Edge of the Heat 3 (20 page)

HAUL YOURSELF OVER MISTER! OR IS THE ITTY BITTY BABY GOIN TA LAY DOWN AND DIE? His mother’s voice rang between his ears and his hand jerked spasmodically shut again over the tailgate. With every last ounce of strength he had left in him he hauled. And landed in the bed of the truck where he immediately passed out.

He didn’t wake again until the morning light was spreading across the sky. Terrified, he pulled himself closer to the front of the bed. In the location he had been in, the driver of the truck would be able to see him in his rear-view mirror.

At the front of the bed was a large, silver tool box that spread the entire width of the bed of the truck, easily big enough for a man to fit inside. Laying on his back, he pushed on the lid with one shaky foot. Not locked. He stared up at the lightening sky and wondered if he dared climb in the box. It would mean exposing himself. He decided to risk it though. He peeked just his eyes over the side of the truck and figured they hadn’t even found him missing yet, because the parking lot was empty. He climbed slowly into the tool box and promptly fell asleep. When he came to again the truck was moving beneath him. The next 12 hours or so was spotty in his memory. He had dozed a lot, not feeling strong enough to move. He was weak and didn’t want to move from his perfect hidey-hole, but one time when he woke up, stiff and aching, to a not-moving truck he had a thought that chilled his blood. What if he had slept the whole day away and the man was back at work, back inside the prison fence.

His muscles had convulsed him into a sitting position and he pushed the lid on the tool box up, peeking out. He wasn’t in the prison. He was in a dark garage. He climbed out, feeling a little more strength than he’d had in the prison parking lot, and made his way to the outside door in the garage. No people were around so he pushed it open and walked down the street, trying to act like he belonged there.

He had figured out where he was swiftly, and why shouldn’t he? He’d been a cop on these streets for 13 years. He knew every nook and cranny of Westwood Harbor. Now he just needed a good place to hide out. He’d considered some abandoned buildings he knew of, but decided against them because he’d have to compete with homeless people, some of whom might recognize him. He needed a place that had shelter and wasn’t too far from a way to get food, but that no one would ever think of looking for him at. He’d looked around and tried to imagine what was near him. His legs were already getting shaky and he knew he wouldn’t get far before he collapsed in a heap. He’d realized he was less than a mile from the impound lot and walked toward it, planning on just finding an old car to curl up in for a few days. The gate was closed, like always; it only opened when a tow truck brought a car in or out, but he’d found a place to climb it.

Once he realized how perfect it was he decided to stay. The first day he’d just slept. But hunger and thirst drove him out soon enough. He’d walked the fence until he found a loose board in the back where the fence was still wood, and he’d loosened the one next to it, marking an easy hole for him to get in and out of. He’d walked the neighborhood closest to the yard and found several houses that looked like the owners had already gone to work. Perfect. He tried garage doors until he found an open one and hit a jackpot almost immediately. A freezer in the garage held popsicles, meat, whipped cream, and a big box of pre-cooked, frozen mexican burritos. He’d taken the popsicles and the burritos and headed back to the yard. He ate the whole box of popsicles while he was waiting for the burritos to thaw. After all the popsicles were gone, he’d actually started to feel human again and examined his situation.

All he knew was at this point, he had to regain his strength. And he needed to do it somewhere that no one would be looking for him. He had vague notions of taking care of
the bitch,
once and for all, and a faraway dream of crossing a border somewhere and living a free life where he didn’t have to look over his shoulder all day, but all of that was in the future. For now, survival was the only plan he could make.

Norman looked around his bus and thought he’d done a pretty good job surviving. He still wasn’t at 100%, and in fact, he’d since realized he didn’t think he ever would be. His reflexes were way slower than they used to be, his right hand wouldn’t close all the way - when he tried it closed partially and then just relaxed at a certain point, the fingers refusing to curl any farther - and his body didn’t always do exactly what he wanted it to. He was getting stronger, but these things weren’t changing. No matter. It wasn’t like he was ever going to be a cop again. He did have one thing to do though, that was going to require a lot of strength and quickness, and the ability to close his hand. Or the ability to shoot a gun with his left hand.

