Night Terrors (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Based on the symptoms Alcott described on the phone, it was clear that Claire Cobb was having a panic attack.

And based on what I was hearing on the all-news radio station as I drove across town, I wasn't surprised.

Since the story had leaked about the shooter targeting those he held responsible for John Jessup's death, there'd been ongoing media speculation about who might be on the hitlist. From sober analysis on mainstream interview shows to reckless guesswork on various Internet sites and blogs, the crimes had become fodder for the nation's pundits.

Once the link had been made between the murders of Earl Cranshaw, the guard who'd killed Jessup in prison, and Ralph Loftus, the judge who'd put him there, it had been easy to see the failed attempt on Claire Cobb in the same context. She'd been his prosecutor.

Which then made it likely that Dave Parnelli, who'd unsuccessfully defended Jessup, was also on the list of potential victims. As well as the cops who'd arrested him, and the jury that had convicted him. Moreover, while the FBI only had the jury foreman under its protection, some commentators feared the entire jury might be at risk.

In the past two days, whenever I happened to check in on the news coverage, it seemed the theories about the killer's list were growing more provocative. And personal. One Cleveland print reporter who'd covered Jessup's trial—and was among the very few who'd done so—wrote in her blog about buying a gun, in case the killer might bear some grudge against her as well. Even the courthouse's veteran bailiff had expressed concerns about his safety in a paid interview he granted to the
National Enquirer
.

I found myself recalling these stories as I drove in a gathering dusk toward Wilkinsburg. While these and dozens of others were either trivial, exploitative, or merely ludicrous, they were just part of the fog of reportage in the age of the endless news cycle. The usual chatter that nowadays bedeviled the serious investigation of a case, or the issues it raised.
Vox populi
turned to white noise.

Until two hours ago, when a popular—though anonymous —“true crime” blogger opined that, if
he
were the unknown shooter, he'd want another crack at ADA Claire Cobb. That anyone who's ever worked from a list knew you couldn't move down to the next item until you'd crossed out the one above. “Anything else,” he cheerfully wrote, “is just plain sloppy.”

Predictably, the incendiary post went viral. And was soon picked up by the mainstream media, who decried its jocular tone even as they quoted from it. Endlessly.

After making the turn onto Penn Avenue, cobblestones slick with a crust of ice, I tried to imagine Claire's reaction. Maybe she'd seen it online herself, or watched a local news report on the motel's TV. Maybe she'd overheard one of her FBI handlers talking about it.

It didn't matter. Given her mounting fears and her legitimate concerns about the bureau's ability to protect her, the cruel story was bound to trigger a convulsive, overwhelming panic.

New snow flurried and wheeled in the dying sunlight as I merged into slowing traffic. This was the gray, defeated, disavowed part of Wilkinsburg, an area passed over in Pittsburgh's rush to gentrify its older neighborhoods. On either side of me, angry, desperate men lounged before empty storefronts, or in the doorways of run-down rooming houses. Smoking, arguing, killing time.

Ahead of me, the once proud Penn Lincoln Hotel, long gone to seed and now marked for demoliton. Beyond its faded façade, garish billboards blocked the waning sun. Narrow alleys snaked between somber, chipped-brick buildings.
Boarded windows lined the upper floors. Neon signs flickered above corner bars, mini marts, pool halls, and single-storied motels.

Claire Cobb was in one of the latter, though it took a full ten minutes for traffic to move enough for me to locate it. The Majestic was on a side street, just past a mom-and-pop store on the southwest corner.

There were maybe a half-dozen cars in the lot fronting the low-roofed motel, its rough stone and aluminum siding showing the result of many years' exposure to Pittsburgh's muscular weather. The word “Majestic,” written in a carved-wood cursive, was backed by a metal trellis that rose above the entrance. Pillows of snow ringed the building's walls and splayed in strands across the cracked asphalt.

I'd just parked and locked the rental when Agent Green came out of the frosted double doors to meet me. For some reason, he felt the need to elaborately shake my hand. Perhaps the director's admonishment about me to Neal Alcott had made its way down the chain of command.

