Nightkill, page 7
"
Panic nibbled at the corners of his brain.
"Now, now, Mr. Nacht. Be calm. I'm Dr. Graham, attending neurosurgeon here. You were shot in the neck. I removed the bullet fragments, repaired the soft tissues, and closed you up. But the bullet caused a high cervical fracture. At the moment, you are paralyzed."
Jake pushed back the panic and grasped at what looked like a straw.
"At the moment?"
"Yes. Trauma of that sort causes edema—swelling—of the spinal cord, and that causes paralysis. If the cord is intact, you will regain your sensory and motor function when the swelling subsides. If not . . ."
"You mean you don't know.>"
"We're waiting for the results of the MR scan of your neck. We'll know the exact extent of the damage then. But cither way, you've got other things to worry about."
"Great. Like what?"
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"Like the attempted murder of Senator Weingarten."
Attempted murder? That meant he'd missed. Damn it to hell! What else could go wrong?
"Who's Senator Weingarten?" Jake said.
Dr. Graham gave him a startled look, then stepped out of Jake's field of vision and opened the door.
Jake's mind revved into high. He was trapped here now and even a best-case scenario said it was going to be a while before he walked out. So he had to stay alive until then. The only way he could assure that was to deny everything. He was Jake Nacht, security guard from Jersey, here in the dxy to maybe see a play and hang out. He'd barely heard of this Senator Weingarten and hadn't a reason in the world to want him dead. He was an innocent bystander, shot by some trigger-happy New York cop.
That could work, yes. He had a lily-white past and was one of Atlantic County, New Jersey's quietest, most law-abiding, taxpay-ing homeowners.
Sarge's home.
Suddenly, in the midst of his fear, Jake saw Sarge, the image battering its way into his mind: Blood sprouting on Sarge's chest and face, and he'd never let himself wonder what the bullets had felt like going in, but now he knew. For an instant, Jake was Sarge, falling back as the slugs pierced him like hot pokers. Then he was above, looking down at Sarge's still, bloody form. Jake tried to wrench free of the memory, but it clung, smothering everything else, filling the hospital room with the cold light of another day.
He'd left Sarge where he fell, staggering back along the path until he found the jeep. He had nowhere else to go so he drove back to the house. Mrs. Nacht was sitting in her usual chair by the window when he stumbled into the house.
"Is he coming back?" she'd said.
Jake could only shake his head.
She'd nodded grimly, then lit another cigarette.
She never offered to treat Jake's wounds or take him to a doctor, but she did keep on cooking meals and keeping house. After three
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days she reported Sarge missing. Told the state police he went out hunting and never came back. She never mentioned that Jake had been with him. And she never mentioned Sarge again after that.
As soon as Jake had been well enough, he left, ft)und a job in the GM plant up in Edison. A few years later he got a registered letter informing him that Mrs. Nacht had died—of lung cancer, it turned out—and since Herbert Nacht had never been found, the Nacht house was Jake's.
At first he'd wanted nothing to do with the place or anything else connected with Sarge, but then he decided. Why not.> It was a nice piece of property and it guaranteed him the last laugh on Sarge.
Shortly after he moved in, a guy came looking for Sarge. Had a job for him; hadn't been able to contact Sarge through the usual channels so he'd come looking. Jake gave it about two seconds' thought—his couple of years on the GM line had seemed like a lifetime—and said he was Sarge's son and he'd taken over the business. The guy had said nothing doing until Jake took him into the pines and gave him a little demonstration.
The guy gave Jake his first contract. The first of many.
But unlike Sarge, Jake had never married. No Mrs. Nacht II. Just periodic trips to AC and a night or a weekend with a pro named Caidin, or whomever he happened to pick up—
Jake broke free of the memories as he realized why his mind had been able to hurl him back into the past at a moment like this: The house, Sarge's house. The cops would search it from top to bottom for evidence against him. Would they find anything.^ For a moment, Jake's mind spun with fear, and then he got control again. One of the first changes he'd made in the Nacht place was to get rid of Sarge's gun room. He'd buried his arsenal deep in the pines where no one would ever find it. So there were no weapons in the house except the S&W Chief Special he supposedly wore to work as a security guard. The police would expect to find that.
