The Florentine Deception (30 page)

“I'm so glad you're still alive,” I said, near tears.

“So am I,” he grunted. “Now just do me a favor and get me to a hospital.”

“Give me your phone.” I waded slowly over toward Steven's voice until I bumped into his foot and he screamed.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Shit it hurts. The bone's sticking out.”

“Jesus. Give me your phone.”

“Here,” he said a moment later. I cautiously waved my arm through the air until it bumped into his outstretched hand.

“Got it?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I tightened my fingers around the handset. “Give me a second. I'll try it on top of the boulder. If I can't get a signal, I'll head down to the canyon, to the visitor's center.” I thought back to Linda.
Will she last that long?

“Don't worry,” he called out, “I'm not going anywhere.”

I pocketed the phone and then climbed atop the VW Bug boulder, stopping once I'd found a safe place to make the call. Disregarding the phone's weak signal indicator, I punched in 911.

After about ten seconds of silence, the phone flashed a “No signal” message and issued a beep. It was a long shot—this far back, the canyon had notoriously bad reception. I pushed the talk button again, with the same result. I pocketed the phone again and worked my way back atop the closer of the two huge boulders.

Again, I tapped the three digits in and hit the talk button. A few seconds later, I heard a garbled ring from the handset.

“Got it,” I yelled. The line rang once more and picked up. “911 Emergency. Please—” the signal cut out, “—nature of the emergency.”

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

“Yes sir. Please state the nature—” The phone cut to static again.

“I've got two injured people a little more than one mile beyond the rock pool in the canyon at Malibu Creek State Park.”

“Excuse me? You broke up. You're where?”

“In the canyon beyond the rock pool in Malibu Creek State Park. We're about one mile up the canyon from the rock pool area.”

“Let me confirm. You've got two injured hikers one mile up the,” the voice descended into digitized fuzz, “ool in Malibu Creek State—”

“Correct, one mile up the canyon from the rock pool area,” I repeated. “One person with a serious gunshot wound, the other with a broken leg, maybe other injuries. I can't tell.”

“A gunshot wound?”

“Yes. A woman's been shot in the chest and leg. Two injured people, one critical.”

“Okay, I'm going to dispatch Search and Rescue now. Make sure to stay where the helicopter can see you. Do not try to mov—” she cut out, “—injured.”

“Hold tight, Steven.” I worked my way back down and around to the base of the two boulders. “They're coming. Just hold it together.”

“Okay.”

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“I was looking around up here when I saw Khalimmy and this other guy,” he sucked air through his teeth in pain, “so I backed up to hide and tripped.” He paused. “I'm so glad you guys are okay. Where are Linda and Potter?”

“Potter is dead,” I stammered, trying but failing to suppress tears. “Linda was shot in the chest. I don't know … I can't tell how bad it is.”

“Oh shit.”

We sat in silence for a minute, Steven waiting for me to calm myself.

“All right,” I said, wiping my eyes, “I'm going to go up top to wait for the helicopter. Just hold it together for another twenty or thirty minutes. And pray.”

My ears registered the powerful
thwapping
of the rotors nearly half a minute before the rescue helicopter rounded the bend and came into view. I waved my arms frantically from atop the boulder until the chopper, now one hundred yards away, slowed in recognition. After a moment of hesitation, the machine inched forward, hovering directly above us, the wash from its powerful rotors overpowering in the narrow canyon. Instinctively, I sat down, plugged my ears, and squinted to avoid the vortex of dusty air.

A Search and Rescue ranger descended via a winched steel cable, landing about a dozen steps away on top of the adjacent boulder. The ranger detached the cable from his harness and gave a hand signal to the winch operator above; immediately the cable began to rise. The man worked his way onto my boulder and stepped up to my ear.

“Where are the injured?” he yelled.

“There's a gunshot victim inside that cave,” I responded, pointing at the narrow crevasse in the rock. “I think she's lost a lot of blood. And the man with the broken leg is down there.” I pointed between the two boulders.