“Glad you're here, Doc,” the younger man said, before hustling us both back inside, out of the cold.

***

I was taking Claire Cobb's pulse.

“Okay, Claire. Just keep breathing. Deep breaths.”

We sat next to each other on the motel room's sagging bed, my fingers on her wrist. I raised the forefinger of my other hand before her moist, blinking eyes.

“Now just follow my finger, without moving your head.”

She did, as I traced a horizontal path in the air, to the left and then the right.

As both her breathing and pulse rate slowed, the color rose in her cheeks. Along with an embarrassed grimace.

“I've had panic attacks before, Doctor Rinaldi. You'd think I'd be used to them.”

“Nobody ever gets used to them. Were you prescribed medication to help?”

She nodded. “Xanax. Ran out yesterday. I've been taking them on spec.”

Claire took another deep, cleansing breath, at the same time shifting her bulky shoulder sling. The bandages had already started to fray, lose their adhesion.

I sat back, then glanced over at Agents Alcott and Green, who stood in almost identical poses at the shuttered window. Hands behind their backs, feet planted apart on the threadbare carpet. Their discomfort palpable.

In contrast, sitting forward anxiously on a nearby chair, was Gloria Reese, the agent personally assigned to Claire. Hands clasped on her lap, she looked over at her charge with what seemed like genuine concern.

Finally, Alcott spoke up. Nodding at Claire.

“Is she okay now, Doc?”

Claire answered him. “
She's
fine, thanks. Good to go.”

Unamused, he kept his gaze on me. “Can you stay with her for a few minutes? We have to go arrange transport.”

I peered at Claire. “You're moving again?”

“After that online post about me? Damn right I want to move. Out of the city.”

Alcott took a few steps toward the bed, oversized fists clenching at his sides.

“Jesus, I'd like to get my hands on the prick who wrote that thing. Practically daring the shooter to try and finish what he started with Ms. Cobb.”

“Fuckin' Internet.” Agent Green's informed assessment of the situation. After which he turned and carefully peeked out between the shutters to the street beyond.

I suppressed a small gasp as I got to my feet and faced Alcott. Still favoring my sore neck.

“You okay, Rinaldi?”

“I'll live. Listen, even
you
can't blame Claire for wanting to change locations again. Where to?”

“Sewickley. Outside the city limits, but close enough to maintain control of the situation. A night in a B&B we booked there, then transport to the Ohio safe house where we have the jury foreman and the two Cleveland cops.”

Claire shivered noticeably. “Good plan. This way, all four of us will be conveniently located in one place. Makes things easier for the killer when he finds us.”

“He
won't
, Ms. Cobb.”

With a weary sigh, he took out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. The persistent cold had made his eyes look strangely old. Red-veined, fatigued.

“Hell, the location of the safe house is a secret even to most field agents. Strictly need-to-know basis.”

She looked unconvinced, but said nothing. Merely let her head fall, eyes on the scuffed carpet.

I bent and took her pulse again. Elevated, but not bad. Appropriate to the situation, I figured.

Meanwhile, Alcott had stepped purposely to the door, motioning for the other two agents to follow.

“Back in five, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode out into the deepening darkness, Green and Reese at his heels.

“Really inspires confidence, that guy,” Claire said, with feigned humor. Her skin had begun to pale again.

Though her outward symptoms had subsided, I knew she was barely keeping it together.

“Looks like they've got a good plan.” Wishing I sounded more convinced. “Besides, you're probably tougher than you think. Your opposing counsel in the Jessup trial, Dave Parnelli, called you a cruise missile. And he doesn't exactly pour on the compliments, if you know what I mean.”

Her expression changed. Grew pensive.

“Tough? I don't feel so tough now. I've never been through something like this. All of a sudden, it's like the real world has broken through. Invaded my controlled little life.”

“But you've dealt with crime—and criminals—your whole career.”

