Acoustic Shadows (22 page)

Moral looked up and saw Thiery running, then noticed Millie marching toward him, too. He pulled his gun, trying to hold it steady with his injured arm. The car window on the passenger side of the car opened and Julio held up a pistol, pointing it at Millie, who seemed not to notice, or perhaps didn’t care.

Shots rang out again, and Thiery saw stalks of banana palms falling behind Millie as she continued her slow but steady charge. She returned fire until the gun clicked on an empty chamber. Still, she kept pulling the trigger.

Thiery yelled at her. ‘Take cover, Millie. They’re going to kill you!’

A headlight exploded on a car next to her, and jolted her out of her trance. She threw down the empty gun and withdrew another from her waistband, then ducked behind a different parked car. Thiery ran toward her, laying down cover for both of them. Now, Moral was shooting at them, as well as the two other men in the car.

Suddenly, the Lincoln’s tyres squealed and reversed as plumes of white smoke billowed up. The driver pointed the car toward Thiery and stuck a gun out the window as he accelerated toward him. The man in the back seat continued firing, too. Thiery had no choice but to duck back behind the car with Millie as windows shattered and the sounds of bullets boring into metal surrounded them.

The car sped past them, out of the parking lot, allowing Thiery a quick glance around. Moral stopped firing his weapon as a group of Orlando PD rushed out of the building. Moral held up his badge and laid down his gun. He ran to the cops, pointing in Thiery’s direction, talking hurriedly.

Thiery hunched back down next to Millie, who shook her head.

‘So, you’re the cavalry?’ she asked, leaning against the car, breathing rapid and shallow, wincing from the pain of her wounds.

‘That was the idea,’ said Thiery. ‘Was that Esperanza in the car?’

‘Yeah,’ said Millie. ‘One of them, at least. The son. I testified against his father a few years ago. It cost me my family. Then, his lawyers got it thrown out. I’m supposed to testify against him again next week.’

Thiery nodded. No wonder they turned up the heat. ‘The marshal, I think you said his name is Moral? He’s out there talking to the PD. What can you tell me about him? In one sentence, or less?’

Millie looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘One sentence?
Needs to die
.’

At that, she withdrew the giant magnum pistol, leaped up, and extended her gun arm across the hood of the adjacent parked car, ready to fire.

‘No, don’t!’ cried Thiery as he jumped up and pushed her.

The powerful recoil caused the gun to fire high. From the corner of his eye, Thiery saw the cops go low, take cover, and return fire. The gunfire sounded far away and puny, but the bullets hitting the car next to them sounded like hot rivets slicing into soft metal. A tyre was hit and exploded, parts of rubber peppering them. The car leaned to one side, diminishing their barricade.

‘Great,’ said Thiery as he pinned her down with his body and considered his options. He could give up his weapon and hope they didn’t shoot him. It would take some time, but he should eventually be able to get them to hear his side of the story.
There were witnesses in the lobby, after all, right?
But, Moral would probably convince them they should hand over his ‘protected witness’. He was federal, so the local PD would probably comply. Even if for a little while, it would give Moral the time he needed to finish Millie off. Whether he would get away with it or not was immaterial; Millie Adkins would finally be dead.

Above, the shooting abated. Beneath him, Millie felt so thin, so worn out, but her initial resistance hinted at a determined fierceness still in her. It was probably what had kept her alive for so long.

‘You up for one more run?’ he asked as he rolled over and released his hold on her.

‘I keep my running shoes on,’ she said. Thiery glanced at her feet, remembering what Sally Ravich – the secretary who had half her face blown off at the school – had told him.
She always wore running shoes
… Now, he knew why.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘There’s a grey Porsche SUV just around the corner. We’re going to make a run for it, get out of here until we can sort this out.’

Millie seemed to mull it over for a moment. ‘Okay’ she said, finally. ‘No one has believed me so far. Why would they now?’ She seemed to be reassuring herself. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Follow me,’ he said, ‘and try not to shoot anyone.’

Gail Summer summoned an anxious look as she stared into the camera and into the eyes of her many viewers. ‘This just in,’ she began, ‘within hours of our reporter on the scene, Dave Gruber, submitting the following report, we have heard an FBI agent, possibly the one in this story, was killed in Orlando, Florida this morning.’

The video clip of Thiery and Logan talking to Gruber at the Sun Beam Motel in the early morning hours was shown again: the plea Thiery made for Erica Weisz to call him; the statement that Logan was now in charge of the case as Thiery stepped down on administrative leave pending an investigation of the shootout the night before in Lake Wales.

Gail Summer continued, ‘we are getting reports from Orlando that Florida Department of Law Enforcement agent, Justin Thiery, who had been investigating the school shooting in nearby Frosthaven, was involved in a shoot-out at the Gaylord Palms Hotel. A guest that was checking in took this video with his cell phone. We must warn you, though, some of what you are about to see is very graphic.’

