Tom had worked his way around the perimeter of the room using the walls to prop him up, like a novice at an ice rink. He was relieved to see his friend had the situation under control. Jed was sitting on top of Deiter, who was crying like a baby, his manhood apparently being the object of his anguish. He was about to call out to his friend, when Deiter suddenly sprang up, delivering a crushing blow to Jed’s nose with his forehead.
He edged his way closer as his friend was being pummelled on the ground. He thought about calling out for Deiter to stop, but he knew that that would only put the focus on him and he was in no position to defend himself. If he was going to have any chance of saving them, he would have to disarm Deiter once and for all. He was in the shadow of the corner of the room when Deiter went to pick up the gun. Tom had the disturbing feeling from the frenzied look in the man’s eyes that he wouldn’t have been noticed, even if he had stood next to him. His blood was up and he only had one thing on his mind.
He saw Deiter raise his arm and prime the weapon, the gun pointing directly at Jed’s head. He was under no illusion that if he didn’t act now his friend would be dead in less than a second. He left the shadows and moved stealthily behind Deiter, raising the object in his hand high above his head as he did so. Deiter half turned as if sensing him coming, but it was too late; Tom brought the statue of Shiva the Destroyer crashing down onto the back of his head.
CHAPTER 37
‘Looks like I saved ya sorry arse, again.’ Jed had regained consciousness and was being stretchered out of the room on a gurney to a waiting ambulance.
‘We both owe you our lives,’ Tom replied, walking by his side. ‘How did you know to come in all guns blazing?’
Jed winced at the pain in his ribs as he tried to laugh. ‘When Charles rang me, the call connected so I heard the shot. I have to admit, my first thought was to get the hell out of Dodge as fast as I could and then phone the police.’
‘Well, I’m sure as hell glad you didn’t.’
The police had arrived, as Deiter predicted, within five minutes of being called. They, in turn, had alerted the medics on the complex who were able to stabilise the injured before ferrying them to the local hospital in the only ambulance they had available. Serena, who they deemed the most seriously hurt, was the first to go, followed by Deiter accompanied by two deputies, and then Jed, who insisted he’d been in worse fights.
‘Out on the piss on a Saturday night, in Glasgow,’ he’d said, apparently referring to when he was younger. Tom didn’t doubt this.
One look at the state of the room had convinced the on-site police officer that it was way out of his league and had called in reinforcements from the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department. They arrived en masse; clearly, nothing as juicy as this had happened in their jurisdiction for a very long time, if at all.
Statements were taken from those able to give them — which, as the only two still conscious at the scene of the crime, meant principally Tom and Jed. Receptionists and security guards were interviewed; however, as they’d had only limited contact with those involved, they were only able to confirm arrival times and calls transferred.
A forensic team was duly called in to dust for fingerprints and to take DNA samples. The murder weapon was ‘bagged and tagged’, as one of the Sherriff’s Deputies put it, along with the statuette. Photographs were taken of everything from every conceivable angle, including Charles’s body. He was the last of the whole shooting match to leave the office, his journey to the hospital being considered not as urgent as the others.
The Sheriff in charge of the investigation was in his late fifties. Having completed twenty-four of his twenty-five years in service, he was looking forward to retiring next year. He was a rather rotund man with a snow-white thatch and matching facial hair, making him look like Colonel Sanders on a diet of too much of his own Southern fried recipe.
Sheriff Pete Watkins told Tom that he was obliged to call in the FBI, as was de rigueur in murder cases involving a foreign national. However, he would postpone the call until after he’d had a chance to interview the prime suspect — and, given the condition Deiter was in, that could be several days away. Tom suspected the Sheriff had his own agenda for not wanting to involve the FBI, possibly because he wanted to have the case sewn-up by the time the suits arrived, or he didn’t appreciate external agencies trampling on his turf. Either way, it suited Tom, as the last thing he needed was anybody making the connection back to the Swiss authorities.
‘How’s Serena?’ Jed asked.
‘The medics say she’s stable,’ replied Tom. ‘But they won’t know for sure if there’s any brain damage until she regains consciousness.’
‘You must have really pissed that guy off back at CERN?’
‘I gave you the condensed version on the way here. Why don’t I save the rest of it until you’re feeling better, then I’ll tell you all about it over a couple of beers?’
‘A couple? Ya wee shite, I think I deserve the barrel.’
Tom laughed, despite the excruciating pain in his head. ‘You’ve got it, big man. The whole barrel.’
They had arrived at the waiting ambulance. Its blue strobe lights melded with those from the dozen or so police cars in the car park, illuminating the buildings and the faces of the crowd that had gathered out of curiosity in a monochromatic light show. The two orderlies collapsed the gurney’s framework, lifted Jed onto the ambulance and then expanded it again, ensuring the wheels were locked in place. Tom clambered in afterwards, taking a seat on the chair opposite.
Despite Jed’s protestations, they were rushed through to A & E, where they received immediate attention. The buzz going around the hospital was that a crazed gunman had gone berserk at the lab up the road, killing one and injuring at least three others. They weren’t that far off the mark.
Tom received six stitches to his head wound, had an X-ray, which was clear, and had to stay in overnight for observation.
Jed had X-rays followed by a CT scan. Miraculously, all his vital organs were undamaged, apart from his liver, which was in poor shape; however, that was put down to years of self-abuse rather than anything he’d sustained in the fight. He had severe bruising to his arms, legs and torso, two black eyes, as well as several fractures to his nose, in addition to three cracked ribs which, the doctor informed him, should heal by themselves in six to eight weeks.
The nose was a different matter; it would require extensive rhinoplasty surgery to rebuild and straighten it. However, he was assured that, over time, they would be able give him his old profile back. He was also advised to stay in overnight for observation; but, as soon as his ribs were taped up, he took one look in the mirror, tweaked his nose into some form of shape and discharged himself.
Tom had been allocated a gown and a bed in a private room, but he was desperate to see how Serena was. He had ascertained from his nurse that she had regained consciousness. The brain scans showed no significant damage, but she had mild concussion.
He threw back the covers and made his way to the door. He was still a little woozy and his head hurt like hell; it felt like the worst morning hangover of his life without having had the enjoyment of getting it the night before. As he made his way down the corridor, he noticed two docile deputies, lounging on either side of a closed door. Their alertness piqued when they saw him approaching.
‘Shouldn’t you be resting, Professor Halligan?’ the younger of the two enquired, rising out of his seat and moving to block the door they were guarding.