Otherwise, the place was clean as a convent.
To his left, Jake heard the doctor say, "He's awake, Detective."
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Danziger hove into view. He opened his mouth to speak but Jake beat him to it.
"You're the man who shot me! Dr. Graham, this man tried to kill me! Call the police!"
"He is the police," Dr. Graham said. "This is Detective Danziger, NYPD."
"I don't want him here. He—"
"You've got no say in the matter, Nacht." Danziger pointed a finger in Jake's face. "You're under—"
"He's already tried to kill me once!" Jake said, pushing his voice up an octave. The effort made his head throb harder. "He shot me for no reason at all! Now he's going to try to finish the job!"
Danziger's face reddened. "Knock that offl"
Jake started screaming. "Help! Murder! Help! He's going to kill me! Help!"
His headache was blazing now, but Jake kept up the volume as Dr. Graham began pulling Danziger toward the door.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Detective. You're upsetting my patient."
"Bullshit!" Danziger said. "He's—"
'^Please, Detective. His condition is very critical at this point and your presence is having a detrimental effect. You've already shot and crippled him. What else do you want to do to him?"
Danziger growled, shot Jake one last glare, then stormed out. Jake quieted when he heard the door slam.
"Is he gone.>" he asked fearfully.
"Yes. Yes, he's gone," Dr. Graham said, stepping to the bedside. "But I'm sure he'll be back." He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Jake. "You just made a very serious accusation."
Jake knew this would be the first of many tellings of this tale. He kept it neat.
"It's true. You've got to believe me. Doctor. I don't understand it. I stepped out of my hotel room because of all the noise in the hall. I saw all these policemen crowded around the room two doors down. I asked what the racket was about and that man just . . .
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shot me. I don't understand it." He blinked a couple of times, wishing he could squeeze out a tear. "I just don't understand it."
Doubt and belief warred on Dr. Graham's open face. He patted Jake's shoulder—a shoulder that didn't exist as far as Jake was concerned.
"I'll be looking into this, you can be sure," he said. "In the meantime, don't worry. We'll do everything we can for you. Ever}^-thing."
"I'm sure of that," Jake said. "Just don't let that killer near
Jake was left alone for a while. Nurses popped in and out fre-quendy, gazed at him with wary but sympathetic eyes as they gave him sips of water and did whatever it is nurses do, then left him to himself.
Which was good. Because he had a lot of thinking to do.
He figured the best way to stay alive was to stick to the story he'd told Dr. Graham: I'm an innocent bystander, totally out of the loop, who fell victim to a trigger-happy cop.
That would send a not-to-w^orry message to the Boys confirming what they probably knew already: that Jake Nacht was a stand-up guy who wasn't going to point the finger anywhere but at the cops.
But that didn't get him any closer to figuring out who'd saved Whiny's ass. And why.
He'd have to start looking into that when he got out of here. He'd find out who sooner or later, and then he'd find out why. And then he'd see some heads roll. Big-time.
Dr. Graham came in, looking like the Grim Reaper.
"I don't like that look on your face. Doc."
"We have the MR report, Mr. Nacht. I'm afraid the news isn't good."
Jake's mouth went dry. "Don't drag it out."
"Very well." Dr. Graham swallowed. "A fragment of the bullet
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sliced through your spinal cord, causing a ninety percent severance."
"What's that mean?" A sick, cold dread wormed through Jake. He could guess the answer but he had to hear it from the doc.
"It means you're never going to walk or use your arms again, Mr. Nacht."
The doc went on talking, something about all the wonderful things they were doing for quadriplegics these days, about eventually being able, after lots of rehab, to move a few of his fingers, maybe enough to operate a computer keyboard. But the words receded, drowned out by the roaring in Jake's ears as he looked into the fixture and saw a guy who couldn't feed himself, couldn't roll over by himself, couldn't wipe his own butt ... an endless fiiture . . . and the man had Jake's face.
