Jack in the Green (10 page)

Agents Crane and Bartos were seated with open briefcases on their laps amid candy bar wrappers and empty paper coffee cups.

“Looks like you guys enjoyed a gourmet supper, too,” Gaspar said.

Crane just glowered at him.

“Where’s Jennifer Lane?” Gaspar asked.

Bartos replied, “Samantha Weston asked for her about five minutes ago. As soon as Judge Carson and the court reporter get here, we’ll all go back in there and finish up and get out of here.”

As if his words had conjured her, Carson opened the door and said, “Ms. Chernow texted me on our way back. She says she’s setting up. Let’s get this done so these patients can get some rest.”

They all started after her down the hallway toward the recovery room where they had left both Westons.

After less than twenty feet of progress, everything went to hell.

First, the unmistakable sound of two quick gunshots filled the quiet corridor. A woman screamed. Another woman shouted words Gaspar could not make out. And two more quick gunshots followed.

Otto pulled her Sig Sauer and ran forward, ahead of Gaspar.

He pulled his Glock and followed close behind.

Weapons drawn, Crane and Bartos brought up the rear.

Before they reached the room, he heard another gunshot.

Willa Carson ran past them back toward the staircase. An instant later, a horrifically loud buzzing sound exploded around them. She’d pulled the fire alarm. When Gaspar glanced back past the other two agents, he saw the Judge had grabbed her cell phone and was already dialing.

The narrow, hospital-paraphernalia-choked corridor left the agents no choice but to charge single file toward the source of the gunshots.

Just before Otto reached the recovery room doorway, Natalie Chernow dashed out and crashed into her. Otto pushed her against the wall and tried to ask what had happened, but she was sobbing and babbling incomprehensibly. Not that she could’ve been heard over the alarm in any case, much less over the sirens outside that now joined the cacophony. The din was deafening.

Gaspar supposed he should take comfort in the rapid response rate by everyone involved, but there was no time to appreciate that just then. Otto shoved the court reporter to him and he passed her back to the agents behind him, then followed Otto into the room where he could just hear her shouting “FBI! FBI” over the pandemonium. Sound reverberated through Gaspar’s entire body like electroshock.

15

The first person Gaspar saw was Jennifer Lane.

She stood empty-handed, staring, eyes as wide as basketballs.

The deafening fire alarm continued, now transitioned to incessant blasts brief moments apart, loud enough to wake the morgue.

Just ahead of him, he saw Otto pivot, assume shooter stance and yell, “Hands up! Hands up!”

Steven Kent stood facing Otto, one hand extended with a .38 caliber handgun pointed toward Jennifer Lane.

Slowly, he raised both hands in the air. He pointed the gun in his right hand toward the ceiling. His blue scrubs, face, arms, and hands were splattered with blood. But he made no further move. He said nothing. He seemed to understand what was expected of a man in his situation and he performed appropriately.

Like the pause button on a video had been pushed, all action stopped for a long moment, and then each actor in the drama flew into perfectly scripted motion.

Agents Crane and Bartos quickly controlled the shooter.

Otto confirmed both Westons were dead.

Gaspar approached Jennifer Lane, who stared as if the scene remained paused at a point when Kent had shot both Westons twice in the head, shot and missed Natalie Chernow, and turned the gun on her.

“Ms. Lane,” Gaspar said, grasping her elbow. “Jennifer? It’s okay. Are you hurt?” She did not answer. Her face was pale. She was breathing rapidly. Pupils were dilated. The skin of her arm was cold and clammy to his touch.

“Come over here,” he said, but the accursed fire alarm continued and he had to shout to be heard. He holstered his weapon and tried to lead her away from the carnage, but her terror acted like adhesive on her soles. She would not move.

Gaspar yelled, “Jennifer! Jennifer!”

Finally, she turned her head to look at him, but she didn’t see him. He could tell. Grasping her arm again as gently as he could, he again tried to lead her away. But she wouldn’t budge.

She returned her stare toward the bloody mess that had been Samantha Weston.

Gaspar tried once more to get through to her. He shook her a little bit and yelled to be heard over the damned obnoxious buzzing of the fire alarm.

“Jennifer! Let’s go!” She didn’t move.

Then instantly the fire alarm stopped. Its absence was surreal, and the unnerving quiet acted like a switch to release Jenny from horrified rigidity. Before he could do more than slow her descent with his grip on her elbow, she fainted and collapsed into a pile on the shiny waxed floor.

In the eerie silence, Gaspar could hear Crane repeating the familiar words accompanying arrest, including full Miranda warnings. Bartos had collected Kent’s gun and was using his cell phone to call for backup.

Otto asked Kent, “Steven what were you thinking? Why did you do this?”

Kent said nothing, which Kent had the presence of mind to know was absolutely the best thing to do under the circumstances.

Agent Crane led Stephen Kent toward the exit.

16

On the instructions of one of the other agents, Kimball had been standing inside the recovery room blocking the door to prevent anyone from entering. She moved aside for Crane and Bartos to lead Kent away, then pulled the door closed behind them and approached Gaspar.

“Let’s get Jenny into the waiting room. We can talk there.”

Gaspar saw Otto making use of the small window of calm before the room crawled with crime scene personnel to capture evidence of the murders with her smart phone. She’d find him when she was finished.

For the first time, Gaspar noticed the citrus scent mingling with the metallic odor of blood and disinfectants.

When he looked again at Jenny Lane’s pale face, eyes closed, barely breathing in a heap on the polished floor, Gaspar realized why she’d seemed so familiar. She looked ghostly like the victim in a missing person’s case he’d assisted for the Tampa FBI detail with some follow up in Miami. The two could have been sisters, even. That victim had disappeared from her home and he’d never heard what happened to her. But her name wasn’t Jennifer Lane.

