‘Nicole,’ I said gently. ‘Just let him do his job.’
I placed my SIG down and Chambers offered me a sour smile.
This time he did read me my rights.
‘Is there any chance I get to share a cell with Samuel Logan?’
44
Samuel watched from where he was seated in the back of a police cruiser. The cop the vehicle was assigned to scowled down at him, eyeing with distaste the blood that was pooling on the scuffed vinyl seat. Samuel understood that was the only reason he hadn’t been taken away to lock-up before now. A duty of care existed even when a prisoner was a wanted murderer: the cops were awaiting the arrival of an ambulance so that his wounds could be tended to. Samuel wasn’t bothered about that; he was too engrossed in what was happening across the lot.
Joe Hunter was being frisked for other weapons. His handgun had already been taken away by the young cop who had also arrested him. Now Samuel saw a wicked-looking knife disgorged from Hunter’s right boot. The man was a fucking walking arsenal, but it looked like the police had now seized everything. He recalled that the man could fight, so wasn’t totally without means of defending himself, but even carrying the dramatic wounds he did, Samuel was confident he could take him.
Maybe they’ll put us in the same holding cell, and we’ll see.
Samuel scanned the faces around him. There were cops everywhere now. Also guests had come out of the hotel and were standing in the forecourt watching the proceedings with ghoulish fascination. Some cops were speaking with them, identifying witnesses. He could see no sign of Jay Walker or Nicole Challinor. He was disgruntled that they weren’t around to witness what he planned next, but it was only a mild sensation. His fixation had jumped to another more worthy recipient.
He stared at Joe Hunter.
Hunter stared back.
Samuel laughed.
‘Keep it down in there.’ The cop standing guard banged his hand on the roof of the cruiser.
Samuel spat bloody saliva on the Perspex partition.
The cop leaned close to the window, which was cracked open a quarter-inch. ‘Do us all a favour, asshole. Hurry up and bleed to death.’
Exsanguination was a very real possibility. Blood pulsed from his wounds. Also, Samuel wasn’t sure that his skull was in one piece after the crack he’d taken from Hunter’s gun butt, and his previously broken rib felt more malformed than it had before rolling about on the floor. He was in bad shape. Anyone else, he assumed, would be unconscious due to the intense agony. Most would already be dead.
He knew that he was short of time and if he didn’t kill Hunter soon he likely would never get the opportunity.
His jailer had turned away, watching as an ambulance entered the hotel grounds, negotiating its way slowly between the other parked vehicles. Samuel’s hands were cuffed behind him, but that was good, because his body would block him should the cop turn around too soon. Samuel strained, yanking savagely. He couldn’t care less if he peeled the very skin from his hand like a glove. He continued to exert pressure, and the flesh began to tear. The blood helped make his wrists slick, except he still couldn’t free his hands.
He didn’t feel pain, but he was sickened by the thought of what was necessary, and only the unreal buzz of cocaine in his mind gave him the fortitude to go ahead with it.
He took his left thumb in the palm of his right hand.
The car must have rocked, because the cop spun around.
‘What the hell are you doing in there?’ he demanded.
Samuel was cringing and thick beads of cold sweat were streaming down his brow. He must have looked like he was suffering heart failure.
‘Holy Christ! Medics! Get over here. Now!’
The cop yanked the door open and leaned in, his fingers probing at the carotid pulse in Samuel’s neck. Samuel’s flesh was slimy with sweat and the cop couldn’t pinpoint a pulse, not helped by the shuddering of the body beneath his fingers. He made the mistake of turning to look for support from the approaching medics. It was what Samuel had been waiting for. He pulled free his right hand. The bracelet was still snapped tightly to it, but the other loop was empty save for adhering shreds of skin. The cop’s gun was on his right hip and out of reach, so Samuel grabbed at the next available weapon. He pulled the canister off the cop’s utility belt, flipped open the lid and depressed the button. The contents of the pepper spray were disgorged directly into the cop’s face. He reacted by attempting to rear back out of the car, his eyelids screwed tight, mouth hanging open as saliva flooded from it. Samuel held on to the cop, used his motion to tug him up and out of the car. He dropped the pepper spray and grabbed at the cop’s belt again, this time on his right side. The cop, bewildered, senses in disarray, still had the presence of mind to protect his sidearm. He grappled to retain it. Samuel butted his forehead into the man’s face. The cop was tough, but he was in a no-win position: Samuel head-butted him again. The cop now tried to flee, but Samuel wouldn’t relinquish his hold on the gun and it was torn from its holster.
Samuel turned the gun on the fleeing cop.
Pulled the trigger.
It dry-fired.
Cop protocol, he realised. They didn’t carry a pistol charged with one in the spout. He was unfamiliar with the gun, but it was easy to work out. He racked the slide, using his left hand, and even he frowned at the mess of it. By the time he was ready to fire the cop had thrown himself down behind another cruiser, out of sight.
Samuel didn’t care: the cop was never the primary target.
He swung around to where he’d last seen Joe Hunter.
The commotion had already spread a wave of panic through the crowd, but it was still early enough that no one was ready to halt him yet. The other cops on the scene were too busy taking up positions of cover or exhorting the civilians to get down and out of the line of fire.
He had a direct line of fire on Hunter and the two detectives who’d initially arrested him. Hunter was unarmed and the cops might as well throw down their weapons, given the lack of action they were taking.
Through the mêlée Samuel marched, his right leg unsteady beneath him and trailing droplets of blood.
He grinned feverishly as he lifted the gun and aimed it at Hunter’s face.
45
I thought that Detective Chambers was an insufferable asshole, but he was a good cop really. He was doing the right thing however lopsided you looked at his actions. I’d been captured red-handed, had discharged an illegally owned handgun, so he was duty bound to take me in. It didn’t matter that I’d just saved the lives of innocent people because the letter of the law states that two wrongs don’t make a right. I knew things would be cleared up; in fact, after a trip to the station and having my version of events backed up by all the witnesses at the scene, I’d probably be kicked out without charge. Chambers was happy that he’d arrested Samuel Logan and that outweighed his dislike for people he deemed vigilantes.
Witherspoon was totally embarrassed by it all, but what could he do? He knew that his partner was doing things by the book and he could only go along with the decision to take me in. He offered me shakes of his head and a pursed mouth in condolence.
‘Like I told Nicole, Chambers is only doing his job. I don’t hold it against him.’
‘Shit, we wouldn’t have got him if it weren’t for you,’ Witherspoon said.
‘I got you thinking back there, did I?’
‘It’s why I grabbed my partner and followed you here.’ Witherspoon leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Pity I didn’t come alone. I’d’ve waited a few seconds longer before asking you to put down your weapon.’