Ignoring the pain in his back, Jared dropped to all fours and inched amp; his way between two rows of hampers toward the enormous, cluttered! X hall housing the laundry itself. Pressers, washers, dryers, shelves and stacks of linens, more hampers-if he could make it, there would be dozens of places to hide… if he could make it. There were twenty feet separating the last of the canvas hampers from the first of the steam pressers. Twenty open feet. He had to cross them unnoticed. Kneeling in the darkness, he listened. There was not a sound-not a breath, not the shuffle of a footstep, nothing. Where in hell was the man? Was the chance of catching a glimpse of him worth the risk of looking? The aching in his back was in crescendo, dulling his concentration and his judgment. Again he listened. Again there was nothing. Slowly, he brought his head up and turned. The killer, moving with the control and feline calm of a professional, was less than five feet away, preparing to hammer him with the butt of Macfarlane's heavy revolver. Jared spun away, but still absorbed a glancing blow just above his left ear.
Stunned, he stumbled backward, pulling first one, then another hamper between him and the man, who paused to pick up the notebook and set it on the corner of a hamper before matter-of-factly advancing on him again. "It's no use, pal, " he said, shoving the hampers aside as quickly as Jared could pull them in his way, "but go ahead and make it interesting if you want."
Jared, needing the hampers as much for support as for protection, knew the man was right. Wounded and without a weapon, Jared had no chance against him. "Who are you? " he asked. Nunes smiled and shrugged. "Just a man doing a job, " he said. "You work for Redding Pharmaceuticals, don't you."
"I think this little dance of ours has gone on long enough, pal. Don't you?"
In that instant, Jared thought about Kate and all she had been through, he thought about Paquette and the aging watchman, Macfarlane. If he was going to die, then, dammit, it wouldn't be while backing away. With no more plan in mind than that, he grabbed another hamper, feigned pulling it in front of him, and instead drove it forward as hard as he could, catching the surprised gunman just below the waist. Nunes lurched backward, colliding with another hamper and very nearly going down.
Jared moved as quickly as he could, but the advantage he had gained with surprise was lost in the breathtaking pain of trying to push off his left foot. The killer, his expression one of placid amusement, parried the lunge with one hand, and with the other, brought the barrel of the revolver slicing across Jared's head, opening a gash just above his temple. Jared staggered backward a step, then came on again, this time leading with a kick which connected, though not powerfully, with the man's groin. Again Nunes lashed out with the gun, landing a solid blow to Jaredss forearm and then another to the back of his neck. Jared dropped to one knee. As he did, Nunes stepped behind him and locked one arm expertly beneath his chin. "Sorry, pal, " he said, tightening his grip. Jared flailed with his arms and shoulders and tried to stand, but the man's leverage was far too good. The pressure against his larynx was excruciating His chest throbbed with the futile effort of trying to breathe. Blood pounded in his head and the killer's grunting breaths grew louder in his ear. Then the sound began to fade. Jared knew he was dying. Every ounce of his strength vanished, and he felt the warmth of his bladder letting go. I'm sorry, Kate. I'm sorry. The words tumbled over and over in his mind. I'm sorry. Through closed eyes, he sensed, more than saw, a bright, blue-white light. From far, far away, he heard a muffled explosion. Then another. Suddenly the pressure against his neck diminished. The killer's forearm shook uncontrollably and then slid away. Jared fell to one side, but looked up in time to see the man totter and then, in grotesque slow motion, topple over into a hamper.
Jared struggled to sort out what was happening. The first thing he saw clearly was that the overhead lights had been turned on, the second thing was the stubbled, slightly jowled face of Martin Finn "I was halfway back to the station when I decided there was no way you would have chanced popping me like you did unless the situation was really desperate, " Finn said. "How bad are you hurt?"
Jared coughed twice and wasn't sure he was able to speak until he heard his own voice. "I've been shot twice, " he rasped, "once just above my butt and once in my thigh. My legs are all cut up from broken glass.
That lunatic beat the shit out of me with his gun."
"The emergency people are on their way, " Finn said, kneeling down. "It may be a few minutes. As you might guess, there's a lot of commotion going on around here right now. Is Zimmermann dead?"
Jared nodded. Then he remembered Macfarlane. "Finn, " he said urgently,
"there's a man, Macfarlane, a night watchman. He was-" ',You mean him?
" The detective motioned to his left. Walter Macfarlane, one eye swollen shut and the side of his face a mass of dried and oozing blood, stood braced against a hamper. "Thank God, " Jared whispered. "We would never have known what direction to go in without him," inn explained. At that moment a team of nurses and residents arrived with two stretchers They helped Macfarlane onto one and then gingerly hoisted her onto the other.
"As soon as these people get you fixed up, Counselor, you're going to have a little explaining to do. You know that, don't you?"
"I know. I'll tell you as much as I can. And Finn… I appreciate your coming back."
"I think I might owe you an apology, but I'll save it until someone explains to me what the fuck has been going on around here."
"Okay, " one of the residents announced. "We're all set."
"Wait. Please, " Jared said. "Finn, there's a notebook around here somewhere. A black, looseleaf notebook."
The detective searched for a few moments and then brought it over.
"Yours? " he asked. "Actually, no." Jared tucked the notebook beneath his arm. Then he smiled. "It belongs to my wife."
Jared brought his left hand up and gingerly touched the area about his left eye.
Saturday 22 December
"Mr. Samuels, I m here to take you up to your room.
Mr. Samuels?"
Jared's eyes opened from a dreamless sleep. He was on a litter, staring at the chipped, flaking ceiling of the emergency ward where a team of surgical residents had worked on his wounds. His last clear memory was of one of the doctors, a baby-faced woman with rheumy eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, announcing that she was about to give him a "little something" so that his wounds could be explored, cleaned, and repaired.
"I'm Cary Dunleavy, one of the nurses from Berenson Six, " the man's voice said from somewhere at the head of the litter. Jared tried to crane his neck toward the nurse, but was prevented by a thick felt cervical collar and a broad leather restraining belt across his chest.