Jake bit back a scream.
The man in that nightmare fiature couldn't even kill himself
The next morning a nurse leaned over him and said, "Your attorney's here. Do you want to see him.>"
Jake surfaced slowly from the swamp of depression, forcing himself to replay the words, then focus on them. Attorney.> He didn't have an attorney. Which meant whoever was out in the hall had something else in mind besides the law.
Good. They'd come to kill him. Yesterday he'd been worried that the people who'd set him up would attempt to sneak in and finish the job Danziger had botched. Since his last talk with Dr. Graham, Jake had been afraid they wouldn^t. So now this had to be it. This so-called attorney no doubt had a silenced .22 in his briefcase.
"Let him in."
The guy was balding and fortyish, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit.
"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Nacht," he said, thrusting out his
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hand and then snatching it back when it became obvious that no one was going to shake it. "My name's Steven Krosny and I think we have a pretty good—"
"Cut the bullshit," Jake said.
Krosny's eyes widened behind his glasses. "I beg your pardon.^"
"Spare me the chatter. Do the hit and get it over with. Just make it quick."
He closed his eyes and waited as Krosny opened his briefcase. The guy didn't have to be good to pump a few .22 hoUowpoints into his skull at point-blank range. He just had to know how to point and pull a trigger. Jake wouldn't feel a thing. And then this nightmare would be over.
"Hit.> I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Nacht. I'm here to make you a very rich man."
Jake opened his eyes. "What.>"
Krosny had a legal pad on his lap. "I've looked into the evidence in your case—I have friends in the DA's office—and there's no way you're going to trial. They have nothing on you, Mr. Nacht. They can't even put you before the grand jury because they have nothing to show. You, however, have been hideously wounded and permanently crippled. You and I are going to make the city pay for your devastating injuries. Pay dearly."
"You mean you're not here to whack me.>"
"What is whack.> Is this slang of some sort.> I'm here to help you sue New York City for about a zillion dollars, Mr. Nacht."
"Christ, you're on the level! What do I care about money now.>"
"Plenty, I should think. After all, you're going to need skilled nursing care for the rest of your life. That's going to cost. You're going to need ..."
Jake closed his eyes and let Krosny rattle on. He wanted to die and it didn't look like anyone was going to help him out. Of course, he could start singing to the cops about Fredo and Mr. C That would sure as hell buy him some lethal attention, but he didn't want to go out with a canary in his mouth. No matter how
01 F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON
bad things were, he couldn't allow himself to be remembered that way.
No, he'd have to live for a while, let all the therapists do their thing on him, and work real hard with them in the hope that someday he'd be able to find a way to do one last hit—on himself
BED
When he needed rest from his anger, Jake practiced smelling his way around his room. That slight chlorine odor came from the bathroom. TidyBowl added a faint, sweet perfume—
What a waste, having a bathroom.
Jake realized he had just made a pun. Hilarious. He glanced down at the curving hump the catheter raised in the blanket. It looked like a mole's burrow.
The air conditioner whispered to life. Jake rolled his eyes toward the wall, concentrating until he detected the faint fruit}^ smell of the paint. They must have put on a fresh coat shortly before he was brought in. Pastel blue—better than pink but what was wrong with white.> Not that it mattered.
He became aware of his own smells—the catheter, sweat, the oil in his hair, a faint meaty smell on his breath. He was part of the room now, like the paint and the floor wax and the toilet. For how long.> Thinking of what the doctor had told him, Jake felt the dread welling up again. The floor seemed to open beneath him, dropping him into a dizzying free fall. Closing his eyes, he fought off panic.
Tou^ve asked me to he honesty Mr. Nacht, and I do think it's best. With this type of injuryj Vve never seen a patient walk a^ain. The
DO F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON
new biofeedback therapy may well build up sensation and perhaps some movement in your hands. Though you might not think so now, that will make a hu£fe difference in making you less dependent. And don^t write off the chance of a medical breakthrough.