Now that he was no longer in danger of falling down on his feet Norman had some decisions to make. He couldn’t stay here forever. He didn’t want to live in a bus forever for sure. He didn’t want to stay in Westwood Harbor any longer either, but he didn’t want to go far. He needed to find a place to survive close by, but far enough away that he didn’t have to look over his shoulder so much if he ventured out into public. It was time to start making his real plans.

The first plan involved taking care of
the bitch
, Emma. There were times, at night especially, when he thought about what she had the
gall
to do to him, and he couldn’t believe. Couldn’t believe that a woman had shot him. Couldn’t believe that a woman had dared run from him, fight him, stand up to him, and finally shoot him cold in the dessert. She’d bested him, his divided mind would argue. But no, she hadn’t, because it wasn’t over. And if she didn’t know that yet she would, soon.

There was no way he was going to let what she had done to him slide. She would pay. Pay hard. He thought about it every night, and had decided that he couldn’t watch her, stalk her, surveil her. It was too dangerous. And if he couldn’t do that, the only time he could guarantee she wouldn’t be with that FBI agent was when she was at work. So that’s when he planned to take her. But still, he had a problem. Because of her partner, Jerry. Jerry was smart, strong, and devoted to Emma, as much as the fucking FBI dick, so Norman would have to take him out first. It was the only way. Norman smiled. Sure Jerry would fight, but no matter what, he was less dangerous than the FBI agent. Norman was sure he could take him.

Norman walked down the steps of his bus and out to the hole in the fence. He hadn’t been to get food or water for 4 days, and he was totally out. He was starting to get a bad feeling about the neighborhood he’d been hitting though. It was time to find a new one. Luckily, he felt like he could walk for miles today. He set out on the sidewalk, ratty hood from his sweatshirt covering his face. The morning coolness would fade soon, and he’d have to lose the hood, or be marked as suspicious, but that was OK. He looked very different these days. His hair was long, his beard was full, and both were gray, thanks to gray hair dye. His body was skinnier than it had ever been but he wore loose, too-large clothes, and a roll of cloth around his middle, giving him the illusion of being much heavier than he was or ever had been. He looked soft, slow. It was a good disguise and had served him well so far.

As he walked he contemplated his second plan. Mexico? Or Canada? Or just down South or the East Coast? They might be watching for him on the Mexican border, but since he’d be alone he didn’t have to take a car. He could walk over in one of the same places the Mexicans crossed illegally every day to get to the U.S. But then what? He walked and thought hard for 45 minutes.

Eventually, he found a likely neighborhood and assessed the houses as he walked by them on the sidewalk. The road dumped him into a park so he decided to sit on a bench and rest, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face. A large recycle bin squatted in the corner of the parking lot. He trotted over and pulled out a handful of newspapers from the week, returning to the bench to read.

One with large block letters spread across the front, taking up the entire top fold of the newspaper caught his eye.

PRESIDENT-ELECT HOPEFUL SUICIDE LEADS TO QUESTIONS ABOUT POSSIBLE CRIMINAL ACTIVITY

Norman read that over 4 times, knowing exactly who it was talking about. Oberlin? Suicide? Norman had briefly considered going to the Senator for help when he first escaped, but he didn’t, some small part of him knowing the Senator probably just wanted him dead now that he was nothing but a liability. (In fact he’d occasionally wondered about the attempted hit in the prison hospital.) Now he congratulated himself on making a good choice by not going to him.

He turned the paper over and saw a smiling picture of Oberlin on the campaign trail, and then next to it a picture of the front of Oberlin’s house, door wide open, police and FBI cars scattered in front.

He read the story carefully, looking for clues into exactly what had happened, but the reporters were chasing their own tails in frustration. They’d been told absolutely nothing so far and all they could do was guess.

Norman sat on the bench and thought. Thought for a long time. Was this a sign to him? Everything he had been involved in for the last 10 years had fallen apart about as much as possible. Maybe he should make a clean break now. Forget this revenge. Maybe it would turn out as badly as everything else had. He’d been bested by
the bitch
once already. The only way he should even consider going through with this was if there were
no way
in the world he could fail this time. But was he willing to give up his tenuous freedom just to get back at her?

