9 CHRONICLES OF CRIME
by R.T. Lawton
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
“Thieving the Ride” copyright 2005
"Not That One" copyright 2004
“To Catch a Spy” copyright 2004
“On The Perfume River” copyright 2004
“Coal Black Heart” copyright 2004
“Dearly Departed” copyright 2007
“Snitch” copyright 2007
“Shepherd of the Valley” copyright 2009
“Absolution” copyright 2011
Cover art and formatting services by Michael Kliewer @ KGraphics
TABLE OF CONTENTS
“Snitch”
THIEVING THE RIDE
Lionel Red Shirt sat in the driver’s seat where he felt like he had control over whatever might happen here this late autumn evening. A black cowboy hat with beaded hat band tilted down over his forehead far enough to camouflage the deep tan contours of his face, making it hard for any witness to recognize him later in a police lineup.
“Just hold on a few more minutes,” he said to his passenger.
Arm’s length away on the other side of the pickup, a teenage gang-banger from The Boyz draped himself into the corner between passenger door and the ragged upholstery bench seat. His head of long black hair was encircled with a red bandana, like some actor portraying an Apache warrior in an old Ted Turner Classic. Around his mouth hung a sparse bandido mustache, hinting maybe a little Mexican blood had crept into the family’s veins when no one was watching. His coat was black, a Raiders NFL jacket same as whites wore on the West Coast. Yet Lionel knew the teenage hood, same as him, was Lakota come up from The Ridge, one of eight reservations in the state.
Lionel wondered if the kid had any idea about himself, who he really was or where he’d come from. No matter, a couple more days and it would all be over, the kid gone for good.
They’d been waiting in the long-term parking lot at the Rapid City Airport for an hour now. In the bed of the truck, three battered suitcases huddled plainly visible back near the tailgate. Lionel figured most people walking by in the growing darkness would take the setup as a couple of ranchers flying out somewhere. But the three suitcases were empty, and the trip he and the young hood were planning went straight from the airport parking lot to a secluded garage in the city.
Only now the gang-banger showed signs of impatience.
“I’m gonna have me another beer.”
“Don’t think so, Bud.”
“Hey, the name’s Spider.”
“That your nickname? You a regular Inktomi, ey?”
“Ink what? You making fun of my tattoos?”
Lionel stared for a minute.
“Your folks never told you the old stories?”
“Grandma told us fairy tales, but I ain’t a kid no more.”
“Inktomi, the spider, the trickster? Led our people out of the underground and into the sunlight, but then we had to fend for ourselves, couldn’t go back to the easy life again.”
“Yeah, right.”
The gangster reached into a red and white cooler on the floorboards.
“I’m having me another taste, so lighten up.”
He popped the top on a beer.
Lionel yanked the can out of the juvenile gangster’s hand and tossed it out the driver’s window. The rolling aluminum left a trail of white foam smeared across the black asphalt.
“Don’t know what other people let you get by with, but you’re working my shift now. No boozing, no dope, no huffing glue.”
“I always hold up my end.”
“Yeah, well Walter’s in charge of this crew. Said he needed one more man for the job. I brought you in. Now your actions get reflected back on me.”
That wasn’t all Walt had said about picking up a last minute gunman for the job, but Lionel wasn’t about to fill the kid in on everything. Some people had to find out the hard way how difficult life could be.
A set of headlights pulled into a space up in the next row of vehicles. Lionel pointed a forefinger at the new arrival.
“Relax, kid. You wouldn’t have had time for that beer anyway. Your party just showed.”
Lionel watched as four young guys wearing straw hats with bright tropical hatbands got out of a white Buick. Laughing and shouting, the group grabbed their suitcases from the trunk and moved off toward the main terminal. One man paused, tipped up a brown bottle, then bent over to set the half–full beer down by the rear tire. He stood and quickly jogged along the row of parked vehicles before catching the rest of his group at the crosswalk.
“See that?” said Lionel. Them hats and suitcases means they’re going off someplace warm, maybe one of them Caribbean cruises. Probably be gone a week. That’s what we’re looking for.”
The travelers continued out of the parking lot and disappeared into one of the terminal entrances.
Lionel focused his attention back on his protégé.
“So Spider, you see what the driver did there on his way out? Man tried the handle after he closed the door. Means it’s locked.”
Lionel gestured toward the vacant Buick.
“So go ahead. Show me your stuff.”
