Simon Beckett: Whispers of the Dead

His face had paled even more. He jerked his head towards the treatment room. ‘Last time! Get in there, now!’

But I didn’t move. Each minute I kept him talking was a minute closer to help arriving. And looking at his pallor, the ragged way he was breathing, I’d started to think about something else. Why had he chosen to hide, gambling everything on being able to slip out while we were distracted with York, instead of making a run for it while he had the chance? Perhaps for the same reason he hadn’t killed Sam. The same reason he hadn’t already choked the life out of Gardner and overpowered me.

Because he couldn’t.

‘You took quite a knock in the crash, didn’t you?’ I said, trying to keep my tone conversational. He regarded me with a hunted expression, his chest rising and falling unevenly. ‘I saw the steering wheel in the ambulance. Must have given your ribs a hell of a crack. Did you know that’s one of the most common causes of death in car crashes? The ribs splinter and pierce the lungs. Or the heart. How many times have you seen injuries like that in the morgue?’

‘Shut up.’

‘That sharp, stabbing pain you feel every time you draw a breath? That’s the bone splinters lacerating your lung tissue. It’s hard to breathe, isn’t it? And it’s going to get a lot harder, because your lungs are filling up with blood. You’re dying, Kyle.’

‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ he screamed.

‘If you don’t believe me, take a look at yourself.’ I gestured to the broken mirror on the wall. ‘See how pale you are? That’s because you’re haemorrhaging. If you don’t get medical help soon you’re going to either bleed to death or drown in your own blood.’

His mouth worked as he stared at his shattered reflection. I’d no idea how badly hurt he really was, but I’d just fed his imagination. To someone as self-obsessed as Kyle that would be enough.

He’d all but forgotten about Gardner. The TBI agent was blinking now as consciousness returned. I thought I saw him shift slightly, as though he were testing the chokehold. No, not now. Please, just stay still.

‘Give yourself up,’ I went on quickly.

‘I’m warning you…’

‘Save yourself, Kyle. If you give yourself up now you can get medical attention.’

He didn’t speak for a moment. I realized with a shock he was crying.

‘They’ll kill me anyway.’

‘No, they won’t. That’s what lawyers are for. And trials take years.’

‘I can’t go to jail!’

‘Would you rather die?’

He was snuffling back tears. I tried to keep the sudden hope from my face as I saw the tension begin to go out of him.

Then Gardner’s hand began inching towards his gun.

Kyle saw what he was doing. ‘Shit!’ He wrenched hard on Gardner’s throat. The agent gave a choked gasp and pawed feebly at his belt as Kyle grabbed with his free hand for the weapon. I lunged towards them, knowing I wasn’t going to reach them in time.

There was a sound from the doorway.

Jacobsen stood framed in it, her face blank with shock. Then her hand swept aside her jacket as she went for her own gun.

‘Leave it!’ Kyle yelled, twisting so Gardner was between them.

She stopped, hand resting on the pistol grip. Kyle had Gardner’s gun partway out of its clip, but he had to reach at an awkward angle round the agent’s body. The silence was broken only by his ragged breathing. Gardner was no longer moving at all. He hung from the chokehold like a sack, his face darker than ever.

Kyle licked his lips, his eyes going to Jacobsen’s belt clip.

‘Hand away from the gun and let him go!’ she said, but for all her authority there was still a quiver to her voice.

Kyle heard it. Adrenaline had given him a new strength. The moon face moved from side to side as he shook his head and smiled. He was back in control. Enjoying himself.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. I think you need to put your gun down.’

‘That’s not going to happen. Last chance—’

‘Shh.’ He cocked his head towards Gardner, as though he were listening. ‘I can hardly feel your partner’s heartbeat. It’s getting weaker. Slowing… slowing…’

‘If you kill him there’s nothing to stop me shooting you.’

Kyle’s smugness vanished. The pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips again, and at that moment there was the thump of footsteps from the floor above. Kyle’s eyes widened, and as Jacobsen’s attention wavered he snatched the gun from Gardner’s belt and fired.

I saw Jacobsen stagger, but she’d already drawn and fired herself. As Kyle let Gardner fall there were two more cracks and a section of mirror by my head exploded, spraying me with splinters. Then Kyle’s gun clattered to the floor and he dropped as though his strings had been cut.

My ears rang for the second time that afternoon as I rushed to Jacobsen. She was slumped against the doorway, her gun still rigidly levelled at where Kyle lay. Her face was chalk white, in stark contrast to the spreading dark stain on her jacket. It was on her left side, a glistening wet patch between her neck and her shoulder that grew bigger as I looked.

She blinked. ‘I’m… I think…’

‘Sit down. Don’t try to talk.’

I spared a quick glance at Gardner’s unmoving form as I tore open her jacket. I couldn’t see if he was breathing, but Jacobsen’s situation was more urgent: if the bullet had hit an artery she could bleed out in seconds. Feet were clattering down the stairs and along the corridor but I barely heard. I’d pulled her jacket from her injured shoulder, my breath catching at how her white shirt was soaked with blood, when figures burst through the doorway. Suddenly the chamber was filled with shouting.

‘Quick, we need—’ I began, and then I was dragged away and thrust face down on to the floor. Oh, for God’s sake! I started to get up but something struck me roughly between the shoulder blades.

‘Stay down!’ a voice yelled.

I yelled that there was no time, but no one was listening. All I could see from my vantage point was a confusion of feet.

It seemed an age before I was recognized and let up. Angrily, I shrugged free of the helping hands. People were crouching by Gardner, who had been moved into the recovery position. He was still unconscious, but I could see that at least he was breathing. I turned to where Jacobsen was being attended by two agents. They’d pulled her shirt away from her neck and shoulder on the side where she’d been shot. Her white sports bra was stained crimson. There was so much blood I couldn’t see the wound.

‘I’m a doctor, let me take a look,’ I said, kneeling beside her.

Jacobsen’s pupils were dilated with shock. The grey eyes looked young and scared.

‘I thought you were talking to Dan…’

‘It’s OK.’

‘The… the ambulance was only half a mile away, so I came back. Knew something wasn’t right…’ Her voice was slurred with pain. ‘York hadn’t taken any of the photographs from the house. His parents, all his past. He wouldn’t have just left them…’

‘Don’t talk.’

I felt a surge of relief as I saw the blood-filled furrow in her trapezius, the big muscle that runs between neck and shoulder. The bullet had torn a groove across its top, but despite the bleeding there was no serious damage. Another inch or two lower or to her right and it would have been a different story.

But she was still losing blood. I wadded up her shirt and started to apply pressure to the wound when another agent rushed in with a first-aid kit.

‘Move,’ he told me.

I stood back to give him room. He tore open a sterile gauze pad and pressed it on to the wound hard enough to make Jacobsen gasp, then began expertly taping it into place. He obviously knew what he was doing, so I went over to Gardner. He was still unconscious, which was a bad sign.