A jerky video image played across the screen for all of America to watch. The view was from the floor where the guest had obviously taken refuge. It showed Thiery crouched and Logan firing at Davies, glass breaking, a smoke alarm screeching, set off by the gunfire. Logan getting hit in the back and falling. Thiery going to her side. People running for cover and finally, Millie Adkins, standing up and shooting Anichka Drakoslava.

‘Of the three people you see being shot in this video,’ Summer went on, ‘two were foreigners, a man and a woman. Their identities are being withheld pending further investigation, but the other victim has been identified as FBI agent Sara Logan, the Special Agent who was supposed to take over the lead on the school shooting investigation. It is unclear who shot her and who will now lead this investigation that continues to vex authorities. Now, we are going to look at the video again and freeze one frame … there it … is … ’

The video played forward until it showed Millie Adkins standing and shooting Anichka. Summer continued, ‘there, that woman who shot and killed one of the foreign tourists is believed to be Erica Weisz, the teacher who was, herself, shot in the tragic attack on Travis Hanks Elementary just two days ago. She vanished from the hospital where she was recuperating. She and Agent Thiery have now both disappeared and spurred a statewide manhunt. Only moments ago, we interviewed Calusa County Sheriff Alton Conroy.’

Dave Gruber held the microphone to Conroy’s face and asked, ‘Sheriff, what do you make of this new turn of events in this perplexing and seemingly expanding case?’

Conroy squinted into the camera. ‘I have to say, I don’t know why this feller was sent here in the first place. We were doing fine, trying to pick up the pieces and pull this community back together. The state sent this investigator down and, if you ask me, that’s when everything got worse. We still aren’t a hundred per cent sure what happened in that school, but it should’ve stopped there. Now, more of our good citizens have been shot and killed, while this Thiery guy goes poking his nose around.’

Gruber pressed for more. ‘So you feel Agent Thiery has botched this investigation?’

‘Well, I hate to throw another law enforcement officer under the bus, but it seems we would’ve done better without him. We need to talk with that teacher, find out what she knows and why she’s running from the law, and it appears Mr Thiery blew that chance for us.’

Conroy started to turn, but Gruber got one more in. ‘Sheriff, one more thing. Is it true you will be taking over as lead on this case, and if so, what will be your first order of business?’

Conroy looked at the ground for a moment, as if considering spitting out some of the tobacco juice in his mouth then deciding against it. His eyes went back up to the camera, a determined look fixed in his countenance. ‘The governor himself called and put me in charge. My first order of business is to apprehend those I feel are responsible for the carnage wrought on our community. The governor has reassured me that any and all means of support will be provided. In the past, we’ve had our hands tied by financial constraints, and this community has suffered for it. But we’re moving forward, now. Today, we take back our streets, our schools, our safety, not only for our small town, but for everyone in ’Merica. It’s time we stand our ground! God bless us all.’

A crowd of onlookers pressed in around the camera crew – and the prophetic sheriff – turned local hero. All let out a cheer.

Sally Ravich held her husband’s hand as he helped her walk the length of the hospital hall. Besides the horrendous facial wound, the rest of her body was fit, and her doctor wanted her to get out of bed more often. Get some exercise, move some endorphins around, make her feel better. Her biggest obstacle was her mental well-being, rather than the physical recovery of her gunshot injuries.

‘Are you ready to try the stairs, Sally?’ asked Harold, Sally’s husband of twenty-eight years. He tried not to stare at the side of her face still covered in bandages.

Sally nodded, her one good eye levelling with his, revealing the determination to do this task. Their steps echoed off the ochre-coloured, institutional walls, like the teeth of a giant clock clicking away time.

The couple moved up the stairs, one flight, then another, until they arrived on the final floor. Harold pushed open the ‘Exit’ door and entered the hall leading to other patients’ rooms. They had performed this exercise routine for a couple of days, now. Knew the layout, and where the nurses were, if they needed help. But, Sally didn’t need help walking, or getting around; she was way past that, she needed to get her head straight, and, without words, had managed to get Harold to understand. And because he did love her still, after all these years, the ups and downs of any good marriage, raising a family together, all the emotional, financial, and logistical struggles they’d overcome, he could make that commitment without any hesitation.

They moved down the corridor, saw the Cuban Sheriff’s deputy stationed outside one of the rooms and, at the nurses’ desk, a young and curvy Latina from Puerto Rico. The Ravichs strolled up to her station, and Harold made a request. ‘Hey, Shakira,’ he addressed her, ‘why don’t you make me a cup of that coffee, like you do for Jose over there?’ He nodded toward the guard.

