The First Patient

CHAPTER 62

It had been stupid to yell out from the tower the way he had. Absolutely stupid.

Hunting knife in hand, Gabe reprimanded himself as he cautiously descended to the main floor.

What now?

He tried without success to get his brain around the answer to who could have found them within just six hours. Drew's belief that few, if any, outside his immediate family knew of The Aerie had to have been misguided. Someone else knew and had put the pieces together. Gabe had heard that of all the investigative services, including the CIA and FBI, the Secret Service was the most resourceful, efficient, and imaginative. It wouldn't surprise him to learn that The Aerie was in one of their files, along with its history and maybe even some blueprints.

Hopefully, Secret Service agents were the ones who were laying siege to the castle right now. In truth, although Gabe had chosen to suspect anyone and everyone as betraying Drew, the president's protective detachment would have been the ones he trusted first. One thing Gabe was certain of-the forms outside weren't his mind playing tricks. He envisioned a Secret Service SWAT team, or the equivalent, silently positioning themselves in the night.

It would take some serious work and preparation to breach the walls of the castle. Probably whoever was out there would take the more straightforward approach of simply setting aside stealth and blowing the massive portcullis to toothpicks.

What in the hell have I done? Gabe wondered once again.

The West Tower staircase opened into the far end of the dining room. To reach Drew, he would have to cross the great room to the basement staircase. Gabe frantically tried to reason out what there was to be gained by alerting Drew before he knew what they were up against. Would Drew agree to stay where he was until it was clear how much of a threat there was to him? At least for the moment he was locked in the bunker and reasonably secure. But he also had the cell phone. Gabe considered and quickly rejected the possibility of trying to sneak out and get down the mountain to ask for help.

Maybe whoever was outside would be unable to breach the walls or blow up the portcullis. Maybe they were just kids looking for mischief. Maybe…

Harsh whispers echoing from the kitchen, no more than twenty feet away, stopped him short.

How in the hell had they gotten in?

A siege tunnel! Gabe felt certain of it. Most medieval castles had one or more secret ways to go around or behind a besieging army to escape or to bring in supplies and weapons. It would have been a surprise if eccentric Bedard Stoddard had not built one.

"Crackowski, what in hell happened to you back there?"

The heavy southern drawl was one Gabe recognized immediately.

His heart stopped, considered remaining that way, then slowly started up again, missing every few beats.

"I smashed my fucking head in that fucking tunnel," the other man, Crackowski, said. "Shit, it's bleeding."

"That's what you get for shaving your head."

"Fuck you, Carl. When we've taken care of business here, I'm gonna shave your head."

"It'll be really hard to do that with a bullet through your eye. Now, let's get this over with."

"You take the front half out there, I'll take the rear. Any lights you find, turn them on. Whoever yelled knows we're here, so we're not going to take anyone by surprise. One alive, one dead."

"One alive, one dead," Jim Ferendelli's killer echoed.

Gabe silently backed away and into the great room, where there were some swords and a spear or two, plus a number of places he could conceal himself. If he understood the orders from the man named Crackowski, the other killer, Carl, would be coming his way.

"One alive, one dead."

Gabe had little trouble believing that he was the throwaway. With the nanotechnology at their disposal, it seemed that whoever was behind the transmitters could deal with the president any time they wanted. Of course, it was still possible that Drew was the real target and not just his presidency, as Ferendelli believed. But like Lily Sexton, Gabe had become a dangerous loose end.

The two killers knew about the siege tunnel. Did they know about the bunker as well? If Drew remained locked inside, getting at him would be a hell of a problem… unless they were able to shut off his air.

With the skipped heartbeats increasing again, Gabe pressed himself against the wall behind the huge armored stallion and rider and forced himself to calm down and focus, much as he had done over the years when faced with medical crises.

Chances were that he was going to die, but the two men were going to have to earn their kill.