The gang-banger glanced at the Buick, then back to Lionel.
“Where you gonna be while I’m doing all the work?”
“I’ll be right here in the truck, covering your hind end. Somebody’s got to be lookout. You’re low man on the totem pole, so it’s my choice.”
The teenage gangster gave a derisive snort before picking up a black nylon gym bag from between them on the front seat. He opened the passenger door and had one foot out on the asphalt when Lionel stopped him.
“Hold on. Take that damn rag off your head. We’re trying to stay low profile here. Keep people from remembering us being in the parking lot.”
The kid yanked the red bandana from his head and stuffed the cloth into his jacket pocket before slamming the truck door behind him. Rapidly, he stalked across the asphalt to the driver’s door of the Buick. Setting the bag down at his feet, he unzipped the top and drew out a long, flat metal strip which he inserted between the rubber molding and the window glass.
Five minutes later, Lionel watched Spider pull up on the handle and open the door. Removing the slim-jim from the window, the gang-banger got into the Buick’s front seat. It appeared to Lionel from where he sat, that his car thieving assistant was rummaging through the console and glove box, then checking above the sun visor. After a while, the young gangster came out of the car and walked back to the pickup. He carried the nylon bag as if not sure what to do with it. The driver’s door still hung open on the Buick.
“Now what?” asked Lionel.
“You said find the parking ticket so we could get the car out of the lot. But there’s no ticket, you know. The driver must’ve took it with him. Want me to bust into another car?”
“Give me the damn slim-jim. As long as it took you to crack that lock, we’d be here all night. Some car thief you are.”
Lionel grabbed the metal strip.
“I’ll find a ticket to get us out. Now go hot-wire that thing. See if you got any talent there.”
Checking to ensure no owners were still sitting in their parked vehicles, Lionel moved cautiously through the long-term lot. He tried several cars for unlocked doors, before finding an extended-cab pickup with a parking ticket lying in full view on the dashboard. He pulled on the driver’s handle.
Locked.
Sliding the metal strip down the side of the window, Lionel probed for the locking mechanism. With the other hand he tugged on the door handle again.
Two minutes later, Lionel decided this wasn’t as easy as it looked and maybe he should try his luck on the other door. Going around to the passenger side, he inserted the slim-jim and tested the door handle for tension. The door swung open.
Lionel grinned.
If it wasn’t for fools, this thieving profession wouldn’t be so easy.
Looking around again for witnesses, Lionel reached inside, snatched the ticket off the dashboard and closed the door. Hurriedly, he returned to his old pickup, slipped inside and quietly eased the door shut. A quick glance through the windshield told him the youthful gangster was still fiddling under the hood of the Buick. That engine wasn’t going to start for a while yet.
Cowboy hat now tipped lower over his eyes with the brim resting on the bridge of his nose, Lionel leaned back in the driver’s seat. Listening to the turned down radio, he sipped a beer, waiting.
After a time, Spider finally crawled back into the pickup. Seemed to Lionel like the young gangster had acquired a tone to his voice, almost as if the kid was getting a little cocky about finally getting the Buick to start.
“Find a ticket yet, old man?”
Lionel passed over the manila, time-stamped piece of paper.
Spider took the parking lot ticket without looking at it.
“How long’d it take you to get in?”
“Two minutes. Easy when you know how.”
Spider didn’t say anything.
Lionel pushed. “Got our car running?”
The gang-banger nodded.
“Then I’ll follow you back to the garage. Just stay out of trouble getting there. I can’t baby-sit you forever.”
Still wordless, Spider put the ticket in his pocket and returned to the Buick.
After the stolen car backed out of the parking space, Lionel waited a little longer to let its tail lights get a good distance away before he started the old pickup’s engine and drove slowly in the same direction. The Buick’s brake lights flashed bright down near the exit. Lionel stepped on his own brakes so as not to arrive at the ticket booth too soon. No sense letting the booth attendant relate them together in any way.
The Buick’s brake lights stayed on.
Lionel put more pressure on the pickup’s brakes.
The Buick showed no signs of leaving.
Having already entered the long single lane from the parking lot to the toll booth, Lionel figured he couldn’t back up now without being obvious. The old pickup idled forward as slow as Lionel thought he could safely go. Fifty feet from the toll booth, he reached underneath the front seat and pulled out an orange bath towel. Steering with his left hand, Lionel unwrapped the bundle with his right. He removed a 9mm Sig Sauer and slid it under his right thigh. The automatic was hidden from sight, but close at hand if Lionel thought he needed it. Finally, he pulled up behind the Buick and stopped. The tollgate remained down.
