but on his back was a black Sudsie’s T-shirt. And just as Chad Nesbitt had said, this guy looked to be about the right demographic for a place like that-a clean-cut, decent-looking Hispanic male in his early twenties.
He got to Terminal D, to the point where the passengers from the airline gates in the secure Concourse D came out to go to Baggage Claim D or, if they hadn’t checked any luggage, simply made a straight exit of the airport.
Payne took a seat so that he had a clear view of the area. He sighed audibly, then realized he was somewhat tired.
And that caused him to begin thinking about all he’d been through in the course of the day.
It’s been surreal… and I’m far from being done.
He looked at his watch. It showed it was quarter after three.
Jesus! In the course of-what?
Chad called me at quarter of five this morning. So that makes it right at eight and a half hours.
And in that time I’ve gone from being on nearly thirty days’ R amp; R and shopping for a Porsche to being back on the cops to a shoot-out with a critter to being put back on ice.
And, now, to whatever happens with this guy from Texas.
Liz Justice-wearing the hat of Houston Chief of Police Justice-said he was tracking some critter who cut off girls’ heads?
He shook his head.
Un-fucking-believable.
Talk about an animal. That’s inhuman…
He watched a clump of people flowing out of Concourse D. He had no idea which flight they had come in on, but not one of them looked like his idea of a Texan, let alone of a Texas Ranger law-enforcement officer. There were only two males in the group, neither close to resembling an active LEO. One wasn’t old enough to shave. The other, in a crouch, walked with a cane.
His mind went on:
And in the course of those same eight and a half hours, five people in Philly-three of whom I more or less crossed paths with-are no longer among the living.
And the fate of another is not looking damn good at all.
An image of a laughing, full-of-life Becca Benjamin flashed in his memory.
Godspeed, Becca…
And what about those two Hispanics killed in the motel?
I’d hoped Skipper would’ve told us something about how that one guy got his throat slit.
But now all the witnesses are dead.
Unless Becca knows something… but that’s a long shot, both (a) on the chance that she knew what was going on in the motel room and (b) if she actually survives and can tell us that she does.
Or doesn’t. Then we’re back to square one.
And that crazy sonofabitch coming into the hospital and pumping thirteen nine-millimeter rounds into Skipper.
What if he came back?
Thank God we beefed up the cops sitting on her.
Jesus! What next?
A big group of air travelers, easily thirty of them, came out from Concourse D. They were mostly teenagers. They had a handful of chaperones. All wore the same bright blue style of T-shirt. Payne could read some part of what had been silk-screened on the shirts, something about a church mission trip.
I do know what I’d like to happen next.
I’d like another shot at that sonofabitch who popped Skipper.
Not a gunshot… just a chance to bring him in.
First, because he doesn’t need to be on the street.
And second, because he damn sure knows something.
That’s obvious because he knows Skipper knew something. Why else target him for assassination? That’s what they were calling it at the scene in the ICU.
And that’s exactly what it was-thirteen rounds’ worth of nine-millimeter assassination.
Which means that the sonofabitch may very well know what went on in that motel room. Or, if not what went on in there in the last few minutes, hours, whatever, then who the players in there were.
And it’s damn sure no coincidence that the guy I shot and the two crispy critters from the motel are all Hispanic males.
Payne heard the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of hard rubber wheels rolling over an expansion joint in the tile floor. He turned to find a heavy-duty polymer custodial cart moving in his direction. It had two twenty-gallon plastic garbage cans on either end and the handles of a broom and feather dusters poking up between them. Pushing the cart was a hollow-faced Hispanic female. She looked to be maybe thirty. She stopped at a trash receptacle, and there went about her cleaning job quietly and effortlessly and, Payne noted, more or less completely unnoticed by anyone.
Then he was struck by the fact that that had been the exact same response he’d had to the Hispanic “orderly” at the Burn Unit when he saw him pushing the gurney into the corridor.
I didn’t give him a second thought.
Why is that? And is it good or bad?
I have no idea. But I know there’s something there I can’t put my finger on.
Where is that sonofabitch now?
How badly did I wound him?
There hadn’t been hardly any blood at the scene, either where he went down or where he carjacked that Chevy Caprice.
But maybe that one round did enough damage to get the critter to find an ER.
Payne knew that it did not matter which hospital emergency room. As long as it wasn’t, say, ten states away. But even ten states away there was a chance of catching the guy. It just would take longer.
And the hospitals did report, either officially or quietly, someone coming in with a gunshot wound. Even if-for whatever reason, say, some sanctimonious bastard at the intake desk took offense at the release of the scum’s “personal and privileged information” to the cops-not right away. There were others on staff who knew that almost all gunshot wounds were dirty and eventually would leak the info to the authorities. Not to mention the ones working security, who were either once cops or were cops moonlighting; they didn’t have to be convinced that keeping a critter off the street was all-important. They would call it in right then and there, damn any consequences.
Already the Philly Homicide detectives had begun distributing an Armed and Dangerous Alert to all of the hospital ERs within a fifty-mile radius. The single-page alert had a grainy black-and-white snapshot of the doer that had been pulled from the city-owned surveillance camera video on the exterior of the Temple University Hospital wall. (There had been as yet no luck with the hospital’s interior video equipment.) The Armed and Dangerous Alert also contained, of course, a description of the Hispanic male, including the detail that his wound had been inflicted by a.45-caliber bullet to the left leg at a point believed to be somewhere above the knee. And, of course, there was the directive to first call 911 in the event anyone requesting medical attention came even remotely close to the description on the alert. Then the hospital could contact the Philadelphia Police Department Homicide Unit at the Roundhouse via the information provided, or the responding cops could do so.
Payne then thought about Skipper Olde.
When Payne had gone back into the Temple Burn Unit, he had been surprised at his own reaction to the news that the doer had indeed pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper.
It didn’t really bother me one bit.
Knowing his chance of survival, maybe I had already dealt with the fact he probably wasn’t-what did Tony Harris tell me he thought?-that Skipper wasn’t going to make it to lunch.
And he sure as hell didn’t.
But my being unaffected… something weird about that.
I need to call Amy and ask her.