I have to get out of here, Jake thought. I'll work hard on the therapy, get my hands back. Then I'll get the legs, I don't care what the doctor says.
Thinking about his legs, Jake felt a measure of hope. Clearly they could move. He had seen one of them twitch yesterday but had decided it was his imagination. Then it happened again today, just a few minutes ago, his right leg jerking under the covers. He hadn't been trying to move it, and when he did try, nothing happened. But surely Dr. Graham would consider the twitches a hopeful sign.
I will walk out of here, Jake thought, and blow Fredo's brains out. If that ambulance chaser Krosny can get the city to fork over a few mil, I'll take it, but I'm not going to stay paralyzed. I'm not some poor jerk who lies in a bed with tubes running in and out of him, who can't even sit to take a leak, who has to be spoon-fed like a baby. Not me.
Finding a spark of fury, he nursed it along. He imagined Fredo's smug, stupid face in the crosshairs of his scope. He imagined his finger squeezing the trigger—
His right hand, lying on top of the white covers, drew his gaze. With a mixture of hope and fear, he stared at the trigger finger, willing it to move. It lay still. He concentrated fiercely, trying to find the pathway from his brain to the hand. What would his nerves look like running through his arm—white tunnels, maybe.> Just find the right tunnel and flash through to the finger.
The smell of sweat deepened. The hand remained still.
Jake tore his gaze away from the hand and stared at the ceiling. Okay, the tunnels were temporarily blocked. But they would open up again. He'd get through. You'll see, Fredo.
Jake breathed deeply. Getting too emotional. Got to get back on a more even keel. Panic or rage, both blocked thought. And
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he had a lot of thinking to do—starting with exactly what had gone down in that hotel room.
Why had the cops cut it so fine? If Detective Danziger had been straight, it might figure—he'd spotted a gunman in the window, rushed his squad to the hotel and barely made it. But I don't let heat spot me in the window, Jake thought. Besides, he knew my face, knew I was the mechanic. Some of his squad must have been straight, or Danziger could have walked over and put three more into my back. But Danziger is as bent as a snake sucking its tail.
So was the bastard early or late.^
If they meant to let me whack Whiny, then punch my ticket to keep me quiet, he was early. Another five seconds and whoever set me up would have gotten at least half of what they wanted. This way they got zip. Whiny isn't dead and they can't know I won't talk.
So suppose they didn't want me to whack Whiny. That makes Danziger late—almost too late.
And it doesn't figure. If all they wanted was to pop me, why set me up on Whiny, then come after me just a few hundred yards from TV cameras and a brigade of blues.> Why not just send out four guys with Uzis some night, catch me in an alley.>
So suppose they wanted to almost kill Whiny, scare him real bad.
That works, Jake thought grimly. Here they've got this U.S. senator in their pocket, then he starts to shake them down. Why cancel a resource like that if you can bully it back into line.> So they set up the hit, stop it in the nick of time, and send a very strong message to Whiny. See what almost happened to you. Senator .> Lucky we were there. Maybe next time we won't be.
Danziger was right on time, Jake thought.
And I'm the patsy.
The rage started to build in him again and with it the sting of betrayal. Through seventeen hits, Mr. C had ahvays played straight with him. And then he'd decided to toss him away. Whether they'd meant to kill Weingarten or scare him, Jake Nacht was not supposed to leave that hotel room alive.
JU F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON
First I'll kill Fredo, Jake thought. Then Danziger. Let Mr. C think about it for a while. Then I'll kill him.
Right. But when.>
The rage gave way to a terrible sense of impotence.
How many days have I been here.> Jake wondered.
He counted back over the nights, the periods when the room went dark and the hall outside settled into a hush. Three nights. Three days and three nights. Seemed more like three weeks, time crawling like a fly on the back of his eyeball. Through all those days he must have tried thousands of times to move his finger. Just his finger.