Coming out of the booth, an overweight attendant lumbered back toward the pickup. Lionel lowered his driver’s window, wondering what the hell was going on.
“I got my money and my ticket ready,” said Lionel, holding up the mentioned items in his left hand. “What’s the problem?”
“Your young friend up front doesn’t have enough cash, so I can’t raise the gate. He says you’ll make up the difference for him.”
So much for nobody remembering we were here.
“That cheap mother,” Lionel muttered in a low voice, but couldn’t think of another way out just now. “How much you need?”
“His ticket says the car has been in the lot for two weeks. That comes to forty-eight dollars. Your friend only has ten bucks. You need to come up with thirty-eight more.”
Lionel was thinking it was just his luck to steal a parking ticket from a vehicle that’d been here two weeks already. This sort of thing never happened when he worked alone. Some kind of bad karma had to be coming from that juvenile gang-banger, that Spider kid who hadn’t made up his mind who he was yet.
Lionel took out his billfold, raked his index finger into a small leather compartment and removed a well-creased twenty-dollar bill folded twice into a small rectangle. He handed it, plus the other twenty already in his hand, out through the window to the attendant who slowly waddled back to the booth.
A few minutes later, Lionel watched the attendant’s arm come out of the toll booth window and count off a couple of bills into Spider’s outstretched hand. The gate went up and the Buick left.
The gate came down.
Lionel pulled up to the booth. He glared at the attendant.
“You gave my change to that kid. Why in the hell did you do that?”
The attendant gazed complacently back at Lionel.
“Just natural to give the change to the person paying the ticket, I suppose.”
“He didn’t pay for the ticket, I did.”
“That may be, but he’s the one who handed me the ticket and it was his car in front of the gate, so I naturally gave him the change when I rang up the register. Now, can I have your ticket please?”
Sullenly, Lionel stuck out his hand with the ticket in it.
“That will be two dollars please,” said the attendant.
Lionel muttered to himself as he dug through his front jeans pocket for loose change.
First you ding me for forty dollars, now you want two more. If you weren’t so dumb, I’d shoot you and drive off.
Lionel handed over six quarters, four dimes, a nickel and his last five pennies, keeping back enough large coins to make a phone call.
The toll gate went up.
“Thank you, sir, and have a good evening.”
Headed back to town, Lionel let the Buick’s red tail lights disappear in the distance while he stopped off at a pay phone outside a convenience store on East Highway 44. He felt a need to call the telephone number on a slip of paper that Walter had given him earlier. When Walt answered the phone, Lionel made it plain.
“Walter, remember when you told me to get some young, up-and-coming gangster for our little job, but first off he should help me steal our getaway ride?”
“Yeah.”
“Said go on up to the Homes in North Rapid and get one of The Boyz? Just be sure when the job was over, that the kid wasn’t anyone I would feel bad about later?”
“I remember.”
“And then you mentioned that after the job, we’d probably have to draw straws to see who explained to this young gang-banger that he wasn’t getting any shares from the heist?”
“Okay. So where you going with all this, Lionel?”
“I just wanted you to know I’ve already drawn the short straw. Drew it about ten minutes ago. This’ll be a permanent discussion between me and the kid. No negotiations, and no comebacks, if you hear what I’m saying.”
The silence on the other end of the line grew until Lionel wondered if Walt was still there or had laid the phone down and wandered off for a beer or something. Finally, he heard Walter’s voice again, nonchalant and matter of fact.
“Sounds like a personal thing on your part, but okay, you’re in the driver’s seat for this one if that’s the way you want it.”
Lionel hung up the phone and adjusted his hat. He was starting to feel back in control again.
...return to Table of Contents
NOT THAT ONE
It was on Paddy Kilpatrick’s mind that the time had come for him to get out of the business. The word was already out on the snowy streets about his work getting a little sloppy these days. If he wasn’t careful, his employers, the Chiavella brothers, could rethink their position on his continued employment. In which case, they just might put out a contract to terminate his contract. “Loose lips sink ships” and “three can keep a secret if two are dead”. That sort of stuff.