At that moment, Carl moved cautiously into the great room, his heavy pistol ready. Gabe clutched his hunting knife and tried unsuccessfully to imagine any scenario where he might have even a slight advantage. He ducked down and moved deeper into the shadows behind the mannequin steed and its rider as the gunman approached.

Fifteen feet… ten… five…

Any second, Carl would be able to see him. Gabe braced himself against the armor covering the haunch of the horse and tightened his grip on the handle of the hunting knife, preparing for an overhand stab. Between horse and rider there had to be at least two hundred pounds of steel, probably more. He had to bring the setup down quickly and accurately.

One more step, just one, and…

Gabe drove his shoulder into the armor as if he were trying to take out an onrushing lineman. Carl's reaction, not unexpectedly, was to whirl and fire. The impact of the armor sent him stumbling backward, and he fell heavily, with much of the horse collapsing down on him. Gabe dove on top of the armor, slashing randomly downward with the heavy blade again and again until he felt it hit flesh and heard Carl's cry.

Then, an instant later, Gabe was shot.

The bullet, one of a volley of wild shots from Carl's pistol, tore through the tissue just above Gabe's right hip, spinning him backward and off the horse. Above the armor he could see the killer trying to set for another, more accurate shot, but through the gloom he also saw the hunting knife protruding from the man's thigh. Gabe managed to get his feet onto the mannequin and pushed it against the killer as hard as he could. Then Gabe rolled over and stumbled to his feet, gasping at the pain from his wound at the same moment Carl was screaming, "You fucker! You stabbed me! I'll kill you! You fucking bastard! I'll kill you!"

Several more shots exploded, echoing through the vast hall.

Dragging his leg, Gabe lurched toward the dining room and headed for the short stairway leading up to the second level, away from where he suspected the other gunman, Crackowski, would be coming. His jeans were rapidly soaking through with blood, and he felt blood dripping down into his boot. Still, no matter what, he had gotten one in for Jim Ferendelli.

The pain from his wound was intense but manageable. Using the stone banister, he hauled himself up to the second floor and around to the balcony surrounding the empty pool from twelve feet above. It was easy to imagine Drew, his father, and his grandfather, as well as family and friends, jumping and diving from the balcony into the pool, which included, Drew had told him, an overhead grid of pipes used to simulate a rainstorm on cue. In fact, the pipes were still there, illuminated to some extent by light reflecting off the clouds and coming through a glass canopy as large as the pool.

With the glimmer of an idea beginning to form, Gabe ignored the burning pain in his hip and managed to stand on the balcony wall, propping himself against one of the pillars that supported the glass canopy. Then he tested the main pipe, which seemed solidly anchored to a metal frame that came down from the roof. Whether or not it could hold more than double a man's weight was anyone's guess, but that was what he would be asking it to do.

The knife was gone, and he was hardly mobile enough to go foraging for another weapon. But he did have a weapon-at least a potential one-in his backpack, and he knew damn well how to use it. Carefully, he removed the rope he had used to entertain and educate the stable master's son, Pete-forty feet of excellent lariat cord, purchased in the store where Gabe had gotten his boots. Then he took one end and swung it over the pipe. Finally, he tied that end around his waist and used it and the descending length to test the pipe and lower himself back to the balcony floor.

No problem.

It would be a hell of a throw, but somewhere in a box in his basement were dozens of tarnished trophies that said he could make it.

Spent from the pain and the effort, Gabe sank onto the stone floor of the balcony and waited, trying not to gasp out loud with each breath. It seemed likely that when Carl was upright the two killers would separate again. The knife wound to Carl's leg would have them angry, anxious, and even a little shaken-a recipe for error. All Gabe could hope for now was that one of them didn't come up to the balcony.

He shifted his position and felt a daggerlike pain from his wound into his groin. He was about to check to see if there was an exit hole when he heard noise and sensed movement from below. Peering between the cement balustrades, he could make out a man's form, moving cautiously along the pool. No limp. Then, light through the canopy glinted off his shaved pate.