He shrugged. He’d seen look-a-likes before. But he felt better that he’d finally made the memory connection.

Kimball collected Jenny Lane’s things from the chair and helped him lift her from the floor. He couldn’t carry her. He could barely support his own weight. But with Kimball’s help, they were able to move Lane into the corridor.

Agent Bartos stood guard outside the recovery room to secure the crime scene until appropriate crews arrived. In the corridor, the business of a quiet hospital floor between surgeries was returning to normal as hospital security calmed patients and personnel. Soon, a different sort of chaos would ensue as the crime scene was processed.

Gaspar and Otto would escape before then.

17

The OR waiting room would no doubt become command central for the remainder of the night as the scene was processed. For now, the room was available. Gaspar and Kimball half carried, half walked Lane down the hallway.

Willa Carson stood by the door and allowed them to get Jenny settled inside. Ms. Chernow was there composing herself as well.

“Can I have a word with you?” Kimball asked Gaspar. He followed her to a quiet corner. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you? Your work is confidential, isn’t it?”

He didn’t confirm or deny, but her powers of observation hadn’t failed her.

“You and Otto should get out while it’s still possible. I’ll stay here with them and if we find out anything else, I can let you know.”

She was right. They needed to go. If Otto didn’t show up quickly, they’d be stuck here too long answering too many questions in direct contravention of their orders. The Boss wouldn’t like it. But more importantly, he might not be able to erase them from the crime scene once official reporting began.

“Why do you think he did it?” Gaspar asked.

“Why did Kent kill both Westons using the same technique the shooter used to kill Weston’s family?” Kimball replied. “Or why did Weston offer himself as a human sacrifice to kill Reacher?”

“Both, I guess.”

She shrugged. “Who knows?”

“What’s your best guess? That’s a place to start.”

“The first attack on Weston today was pretty straightforward. Weston was a cat with nine lives. Michael Vernon, the poor dead veteran who tried to kill him, had to be a guy Weston screwed over, like Agent Crane said.”

“Makes sense.”

“From there, though, it gets tangled. Like I told you, Jenny Lane said Samantha had filed for divorce and offered to testify against her husband to save as much as possible of her assets. Probably a ploy to keep herself out of jail, too.”

“Did Lane share any of that testimony with you?” Gaspar asked.

“Not yet. Tangle number two: Weston got a death sentence when he was diagnosed with advanced small cell lung cancer a few weeks ago.” Gaspar knew of the cancer, but let her talk. It was almost always a good idea to let people talk themselves out. “Untreatable. He was living on borrowed time. If he’d been conscious when they brought him in here this afternoon, he’d probably have refused those surgeries. It’s a miracle he survived them.”

“What’s your theory on Kent? Why the hell would he do it? Weston was loony enough to hire his own hit just in case Reacher failed to kill him.”

“Lung cancer is a nasty way to die,” Kimball pointed out. “Weston was a soldier. He would have preferred a quick bullet to the head.”

“And then he finds out his wife is about to betray him, so he orders up a two-for-one hit?”

Kimball nodded. “I got about that far down that rabbit hole, myself,” she said. “But then—”

“What self-respecting hit man would do his work, then just stand there and let himself be taken into custody?”

Kimball nodded. “Exactly. Not much of a business model. Unless that was part of the deal. Because that’s effectively what the first shooter did, too. He left the Weston house, but he was easy to find.”

“Or it could have been bad timing. Maybe Kent thought he’d have time to get away and we returned too soon,” Gaspar sighed. “Either way, it leaves us nowhere that makes any sense.”

“I wish that were true,” Kimball said, her mouth had pressed into a grim line. “Because now I’m thinking I dropped the ball.”

“How do you figure?”

“I should’ve remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“Weston’s first wife. Meredith Kent Weston. She was Steven Kent’s sister.”

So it could have gone either way. Vengeance or contract. Gaspar had stopped trying to find logic in criminal behavior long ago. Life wasn’t like fiction. Most of the time, he never learned why. Not that it mattered, really. Weston and his wife were just as dead either way.

18

Tampa International Airport had to be one of the easiest airports in the country. Returning the sedan was quick and simple. Security lines were short. For once, they were at the gate without having to run.

Gaspar figured none of this was good news to Otto. She hated flying. The process went better when she didn’t have time to change her mind about boarding.

The seats in the gate area were standard black and silver sling seats. Knockoffs of a contemporary design that most normal people had never heard of. All filled with tourists and kids and wrinklies headed in or out of the Sunshine state to avoid winter weather or celebrate Thanksgiving.

Otto seemed unusually preoccupied, even for her. She had her laptop open, her smart phone at her ear. She’d checked in with the Boss. Working. Always working.

She was number one. He was number two. He was only mildly surprised to realize now that he liked it that way.

Gaspar stretched out, folded his hands over his flat stomach, and closed his eyes. He had about thirty minutes to doze. A rare gift.

Otto pushed his arm to wake him up from sweet oblivion ten minutes later.

“What?” he said, not opening his eyes.

“Kimball sent me a file. Take a look,” she said.

He glanced over to her laptop screen. Two photos. Each of a brown envelope. One larger than the other.

The larger was hand addressed in block printing to Samantha Weston, c/o Jennifer Lane, Esq. The postmark was Washington, D.C. ten days ago. No return address. Apparently, the large envelope had contained the smaller one.

The smaller envelope looked a little worse for age and wear. Dirty smudges around the edges of a square about the size of a deck of playing cards suggested its contents. Black letters that looked like printing on a police report were placed across the flap to show they were written after the envelope was sealed.