Eerie - Crouch Blake (читать книги онлайн без .txt) 📗

One of Art’s.

Deep breaths.

716.

A small pane of reinforced glass looked into the room.

She peered through the bottom corner of the window.

A little light bled through a curtain on the far side of the room, but it only brightened several tiles on the floor. Everything else lay in shadow.

She eased the door open.

It swung on its hinges without a sound.

Light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

Reaching in, she palmed the wall, running her hand along the smooth concrete until it grazed a light switch.

She hesitated.

Glanced up and down the corridor.

Nothing moved.

That nurse was crying again and the patient beating his door even harder, but she relegated these superfluous distractions to background noise.

She hit the switch—two fluorescent panels flickering to life—and then dug her shoulder into the door and charged.

The door crashed hard into the rubber stop on the wall and bounced back, but she was already past and swinging into the bleak little room.

There was a single bed lined with metal railing and occupied by Jim Moreton.

The man lay on his side under a white blanket, his back to her.

She cleared the far side of the bed and then opened a door beside a dresser, groping for the light switch.

A small bathroom appeared.

She stepped in, swept back the shower curtain.

Cleared the toilet alcove.

She was breathing so hard her vision had begun to populate with throbbing motes of blackness.

She went to the closet, opened the sliding doors.

Ten pairs of identical khaki slacks. Ten long-sleeved button-down shirts—all variations of blue. Three pairs of Velcro shoes.

Otherwise, empty.

She turned her attention to the bed. The wrist she could see wore a padded restraint that was attached to the railing by a leather loop.

“Mr. Moreton?”

As she moved toward the bed, the face on Seymour’s receipt flashed through her mind.

Sunken cheeks. Frown lines like canyons in his forehead. Wild, stringy hair.

The hairline on the back of this man’s head was cropped, and it ran back to a patchy area at the top of his scalp where it had begun to thin.

She knew that bald spot.

Sat behind it every day at the precinct.

Sophie rolled Art Dobbs onto his back.

The left side of his face resembled an eggplant, swollen and shiny. His eye had disappeared into it and the other was turned up into its socket like a cue ball.

“Art.”

She shook him.

Then ripped back the covers.

No blood.

“Art, can you hear me?”

A gurgling noise issued from his nose as air struggled through the grotesque new angle of his nasal cavity.

He was out cold, but at least he was breathing, and he wasn’t shot.

She dialed 911, held her phone between her shoulder and ear as she headed out of the room.

“Nine-one-one, where is your emergency?”

“Evergreen Psychiatric Hospital in Kirkland. This is Detective Benington with the Seattle PD.” Sophie edged out into the corridor. “Shots fired, officer down. Art Dobbs is in room seven-sixteen in the acute unit.” Started moving at a jog. “Four suspects. Armed. Driving a black GMC Savana. They may have kidnapped Jim Moreton, a patient here.” She was approaching an intersection, the floor up ahead smeared with what appeared to be blood.

“What are his injuries?”

“I have to go now—”

“Ma’am, please—”

Sophie ended the call, slid the phone back into her jacket.

The blood smear wasn’t isolated. Footprints—the tread of a dress shoe—continued on.

She swung around the corner and sited down the corridor.

The prints trailed off after a few steps, but the blood trail didn’t.

There was a man sitting against the wall under an exit sign that burned red at the far end—didn’t look like Moreton, but she couldn’t be sure from this distance.

Sophie called out, “Seattle Police! Get on your stomach and spread out your hands!”

The man was fifty feet away.

He turned his head and stared at her but failed to move.

“Did you not hear me, sir? Do you want to get shot?”

He said, “I’m already shot.”

As Sophie moved forward, she saw that he wasn’t lying. The man held his right leg with both hands and he sat in a small, dark pool that reflected the fluorescents redly.

Good for you, Art.

At thirty feet, she recognized him.

Seymour.

He said, “I need a doctor.”

“Do you have a gun?”

He shook his head.

She stopped in front of him.

“Where’d your buddies go?”

“I don’t know.” He was grunting through the pain and blood was still trickling through his fingers. Sophie unsnapped her handcuffs, knelt down, and popped a bracelet around Seymour’s left wrist. The other cuff, she locked to the handrail.

He groaned. “You have to help me.”

“Help’s coming. Keep pressure on that wound. You’ll be fine.”

Sophie grabbed Angela’s ID badge from her pocket and swiped it through the card reader.

The door buzzed and she shouldered her way through into the blinding illumination of a floodlight.

Started jogging along a walkway between the dark buildings.

She was disoriented—no idea of her location relative to the main entrance—and she couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of rain beating down on the grass, the pavement, her head.

She accelerated.

In the distance, she spotted a row of streetlights.

The parking lot.

She was sprinting now, the rain driving into her face, boots streaking through pools of standing water that had collected in the grass.

She broke out from the buildings, crossed a sidewalk, and blitzed into the parking lot. She was panting, years since she’d run this hard.

Wiping rainwater out of her eyes, she spotted the van in the distance. A trio of dark shapes jogged toward it, carrying something wrapped in white.

Sophie reached a gray Honda Accord and took shelter behind it, rain pouring off her face, lungs burning as she gasped for breath.

Where is my backup?

She glanced through the windows.

The van was fifty feet away.

Three men struggled to carry what appeared to be another man over their heads. They looked like errant pallbearers moving across the barren parking lot.

She got to her feet, and over the roof of the Accord, sited down the men and the van.

Water streamed off the slide, the Glock’s polymer frame beaded with rain.

It was harder than she had imagined—much harder—summoning her voice.

“Stop! Seattle Police!”

The men didn’t flinch, didn’t react.

She yelled it again at the top of her voice.

They were almost to the van. In unison, they dropped to their knees and set the man in white on the wet pavement. One of their number rushed forward to the sliding door, fumbling with a set of keys.

His partners turned.

“Get on the ground!” Sophie yelled.

Never saw them draw.

A pair of muzzleflashes bloomed and the windows exploded.

She squeezed off six shots—no precision aiming, just panicked, general direction, not-wanting-to-die chaos fire—and then ducked behind the front passenger door.

The cold, wet pavement soaking through her pants.

Four gunshots echoed off the buildings, the rounds chinking into the metal of the Honda. Her ears still ringing, she peeked over the jagged range of glass sticking up out of the bottom of the door.

Grazer and Vincent had returned to the van where they were helping Talbert lift Moreton off the ground and stow him inside. She drew a bead on one of them, but she didn’t trust her aim with Moreton in the mix.

Two of the men disappeared with Moreton into the van and the last one—Grazer?—turned and fired three shots at the Accord. Sophie took cover behind the door again as air rushed out of the front tire on the other side, the car sagging forward and away from her.