Blotches of red appeared on her neck as though she was having a niacin reaction. ‘My name is Linda, sir,’ she corrected the man who, to this point, hadn’t revealed his ignorant, racist side, ‘but that coffee, there, is left-over from this morning.’

‘Just make some fresh, J-Lo,’ he said, releasing his grip on his wife’s hand. Due to her injuries, Sally still couldn’t talk. Seemingly embarrassed by her husband’s abrupt and abusive manner, she slowly and silently distanced herself from him.

The nurse’s mouth hung open as she tried to form words that might assuage the man’s rudeness without making too big a scene. After all, he was taking his ailing wife for a walk, and she didn’t want to upset a patient who had arrived only a few days ago with half her face shot off.

Noting the escalation unfolding before him, the deputy stood up.

‘Fuck it,’ said Harold. ‘I’ll get the damn coffee myself.’ He darted around the counter, invading the nurses’ station, hell-bent for the coffee pot.

‘You can’t come back here, sir,’ the nurse advised, now quite agitated.

The deputy moved in. There was honour to be saved here. And pride. As he crossed the threshold of the nurses’ station, his attention wholly focused on keeping the peace, Sally disappeared down the hall.

‘Sir,’ addressed the deputy, ‘what is your problem?’ He was six feet two-inches tall, with shoulders wider than some doors allowed, courteous and handsome and chivalrous in an old-fashioned way.

Harold picked up the coffee pot. ‘Just getting some coffee, Miguel. Or maybe it’s Ricardo. You know, like Dick. Mind your own business,
comprende
?’

It was the deputy’s turn to grow red-faced, and he began to grind his teeth. ‘Come out from behind that station, sir. Now.’

Harold ignored the lawman, rummaged through cabinets until he found styrofoam cups, and poured himself a coffee. The nurse moved away, her eyes wet.

Sensing a disturbance, the floor manager emerged from a nearby office. ‘What’s the problem, here?’ she asked.

Seeing her chance, Sally Ravich quietly entered the dark room the deputy had been assigned to guard. Once her one good eye adjusted, she focused it on the marvel that dwarfed everything else in the room, specifically, the bed that rocked slowly back and forth like a baby’s cradle. It reminded her the killer was just a kid. Still, she inched quietly over to bed and tapped the young man on his forehead.

David Coody’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. His eyes widened as he stared into the half-bandaged face of a woman. She looked like a mummified zombie, and frightened him. Unfolding a piece of paper and holding it up so he could see the words she’d scribbled, he read: ‘DO YOU RECOGNIZE ME?’

Harold turned around and noted the floor manager had arrived, adding to the small but intense gathering of hospital staff. ‘Ah, finally someone I can relate to,’ he spoke to the woman with the clipboard. ‘You must be the person in charge, eh? Gotta be a tough job keeping these tacos in order.’

‘That’s it,’ the deputy said, lunging forward.

Harold raised his arms, as if gesturing to give himself up, then dropped the coffee pot. It burst and splattered everyone with hot coffee and glass.

The deputy grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, old man, but we are done here.’

‘Not quite,’ said Harold calmly, smiling like an idiot.

David Coody frowned at the spooky woman in his room. She turned the note over in her hands and let him read the other side: ‘I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING FROM TRAVIS HANKS ELEMENTARY SCHOOL’. His moderate fear gave way to instant horror.

From beneath the hospital-issued gown, she removed a gun: a small, easily concealed Ruger LCP. Made from glass-filled nylon mated to hardened alloy steel, it weighed only 9.4 ounces and carried six-in-the-clip and one in the chamber. She planned to use them all.

Sally removed her bandages, revealing the vacancy where the other half of her face used to live. Young Coody’s eyes filled with terror. He tried to scream, but his throat was dry, and his diaphragm no longer pushed breath through his lungs as efficiently as before. Despite painful efforts, he managed nothing more than a squeak.

The sound reminded Sally of a rat, and made it even easier to squeeze the trigger. Her little gun fired again and again, sending bullets like flesh-eating termites into his chest, knowing he couldn’t feel them, but wanting to inflict as much damage as possible in the few seconds she had. His paralyzed torso jolted with each shot, as if he were being spanked. Down to her last two rounds, she fired into his rat mouth. The last she sent with a delicious fervour into his brain.

The deputy heard gunshots, remembered his orders, and released Harold, screaming ‘Shit!’, as he ran into the unguarded room. He found Sally standing next to Coody, the gun lying on his bloody chest, a tendril of smoke still curling from the barrel. Her hands were in the air and she was smiling with the remaining half of her face.

At the nurses’ station, Harold apologized to the Puerto Rican nurse and the rest of the staff. ‘If you have a mop,’ he offered, ‘I’ll clean up this mess.’