Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (24 page)

Frank caught movement out of the corner of his eye and
turned in a crouch with his .38 in firing position. Two hulking figures loamed
from the darkness. Frank relaxed. The uniforms had been concealed behind the
car across the street and had observed the whole event. A second patrol car
slipped quietly to a stop and two more uniforms got out. All four officers had
their batons out and ready for action.

Frank stood and put his revolver away.

"Put one in each car, then clear the residents out of
the townhouses on either side of this one," Frank ordered. The officers
immediately went to work. Frank caught the arm of one of the men helping to
secure Sheera. "When you get back to your car, call in for a tow
truck." He jerked a thumb at the car Gus and Marsha had driven to the
scene. "Don't let them haul it until the CSI team has gone over it."

"I'm going in with you," Sheridan volunteered when
Frank walked over to where she was standing.

Frank shook his head no. "I need you here. Someone
needs to explain the situation to the EMs and keep control of the residents
we're evacuating. Also, if I screw up, I want someone to survive who knows
what's been going down."

Sheridan started to argue, but clamped her mouth shut,
swallowing her 'Sumbitch' personality in the face of a superior officer who was
talking nothing other than logic. She nodded.

"Go get a set of walkie-talkies from one of the squad
cars," Frank instructed.

He watched her walk away. She's a good cop, he thought. He
turned and gazed up at the upper floor of the townhouse, willing himself to not
rush in and start relieving Gerry from her agony. He took a deep breath to calm
himself. Voices from those being escorted from their homes, and the action of
the officers marking off the area with cars and yellow tape drew his attention
away from the building. After what seemed like eternity, a uniform approached.

"All secure, Loo."

Frank nodded and glanced toward Sheridan. She was hurrying
back with the walkie-talkies. They tested the communication and Frank headed
for the front door.

He moved at a controlled pace, scanning for trip wires or
any other attempt at a fail-safe to prevent him from reaching Gerry. He stopped
outside the bedroom door and listened. He could hear muffled moaning. He eased
the door open. No trip wires. The smell of human sweat, feces and vomit nearly
overwhelmed him. When he saw Gerry slumped in the chair, spittle hanging down
from her chin, her naked body glistening in a dim light coming from a reading
lamp by the bed, his heart jumped into his throat. He wanted to rush to her,
comfort her, tell her she was safe and going to be all right, but he had a job
to do first.

He flipped the switch on the wall, hoping for more light. As
he expected, nothing happened. He took a deep breath and eased toward the
chair. Gerry sensed his presence. Her head rotated in slow motion in his
direction. Her eyes were lined with red and drooping bags made her look like
something from a bad horror movie. When she recognized him, she showed fright
and began shaking her head.

"Noooo.. .Bomb.. .Go back..."

If he hadn't expected what she was going to say, he would
never have understood her words. He put his hands to his lips and crouched by
the chair. He wanted to touch her, comfort her, but there was no time. He
dropped to his belly on the floor and keyed the walkie-talkie. "I've got
her. She's alive, but barely. There's a bomb. I'm going for it now."

He didn't wait for a response, laying the radio aside and
peering at the mechanism under the chair. He'd seen this type of rigging
before. A small red light was blinking at him. He knew if he messed up, he
would see the light stop blinking for a nanosecond before he and Gerry went up
in fragments. If he were successful, the light would go out. He fetched his
utility knife from his pocket and opened a slender blade. It would do no good
to sever the wires between the box holding the explosives and the outside
wires. He needed to break the connection inside the box.

Step one, get access to the box. An acetylene torch would be
nice. His hand shook as he pushed the slender knife blade to a seam at the left
end of the box. How much wiggle room did he have to get the blade in? He grabbed
his right hand with his left and inserted the blade a millimeter, wresting his
hands back and forth. It was too tight. He slumped, took a deep breath and
tried again. This time the blade slid into the seam. He felt it touch the top
of the box. He held it there with one hand and reached the radio.

"I'm ready to give it a go. If you don't hear a big
boom in the next sixty seconds, we're home free."

A groan from Gerry was his only response.

He laid the radio down, fixed his gaze on the blinking light
and forced the knife toward the other side of the box. When he felt resistance,
he took a deep breath, held it and forced the blade.

The light went out.

He kept forcing the knife across the slit.