Crackowski.

Gabe shifted again, checked the knot that fixed the lariat around his waist, then the slipknot he had tied at the business end of the rope. A glance overhead to ensure everything was in place and he gathered in the slack, moved into an agonizing crouch, and waited as, a step at a time, the killer headed toward the spot just beneath where the rope looped over the rain pipe.

Under ordinary circumstances, Gabe knew he could make the throw ten times out of ten-but that was without walls behind him and overhead, and allowing for a few warm-up spins, and, finally, provided the subject to be roped wasn't holding a gun. This time Gabe would have one chance and only one. A miss and he would be trying to outrun a professional gunman on a leg that was barely functional.

He hefted the lasso and tried to imagine the moves he would make to close the loop as he was dropping over the balcony wall, using Crackowski as counterweight to keep him from smashing to the concrete poolside.

Just another Sunday hangin' in Dodge.

No mercy, he pleaded with himself. No mercy… No hesitation…

He took a step back, then leaned over the balcony, swung the lasso once to open a small loop, and floated it around the killer's head. Before Crackowski could react, Gabe toppled off the balcony, grasping the rope from the rain pipe with all his strength. The drop was rapid, the snapping neck sickening, and Crackowski's death instantaneous. Gabe hit the concrete floor with force, but only enough to stun him. He released the rope, still tied to his waist. The killer crumpled to the floor beside him, the stench of excrement already filling the air.

For most of a minute, Gabe stayed dazed on the floor, trying to orient himself from what he knew had to be a concussion. Finally, thoughts and images of Carl worked themselves into his hazy consciousness, intermixed with images of Gabe's high school coach, kneeling over him, administering smelling salts, and asking if he knew where he was and if he was able to go back into the game.

He had to move. Carl was painfully wounded, but he was mobile and he had a gun. For a moment, Gabe became excited about finding Crack-owski's pistol. Then he vaguely remembered seeing it clatter down into the empty pool. Had that really happened?

Groaning with every movement, he crawled to the edge of the concrete hole and peered down. He could barely make out what he thought was the bottom and could not discern anything else.

Perhaps he was wrong… Maybe the gun was still nearby… Maybe it was under Crackowski's body.

Gabe knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but he was unable to focus any better. His head was pounding, and the wound beside his hip made turning especially unpleasant. He crawled over to Crackowski's body. The killer's eyes were bulging nearly out of his head and his protruding tongue looked like a plum. Blocking out the odor, Gabe rolled the corpse over once, then again. No gun.

Still trying to shake the fog from his brain, he tried to rise, then fell back to his knees. When he turned back to the pool, Carl was standing there, watching him curiously, his heavy pistol resting loosely in his hand.

"Now this here's a scene you just don't see every day," he drawled.

The jolt of adrenaline dispelled Gabe's fogginess like sunlight.

"That knife in your thigh hurt?" he asked.

"Not nearly as much as you're going to."

"Such a wit."

From time to time, Gabe wondered what his patients might have been feeling at the moment of their death. Now he acknowledged that it really wasn't all that bad. Carl whatever his last name was, was going to pull the trigger and Gabe Singleton wasn't going to exist anymore. It was as simple as that.

"Stand up!"

I'm not going to make it easy, Carl, Gabe was thinking. I promise you I'm not.

"Do I look like I can stand up?" he said.

"Stand up or I swear I'll shoot through every joint in your body starting from the toes up."

Gabe had heard enough.

Let it end here, he was thinking. Let it end here for both of us.

Without hesitation, he planted the right toe of his boot and drove his head with all his remaining strength into the man's groin. Carl went over the edge of the pool backward, with Gabe clinging to him like a chimpanzee to its mother. Somewhere during the fall there might have been a gunshot. Gabe felt another tearing pain-this one through his shoulder. Then there was a fearsome impact, with air exploding from his lungs.

Then there was nothing.