The situation wouldn’t be so bad except the target of his last contract, Lebanese George, had survived the freezing cold in a certain downtown alley on the Kansas side of the Missouri river, not to mention the three 9mm holes in the front of George’s chest. And now, Old George was said to be resting comfortably in a nice warm Kansas City, Kansas, Saint Somebody-or-other hospital room. Thus it was settled, Paddy had to make a second effort.
After much contemplation, plus the benefit of the local weather report and various comments of a friend familiar with that particular hospital’s procedures, Paddy believed he could take care of two different problems at the same time. But, since both problems concerned his future health, maybe they were related after all. And so he packed the necessary items into a large suitcase, then called for a Yellow Cab early in the evening to drop him off at the Emergency Room entrance. A short distance inside the double-wide doors was the beginning of the hospital bureaucracy.
“That’s a rather large suitcase you’re dragging behind you,” said the elderly Admissions lady after Paddy had explained about his chest pains.
“I’m afraid so,” replied Paddy between gasps. “You see, I’m traveling on business, so I had to bring everything with me.”
The Admissions lady stared at him.
“Wasn’t sure how long I’d be here,” continued Paddy in the extended silence, “and there was no place to leave my personal belongings.”
“I see, Mister Jackson. Well, just so you don’t plan on using our little hospital as a long-stay motel room. We’re awfully busy with other patients here you know.”
Paddy almost missed the reference to Mister Jackson, until he remembered Jackson was the name on the credit card he was using to fund his physical examination and current hospital program. As it was, he merely needed to ensure his early release from this medical establishment and swift departure from the premises before the card was reported stolen. But then Paddy always took his problems one at a time, as they came.
This old age thing,” he told the Admissions lady. “It’s getting hard to live with. I mean, I eat Tums by the handful, run out of breath on any kind of stairs and my hair goes AWOL every time I comb it. And that’s saying nothing about the cost of dental work these days.”
The lady glanced up from the admissions form she was filling out.
“I know what you mean.”
Paddy couldn’t tell if that was the beginnings of a smile or the makings of a grimace on her face.
She completed his paperwork and called for a male orderly and a nurse.
“Miss Penosa will take you to an examination room where a doctor will see you about those chest pains. And Harry will carry your suitcase. We don’t want any heavy lifting on your part just in case you’ve suffered a mild heart attack.”
Within thirty minutes and a few minor medical tests, Paddy had convinced the doctor in the examination cubicle that the safe thing to do was admit him, Mister Jackson, to the hospital for overnight observation. Of course, the subtle dropping of the word “malpractice” in juxtaposition with the topic of heart attacks had seemed to clinch the decision. Next thing Paddy knew, Miss Penosa was pushing him in a wheelchair up to a private hospital room on the second floor. Harry, the orderly, was quickly tasked with dragging the overlarge suitcase right behind them.
“Do you want me to help you unpack this?” asked Harry once they were inside the private room.
“Naw, just park it in the closet. I’ll get whatever I need later.”
Harry stuffed the suitcase into the small upright cubicle and returned to the wheelchair where Paddy remained seated.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, can you get me a copy of the Star? I got money down on the Jayhawks and need to see how they did last night.”
“That’s easy, KU beat KSU. The Wildcats didn’t stand a chance.”
“Yes,” said Paddy with great enthusiasm. This meant the bookies over on Troost Street were going to owe him a bundle. Of course he’d have to finish this job before he had any hopes of collecting, especially since the Book was another arm of the same organization that employed him to eliminate various obstacles to their many business concerns. He toned down his smile a little.
Harry had remained standing near the wheelchair.
“You still want the paper?”
“Nope. Life is looking good right now and I gotta say you’ve been a great help,” replied Paddy as he tipped the orderly a five dollar bill.
Harry stared at the money as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Finally, he put the bill in his shirt pocket, nodded once and left the room.
In the meantime, Miss Penosa had laid out a backless hospital gown in a faded blue and white stripe and a pair of soft cloth slippers in the same shade of blue. Now, she stood at the door with an expectant look on her face.
“Hang your clothes in the closet, Mister Jackson, and get right into bed. We’ll check on you every hour to make sure you’re okay. There’s a cord with an emergency push button clipped to the left side of your pillow if you have any more pains. And if you need something to help you sleep just let me know. The doctor will run more tests in the morning.”
She closed the door behind her.