She shook her head. “It's not like a court room. It's not the brutal civility of people in power suits, arguing before a jury. It's mad men with guns leaning out of a car, aiming for your head.”

Her gaze went to the shuttered window. What I suspect she imagined might be right outside, beyond its thin glass.

“I'm ashamed to say it.” Her voice dropping. “But I'm afraid. Really afraid.”

I resumed my seat next to her on the bed. Kept my own voice measured, matter-of-fact.

“No need to be ashamed, Claire. I'm afraid myself a lot of the time. It's a scary world.”

“You don't seem that scared to me. Jesus, what kinda guy bullshits a damsel in distress?”

“No bullshit. Truth is, I think fear's gotten a bad rap. Years ago, right after grad school, I did a little mountain climbing out west. The Tetons. I was with a friend of mine, an experienced mountain guide. First time out, I almost couldn't do it. I had to admit to him that I was afraid. Know what he said? He said he wouldn't climb with anyone who wasn't.”

“And that helped?”

“Yes, because he was right. Fear gives us the edge we need to stay alert, to recognize what's coming. It helps focus our attention. It's only a problem when it paralyzes us. Makes us feel impotent to act.”

“Well, I'm there, Doc. Paralyzed and impotent. Sounds like a bad law firm.”

She sighed. “But I guess you're right about fear. I remember when I did my first three-way. With some guy and his skinny girlfriend. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big woman. I was afraid I'd roll over in the heat of the moment and squash the poor thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“True story.”

“No doubt.”

She summoned a wan smile. “C'mon, I figured we could use a little levity right about now.”

“Good coping skill.”

“Maybe. Unless it's just empty bravado. Like whistling in the graveyard. ‘Cause I'm still scared shitless.”

I took her hand, squeezed it hard.

“You're gonna come through this, Claire. At least if
I
have anything to do with it.”

“Talk about empty bravado. Christ, now you sound like Agent Alcott.”

“Well, if you're gonna start insulting me…”

But her smile had long since faded. She turned and stared once more at the somber, shuttered window.

***

Ten minutes later, Claire Cobb and I were sitting together in the back seat of an SUV with tinted windows.

Our driver, alone in the front seat, was Agent Green.

We'd just pulled out of the motel parking lot, right behind Alcott and Reese in a nondescript sedan. Given the knot of traffic and the increasingly dense snowfall, soon their blurred rear lights were all that was visible through the driver's windshield. Then they too seemed to vanish into the milk-white sheeting of the storm.

“Weather's gettin' worse.” Agent Green hunched forward, steering with one hand, using the other to palm away a coating of fog from the windshield. “Bad break.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Claire murmured.

I spoke up quickly. “How far to the B&B?”

“Figurin' traffic and this new storm, I don't see us reachin' Sewickley in less than an hour.”

As if to emphasize his point, Green slammed on the brakes, nearly rearending the hatchback that had slid into line in front of us.

“Asshole never hear o' runnin' a yellow light? Damn!”

Green pounded the wheel with his fist, then let out a long exhalation.

Claire gave me a wry smile. “Gonna be a
long
goddam hour…”

But she was wrong.

I felt the other car pull up alongside us almost before I saw it. A dark-hued panel truck, the driver peering right in at us through his opened window.

Opened
window. In this weather—

It was
him
. The coat, ski mask, and gloves.

The gun.

“Go!” I shouted at Green. “Get moving—!”

“What? We're jammed in. I can't—”

I turned and threw my arms around Claire, pushing us both down hard. Just below the shooter's line of sight.

The first shot blew out the front passenger side window. Loud as a thunderclap. Glass shattering, spraying.

Claire's screams echoed the lingering sound of the gunshot. Then rose louder, choked, gasping.

Agent Green shoved the car into park, his other hand reaching into his jacket. He didn't make it.

Another shot boomed, more glass flew. And a scarlet streak edged the side of his skull. He cried out.

Keeping Claire's head down beneath the seat, I tried to raise myself up enough to see how badly Green had been hit. He slumped forward on the wheel, unmoving.