Robin Cook - Cure

“Ten-four,” Colt responded, meaning he’d gotten the message but could not have a conversation.

“Intruder coming down right side of building. Must be a normal check. He is not hurrying. I have him clearly in sight. Will worry about his seeing dogs or me.”

“Proceeding,” Colt responded. He then moved ahead, and reaching the door to the master bedroom, he carefully scanned progressively more and more of the room. The first thing he saw of interest was a crib. Moving on, he saw the bed. It was king-size with a niche above its head containing a statue of the Virgin Mary clutching the Christ child. The niche was illuminated with a dimmed light to serve as a night-light. There were two people in the bed, presumably Louie Barbera and his wife. After another brief pause to make certain both people were asleep, Colt moved across the thick carpet to the crib and got his first look at JJ. In the darkness and using his night-vision goggles, the boy’s hair color appeared greenish-gray rather than blond as it had been described, but his face was just as cherubic as reported. He was on his back with arms out to the side and fists next to his head.

“Past the tennis enclosure without problem,” Grover said. “Now lighting up a cigarette. So far, so good.”

Colt glanced back at the people in the bed less than ten feet away. Although the chances of them hearing anything at all were very low, he couldn’t help but be concerned, as close as he was. Yet he didn’t want to have to abort now, so he turned back to the child. Taking out the eyedropper he’d previously filled with the appropriate amount of Versed, he pulled off the syringe cap he’d used to cover the dropper. Reaching into the crib, he inserted the end of the dropper into the child’s mouth.

“Heading for the pool end of the building,” Grover said, hesitating. “Now continuing on. Thank goodness the pool lights are off. He seems satisfied all in order. He’s now walking down the left side toward the street side of the compound.”

Slowly Colt compressed the eyedropper bulb, pushing the solution of Versed into JJ’s mouth. Almost immediately JJ responded by reflexively sucking on the eyedropper. Yes, little guy, Colt said silently, knowing he was taking full advantage of JJ’s nursing reflex. Then, after ten seconds of making room in the shoulder bag, Colt lifted the child out of the crib and slipped him feetfirst into the bag. As expected and hoped, the child did not complain or make a sound. Standing back up, Colt was about to hoist the bag up on his shoulder when Louie Barbera coughed loudly, waking himself and his wife in the process.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Barbera questioned.

“I’ll live,” Louie said. He pulled his legs from under the covers, sat up on the side of the bed, and put his feet on the floor.

Colt froze except for his left hand, which silently pulled the veterinary gas-powered dart gun from its belt clip.

“Are you getting up?” Mrs. Barbera asked while settling herself back under the covers.

“For a moment,” Louie admitted.

“Check the boy. Make sure he’s covered.”

Grumbling something about the kid getting more attention than he did, Louie raised his bulk to an unsteady standing position, then launched himself toward the crib.

Amazed he’d not been seen, Colt took a step back as Louie lurched toward him. He debated what to do. Should he just wait it out with the unlikely chance there would be no confrontation, or should he be proactive? The question was answered when Louie reached the crib, bent over, and stuck in his hand. Clearly he was confused, as his hand searched in progressively desperate sweeps around the crib’s interior and found nothing.

Colt shot him in his sizable ass with a ketamine dart.

“Shit!” Louie yelled as he stood up, yanking the dart out of his left buttock and trying to look at it in the darkness.

“What in heaven’s sake is the matter?” Mrs. Barbera demanded, as Louie’s scream had jolted her upright in bed.

“I got stuck with something.” Louie yelled with a mildly garbled voice. He extended the dart toward his wife despite there being no chance of her seeing it in the darkness. He then let go of the crib with the intention of walking over to her. He didn’t get far. After a few tottering steps, he fell over onto his side.

Frantically, Mrs. Barbera scrambled off the end of the bed in a swirl of chiffon. As she bent over her husband, Colt let loose with the third ketamine dart. The woman let out a scream that eclipsed her husband’s.

“Houston, we have another problem. Two men are approaching on the run on the right side of the house. Perhaps a silent alarm has been tripped.”

Colt hauled the bag’s strap over his shoulder and zipped the bag closed. Thankfully, JJ had not made a sound.

“Second dog has been discovered,” Grover said urgently in Colt’s ear. “Men with weapons drawn now running toward terrace. Do not try to leave same way you went in. Abort, abort!”

With his night-vision goggles still in place, Colt ran from the bedroom and into the dressing room, and from the dressing room out into the second-floor hallway. At the moment he reached the hallway, lights went on in the kitchen downstairs.

“Only one man went into house,” Grover said. “Second man on terrace standing guard.”

Colt ran down the second-floor hallway, entering a bedroom on the right. He locked the door behind him but knew it was a flimsy lock that would not slow a determined pursuer but for a second. “Exiting second-story bedroom right. Take out perp on terrace. Arrange boat for quick getaway. Have target.”

Dashing to the window, Colt took out the window anchor and extended its arms. He reached the window and threw up the sash. He then raised the storm window. Grabbing a length of rope clipped to his side, he threw the bulk out the window before attaching the end to the anchor, which merely bridged the window opening. Putting the shoulder bag around to his front, he pushed it out the window and then stepped out himself with one leg, keeping tension on the rope attached to the anchor. Pulling out his other leg, he then rappelled down the side of the building.

Once on the ground, Colt unhooked the Uzi from his belt and started for the water side of the house. Passing the tennis enclosure, he could see the anesthetized dog. Reaching the edge of the house, he slowed, positioned the Uzi at his waist, ready to fire, then leaped out into the open. The ploy was not necessary. Grover had taken his suggestion. The perp was spread-eagle on the terrace with a clean hole mid-forehead — undoubtedly more work for their legal defense team if the hoodlums were crazy enough to call in the police.

In the open, Colt did not dally but rather ran down the steps from the pool level, across the small intervening patch of lawn and then the length of the pier. Grover had the boat out in the clear. By the time Colt arrived the engine was running. Pulling the shoulder bag around in front of him, Colt jumped into the boat while Grover put the engine in gear and hit the throttle. Again, he purposefully left off the running lights.

Mildly out of breath, Colt unzipped the shoulder bag. JJ was nestled in against some towels, sleeping, like a baby totally unaware he’d changed hands again. “You’ve been wonderfully cooperative,” Colt yelled to the child over the roar of the outboard.

Looking back at the house, Colt saw a series of flashes. “Incoming fire,” he shouted to Grover, who instituted some evasive steering, but neither he nor Colt thought it necessary as far as they were out on the river. Their plan was to head north for the opposite shore until the black, low-lying boat was no longer visible from shore before turning east, the way they’d come.