David Hosp - Among Thieves

“What’s happening?” Devon asked, his view blocked. “Is she all right?”

“Not yet,” Finn said.

“Oh God, please do something!”

“We’re doing everything we can,” Finn said. “She was in the water for a long time.” He watched as Kozlowski continued the process for several minutes, working back and forth between pumping her chest and breathing into her mouth. At one point Kozlowski looked back at him and shook his head. Finn dug into his pocket for his phone, but the water had ruined it. He looked up and was surprised to see Detectives Sanchez and Stone watching from nearby. Behind them he could see the wreckage of the white van. Hewitt and Porter were looking it over, trying to get the back doors opened. Finn’s first instinct was to ask them what had happened-how they got there, and what had happened to Kilbranish-but instead he said simply, “Call an ambulance.”

“They’re on their way,” Sanchez responded. Looking down at Kozlowski she asked, “Will she be all right?”

“I don’t know,” Finn replied.

As he spoke, he heard Sally cough, and her body convulsed, rolling to the side, spitting up what seemed like gallons of water. Kozlowski sat up and looked at her. She went still again, then spasmed once more, retching as her body tried to expel more of the river. After another moment she took a breath, and the flow of air caused a horrid coughing fit. Finn put his hands on his knees and nearly collapsed.

“Is she okay?” Devon demanded.

Finn looked at Kozlowski, who nodded. Devon looked relieved, but his face remained ashen. He was leaning over on his side, supporting himself on one elbow. He looked strangely frail. “Are you okay?” Finn asked.

“I’m fine. Just a little out of breath is all.”

“Me too,” Finn said. Devon looked more than winded, though, and Finn moved over toward him. Devon ’s arm was draped across his chest. As Finn drew near he could see a dark stain spreading over his shirt. “Shit, Devon,” he said. “You’re shot.”

Devon looked down at his shirt; there was no surprise on his face. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just need to catch my breath.” He smiled as he spoke, but his eyelids were fluttering unsteadily.

Finn turned to Stone. “Where the hell is the fucking ambulance!” he shouted.

Hewitt could hear the commotion over by the water. He was tempted to walk over to see what was happening, maybe even offer to help, but couldn’t; he needed to keep an eye on Porter. He seemed to have lost his grip on reality. He was tugging at the back doors to the van, yelling, “They’re in here! I know it, they’re in here!” The door wouldn’t open for him, though.

Hewitt put his hand on Porter’s shoulder. “It’s jammed,” he said. “Accident crew’ll be here in a minute; they’ll get it opened.”

Porter spun on him and slapped his hand away. His eyes were wide. “A minute? Don’t you understand? The paintings are here! We’ve found them. Help me get these goddamned doors opened!”

Hewitt hesitated.

“Come on, goddammit!” Porter shouted at him. “Help me!”

Hewitt stepped forward and gave a pull on the doors. They didn’t open, but they creaked and groaned angrily; he weighed at least twice as much as Porter. He gave another tug, this time throwing his back into the effort.

The doors swung open, nearly knocking Porter to the ground. He dodged them and scrambled up to look inside, and saw a large wooden box. “They must be inside,” Porter said. “Help me get this down.”

Hewitt reached forward and the two of them unloaded it. Porter circled the container as if he were trying to seduce it. “We’re about to make history,” he said. Porter found the brass clasp on the front end of the box and flipped the latch. He paused for a moment, the door still closed, breathing heavily. Then he threw the door open.

“No,” he said.

Hewitt couldn’t see into the box; Porter was blocking the way. “What?”

“No!” He yelled it this time; screamed it.

“What is it?” Hewitt said.

Porter turned around. Any hint of sanity was gone. He looked desperate and shattered. “It’s empty!” he screamed. “It’s fucking empty!”

Finn could hear the sirens whining in the distance. They sounded too far away. Sally was still unconscious, but she was breathing steadily on her own now. Kozlowski had bundled his jacket into a pillow and put it under her head, and he’d pulled a blanket out of his car and spread it over her.

There seemed to be less they could do for Devon. Finn had started to put pressure on the wound in the chest, but after a moment he realized that the bullet had gone through the body, and Devon was bleeding out of his back as well. The black-red stain underneath him grew endlessly, and Finn could see him slipping away. “Hold on,” he said. “You’re gonna be okay.” Finn couldn’t imagine words less convincing, but he said them anyway.

Devon nodded. “I’ll be okay.” His voice was little more than a whisper. He turned his head so he could see his daughter, lying a few yards away. “She’s fine,” Finn said. “She’s gonna be fine.”

Devon gave a weak smile. “She’s a piece of fuckin’ business,” he said. “I wish I coulda done better for her.”

“You’re doing fine,” Finn said. “You can do more when this is over.”

“From Walpole, or the fuckin’ grave? I’m goin’ away any way you look at it. We both know it.”

“Shut up,” Finn said. “You hired a miracle worker, remember?”

“I did that,” Devon said. “Thanks. I got one more favor.” He coughed, and a thin sliver of blood ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

“Sure,” Finn said. “Whatever you need.”

“Make sure Sally’s taken care of. Make sure they put her someplace good. Maybe look in on her every once in a while. She gets the right chances, I swear to fuckin’ God, she could do something with her life. She could be good at something.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Finn said. “I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

“I got your word?”

“You’ve got my word.”

Devon looked back at his daughter. He seemed to relax. “It’s not that bad,” he said. “It doesn’t even hurt.” For just a moment, he looked at peace. Then the peace was shattered.

“Where are they!”

Finn looked over and he could see Porter running toward them, Hewitt following closely behind. “Where the hell are they!” Porter yelled again. He seemed dislodged. His eyes were wheeling, darting from Stone and Sanchez to Kozlowski to Finn. Finally his gaze settled on Devon. “You’re the guy? You’re Malley?”

Devon said nothing.

“Where are they?” Porter screamed. “Where are the goddamned paintings?”

Devon looked confused. “They’re in the box,” he said.

“They’re not! The box is empty!” Porter went to Devon and pushed Finn aside. He reached down and grabbed Devon ’s shirt. “Where are they? Tell me!”

Finn stood and grabbed Porter’s hands, pulling them away. “What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled. “He’s been shot.” He was ready to throw a punch, but Hewitt stepped in, pushing him back.

“Let it go,” Hewitt said to Porter.

“He knows!” Porter screamed. “He knows where they are!” He started toward Devon again, but Hewitt held him back.

“Not now,” Hewitt said. “Let it go.”

Finn bent down again. Devon ’s breathing was shallower. “Take it easy, Devon.”

“They were there,” Devon said. Finn had to lean in to hear him. “I pulled them out less than two weeks ago; I put them back. I didn’t move them.”

“It’s all right,” Finn said. “It’s gonna be all right.”

“I swear to God, Finn,” Devon said. He could do little more than mouth the words. He looked over at his daughter again. “I swear.”