Panic nibbled at the corners of his brain.
"Now, now, Mr. Nacht. Be calm. I'm Dr. Graham, attending neurosurgeon here. You were shot in the neck. I removed the bullet fragments, repaired the soft tissues, and closed you up. But the bullet caused a high cervical fracture. At the moment, you are paralyzed."
Jake pushed back the panic and grasped at what looked like a straw.
"At the moment?"
"Yes. Trauma of that sort causes edema—swelling—of the spinal cord, and that causes paralysis. If the cord is intact, you will regain your sensory and motor function when the swelling subsides. If not . . ."
"You mean you don't know.>"
"We're waiting for the results of the MR scan of your neck. We'll know the exact extent of the damage then. But cither way, you've got other things to worry about."
"Great. Like what?"
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"Like the attempted murder of Senator Weingarten."
Attempted murder? That meant he'd missed. Damn it to hell! What else could go wrong?
"Who's Senator Weingarten?" Jake said.
Dr. Graham gave him a startled look, then stepped out of Jake's field of vision and opened the door.
Jake's mind revved into high. He was trapped here now and even a best-case scenario said it was going to be a while before he walked out. So he had to stay alive until then. The only way he could assure that was to deny everything. He was Jake Nacht, security guard from Jersey, here in the dxy to maybe see a play and hang out. He'd barely heard of this Senator Weingarten and hadn't a reason in the world to want him dead. He was an innocent bystander, shot by some trigger-happy New York cop.
That could work, yes. He had a lily-white past and was one of Atlantic County, New Jersey's quietest, most law-abiding, taxpay-ing homeowners.
Sarge's home.
Suddenly, in the midst of his fear, Jake saw Sarge, the image battering its way into his mind: Blood sprouting on Sarge's chest and face, and he'd never let himself wonder what the bullets had felt like going in, but now he knew. For an instant, Jake was Sarge, falling back as the slugs pierced him like hot pokers. Then he was above, looking down at Sarge's still, bloody form. Jake tried to wrench free of the memory, but it clung, smothering everything else, filling the hospital room with the cold light of another day.
He'd left Sarge where he fell, staggering back along the path until he found the jeep. He had nowhere else to go so he drove back to the house. Mrs. Nacht was sitting in her usual chair by the window when he stumbled into the house.
"Is he coming back?" she'd said.
Jake could only shake his head.
She'd nodded grimly, then lit another cigarette.
She never offered to treat Jake's wounds or take him to a doctor, but she did keep on cooking meals and keeping house. After three
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days she reported Sarge missing. Told the state police he went out hunting and never came back. She never mentioned that Jake had been with him. And she never mentioned Sarge again after that.
As soon as Jake had been well enough, he left, ft)und a job in the GM plant up in Edison. A few years later he got a registered letter informing him that Mrs. Nacht had died—of lung cancer, it turned out—and since Herbert Nacht had never been found, the Nacht house was Jake's.
At first he'd wanted nothing to do with the place or anything else connected with Sarge, but then he decided. Why not.> It was a nice piece of property and it guaranteed him the last laugh on Sarge.
Shortly after he moved in, a guy came looking for Sarge. Had a job for him; hadn't been able to contact Sarge through the usual channels so he'd come looking. Jake gave it about two seconds' thought—his couple of years on the GM line had seemed like a lifetime—and said he was Sarge's son and he'd taken over the business. The guy had said nothing doing until Jake took him into the pines and gave him a little demonstration.
The guy gave Jake his first contract. The first of many.
But unlike Sarge, Jake had never married. No Mrs. Nacht II. Just periodic trips to AC and a night or a weekend with a pro named Caidin, or whomever he happened to pick up—
Jake broke free of the memories as he realized why his mind had been able to hurl him back into the past at a moment like this: The house, Sarge's house. The cops would search it from top to bottom for evidence against him. Would they find anything.^ For a moment, Jake's mind spun with fear, and then he got control again. One of the first changes he'd made in the Nacht place was to get rid of Sarge's gun room. He'd buried his arsenal deep in the pines where no one would ever find it. So there were no weapons in the house except the S&W Chief Special he supposedly wore to work as a security guard. The police would expect to find that.