No back up wire.

He left the knife in the seam and rolled away from the
chair. His heart and head pounded. The adrenalin rush made him tremble, unable
to control his limbs. He forced himself onto his knees and bolted for the bed.
Often during major stress, Frank had strange but lucid thoughts. He saw the
mash of tiny magnets sitting on the night stand. I owe Shawn Worley big time
for this one.

He grabbed the comforter off the bed and turned back to
Gerry. Only then did he realize he needed his knife. He dropped back to the
floor and pulled the instrument from the disarmed booby-trap. He sliced through
the bonds holding Gerry to the chair, her feet first, then her hands. Gerry
tumbled to the floor. He wrapped the quilt around her and scrambled for the
radio.

"Sheridan. I need you up here right now." Before
he finished transmitting, he heard her high heels on the steps.

Frank could hardly look at Gerry as he sat in the ambulance
holding her hand while they raced toward the Medical Center. A taciturn
paramedic monitored her heartbeat, blood pressure, and breathing, twirling
dials and adjusting the IV. He had administered amyl nitrate and called the
hospital for decisions about strychnine and atropine, accepting the advice to
stick with amyl nitrate and transport ASAP. They would pass ER's and hospitals
on the way, but Frank thought Methodist the best, and that's what he wanted for
his partner.

Gerry's breathing was raspy. Frank had never attended
medical school, but he'd seen his share of the dead and dying. He observed the
med-tech wheedle the knobs and gauges on the monitoring screen and watched the
man's facial expressions. Gerry's pulse rate was low, and at times nonexistent.
Her blood pressure was under 100, she looked gray and her heartbeat surged to
135 and dropped to 50 - erratic. The medic looked at him and said nothing, but
Frank read no hope in his eyes.

Sirens clashed from every direction as the cavalcade of
ambulance and police cars screamed down 1-45 toward the Medical Center.
"Hang on, Gerry," Frank shouted. "You're too tough to check out
now."

The ambulance slowed and made a turn toward the Methodist
Hospital emergency room; the ER staff was waiting, reminding Frank of a gaggle
of pale-green geese defending a pond against coyotes. The back door of the
ambulance opened before the vehicle came to a complete stop. Two men dressed in
emerald scrubs and surgical masks removed the gurney with expert control,
pushing it toward the pneumatic doors while other similarly dressed personnel
hustled along side, barking observations and orders to each other.

When Frank climbed out of the ambulance, he became aware of
the squad cars screeching to a stop to surround the emergency vehicle. Sheridan
drove his car and had led the ambulance through traffic. Olivia Stanton and
Aaron Fox came next, bolting out of the car, leaving the lights flashing and
the doors wide open. Roger Harrington drove the third car and scrambled out,
still dressed like a pimp. The fourth car carried two uniforms Frank didn't
recognize. He could hear sirens in the distance, and knew within minutes,
Methodist Hospital's parking lot would look like HPD's main compound. Officers
from the city and the sheriffs department, as well as deputy constables from
various precincts would appear, all prepared to donate blood or provide any
assistance needed. He knew the mayor and the chief of police, along with
Captain Holloman, would appear shortly too.

For the moment though, there were just the seven highly
trained policemen, pumped and ready for action with no place to go and nothing
to do. Gerry's fate belonged to the medical team now. Frank and Sheridan had
dispersed all the information they had and no one would be allowed in the ER to
foul the well-trained physicians in completing their duties. The doors swung
shut as the seven stared with stoic expressions. Frank was the first to move.
He walked toward Sheridan. "It looks bad," he reported, "but
there's still hope."

She didn't answer immediately, laying her hand on his arm.
After a moment she looked at him and offered, "You did good tonight."

Frank didn't respond.

Sheridan continued as if she hadn't expected a comment.
"When I first came to the department and read your file, I assumed you
were a cowboy with an undeserved reputation. After tonight, I have nothing but
respect for you."

"Thanks," Frank mumbled. "But, if Gerry dies,
it won't mean a damn thing."

Sheridan started to say something further, but Roger
Harrington interrupted, facing Frank with the intensity of a raging bull.

"Thanks, Frank. If you hadn't sent me to arrest Sammy
and Gretchen, I probably would have killed those two assholes."

Frank found a cheerless smile "Is everybody locked
up?"

