My main problem was one of distance. Physics and reality to the contrary, it seemed as though the eighth floor aisles must have been far longer than those on the seventh, longer at least by half. I tried to shout a warning across the intervening space, but the sound was swallowed up in the roar of a departing jet. My only hope-Ron Peters’s only hope-was that I close the distance between us. Knowing I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting there in time, I ducked my head, said a silent prayer, and ran.
It was like running in slow motion or in water or sloughing through deep sand. The vast distance that separated us didn’t seem to get any smaller. Partway there, I could see that Ron Peters and Curtis Bell were speaking earnestly back and forth across the hood of Ron’s car, but I wasn’t close enough to hear their voices. I wondered if they were negotiating about which one would end up having to give up and let the other one go.
With less than a quarter of the distance to go, a blaring alarm began sounding from somewhere inside the terminal itself. Thank God, I thought with relief. Knuckles had done it. He had somehow sounded the alarm and airport security was coming to help, but before that could happen, Curtis Bell swung around and saw me.
He saw me and pulled the trigger all in the same movement. He didn’t pause, didn’t have to think about it. He aimed and fired, hoping to gun me down without even the slightest pretense of hesitation. A long way from any cover, I hit the ground and skidded along the rough concrete surface just as the first bullet whizzed by overhead.
Curtis Bell was carrying the same kind of automatic I was. There should have been a whole barrage of bullets, but there wasn’t. Not exactly. There was a second shot-I heard it-but it didn’t hit anywhere near me.
I heard a single outraged screech of pain and I saw Curtis Bell crumple to the ground. Ron Peters may have looked like a sitting duck, but he wasn’t. And maybe his aim wasn’t all it had been once, before his accident, but it was close enough for government work, close enough to do the job and save my life.
I scrambled to my feet and hurried over to where Curtis Bell lay writhing on the ground, clutching his bleeding gut. Picking up his weapon, I left him lying there and walked past him to check on Ron Peters.
“You all right?” I asked.
“My car’s screwed,” he answered, “but I’m okay.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your car as long as you’re fine.”
With a whir of his electric wheelchair, Ron Peters rolled up beside me, and we both looked down at the injured and helpless Curtis Bell. Neither one of us leaped forward to administer first aid.
“He’s not, though, is he?” Ron said casually. “Looks as though he’s hurt pretty bad…”
“You shot him real low,” I said. “Looks like you hit him well below the vest.”
Ron shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Can you imagine that. Guess I’m still not used to shooting from this angle. Maybe I need more practice.”
“I wouldn’t want you to change a thing,” I told him. “And neither would Big Al.”
CHAPTER 27
The Medic One unit came from Angle Lake. As soon as we gave the port police the all clear, the medics arrived on the scene, where they determined Curtis Bell’s condition was far too serious to risk an ambulance ride. Harborview’s med-evac helicopter was summoned. Despite the construction debris and wrecked vehicles, it landed right there on top of the garage and the injured man was loaded aboard along with a police officer guard, compliments of the Port of Seattle.
Before the tow trucks finished hauling away broken cars, the garage had turned into a jurisdictional nightmare. Because of the likely connection to the Beaux Arts case, King County wanted to be involved as well as the city of Seattle and the Port of Seattle. Knuckles Russell remained on the fringes of the ever-expanding group, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, warily watching the proceedings.
One of the last officers to arrive on the scene was Captain Anthony Freeman. He spoke first to Peters and me, then he asked Ron to introduce him to Knuckles Russell.
“I’m Captain Freeman from Internal Investigations,” Tony Freeman told him, shaking hands. “Thanks for all your help, Ezra. We’ve got them now. Sue Danielson is down at the office working with Gary Deddens right now. He’s waived his right to an attorney. He’s spilling his guts.”
“You shoulda caught him sooner,” Knuckles said accusingly. “Then Ben Weston wouldn’t be dead.”
“You’re right. Ben was almost ready to move on this. From looking at the file, I can see what he was doing. Ben didn’t want to do anything until he had enough corroborating evidence that he wouldn’t have to call you or any of the others back to testify. Even though he had gleaned much of his information from you, he didn’t want you to be involved.”
A jet took off in the background. No one said anything for a moment while Knuckles Russell’s eyes filled with tears.
“You mean Ben’s dead ‘cause he was protectin’ me?”
Tony Freeman nodded. “You and the others,” he said.
“Shit, man!” Ezra muttered fiercely. “Shit!”
He walked away from us to the far side of the garage, where he stood hunched and withdrawn, looking down at the traffic below. No one followed him. At that moment, Knuckles Russell needed nothing so much as to be left alone.
I turned back to Captain Freeman. “So how much more cancer is there?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not much I hope, but I don’t know, not for sure. Like I said. Deddens is spilling his guts, hoping it’ll go easier on him. If anyone else is involved, he’ll tell us. Turns out he’s the one who placed the call to nine-one-one, hoping to create enough confusion over the massacre that Curtis Bell would have a chance to get into Ben’s office computer undetected and do the deleting. From the looks of the files, Ben was within minutes of bringing me the case. Unfortunately, I was out of town.”
“So the deletion almost worked, didn’t it,” I said.
Freeman nodded. “It might have. If Kyle hadn’t managed to bring those files back up when he did, they could have been written over and lost for good. But we’ve got it now. Gary Deddens can squeal all he wants, but I’ve got some bad news for him and Curtis Bell as well. I’m going to convince the prosecutor to go for aggravated first degree for both of them, not only for murdering the Westons but also their pal Sam Irwin.”
“They wanted us to turn him into the fall guy, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but by then they were panicked and it didn’t work. Those two bastards may figure out a way to wiggle out of the death penalty, but they’ll never be out on the streets again, either one of them. I’ll see to it.”
Without our noticing, Knuckles Russell had returned from the other side of the garage and was hovering just outside our circle of conversation. Captain Freeman stepped aside and motioned for him to join us.
“Did you need something?” Freeman asked.
For several seconds the two men stood facing each other, their eyes locked in an unblinking stare-the tall balding white man with his red bottlebrush mustache and the much younger black one.
“Ben Weston tol‘ me once that a One-Time named Freeman was all right. I can see that be…that’s true.”
It was a moment of understanding that cut both ways. Freeman nodded. “Ben had a lot of faith in you, too, Ezra. We were on the right track, but it’s possible Curtis Bell might have gotten away if you hadn’t come forward when you did.”
“I din’t come forward on my own,” Knuckles said, shaking his head. “But for him,” he added, pointing a finger at Ron Peters, “I’d still be in Ellensburg.”
Tony looked from Ron to me and back again. “Detective Beaumont, I thought I told you specifically not to add any additional personnel to this investigation without my express permission.”
“Excuse me, Captain Freeman,” Peters interrupted. “I put myself on the case, long before Beau had any idea Internal Investigations would be involved.”
“Why? Don’t you work in Media Relations?”
“That’s my job,” Peters conceded, “but what I do on my own time is my business.”
“Including tearing hell out of your own car in the process of apprehending a fleeing felon?”
“That too.”