Otherwise, the place was clean as a convent.
To his left, Jake heard the doctor say, "He's awake, Detective."
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Danziger hove into view. He opened his mouth to speak but Jake beat him to it.
"You're the man who shot me! Dr. Graham, this man tried to kill me! Call the police!"
"He is the police," Dr. Graham said. "This is Detective Danziger, NYPD."
"I don't want him here. He—"
"You've got no say in the matter, Nacht." Danziger pointed a finger in Jake's face. "You're under—"
"He's already tried to kill me once!" Jake said, pushing his voice up an octave. The effort made his head throb harder. "He shot me for no reason at all! Now he's going to try to finish the job!"
Danziger's face reddened. "Knock that offl"
Jake started screaming. "Help! Murder! Help! He's going to kill me! Help!"
His headache was blazing now, but Jake kept up the volume as Dr. Graham began pulling Danziger toward the door.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Detective. You're upsetting my patient."
"Bullshit!" Danziger said. "He's—"
'^Please, Detective. His condition is very critical at this point and your presence is having a detrimental effect. You've already shot and crippled him. What else do you want to do to him?"
Danziger growled, shot Jake one last glare, then stormed out. Jake quieted when he heard the door slam.
"Is he gone.>" he asked fearfully.
"Yes. Yes, he's gone," Dr. Graham said, stepping to the bedside. "But I'm sure he'll be back." He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Jake. "You just made a very serious accusation."
Jake knew this would be the first of many tellings of this tale. He kept it neat.
"It's true. You've got to believe me. Doctor. I don't understand it. I stepped out of my hotel room because of all the noise in the hall. I saw all these policemen crowded around the room two doors down. I asked what the racket was about and that man just . . .
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shot me. I don't understand it." He blinked a couple of times, wishing he could squeeze out a tear. "I just don't understand it."
Doubt and belief warred on Dr. Graham's open face. He patted Jake's shoulder—a shoulder that didn't exist as far as Jake was concerned.
"I'll be looking into this, you can be sure," he said. "In the meantime, don't worry. We'll do everything we can for you. Ever}^-thing."
"I'm sure of that," Jake said. "Just don't let that killer near
Jake was left alone for a while. Nurses popped in and out fre-quendy, gazed at him with wary but sympathetic eyes as they gave him sips of water and did whatever it is nurses do, then left him to himself.
Which was good. Because he had a lot of thinking to do.
He figured the best way to stay alive was to stick to the story he'd told Dr. Graham: I'm an innocent bystander, totally out of the loop, who fell victim to a trigger-happy cop.
That would send a not-to-w^orry message to the Boys confirming what they probably knew already: that Jake Nacht was a stand-up guy who wasn't going to point the finger anywhere but at the cops.
But that didn't get him any closer to figuring out who'd saved Whiny's ass. And why.
He'd have to start looking into that when he got out of here. He'd find out who sooner or later, and then he'd find out why. And then he'd see some heads roll. Big-time.
Dr. Graham came in, looking like the Grim Reaper.
"I don't like that look on your face. Doc."
"We have the MR report, Mr. Nacht. I'm afraid the news isn't good."
Jake's mouth went dry. "Don't drag it out."
"Very well." Dr. Graham swallowed. "A fragment of the bullet
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sliced through your spinal cord, causing a ninety percent severance."
"What's that mean?" A sick, cold dread wormed through Jake. He could guess the answer but he had to hear it from the doc.
"It means you're never going to walk or use your arms again, Mr. Nacht."
The doc went on talking, something about all the wonderful things they were doing for quadriplegics these days, about eventually being able, after lots of rehab, to move a few of his fingers, maybe enough to operate a computer keyboard. But the words receded, drowned out by the roaring in Jake's ears as he looked into the fixture and saw a guy who couldn't feed himself, couldn't roll over by himself, couldn't wipe his own butt ... an endless fiiture . . . and the man had Jake's face.
