Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

The spare key was under the rear bumper, conveniently, though it wasn’t easy to grab it when my muscles were stiff and pain made me groan with the slightest bend. Now I was sure the painkillers had worn off completely and I could drive safely. Unfortunately, that meant I was in incredible pain. Life is trade-offs.

I couldn’t twist in the driver’s seat and bumped a support pillar backing the van out. But just like when I stood after lying in the bed, the longer I was behind the wheel, the better I felt.

All I could think about was Brian and getting to him.

The hospital in Buffalo looked like any other hospital, and God knows I’d seen too many of them recently, but once I got inside it had a very different feel from a New York City facility. It was quiet, and security was lax. An elderly woman at the information desk told me Brian was in room 315.

I slipped up to the third floor with the intention of heading right to Brian’s room. As I came down the hallway, a short man in uniform stood up from a plastic chair pushed against the wall. A true roadblock.

He held up a hand and said, “Where are you going?”

I muttered, “Room 315.”

“Why?”

I tried to push past him. That’s when I noticed that the patch on his shirt showed he was from the department of corrections. I understood his concern, so I said, “I’m Brian Bennett’s father.” I thought that would settle the matter.

The lean little guy said, “No visitors.”

“But—”

In a louder voice he said, “No visitors. Let me be clear. You cannot see him until he’s secure in another state facility. Got it?”

I could feel the anger rise to my throat. Suddenly my back didn’t hurt quite as much, my finger wasn’t throbbing, and my head didn’t feel like I’d been hit with a frying pan. Now the only thing I needed was to see my son. And this little jerk was standing in my way.

The DOC man said, “You can check on his status in a few days. But you need to leave before you’re charged with trespassing.” He gave me another look and said, “And you might want to shower first.” He sniggered, looking over his shoulder at a uniformed Buffalo police officer. I noticed the SWAT tag under his badge. He was about my age and in good shape.

The cop gently took my right arm and guided me in the opposite direction, toward the elevator. I could tell he knew me. Someone had talked about the cop’s kid who’d been stabbed while he was on the inside.

When I looked over my shoulder, all I could see was the smirk on the DOC man’s face. He kept it until the elevator doors closed and blocked my view.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, the Buffalo cop said, “You don’t know me, but I owe you big-time.” He held out his hand and said, “I’m Jeff Hutcheon.”

I shook his hand but didn’t say anything. It had to be a mistake.

“The case you made a few years back. When the guys took the hostages at the First Lady’s funeral and killed the mayor.”

I’d never forget that case. It was Christmas. Maeve, my wife, died around that time. My life was in ruins, and that case haunted me. Until I figured out that prison guards from upstate had staged the whole event, with the help of an FBI agent. They’d played the NYPD like a cheap guitar.

Hutcheon said, “My cousin was one of the prison guards. The whole family was embarrassed. He’s doing his time in a federal pen in California now. But I know that entire case forward and backward. I recognized your name as soon as that department of corrections prick started bragging about whose kid was being held. They hired us as extra security.”

I said, “All I wanted to do was visit my son.” My voice was still weak.

Hutcheon smiled and said, “And you’re going to. I guarantee it.”

Five minutes later, following the instructions the cop gave me, I stepped out of the elevator and back onto the third floor. The first thing I heard was raised voices. As I walked down the hallway, I saw that the cop who’d talked to me was leaning against the wall, holding the attention of the department of corrections man.

The cop said, “I’m telling you we’re going to need more overtime for this detail, and you guys need to start paying up.”

The DOC man sputtered, trying to explain that he didn’t control the money. The cop leaned in closer and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Standing in front of Brian’s room was a second Buffalo officer, who motioned for me to step forward. As I walked past Hutcheon while he was berating the department of corrections man, he raised his eyes to me for a moment and winked.

A smile spread across my face. I needed the help right about now.

The cop by Brian’s door patted me on the shoulder, then opened the door. I stepped into the room, where the TV played softly and gave me enough light to see Brian asleep in his bed.

I stepped forward and had to stifle a yelp. He had bandages wrapped around his face and forehead as well as his left arm. He looked like he belonged in the film The Mummy .

I took a seat right next to his bed and leaned in to get a better look. I didn’t care what the State of New York said — he still looked like my little boy asleep in the bed. I could just see the rough edges of the stitches on his cheek at the edge of the gauze bandage.

It hurt me both physically and emotionally to see my oldest son like this. Since his arrest and conviction, I had lived in a half fog of worry. The DA wanted to make an example of a cop’s kid who had made a mistake. The example haunted me every day.

As if sensing I was there, Brian turned his head, then opened his eyes. The smile he gave me made everything I’d gone through worthwhile.

I said in a low voice, “Surprised to see me?”

His voice was a little scratchy. “Not at all. I knew you’d come.”

He reached across with his right hand and took hold of mine. I carefully leaned down and touched my forehead to his. I almost cried, but I didn’t want to upset him.

After a few minutes of silence, Brian lowered the covers and lifted his gown to show me the two red stab wounds on his abdomen, covered by thin gauze. In total, he had gotten thirty-six stitches.

“I was scared, Dad. Really scared. It was two guys I barely knew. They passed me on the rec field and just started to slash and stab. It just happened that one of the corrections officers was standing nearby and was on the ball.”

I tried to limit my professional questions, designed to figure out who did this and who ordered it. Brian explained that he didn’t know much except they were both Mexicans who claimed to be part of a cartel. No one at Gowanda messed with them.

Brian told me again about the war between the Mexican cartel and the Canadian mob over territory. He’d warned me about the brewing feud when he first went to prison. He wondered if he was just caught in the middle.

Most people associated the word mob with Italians from New York, but the term applied to a lot of organizations. The Canadian mob was mostly made up of French Canadians who were loosely affiliated but banded together when threatened by outside groups.

Then Brian said, “But it doesn’t matter what happened to me. I’m worried they might come after you or the family. It’s all my fault. I brought all this on.” He started to cry.

That made me cry. I tried to tell him not to worry about it, that it wasn’t his fault, but I wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was all related to retribution for his working in the drug business and my trying to ruin that business. I knew drug cartels could be ruthless.

I said, “Brian, you’re not responsible for other people’s actions. You’re a good kid who made a mistake. I’ll fix all this. I promise.”