DEAD: Darkness Before Dawn (39 page)

Authors: TW Brown

BOOK: DEAD: Darkness Before Dawn

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Marty Pennington was a lot of things...stupid was not one of them. He walked slowly, leading Dakota into the o
ffice. A filing cabinet lay on its side. Papers were strewn across the floor. Sprawled out beside the fallen cabinet was a man. A pistol lay on the floor next to his right hand. Dakota spotted an open desk drawer, ending the mystery of where the gun came from.

“Looks like your little organization will be missing one of its lackeys.” Dakota nudged the lifeless corpse with one foot.

“How so, Detective?” Pennington asked indifferently.

“Well, unless you can raise the dead, this guy isn’t g
oing anywhere on his own.”

“Be that as it may,” Pennington shrugged, “that man has nothing to do with anything other than the operation of this o
ffice.”

Dakota jerked Pennington around to face him. Pennin
gton only smiled that disturbing smile of his.

“Mister Tillman, excuse me, the late Mister Tillman was indeed in my employ. However, his capacity was as shop m
echanic and business manager...nothing more,” Pennington said matter-of-factly.

“You mean?” Dakota gasped. He already knew what Marty Pennington would confirm.

“Your partner was shot by a man whose only crime was that of protecting his boss from what he presumed was a robbery. In addition, you, my good friend, have killed an innocent man...relatively speaking.”

Dakota could sense a large knot forming in his stomach. It quickly transformed to a ball of ice. Fury welled from within, drying his mouth, then charging it with a bitter taste. That taste was his wrath.

He stared into the eyes of the man who now stood calmly before him, that Cheshire grin compounding his rage. The impulsive desire to empty his gun into that grinning face seemed almost irrepressible to Dakota at that moment.

He could claim that Pennington tried to e
scape, or that he made a grab for Derrick’s gun that lay on the floor. Nobody would know the difference. Nobody except for himself that is.

His thought must have been visible on his face, b
ecause Pennington’s grin faltered. He staggered back a few steps from Dakota, raising his hands to accent his defenselessness.

“Now see here, Detective!” Pennington was almost pleading. “Regardless of what you may b
elieve, I would never shoot an officer of the law.” He straightened himself again, realizing the satisfaction Dakota derived from his groveling. “I have very good lawyers. They are more than capable of beating any charges that you can conjure up.”

Sirens began to wail in the distant background. Dakota decided to ignore the desire that gnawed at him. It would be more satisfying to put this man in an uncomfort
able gray cell. Instead, he cuffed Pennington to a nearby pipe and rushed to his partner’s side.

“I’m here, buddy, just hang in there. Help is coming,” Dakota whi
spered.

Three squad cars arrived as well as an ambulance. Five uniformed officers, along with a pair of paramedics, rushed into the room where Derrick lay. Dakota rose to his feet, wa
ving the paramedics over to him. He didn’t even notice the police officers as they ushered Pennington from the room.

The paramedics knelt beside Derrick and quickly went about the routine of attaching various monitoring devices, chec
king his vital signs. They hastily applied a dressing to the gunshot wound and made preparations to transport him to the ambulance.

“Hang in there, man.” Dakota grasped Derrick’s hand. He watched with a feeling of helplessness as the me
dics went about their tasks.

As they loaded Derrick onto the stretcher, Dakota looked into his best friend’s eyes; they were dull and lifeless. The spa
rkle of vigor that had shown in them only minutes ago was gone. The oxygen mask that covered his mouth and nose was splattered with flecks of blood mixed with saliva.

Dakota’s best friend and mentor no longer resembled the strong-willed, powerfully athletic man he had once known. He looked fragile and helpless. It was as if there was a total stranger l
ying on that stretcher.

As he followed the medics out of the office towards the ambulance, Dakota glanced at the man he held respons
ible. An officer was putting Marty Pennington into the back of a squad car. They locked eyes as Pennington looked out the window of the police car. For just an instant, Dakota thought he saw a look of consternation cross the man’s once impassive face.

A muffled voice grabbed his attention away from Pe
nnington. It was Derrick. He was trying to talk, but the mask stifled whatever he was trying to say. Dakota leaned down next to his partner’s face to listen.

Derrick rasped something unintelligible, his voice l
abored to be heard through the oxygen mask.

“Don’t try to talk right now,” Dakota consoled. He glanced down as one of the paramedics cut away Derrick’s shirt. The blood soaked dres
sing was removed and replaced by a fresh one. Dakota noticed a small hole that welled with blood every time Derrick breathed.

“Just shut up and listen!” Derrick hissed.

“He really shouldn’t talk right now,” the paramedic cautioned.

“Promise me something,” Derrick ignored the warning, “promise that you’ll be there for Mona when the baby comes.”

“You’re gonna be okay.” Tears began to trickle down Dakota’s cheeks. “Just hang in there a little longer!”

“Not this time,” Derrick coughed. Blood splattered the inside of the oxygen mask. “It’s up to you now. You have to fi
nish this one by yourself...no matter what!”

The paramedics hoisted Derrick into the waiting amb
ulance. Every movement evoked a response of pain from Derrick. Once they finished loading him, one of the paramedics climbed inside. Dakota climbed in as well. The other shut the door and hustled to the driver’s seat.

The driver put the ambulance into gear and flipped on the siren. As they rolled out onto the nearly deserted morning street, the driver radioed the hospital that they were on their way.

The short trip was a blur for Dakota. The attending paramedic worked furiously to save the injured detective. Within minutes, they were backing up to the emergency entrance. Doctors stood waiting at the doors for their arrival as they wheeled Derrick into a waiting trauma room. Dakota stared at the doors as they closed between him and his friend. He peered through a small window to watch the flurry of activity as doctors and nurses scrambled to save Derrick’s life.

Ten minutes passed before anyone emerged. A doctor pulled the mask from his sweat drenched face, his green scrubs smeared with blood, De
rrick’s blood. He approached Dakota, his grim expression bearing the news before he could say it.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor shook his head, “we utilized ev
erything in our power. All efforts at resuscitation failed. Your partner is dead.”

Those words echoed in Dakota’s head. He slumped to the floor in shock. Bringing his hands to his face, Dakota b
egan to cry bitterly. His best friend had died, shot by an innocent man trying to protect a guilty one.

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