Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“Two suspects, somewhere in that back alley, we think,” said the officer. “Sergeant McLeary’s in charge.”

“Where’s he at?”

“Up over there, behind the car.”

McLeary’s skeptical glare when Johnny introduced himself told him everything he needed to know: he wasn’t needed or wanted. That wasn’t atypical — many local departments felt the Bureau interfered or at best tended to hog the glory when they were involved in a case.

“We’ve been watching ATMs in the area for a case,” Johnny explained. “We’d be interested in talking to your suspects.”

“Gotta catch them first,” answered McLeary. “We have them in that alley, we think.”

“I may be able to get some backup,” offered Johnny.

“I have a couple of more cars on the way, and a helicopter with infrared,” said McLeary, warming a little.

“I know this street pretty well,” said Johnny. “I grew up around here. They could go over the roofs of those houses on Pierce and get out that way.”

“Yeah.”

“You have somebody there?”

“Not yet.”

“I can drive around there for you.”

“All right. I’ll have a car out there in five minutes, maybe less. I’ll tell them to look for you.”

If there was one thing in the world Chelsea wasn’t good at, it was waiting. The police radio made it even worse, tantalizing her with snippets of action that she couldn’t be involved in. It was clear from the clipped communiqués that the police believed they had their suspects trapped somewhere in the alley, but it was equally clear that they weren’t sure how exactly to get them.

The driver side door suddenly opened. Surprised, she twisted around.

It was Johnny.

“Hang on,” he said, pushing the car into reverse. “We’re going around the corner to watch the buildings.”

Johnny slowed as he turned the corner. He scanned the street ahead, then glided into a parking spot across from the buildings.

“They might come out that way,” he said, half to himself, half to Chelsea. “Off the roofs.”

“Do you know this area?”

“Definitely. There’s a high school that way.”

“Your school?”

“No. We wanted to steal the mascot one time. We got caught… well, chased, actually. We ended up in that alley. And we got out climbing the building.”

“Really?”

Johnny laughed. “Good times.”

“There’s a car down the block with someone in it,” said Chelsea. “Is that a cop?”

“What car?”

“Way down near the corner.”

“The pickup?” asked Johnny.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a truck. It’s not a cop.”

“There’s someone in the driver’s seat.”

“You’re sure?” Johnny strained to see.

“Positive.”

“Stay here.”

Chelsea folded her arms across her chest, watching Johnny walk down the street. He reached his right hand behind his hip as he walked.

He’s got a gun there, she thought.

Well, duh. He’s an FBI agent.

Until that moment, it all had been very theoretical — modifying the program, helping them test it and implement it, then coming out to help them. But now she realized it was something a lot more than a problem to be solved in a laboratory, more than a movie or a video game.

He was really walking down the street, approaching a truck that might be involved in the case.

Or maybe it was just a guy waiting for his wife, or catching a smoke, or…

The truck jerked forward.

Chelsea started to climb over the console to the driver’s seat. Something flashed behind her — a police car had just turned onto the block.

It took Johnny Givens a few seconds to realize the truck was moving. He started to raise the gun, then realized he had no idea whether the vehicle was involved. He raised his left hand instead.

“Stop!” he yelled. “Police! Police!”

The truck lurched in his direction, accelerating. As he jumped back, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Then something hard smacked him in the buttocks, and he was dizzy, and everything was black.

Jenkins stared at the phone in disbelief. “Why was he there?”

“Someone was robbed at the ATM. We went over to help.”

“What hospital?”

“Boston Med.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Jenkins hit the Disconnect button and slumped back from the console. The van seemed to have shrunk in half, everything closing in.

“What’s going on?” asked Robinson.

“Johnny was just run over by a truck and a cop car. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

“ What? ”

“We’re closing down for the night. Shit.” He spun the phone in his hand, still in disbelief. Finally he clicked the map program up and queried the location of the hospital.

The Trauma Center and Emergency Department at Boston Medical Center was one of the finest Level I trauma centers in the world; the acute-care facility was studied as a model throughout the Northeast. It was a place where miracles occurred. But there were some things that no hospital, no doctor, could do, no matter how skilled, and the face of the first surgeon Jenkins met told him that saving Johnny Givens’s life very well might be one of them.

“We’re talking very severe injuries,” said the doctor. “It’s touch and go.”

Jenkins bit his lip so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.

It was better than the bile that had been rising from his stomach, and far less painful than the mental anguish turning every thought red. Against all logic, he felt responsible.

He’d never lost a man, not at the FBI, nor the two police departments he’d worked at before joining the Bureau.

God!

“I need to see him,” he told the doctor.

“Heavily sedated, but come on.”

The physician led him down the hall, past a computer station where patients were tracked. Spare equipment lined the walls below a large clock that ticked off seconds with a staccato beat. About halfway down the hall, they entered a room crowded with doctors, nurses, and other aides, all focused on a man who looked agonizingly small. Wires and tubes rose up from him, connecting to machines and displays that blinked with analytic precision, a sharp contrast to the hushed whispers of the people staring at the injured man.

“No — you’re going to have to get out,” said one of the doctors through her mask.

“I’m his boss,” stuttered Jenkins. “FBI.”

“I’m sorry. We’re doing what we can. Please.”

The surgeon who had led him in apologized and put his hand on Jenkins’s arm.

“We’re doing our best. His legs are gone.”

“His legs?”

“Completely crushed. His spine, his lungs — I don’t know that we’ll save him.”

Jenkins let himself be led out of the room. The voices seemed to get louder once he was in the hall.

“There was a woman with him,” said the surgeon. “She’s in that room over there.”

Chelsea Goodman was sitting in a chair next to an empty bed, her cell phone in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other.

“How is he?” she asked, looking up.

“I–I don’t…”

“I’m so sorry. I saw—”

She stopped. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Jenkins wanted to comfort her but had no idea what to say.

“Maybe we should pray,” he told her finally.

“OK. Tell me what to say.”

Lying helpless on the bed, Johnny tried to focus.