Paddy sat in the wheelchair and sniffed the air. Cleaning antiseptics. Seemed like all hospitals smelled alike and he had spent most of his life trying to stay away from that sterile, stringent aroma. Ah well, he should be gone in the next eighteen hours, plus he might get a free physical to boot.
At his age, it never hurt to make sure all his parts were working the way they should. God forbid he should have a case of advanced hidden cancer or a calcifying liver. Best to find these things out early and get them fixed while he could. Especially on someone else’s credit card.
Rising from the wheelchair, Paddy tip-toed to the door and opened it a crack. He knew his own room number and by squinting just right, without any eye glasses on, he could barely see the number across the hall. His room seemed to be in the correct neighborhood for what he had in mind. Slightly widening the opening, he observed the young uniform cop sitting in a brown folding chair and reading a sports magazine outside the next door up the corridor. He’d noticed the cop earlier during the wheelchair ride.
“There we go,” breathed Paddy to himself. “Now all I have to do is wait for the nice policeman to wander off for a cup of coffee or something. Then me and Lebanese George can have one last visit.”
He gently closed the door, undressed and hung his clothes on hangars in the closet. The cloth slippers would work out fine for sneaking quietly from one room to the next, but he wasn’t too sure about the hospital gown with the two flimsy cloth ties in the back to keep it closed. The darn thing was drafty when you walked and cold when you sat on vinyl or metal surfaces. No wonder there were so many sick people in hospitals.
Glancing at his watch, Paddy decided to start a mental log to help figure out how much time he’d have to conclude his unfinished business. But first, he had one more task to perform in order to be ready when the opportunity arose. Going to the closet, he dragged the large suitcase out into the room and undid the locks. The exertion glazed his forehead with a light sweat. His pulse increased. Man, he didn’t remember the thing being this heavy, but he also knew why it was.
With tired hands – it had been a long two stressful days since the shooting - Paddy opened the suitcase and put on a pair of thin leather gloves. Lastly, he removed a long metal cylinder. This particular metal bottle was painted green to signify that it contained oxygen. Only Paddy knew that under the green paint - paint he’d sprayed onto the metal bottle earlier that morning - was a different color. This now hidden color designated a gas that while not poisonous in and of itself, was very fatal if it gradually replaced the oxygen in a person’s blood system.
And, since Lebanese George was sucking up oxygen to keep his lungs going, Paddy’s plan was to place the newly painted green bottle next to George’s bed so that when his current oxygen bottle ran out, the nurse would naturally hook up the breathing line to the next available green bottle. The scheme was K-I-S-S simple because the hospital was using oxygen bottles while its plumbed-in-the-wall oxygen system was down for repairs. And, with the approaching blizzard blocking the normal supply routes from the hospital’s medical supply company, this hospital would have to use whatever medical supplies it had on hand until the snowplows opened the streets again. But the best part of the plan was the difficulty of anyone being able to place the blame on Paddy himself.
Unfortunately, the blizzard could also hamper his strategic withdrawal back across the inter-city viaduct, since that street would then consist of a long ribbon of ice from one bank of the river to the other. Therefore, getting safely back into Greater K C on the Missouri side would become a logistics nightmare. Ah well, one problem at a time.
He stood the green cylinder in a front corner of the closet where it would be handy when he needed it, yet concealed from any unwary nurse that might pop in on him at regular intervals to check his heart rate. At the sound of footsteps now stopping outside his door, Paddy scurried across the room and jumped into bed.
The door opened. Nurse Penosa again.
At the last moment, Paddy remembered to remove his leather gloves and hide them under the sheets. Gloves. One more thing to keep track of.
“Still awake are we?” Nurse Penosa removed Paddy’s right arm from beneath the sheet, turned his hand almost palm up and placed her warm fingers along his wrist.
“Guess I’m just a little worried about my condition,” he replied.
“Just relax, Mister Jackson. We take good care of all our patients.” After a long count, she replaced his arm back under the sheet and pulled the blanket up to his neck. “This is a good night to stay warm, what with the storm outside and all.”
“How’s my pulse?”
“A little higher than it should be, but with rest you’ll do fine.”
“Will you be the one checking on me all night?”
“No, I go off duty here shortly. The late night nurse will look in on you from time to time.”
“You mean the graveyard shift.”
Nurse Penosa paused in the doorway. “We prefer not to use that term here. Our wing looks after some of the more critical cases in the hospital, and that phrase has such a negative connotation. So if you please.”
