Detective McLaughlin’s daughter had arrived home completely unscathed shortly after I had set out in pursuit of the killer. The present theory was that it was he who had called Charlee’s husband with the ruse. This theory only served to create more questions about how he knew who to call and where he might have obtained his inside information. Rumor was already bandying about that an internal investigation would be forthcoming.
My only other question had been how they had found me. To that, the answer had been simple. When the killer had knocked the cell phone from my hand, it had remained on and broadcasting. With the help of Special Agent Mandalay and the cell company, they had managed to triangulate the general vicinity of the broadcast. Also, a motion sensor at the end of the bridge had alerted the authorities that someone had passed by the locked gate on the grand Old Lady. And finally, a phone call from the night watchman at the water treatment plant who had noticed dim lights from the vehicles headlamps served to pinpoint the frantic search.
The first officers had actually arrived on the scene in time to hear the report of the Glock when I had fired it.
“Still too much ice in the river ta’ drag, but we did a full search of the surroundin’ area,” my friend continued. “The bastard’s body’ll prob’ly end up on the rocks in a month or two. Or maybe downriver with the floodin’ from the thaw… Hey, Row… You listenin’ to me?”
Ben’s sudden silence wedged its way into my ears, and his words registered in the moment that followed. “What? Yeah…” I croaked in a pained whisper. “Yeah, I’m listening.”
“So anyway,” he proceeded, “looks like we might not be able to identify this asshole unless we can find the body and come up with a dental record match. That’s assumin’ he’s had dental work. Of course, eventually there’s gonna be a house turn up empty with all that shit in the basement you described. If we’re lucky, whoever finds it’ll think it’s weird and call us. Maybe that’ll give us a clue about who this prick was.”
“You won’t,” I forced my voice through the dull ache.
“Won’t what?”
“Find his body.” I slowly shook my head. “He’s still out there.”
“Yeah. Suckin’ mud from the bottom of the river.”
“No. He’s still alive.”
“Get real, white man,” my friend objected. “You shot the bastard point blank.”
“I shot him in the arm, Ben,” I returned in rebuttal.
“With a high frag round that contained Teflon gel,” he detailed. “At point blank you prob’ly blew the fucker’s arm clean off, and besides, that gel’s toxic. Not ta’ mention that from your description of the events that followed, he fell off the bridge and into the river. No way he coulda survived.”
“I know all that, Ben, but it’s a feeling. He’s still out there. Alive. And he’ll be back.”
“Can’t go with ya’ on this one, Kemosabe. You’re just rattled. You must not be doin’ that groundin’ thing or somethin’. The asshole is toast, no two ways about it.”
I didn’t belabor the point. Maybe Ben was correct. I hadn’t exactly been walking a very balanced path over the past month, and what had occurred on that bridge a mere handful of nights prior was still pounding in the back of my skull. Guilt over not being able to stop this miniature Inquisition in time to save the lives of several innocent individuals, Pagan and non-Pagan, was an ever-present tingle along my spine as well. My intuition in this particular instant could very well be wrong.
At any rate, I could only hope that it was.
Three Months Later…