Jake bit back a scream.
The man in that nightmare fiature couldn't even kill himself
The next morning a nurse leaned over him and said, "Your attorney's here. Do you want to see him.>"
Jake surfaced slowly from the swamp of depression, forcing himself to replay the words, then focus on them. Attorney.> He didn't have an attorney. Which meant whoever was out in the hall had something else in mind besides the law.
Good. They'd come to kill him. Yesterday he'd been worried that the people who'd set him up would attempt to sneak in and finish the job Danziger had botched. Since his last talk with Dr. Graham, Jake had been afraid they wouldn^t. So now this had to be it. This so-called attorney no doubt had a silenced .22 in his briefcase.
"Let him in."
The guy was balding and fortyish, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit.
"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Nacht," he said, thrusting out his
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hand and then snatching it back when it became obvious that no one was going to shake it. "My name's Steven Krosny and I think we have a pretty good—"
"Cut the bullshit," Jake said.
Krosny's eyes widened behind his glasses. "I beg your pardon.^"
"Spare me the chatter. Do the hit and get it over with. Just make it quick."
He closed his eyes and waited as Krosny opened his briefcase. The guy didn't have to be good to pump a few .22 hoUowpoints into his skull at point-blank range. He just had to know how to point and pull a trigger. Jake wouldn't feel a thing. And then this nightmare would be over.
"Hit.> I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Nacht. I'm here to make you a very rich man."
Jake opened his eyes. "What.>"
Krosny had a legal pad on his lap. "I've looked into the evidence in your case—I have friends in the DA's office—and there's no way you're going to trial. They have nothing on you, Mr. Nacht. They can't even put you before the grand jury because they have nothing to show. You, however, have been hideously wounded and permanently crippled. You and I are going to make the city pay for your devastating injuries. Pay dearly."
"You mean you're not here to whack me.>"
"What is whack.> Is this slang of some sort.> I'm here to help you sue New York City for about a zillion dollars, Mr. Nacht."
"Christ, you're on the level! What do I care about money now.>"
"Plenty, I should think. After all, you're going to need skilled nursing care for the rest of your life. That's going to cost. You're going to need ..."
Jake closed his eyes and let Krosny rattle on. He wanted to die and it didn't look like anyone was going to help him out. Of course, he could start singing to the cops about Fredo and Mr. C That would sure as hell buy him some lethal attention, but he didn't want to go out with a canary in his mouth. No matter how
01 F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON
bad things were, he couldn't allow himself to be remembered that way.
No, he'd have to live for a while, let all the therapists do their thing on him, and work real hard with them in the hope that someday he'd be able to find a way to do one last hit—on himself
BED
When he needed rest from his anger, Jake practiced smelling his way around his room. That slight chlorine odor came from the bathroom. TidyBowl added a faint, sweet perfume—
What a waste, having a bathroom.
Jake realized he had just made a pun. Hilarious. He glanced down at the curving hump the catheter raised in the blanket. It looked like a mole's burrow.
The air conditioner whispered to life. Jake rolled his eyes toward the wall, concentrating until he detected the faint fruit}^ smell of the paint. They must have put on a fresh coat shortly before he was brought in. Pastel blue—better than pink but what was wrong with white.> Not that it mattered.
He became aware of his own smells—the catheter, sweat, the oil in his hair, a faint meaty smell on his breath. He was part of the room now, like the paint and the floor wax and the toilet. For how long.> Thinking of what the doctor had told him, Jake felt the dread welling up again. The floor seemed to open beneath him, dropping him into a dizzying free fall. Closing his eyes, he fought off panic.
Tou^ve asked me to he honesty Mr. Nacht, and I do think it's best. With this type of injuryj Vve never seen a patient walk a^ain. The
DO F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON
new biofeedback therapy may well build up sensation and perhaps some movement in your hands. Though you might not think so now, that will make a hu£fe difference in making you less dependent. And don^t write off the chance of a medical breakthrough.