“Got it,” he said. Then, into his walkie-talkie, he yelled, “I've got two injured, one critically inside a cave. Ask Lee to come down with the second med-kit and tell him to bring ten units of blood.” He hesitated, holding his hand over his earpiece. “Well then send whatever we've got. And then request another chopper, stat—we're going to need backup.”

Chapter 50

“Any news on Linda Reynaud?” I asked, still sniffling.

“Reynaud? R-E-Y?”

I nodded.

“One second, I'll check.” The diminutive Filipina nurse keyed Linda's name into her terminal. A few clicks later, she said, “Nothing yet, she's still in surgery.”

“She's been in there for hours. Can't you find out her status?” I asked.

“Not until the surgery is done. Will you be in the waiting room?”

“Yes.”

“I'll come get you the moment they take her to the ICU for recovery.”

I nodded, then walked back to the sitting area. My bench had been taken by a man in his early thirties and his five-year-old. I crumpled onto the lone empty seat across from them and closed my eyes. After two hours of interrogation by the police, an hour in the ER getting sutures, a violent confrontation with Hillary that resulted in me being bodily shoved from Steven's hospital room, and nearly forty hours without sleep, I was emotionally drained and running on fumes.

“What's that one with the spines on its back?”

“Huh?” I asked, opening my eyes.

The man sitting across from me pointed at a page in the thin picture book.

“Mmmmmm.” The boy shifted on his father's lap as he noodled over the image.

“Starts with an S,” hinted the father.

“Stoopidosaur?” The kid giggled infectiously. I sighed. Potter would never experience the joy of fatherhood, of dinosaurs, of father-son outings. And what about Linda? I shivered.

“Steg …” the dad hinted.

“Stegosaurus!” screamed the kid.

“Correct!” He flipped the page. “And that one?”

The kid giggled. “Tyrannosaurus Rex!
Rawr!
”

Click
. All of a sudden, something went off in my head. I couldn't quite place it, but my subconscious had sent a signal-flare up. Tyrannosaurus Rex? It made no sense but I took a mental note anyway.

“Spot-on,” said the father. “And this one?” He flipped the page.

“Tri. Ser. Ahh. Tops!” screamed the kid.

“Right again!”

The boy jumped to the floor, placed his hands on his hips, and asked, “When are we going to see Mommy?”

“In just a little bit, Tyler. The doctors are working with her now to bring you a new baby sister.”

“Excuse me.”

“I'm sorry?” I gazed up. It was the nurse. “Is she okay?”

“I don't know her status, but you can visit her now. They've taken her to Recovery Room 5 in the ICU.” She pointed down the hall.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

She nodded once, wordlessly, then headed back to her station.

Linda lay unconscious in a railed hospital bed in the narrow ICU bay. A menacing chest tube poked from beneath her gown and led down to a plastic bag, its interior tinged with fresh blood. An IV drip connected her wrist to three hanging bags of fluid, and a pair of oxygen tubes fed into her nostrils. Her chest rose and fell weakly as the heart monitor droned on. She looked bad.

I stepped from the bay and scanned the hallway for someone who could tell me more. No one. I walked over to the ICU desk.

“Excuse me,” I said.

The attendant, a fortyish man in blue scrubs, glanced up from his paperwork. Dark bags sagged from beneath tired eyes.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“I'm Linda Reynaud's f–” I hesitated, “fiancé. Can you tell me how she's doing? Will she be okay?”

“They just wheeled her into bay five. She's in critical condition. If you'd like to talk to the attending physician, I can page him.”

“I'd appreciate it,” I said.

The man nodded and returned to his paperwork. After ten seconds, he looked up, an impatient expression on his weary face.

“Why don't you go back and keep her company? I'll page him in a minute.”

I dragged the plastic chair from the corner of the alcove to Linda's bedside and sat down.

“Well, Linda, I'm crossing my fingers and praying for you. As you know, I don't believe in God, but I'm praying just in case. I don't know what else I can do.”