“Right you are,” said Paddy. “I won’t slip up again. Good night.”
She turned out the lights and closed the door halfway.
Paddy listened to her footsteps recede down the corridor. Now he was left with the silence of a hospital at night: muted announcements from the paging intercom, squeaky wheels on a passing gurney, the murmur of voices at the head nurse’s station. All that and the outside hiss of blowing snow from the expected storm. The plan would work if he were careful.
He hopped out of bed with his slippers still on and hurried across the room. Closing the door to within a few inches for concealment, Paddy peeked down the hall and found a different policeman now on guard outside Lebanese George’s door. The replacement cop had white hair and a wide mouthed yawn. Better yet. Paddy glanced at his watch and proceeded to keep note on the policeman’s movements. The elderly cop’s apparent love for fresh coffee to help keep him awake during his shift also necessitated frequent trips down the hall and out of sight for several minutes. Paddy’s chance for closure should come soon.
The only other obstacle to coordinate was the night nurse. Three times, Paddy had heard approaching footsteps and had to race for the bed. Twice, those footsteps had been the night nurse en route to check his pulse. The third set had been a false alarm, but all this sprinting back and forth was starting to wear on Paddy’s nerves, to say nothing about the cold breeze flapping on his back. Couple the sweat emanating from these quick dashes along with the open back door of the hospital gown, and Paddy now felt icy fingers running up and down his spine.
On his next trip to the door, at a slower pace this go around, Paddy watched as the old cop stood up from his chair in the hall and hurried off in the opposite direction.
“This is it,” Paddy muttered to himself. He raced to the closet and reached for the green metal bottle.
No, no. He needed the gloves. No fingerprints that way.
He ran to the bed and yanked back the sheets. The gloves were here someplace. Quickly he snatched up the thin black leather and pulled one glove over each hand.
Good.
Now he hustled back to the closet and grabbed the metal canister. Man this thing was heavy. Must be about fifty pounds, but felt like more.
Paddy hastened to the door for one more peek.
The coast was clear.
He sprinted across the hall, up a door and into Lebanese George’s room. The night light showed a row of three green metal cylinders standing upright on the floor. A breathing tube snaked up from one of the bottles to a clear plastic mask over a man’s face as he lay sleeping in the bed. Yep, it was Lebanese George all right, ragged breathing and all. Obviously he was still alive and a bane on Paddy’s continued existence.
Paddy gratefully lowered his newly painted green metal bottle to the floor. Damn it was heavy. Then straining to pick up the second bottle in line, he repositioned that cylinder to the end of the row and replaced the vacant space with his own green bottle. Now, whenever George ran out of oxygen and the nurse hooked up the next bottle in line, it wouldn’t be oxygen that was being absorbed into George’s bloodstream. Bye, bye, George.
Pausing to gulp some air into his own lungs, Paddy heard the pounding of his heart beat inside his inner ear. He needed rest, but one look at his watch told him the cop would be returning at any moment. Quickly, he scooted for the door.
A rapid check in both directions and Paddy dashed across the hall and back into his own room at full speed. He closed the door and slid down the wall. Old age and a hard life on the streets was catching up with him. His lungs heaved like air shocks on a bad road. He felt waves of dizziness and nausea. Definitely time to get out of the business.
As he rested on the cold hard linoleum, he heard the footsteps of the policeman returning from his hasty trip down the hall. Several minutes later, while Paddy still gasped for air and waited for his pulse to die down, the frantic cry for a Code Blue came over the paging system out in the corridor.
Paddy leaned over and placed his ear close to the door. The swish of running medical personnel filled the hallway. They appeared to be converging on a room close by. If it was for Lebanese George, then it was quicker action than Paddy could’ve hoped for.
All this adrenaline bustling around was exciting. Almost like the old days when he’d scored a kill followed by an immediate all-night celebration on the town with a few of his closest friends. Too bad the circle was growing smaller with the passage of years. And, truth be known, he would miss Lebanese George. They’d had some good times in the old days, before George had gone independent and tried to buck the Chiavella brothers.
“Good luck, George, you’re gonna need it.”
Thinking maybe he ought to open the door a crack and see for sure this time, Paddy reached for the handle, but his left arm suddenly wouldn’t cooperate. The whole arm seemed to tingle with a mind of its own. Paddy tried to stand, only his strength had deserted him. Rolling over on his stomach, he crawled toward the bed. A sharp pain shot through his upper chest. A real pain. Uh oh, he should’ve waited for the results of the doctor’s tests before embarking on this caper.