Freedom. It was a funny thing. His body might be free, but he knew his mind was chained to Emma Hill and what she’d succeeded in doing to him. Was there a way out of that jail that didn’t involve killing her? He didn’t know.

E
mma sat in the driver’s seat of the ambulance, stewing. It was 2 months ago already since Oberlin shot himself, so that meant it was almost 2 and a half months since Norman escaped. And she’d only just now discovered Jerry’s
little secret
!

She thought back to the call they’d just come from, damning Jerry for his temerity. Damning both Jerry and Craig for their gall.
Right under her nose! And never said a word to her!

It had been a chest pain call in a small bathroom. The patient, a 66 year old man taking a shower, had experienced chest pain bad enough that he’d stumbled out of the shower and fallen on the floor. His wife called 911. When Emma and Jerry showed up, he was still wet and on the floor, but his wife had managed to struggle a pair of shorts onto him. Thank goodness for small favors.

The bathroom was tiny, and very hard for three grown adults to be in at the same time. Emma and Jerry had gotten the heart monitor on him, seen he was in stable ventricular tachycardia, and went to work right there on the floor, the firefighters only able to peek in and watch from the doorway. Jerry had started an IV and Emma prepared the Lidocaine. Once they got the Lidocaine in and his heart rhythm had smoothed out, Jerry felt good enough about his condition to try to move him. The board wouldn’t fit in the bathroom though and neither would the gurney, so Emma and Jerry had to just pick him up and carry him out of the bathroom. While they were trying to figure the best way to do it in the cramped bathroom, Emma had passed behind Jerry and lost her balance, pressing a hand into the small of his back. And that’s when she felt it. The gun. Jerry was carrying. And Emma could think of only one reason why Jerry would be carrying. Craig had put him up to it. What she wouldn’t do, he talked Jerry into doing, regardless of all the reasons she had given for not doing it. Emma’s blood got hotter just thinking about it. It was a good thing she hadn’t noticed the gun until the patient was stable, because once she had she had lost the ability to think rationally. She was just pissed. And Jerry knew it.

Emma watched the hospital exit, waiting for Jerry to come out. She hadn’t said a word to him as they drove to the hospital or while she helped him wheel his patient inside. Then she’d bailed once they had him in a room. She needed privacy to give him a piece of her mind.

The doors opened and he stepped out. She’d expected him to come out like a whipped puppy, tail between his legs, head sagging. But his head was held high, and he was smiling, like he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.

He walked in front of the ambulance and Emma burned holes through him the whole time, until he pulled his door open and climbed in. Then she didn’t want to look at him any longer.

He climbed in and buckled his seatbelt. And didn’t speak.

“You’re carrying,” Emma accused, her tone damning.

“Yep, Craig asked me to and got me set up with the permit and the class, plus he talked to the brass.” Jerry sounded typically happy, upbeat. Not phased at all by Emma’s anger.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Craig said you’d probably be angry so he left it up to me if I wanted to tell you or not. I decided it would be easier if I didn’t. Besides, I hoped Norman would be caught quickly and I would be able to give it up.”

“Without me ever knowing.” Emma fired off the words, not sure in her own heart what she was most upset about. Was it the fact that Craig had ignored her list of reasons why paramedics shouldn’t carry guns? Was it the fact that he went behind her back? Or because Jerry went behind her back? Or because Jerry didn’t have the same problem with carrying a gun on duty? She didn’t know, but she did know that anger ran hot through her veins still.

Jerry sighed and turned to her. “Look Emma, I know you think this is an ethics breach and maybe even dangerous, Craig told me. But it doesn’t change the fact that there is a madman loose somewhere who already tried to kidnap and maybe kill you once. He could be watching us right now. It bothers me to carry this gun, and it’s a pain in the ass to strap it on every morning, but you know what? It would bother me a hell of a lot more if Norman showed up and ripped you out of the ambulance in front of me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it except watch him go. Do you know what that would do to me? It would kill me. It would destroy me. If carrying a gun means I have more of an opportunity to stop him from doing that I’ll do it from now until the day I die, gladly, regardless of how mad you get at me or how much the stinking holster makes my back itch.”