Her body shifted slightly.

“I'm so sorry I dragged you into this. I just … I just don't know what to do. How to end it.”

I leaned forward and rested my face on my palms, exhausted.

“God, I hope you make it. I don't know how I'm ever going to cope with Potter's death, but if I lost you too …”

I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my blue loaner scrub shirt, then laid my hands on the bed's railing.

“Assuming you do make it through,” I continued, “and assuming I do, I've got some things I want to tell you. Things I've never had the guts to say that I should have said a long time ago. So, if some part of your brain can hear me right now, now you've got something to look forward to.” I paused. “Or not.” I laughed cynically. “Either way, I just hope you make it.”

“Hello.”

Startled, I looked up.

“You must be Ms. Reynaud's fiancé?”

“Yes. I'm Alex,” I said, standing up and extending my hand.

“Hi Alex, I'm Doctor Weinstein.” He shook my hand.

“Will Linda be okay?” I asked nervously.

He stared impassively at me. “‘I'm hopeful, but it's touch-and-go at this point. The bullet collapsed her lung and caused a large amount of internal bleeding. She's lucky the EMTs got to her when they did.” He pointed to her chest tube. “We drained her chest cavity to help the lung reinflate, but it's going to take time.”

“Could you give me odds?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “It's just too early, but we're doing everything we can.”

I nodded somberly. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. We'll have a better idea tomorrow. Why don't you try to get some sleep and come in first thing in the morning. There's nothing more you can do right now.”

I nodded again. “Do you have the time?”

“Yeah,” he glanced down at his watch, “it's ten 'til nine.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

I wanted to see how Steven was doing before visiting hours ended, even if it meant another confrontation with Hillary, so I steeled myself and headed for the elevator. When I reached the fourth floor, I walked down a long hall, past a nurses' station and into a wing of patient rooms. Steven's was 401, the first door on the right. I knocked softly.

“Come in,” said Hillary.

“Hi guys.”

Hillary eyed me malevolently.

“I shouldn't let you in here,” she said, fuming. “How could you just go off on your own without telling anyone? You … you almost got my husband killed today,” she spat. “And your friends, Alex. One is dead, and Linda … it's all on your head. All your fault.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled, tried to maintain my composure, but the tears began streaming uncontrollably down my face.

“Can I have some water?” asked Steven, groggily.

“Here you go, honey.” Hillary inserted the straw into his mouth, then returned her gaze to my face and shook her head furiously. “So, Alex, is this obsession finally over? How many more people will have to die before you give up this madness?”

I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose. “I'm not sure I have any control at—”

“Of course you do!” she interrupted. “You've always had total control over this wild-goose chase.” A tear streaked down her cheek. “And look where it's gotten us.”

“I'm sorry, Hillary, but—”

“Don't apologize to me. Go apologize to the families of your friends.”

“I'm not apologizing,” I countered.

She lifted her finger to make a point.

“Wait!” I said. “I'm not apologizing, because I'm not the one doing the killing. And Hillary, whether you like it or not, Khalimmy is still out there. And he still doesn't have the Florentine, and he wants it, Hillary. He wants it bad. Bad enough to murder Potter, and Linda, and me. And if I can't give him what he wants, where do you think he's going to look next? Oh, and by the way,” I blurted, “there's another guy after the Florentine as well. He likes to remove fingers to get what he wants. So unless we all want to pack up and go into permanent hiding, this problem isn't going away. So for God's sake, enough with the blaming. At this point I need your help. Help me. Help
us
.”

Hillary brooded taciturnly; Steven shifted his gaze between us, flustered by the silence, but didn't say a word. She wiped away a tear.

“Well, if,” she sniffled, “if they're not going to leave us alone until they get it, what can we do?”

“I don't know,” I said. “We were hoping to find the Florentine Controller in the cave and give it to the FBI or to the media. We hoped once it was out in the open they'd all go away. That's why we went to the cave last night.”

“But it wasn't in the cave,” confirmed Hillary, blowing her nose.