"Yeah. I made sure of that. We paraded all four of them
past Rankin's cell, so he'd know his whole damn family was busted."

"Not his entire family," Sheridan hissed.
"I'm not in jail yet."

Roger stared at her without comment. Frank decided that
Roger wasn't aware of all the details involving Barker's status and had decided
to reserve judgment until he did. "Let's go find a place to wait," he
suggested.

Frank turned and walked toward an entrance marked
"Visitors." The waiting room was not empty. A couple, looking worried
and exhausted, sat holding hands on a wooden bench on the far side of the room.
A young woman, maybe a distraught mother, stood against the wall, looking to be
in a trance, her arms folded over her chest. Not enough seats were available
for seven people, so Frank ambled down the hall and bought three cups of bad
coffee from a vending machine. He carried the cardboard cups back and handed
one to Sheridan and another to Roger.

"Sorry there's nothing better to help pass the
time."

Neither Sheridan nor Roger seemed to mind, thankful to have
something to do at an awkward time. After an hour of waiting, the two uniforms
made mumbling apologies and left. Frank approached Olivia and Aaron, who seemed
to be enjoying each other's company as best as they could under the
circumstances.

"Do either of you have anything new since we talked
last?" He meant the question merely to initiate conversation, but he could
see the two detectives took it seriously. They chatted a few moments and
shrugged. Everyone became embarrassed by the silence. He walked to the door and
gazed out. The rain had started again. While he stood there, a man drove up and
filled the pay box with the early edition of the Chronicle. Frank dug into his
pocket and discovered he had no change, so he hurried out and paid the delivery
man two dollars for a paper before he could get away. The man looked at the
money and back at Frank.

"Go ahead," Frank offered. "Take it. It's a
tip. I'm feeling generous this morning."

The man thanked him and left. Frank carried the paper inside
to share with the others. Neither Olivia nor Aaron wanted to read, and Sheridan
was curled up in the corner, pretending to sleep, so he found a straight chair
in the nearby hall and began reading the newspaper word for word. The front
page talked about a car-bombing in Iraq and the latest political campaign. A
short article below the fold announced his having been named lieutenant to
replace Sheridan Barker. The article, complete with two sidebars, one on his
history and one on Sheridan's, was written by Julia Brewster. All the facts
were accurate, but there was no depth to it. Maybe he imagined an undertone of
innuendo that there was more to the incident than the officials had mentioned.
He smirked, thinking about what Brewster would do if she knew what had happened
since she filed that story.

He read the sports. The Rockets had lost again; the comics,
they didn't make him laugh; and then the business section. The lead story
talked about the executives who had precipitated the Enron scandal, old news,
and speculated whether the economy was recovering or going the other way, more
old news, and then he saw the story about the recent joining of forces of two
movers and shakers in retail fashion. As in the article about him being named
lieutenant, there were two sidebars. He didn't know the accuracy of the
description of Mark Simeon, but Paulette's coverage lacked the same nuances as
his and Sheridan's piece.

The only section left was the society page. He sighed and
grabbed the section. He wished he hadn't. There staring him in the face was
Pauley, wrapped in the arms of Mark Simeon, both showing broad, toothy smiles,
apparently attending some sort of victory celebration.  The article involved 
their merger and announcement of new retail stores, but the writer speculated
that a budding romance stirred behind the scenes. The old cliché, "do I
hear wedding bells in the future" clawed at Frank's insides.

Before he could wad the paper into a ball and throw it
across the room, the double door to the hall slammed open and a doctor in
scrubs entered, his facemask dangling from one ear. The man stopped, perplexed
to see so many people in the waiting room. Frank was the first to approach him.
"You have news on Geraldine Gardner?"

"She's stabilized. Resting quietly for the moment. The
poison was powerful, and I can't say how she might be affected. It will be
several hours before I can say she's out of danger, but I think we got her in
time. Of course, it will be days before we'll know what long term effects may
result, if any."

"Can we see her?" The doctor shook  his head.
"She's in ICU. She's unconscious and needs lots of rest."

"When can we see her?"

"Maybe tomorrow morning."