I have to get out of here, Jake thought. I'll work hard on the therapy, get my hands back. Then I'll get the legs, I don't care what the doctor says.
Thinking about his legs, Jake felt a measure of hope. Clearly they could move. He had seen one of them twitch yesterday but had decided it was his imagination. Then it happened again today, just a few minutes ago, his right leg jerking under the covers. He hadn't been trying to move it, and when he did try, nothing happened. But surely Dr. Graham would consider the twitches a hopeful sign.
I will walk out of here, Jake thought, and blow Fredo's brains out. If that ambulance chaser Krosny can get the city to fork over a few mil, I'll take it, but I'm not going to stay paralyzed. I'm not some poor jerk who lies in a bed with tubes running in and out of him, who can't even sit to take a leak, who has to be spoon-fed like a baby. Not me.
Finding a spark of fury, he nursed it along. He imagined Fredo's smug, stupid face in the crosshairs of his scope. He imagined his finger squeezing the trigger—
His right hand, lying on top of the white covers, drew his gaze. With a mixture of hope and fear, he stared at the trigger finger, willing it to move. It lay still. He concentrated fiercely, trying to find the pathway from his brain to the hand. What would his nerves look like running through his arm—white tunnels, maybe.> Just find the right tunnel and flash through to the finger.
The smell of sweat deepened. The hand remained still.
Jake tore his gaze away from the hand and stared at the ceiling. Okay, the tunnels were temporarily blocked. But they would open up again. He'd get through. You'll see, Fredo.
Jake breathed deeply. Getting too emotional. Got to get back on a more even keel. Panic or rage, both blocked thought. And
NIGHTKILL OJ
he had a lot of thinking to do—starting with exactly what had gone down in that hotel room.
Why had the cops cut it so fine? If Detective Danziger had been straight, it might figure—he'd spotted a gunman in the window, rushed his squad to the hotel and barely made it. But I don't let heat spot me in the window, Jake thought. Besides, he knew my face, knew I was the mechanic. Some of his squad must have been straight, or Danziger could have walked over and put three more into my back. But Danziger is as bent as a snake sucking its tail.
So was the bastard early or late.^
If they meant to let me whack Whiny, then punch my ticket to keep me quiet, he was early. Another five seconds and whoever set me up would have gotten at least half of what they wanted. This way they got zip. Whiny isn't dead and they can't know I won't talk.
So suppose they didn't want me to whack Whiny. That makes Danziger late—almost too late.
And it doesn't figure. If all they wanted was to pop me, why set me up on Whiny, then come after me just a few hundred yards from TV cameras and a brigade of blues.> Why not just send out four guys with Uzis some night, catch me in an alley.>
So suppose they wanted to almost kill Whiny, scare him real bad.
That works, Jake thought grimly. Here they've got this U.S. senator in their pocket, then he starts to shake them down. Why cancel a resource like that if you can bully it back into line.> So they set up the hit, stop it in the nick of time, and send a very strong message to Whiny. See what almost happened to you. Senator .> Lucky we were there. Maybe next time we won't be.
Danziger was right on time, Jake thought.
And I'm the patsy.
The rage started to build in him again and with it the sting of betrayal. Through seventeen hits, Mr. C had ahvays played straight with him. And then he'd decided to toss him away. Whether they'd meant to kill Weingarten or scare him, Jake Nacht was not supposed to leave that hotel room alive.
JU F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON
First I'll kill Fredo, Jake thought. Then Danziger. Let Mr. C think about it for a while. Then I'll kill him.
Right. But when.>
The rage gave way to a terrible sense of impotence.
How many days have I been here.> Jake wondered.
He counted back over the nights, the periods when the room went dark and the hall outside settled into a hush. Three nights. Three days and three nights. Seemed more like three weeks, time crawling like a fly on the back of his eyeball. Through all those days he must have tried thousands of times to move his finger. Just his finger.
