Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (48 page)

A great white shark had materialized inside the glass box. Suspended within a thousand gallons of cold salt water.

The audience went ecstatic – many standing to cheer and clap and holler their appreciation at the breath-taking feat.

The air was electric.

Onstage, the world-famous magician was fisting the air. Reveling in his own egocentric glory.

The crowd was going wild.

The killer known as
The Undertaker
realized he was clapping. Stopped.

As the opening chords to the 1980’s rock anthem ‘
The Final Countdown’
started blasting out across the theater, he got to his feet and left.

135

^{___________________________}

Rochelle and the darkness were gone. In her place stood an angel. Framed in brilliance. Her features veiled by blinding light. She was stroking my cheek. Speaking a foreign tongue. I tried to move. To reach up and touch her radiance. But was frozen. Encased within the essence of her magnificent aura. She touched my forehead and everything faded to black.

I had no idea how much time had passed since Rochelle’s boot had floored me cold. I couldn’t remember dreaming. When I cracked open sticky eyes everything was blurry. Stayed that way for a few seconds until the world swam back into focus.

I was no longer lying prone and vulnerable in Rochelle’s backyard. I was in a hospital bed. Starched linens. A claustrophobic cubicle with the plain green curtain drawn all the way around. An Emergency Room somewhere. I could hear movement beyond. People talking. Lay back and moaned; I told you: I have a healthy aversion to hospitals. The realization was softened only by something I hoped wasn’t morphine, but was glad that it might be.

The blurriness returned and I succumbed to sleep.

When I came to a second time, there was a woman leaning over me. Outlined against a soft bluish light. Her hair scraped back into a pony tail. Little dream-catcher earrings swinging pendulously in unison.

‘Sonny?’

It was someone else’s voice. An old guy’s. Crackly and wheezy.

‘Gabe.’ She said.

Everything was slightly out of phase. Colors filtered. Like I’d woken up in a Martin Scorsese movie.

‘You had me worried for a moment.’ She said. ‘What were you doing out there? It’s the middle of the night.’

It took a second to make the connection.

‘Taking care of business.’ I said.

‘Don’t you believe in back-up?’

Sonny sounded concerned. I couldn’t feel it, but I knew my face was all busted up. I must have looked a mess.

‘Where is this?’

‘Boulder City Hospital. They brought you in about two hours ago. I’ve been here the last hour or so. You’re lucky the cab driver came looking for you – because you could be in the morgue right now.’

‘I’ll be okay.’ I said.

I could see she didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe me.

Sonny snapped her fingers. ‘Stay with me,’ she said. ‘You keep fading out.’

‘Woozy.’

‘I’m not surprised. They shot you full of analgesics. They thought you’d cracked some ribs, but they’re just badly bruised. You’ve taken a real good hammering to the head, though. Be concussed for some time.’ She leaned closer. ‘Gabe, did you see who attacked you? Was it him? Was it The Undertaker?’

‘No.’ It was a half-truth. But it was also a half-lie. And it didn’t sit well with me lying to Sonny.

‘Did Rochelle Lewis do this to you?’

The thought was interesting. I might have smiled if my face hadn’t been so tied up doing an impression of a pumpkin. ‘Maybe the broken nose.’ I said. ‘I don’t remember after that.’

Sonny nodded. Leaned back. ‘We have her in custody: Rochelle. I’m charging her with assaulting a police officer. Anything else you want to add?’

Harboring a fugitive?

‘No,’ I said. ‘That should do it.’

‘What were you doing out there?’

It was just Sonny and me in the room. A Deputy standing guard on the other side of the wraparound curtain. Out of earshot.

‘Rochelle’s connected to a cold case.’ I said. ‘She used to live in LA. I’d heard she’d relocated here. Thought I’d catch up with her. See if she had any new information.’

Sonny still looked circumspect.

‘You should have called me. I would have come with you.’

‘I didn’t want to put you out.’

‘Too late for that now.’ She said.

A nurse came in and gave me a tetanus jab.

136

^{___________________________}

I looked at the busted-up face in the bathroom mirror and wondered what the hell I’d been thinking. Or maybe I hadn’t been thinking. There was antiseptic salve all over my face: cold and sticky. Busted lips. Blackened eyes. Everything was swollen. There were new stitches in my right eyebrow and in the wound inflicted by Father Dan’s killer. Looked like I’d just done five rounds with Mike Tyson.