Now if he could just reach the emergency button, some of that medical help might come take care of him. Forget about Old George, doc, he’s not going to make it anyway, not if the man had been sucking out of that second bottle in line.
Sweat rolling off his forehead, Paddy pulled with his right arm and pushed with all his toes to creep across the room to his hospital bed. “Wouldn’t it be ironic,” he thought, “if I died from a heart attack while completing the contract on George? Surely life couldn’t be that cruel, even in my line of work.” But, he was in a hospital and it was the medical people’s job to save lives. So, rolling into a sitting position, he reached up with his right hand and pushed the button on the emergency cord. Help would come soon.
“Oh, damn, the gloves.”
Frantically, Paddy worked the gloves off both hands and threw the black leather under the bed just as his door flew open. His lungs pumped with a leaky wheeze.
“Mister Jackson,” cried the nurse, “are you all right?” Over her shoulder she shouted for the second Code Blue of the night.
Paddy heard the pounding of feet now rushing for his door. In a matter of seconds, he was lifted onto the bed and the nurse was checking his racing pulse. Someone called for the defibulating cart.
Paddy felt a second pain race through his chest. Breathing was becoming such a problem.
An intern rushed into the room with a green metal cylinder. It made a heavy thunk as he dropped the oxygen bottle onto the floor by Paddy’s bed.
“I was in George’s room when the old guy’s body finally gave out on him,” said the intern in a breathless hurry. “Couldn’t do anything more there, so when I heard this call, I just grabbed the next unused oxygen bottle in line and hurried over here to help.”
“What?” registered in Paddy’s mind.
“Good for you,” said the nurse. “Hook Mister Jackson up to the bottle so he can get some air. He’s got trouble breathing.”
“Wait a minute,” gasped Paddy. “Not that one.”
“Now don’t you worry, Mister Jackson. We’ll take care of everything. Just relax and breathe deeply.”
She placed the clear plastic mask over Paddy’s face and held it firmly in place.
For his part, Paddy Kilpatrick tried to hold his breath as long as he could.
...return to Table of Contents
TO CATCH A SPY
“Step quiet, lads. The Kaffirs say Oom Paul and his Dutch burghers have long ears.”
Sergeant Major Toft of the Imperial Light Horse cautioned each group of soldiers passing in the night and out through the last trenches in the final defenses of besieged Ladysmith.
“Wouldn’t do to let the Boers know we’re coming now, would it? Do this right and we’ll have their Uncle Paul Krueger out of the Transvaal by Christmas.”
On the other side of the opening, Lieutenant Pierce stood across from the Sergeant Major and counted each soot-blackened face as one soldier after another filed past the outer barricade. One hundred men on foot selected from the Imperial Light Horse by General Hunter himself, plus one hundred Natal Carbineers, a few sappers and miners, and three hundred mounted volunteers. Native scouts had already been deployed as guides across the brushy ground toward Gun Hill.
The mounted volunteers quickly divided into two columns, each column moving far out on either flank as a protective screen for the line of march. These horsemen seemed to drift silently away like apparitions, and soon disappeared into the folds of the South African darkness. No jingle came from their harness or military equipment as the soft plod of muffled hooves on dirt gradually died away.
When the last soldiers on foot left the barricade, Lieutenant Pierce fell in with his rear guard. Mentally, he calculated the distance to Gun Hill. Their time of exposure would be limited, but lately the Boer General Piet Joubert seemed to know their every move. For some reason, ambushes on their patrols and troop movements outside the city had become more frequent. ..and more accurate.
At the tail of the column, Lieutenant Pierce listened for sounds in the moonless night. Here, no noise came from bird or animal, it seemed they’d all fled in the previous weeks of bombardment during the siege. For now, only the subdued tramp of English leather boots came to his ear. No clank of rifle, no thunk of loose canteens, and more importantly, no sound of betrayal to the Dutch.
As the march gradually slowed and came to a quiet halt, the Lieutenant estimated that his foot column had now reached the base of Gun Hill where Boer artillery had been positioned during early days of the siege in order to pour shells into the Ladysmith garrison. Especially the big cannon, the one called “Long Tom,” which had enough range to throw artillery rounds into the very heart of Ladysmith without fear of counter-fire from the shorter range British batteries.