Frank turned to pass the information along to the others,
and realized they had formed a huddle behind him, listening intently to what
the doctor had to say. Each face looked drawn and on the brink of exhaustion,
reflecting, no doubt, the expression on his own. Cops are tough. They deal with
sorrow and violence on a daily basis and don't wear their hearts on their
sleeves, but they also carry a deep-seated tank filled with empathy, intended,
if not for their fellow man, to spread thick on their compadres.

Frank fished in his pocket and drew out his business card.
It didn't have the phone number of the lieutenant's office, so he scribbled his
cell phone on the back and handed it to the doctor.

"Please, call me the moment she's able to receive
visitors."

The doctor took the card, nodded, and left. Frank waited a
beat before suggesting they all meet at HPD in about an hour. Roger begged off,
saying he had told Frank everything he knew. Frank didn't answer immediately.
His mind had drifted to that early morning when the case began. He recognized
that Roger Harrington had looked into the murky darkness. He had nearly become
that which he hated. His reasons for wanting time off weren't all related to a
relationship with the woman in ICU. He needed time to sort himself out. Roger
must have taken Frank's silence for refusal.

"I can't be of any use until I know something more
definite about Gerry," he explained. "I want to stay here, if it's
all right."

Frank clasped the big officer on the shoulder and squeezed.
"Of course," he agreed. "I'd stay too if I didn't have to tie up
the paperwork at the office."

Roger slumped in relief and walked to the window to watch
the rain. Olivia and Aaron left together. Frank turned to Sheridan.

"You hungry?"

"I could eat a horse."

"I know a quiet cafe that serves the best breakfast in
town. My treat."

Sheridan smiled. "Lead the way, officer," she
said.

They were both quiet in the car as Frank drove through the
early morning grayness to the Southwest Freeway and headed west. He noticed
Sheridan was picking at her fingernails, with a furrowed brow.

"You okay?" he asked.

She stopped and glanced out the side window. "Yeah, I
guess." He didn't push, deciding if she wanted to talk, she would. After
some time, she volunteered, "I was thinking about what Harrington said. My
entire family is behind bars and a talented, beautiful detective is lying in a
cold emergency room with tubes running from her nose. It's a lot to
consider."

Frank grunted. There was nothing to say. He always crashed
at this phase of a case, even when his partner wasn't at death's door. All that
would be changing. Always before, he would ponder the next time, hoping there
would be a lull before he got the call to go and walk around another corpse,
grimacing and waiting for the outpouring of curiosity and excitement to kick
in, like a bloodhound, tucking its tail as it sniffed the article of clothing
to set the scent before bounding away after the quarry.

He fought off the depressed feeling, telling himself at this
particular time there were too many things for him to handle. If he opened his
mind to one murky situation, all the variables that were bearing down on him
would collide head on and drive him over the edge into the pit.

He turned north onto the 610-loop toward the Galleria.
"The cafe is right up here on the left," he explained. Thelma raised
an eyebrow when Frank entered with a striking blonde on his arm, but she sensed
the tension emanating from the couple and held her tongue. Frank ordered his usual
and Sheridan opted for an omelet made from Eggbeaters and a rasher of bacon.
They ate mostly in silence, chatting about unimportant topics like the weather.
As they made their way outside, Sheridan stopped and took hold of Frank's
forearm.

"I know how the system works as well as anyone, but
please, use your influence to spare Reuben if you can. He's my father and he's
suffering more than any jail time can mete out." Frank nodded. "I'll
do what I can."

A gaggle of reporters huddled under the eaves near the
entrance, trying to avoid being soaked by the rain, when Frank and Sheridan
drove into the parking lot at HPD. Captain Holloman had evidently been watching
from the foyer, because he pushed out through the door and headed off the surge
of newsmen that moved toward the squad car en masse, like insects drawn to an
outdoor spotlight. He grabbed Sheridan's arm and ushered her forward, yelling
"No comment. There will be a press conference this afternoon."

They made it inside, and Frank felt some of the tension ease
in the familiar environment. They moved quickly to the interview room.

"Let's start with Rankin," Frank suggested.

Holloman nodded to a uniform, sending him off to bring the
subject from the holding cell. "Molly Shapiro is ready and waiting. This is
going to be an interesting morning."

"May I watch with the ADA?" Sheridan asked.

"Your call, Frank," Holloman stated.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Frank asked
Sheridan.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "I'm
all he's got, no matter how this turns out."