Lennon offered a silent prayer that no one else would be stupid enough to be on the road on a night like this. He shifted down to third, then second, feeling the car lurch as the engine struggled against the chassis, slowing the Audi with its own weight instead of its brakes. The car juddered as its wheels lost and remade contact with the ice.
He let the Audi coast through the tight left bend under its own momentum, guiding it as best he could with the steering wheel. The nose wouldn’t turn in enough, and the wall at the other side of the narrow street loomed in the beam of his headlights. He sucked in air, ready to cry out, but instead the impact came from the rear where the Nissan nudged the back bumper, causing the Audi to veer away from the brickwork and toward the sharp right turn onto Deramore Gardens.
Again, Lennon quashed the urge to jerk the wheel to correct his course, and allowed the car to float until its nose pointed where he wanted it to go, then he gave the engine more fuel and felt its rear hunker down. He let the air out of his lungs as he made the corner and checked the mirror. The Nissan lurched and swayed as its driver battled the ice, until it skidded into Lennon’s wake. It bounced from one curb to the other, teetering as it swerved. Its front left quarter collided with a parked Toyota Celica, the sports car’s low hood crushed beneath its wheel, and the Nissan pitched to the side, its passenger side wheels spinning freely in the air.
Lennon watched as the gap between his Audi and the pursuer widened. The Nissan rolled on a few yards, its two earthbound wheels travelling in a drunken arc before it slammed down. Its weight continued to roll with the motion as it swerved on the ice, and its driver’s side wheels left the ground. The darkened windows erupted as it toppled onto its side. It screeched and skidded until a stationary Transit van halted it.
No one emerged as Lennon slowed and watched in his mirror. He decided against hanging around and turned off the avenue to find safety.
79
EDWIN PAYNTER FELT the time had come. When he closed his eyes, he heard the Angel of the Lord speak to him in whispers that would sound to anyone else like soft footsteps on the hospital floor, or water in the pipes, or the swishing of doors opening and closing. But to Paynter, they were commands, holy words, divine instructions.
Just as for the Apostle Peter two thousand years before him, the Angel of the Lord would guide his hand.
Almost twenty-four hours they’d kept him. Observation, the doctors had said, to ensure there were no complications caused by concussion. Paynter had lain there quietly throughout, first in triage, then in the corridor, then in the orthopedic room, then in the A&E bay, then in the admissions ward, hidden behind a thin plastic curtain from the miserable specimens who occupied the other beds.
But now they were releasing him from the hospital, and now was the time to free himself from the fools who believed they held him captive.
One of the police officers set about undoing the handcuffs that bound his left wrist to the bed. The other, at least ten years younger than his sour-faced partner, watched from the foot of the bed, one hand on the butt of his pistol. Paynter had been studying the weapons all day long, through three different pairs of policemen as they changed shifts. He was certain it was the same kind of gun he had fired the night before, and that he would be able to operate it. That would be the key to his freedom, the Angel of the Lord had told him, to seize the pistol and use it.
And after? That was a question only God above could answer.
The Angel of the Lord said,
“I don’t feel well,” Paynter said.
The policeman did not acknowledge the statement. “Sit up,” he said.
Paynter coughed and grimaced.
“I said sit up,” the policeman repeated, keeping a grip on the bracelet he’d removed from the bed. The other remained on Paynter’s wrist.
Paynter heaved his torso up from the bed. “I don’t feel well,” he said again. “Really, I don’t.”
He let his feet drop to the floor. He quickened his breathing. He swallowed hard.
“Don’t start,” the policeman said. “You can pish and whine all you want, but you’re coming with us.”
“Please,” Paynter said. “I need a doctor.”
“Shut your mouth and stand up.”
Paynter struggled to his feet, stumbled against the officer, groaned.
The policeman pushed him away, said, “Get to fuck.”
Paynter fell back against the bed, but kept his footing. He grabbed the officer’s arm with his free hand.
“I’m sick,” he said. “I need—”
“Turn around,” the officer said, jerking Paynter’s wrist with the handcuffs. He spoke to his colleague. “Give us a hand here, will you?”
The other policeman approached and took Paynter’s free arm in his hard hands.
He rolled his eyes back, let his legs go loose, his weight taking the policemen by surprise. The bed rolled away on its casters, pushing aside the curtain that surrounded it. Paynter’s body followed as it sagged to the floor. The policemen’s hands grabbed at his clothing, slowing his fall, until he lay at their feet.
A nurse, attracted by the commotion, whipped aside the curtain and approached the scuffle.
The key to faking a seizure, Paynter had learned, was to concentrate the spasms on the stomach area, with all other movements radiating from that point. He ground his teeth together, forced his tongue to the back of his mouth, and bucked, his abdominal muscles tensing and relaxing, his legs kicking out.
“He’s taking the piss,” the older officer said.
“I don’t know,” the younger man said, crouching down beside Paynter. “He looks bad.”
The nurse tried to work her way between them. “Let me see,” she said. “Give me some room.”
Paynter intensified the movements, forcing air hard between his teeth, growling from deep in his throat. He kept his hands in front of his chest, the fingers hooked like claws. The older officer held onto the bracelet, tried to grab the other wrist, but lost his balance as Paynter rolled away from him.
Neither realized the younger officer had lost his pistol until Paynter’s seizure stopped dead and he shoved the older man back. He stood, the weapon held at his side, aimed at the floor.
The nurse screamed.
The younger officer scrambled back. “Jesus, he’s got my gun!”
The older officer hauled himself to his feet and snatched his own pistol from its holster. He raised it, aimed square at Paynter’s chest.
Patients and their visitors gasped and shrieked.
Paynter kept the gun aimed downward. They wouldn’t shoot if he didn’t point it at them. He had to gamble on that, if he was to be free.
“Fucking drop it,” the officer said.
“No,” Paynter said.
The officer realigned his aim on Paynter’s forehead. “Drop it or I’ll shoot.”
“No,” Paynter said.
Slowly, bending his arm at the elbow, he raised the pistol, keeping its muzzle away from the policeman facing him, until it aimed at the ceiling.
“I’ll fucking shoot you,” the officer said.
“No you won’t,” Paynter said.
Freedom was his, whether or not the policemen or any of the onlookers realized it. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind for almost twenty-four hours, practiced every movement, every word, guided by the whispering voices.
A warmth settled on his heart, something he perceived to be peace, as he remembered the words he had