I rode back to Vegas with Sonny in her family SUV. I had another bottle of pills to add to my collection. Instructions to basically sit still and do nothing for the next twenty-four hours. Unlikely.

Sonny was upset. Damn it. Not visibly, emotionally, teary upset like Peter McNamara. But she was upset all the same. I’d been around women long enough to sense it. She was upset with the thought I’d been an inch from death. Under her watch. In a situation of my own doing. One she could have prevented. Her hands were wrapped around the steering wheel like a child riding a rollercoaster for the first time.

I had to say something. Anything. It wasn’t her fault.

‘You know, you’re right, Sonny,’ I began a little tentatively, ‘it was a stupid move. I could have gotten myself killed.’

Her eyes stayed on the road. ‘Next time, call.’

‘Hopefully there won’t be a next time.’

It was a lie. I had no intention of not pursuing Rochelle’s part-time boyfriend to the bitter end. Even if that end was mine.

‘I’m sorry for dragging you away from your family like this.’

This time the truth. Something to mask the previous untruth.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ She said. ‘I have understanding neighbors. They’re retired. They never seem to sleep much anyway. They love the kids and they’re happy to watch them at short notice. But I don’t take advantage of it.’

We drove through darkened desert. Watched over by a million glinting lights. I touched a hand to an aching cheek and winced. I could see an unearthly glow to the northwest where Vegas blazed. Occluding stars.

‘What were you hoping to get from the Lewis woman?’ Sonny asked.

‘I don’t know.’

I thought about it. What had I hoped for? A lead? Some indication of a killer’s whereabouts? Certainly not a good pummeling.
At some point I would have to talk with Rochelle. Preferably in an interrogation room. Under pressure. Force her to confess everything she knew about Travis Kimball.

I kept quiet for a few minutes. I was angry with myself. I could feel it bubbling away inside.

‘Sonny, chasing The Maestro has become an unhealthy obsession of mine,’ I confessed all of a sudden. Surprising even me. I tried to catch the words as they escaped my mouth, but the busted-up lips had other ideas.

She glanced over, ‘The Maestro?’

I hadn’t even mentioned his name to Eleanor in ten months. Why was I confiding in a woman I’d known for less than a day? Maybe because she didn’t know me like Eleanor. Didn’t know my history. Wouldn’t be so damned judgmental.

‘It’s the last case I worked before The Undertaker.’ I explained. ‘He murdered eleven children that we know of. I couldn’t catch him, Sonny. No matter what I did he was always one step ahead.’

‘That’s who attacked you. The Maestro?’

I didn’t have to say anything; Sonny knew the answer.

We drove on. Heading for the glowing jewel in the middle of the desert night.

‘The cab driver mentioned a truck racing away from the Lewis residence.’ Sonny said. ‘Maybe Alabama plates. He could still be in the State.’

‘Leave it, Sonny. Please.’

‘We already have the National Guard roadblocks in place.’

‘Sonny …’

Another glance, ‘What?’

 
‘It’s my fight. It’s personal. I want to keep it that way.’

I could see she didn’t fully understand my motives. She wasn’t alone.

My cell phone rang. I looked at the illuminated screen. Several missed calls. Including the incoming one – all from Jamie.

‘Jamie, you should be fast asleep at this hour.’

‘I tried calling umpteen times already.’ Jamie sounded sleepy but excited. ‘I have good news.’

‘You got an address for the survivor?’

‘Something better than that. I have his name, Gabe. I have The Undertaker’s name.’

137

^{___________________________}

No such thing as coincidence, remember?

Only one name had turned up on both the Ramada guest list and the rose buyer’s list. And it was
bouncing around in my head like a firecracker:

Ethan Davey Copes.

‘You sure, Jamie?’

‘Absolutely.’ She said. ‘No other name pairing comes remotely close. Ethan Davey Copes is the only one that appears on both lists.’

It felt strangely familiar – like a name from my past. Prodding at the distant edges of my memory:
Hey, remember me?

John Wilkes Booth, James Earl Ray, John Wayne Gacy, Lee Harvey Oswald…
Ethan Davey Copes
.