At the bottom of the slope, Pierce silently established a skirmish line to secure their avenue of withdrawal, and then sent pickets out to each side to guard his raiders’ backs during the assault. All in readiness, he took a runner and moved forward to join the main body of troops moving up the incline. Drawing his pistol, he felt as ready as he was ever going to get for something like this.
Waiting grew short; the need for stealth was done.
From twenty yards below the crest of Gun Hill came the Sergeant Major’s bellow, “Fix bayonets!”
A rustling ran through the mass of soldiers poised on the slope.
At once, the South African night seemed to grow even more silent with the listening of a thousand ears.
“Cold steel!” rang the Sergeant Major’s voice.
With a rush, troopers went over the parapets of Gun Hill and into the Boers’ position. Lieutenant Pierce heard bewildered cries in Dutch and the headlong flight of horses out into the dark. In a rush of adrenaline, he found himself suddenly standing on top of the gun parapets looking down into the Boer encampment, witness to action by both sides. The Boers with their shaggy beards and battered slouch hats erupted from around their campfires, with bandoliers slung over their shoulders, running to their horses. The British charged with rifles at the ready and their military pith helmets bobbing forward like popped corn in a hot skillet. In great haste, the Dutch vacated the ground.
A British cordon was quickly set up around the hill as sappers and miners stuffed gun-cotton charges with two inch fuses into Boer cannons. Red explosions burst gun barrels and breeches. Sledgehammers rang on “Long Tom” as the breech lock was detached and carried away as a trophy of the raid. Scattered shots roared out into the darkness along the perimeter of the cordon.
Two squads of Natal Carbineers wheeled a captured howitzer and a Maxim up to Lieutenant Pierce and breathlessly reported.
“Sir, the General said we should take these with us.”
Pierce eyed the two weapons. “Move along then. I’ll send my runner on ahead to warn our skirmish line of your approach.”
As he turned in the direction of Ladysmith and dispatched his runner down the slope, Pierce registered a flash of light from the distant city. He paused to study the valley before him more carefully. A small white light blinked off and on somewhere inside the defenses of Ladysmith. Yet all of the city was supposed to be under blackout conditions at night to keep Boer gunners from sighting in on any lighted targets.
Quick dots and long dashes of white continued to flash.
Morse code?
But not in English.
Either the message had been encrypted to protect sent information from the enemy, ...or it was in Dutch and the Boer General was receiving information from sympathizers hiding inside the city.
Removing his compass from his tunic pocket, Lieutenant Pierce took a reading on the blinking light. The flashes ceased.
“Lieutenant?”
Pierce spun around as he recognized General Hunter’s voice.
“I think we will be retiring now. We’ve done what we came to do. You’ll cover our withdrawal.”
“Yes, sir.” A pause. Then. “May I have a word?”
“Only if it has to do with any problems regarding our withdrawal. Otherwise it will have to wait. I expect to do this in an orderly fashion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Without a backward glance, Hunter strode down the hill and was quickly swallowed up into the darkness. He was closely followed by various groups of soldiers as each squad and company completed its part of the mission and joined the withdrawal. At least this time, there were no dead to deal with, and no wounded being supported by their comrades for the long march back. For once, the surprise had been on the Boers.
Lieutenant Pierce descended from the parapets with the last group of foot soldiers from the Imperial Light Horse. Along the way, he quietly called in the pickets until they joined up with the rear guard’s skirmish line. Now, with many a backward glance, and a light tickle of unease at the base of his neck, Pierce gave soft orders to his rear guard troops.
To him, it seemed as though they walked forever, almost blind across the grassy plain, following soldiers in front of them and wondering if the dark, unmoving objects off to the sides were simply low slung bushes or a mounted Boer scout waiting in ambush, a scout with loaded Mauser rifle ready to fire. Ears strained, but no snicker of horse or tick-tick of rifle bolt floated in the night air.
The only sounds carrying through the darkness were soft grunts and muffled curses from the Natal Carbineers wheeling the two captured guns across the bumpy earth ahead of them. As the column neared the outer defenses of Ladysmith, Lieutenant Pierce once again heard the soft plod of muffled hooves on dirt close by. Mounted volunteers, who had acted as a protective screen for the column’s flanks, returned to ranks like the dusty ghosts they were. Briefly, he wondered how they’d felt waiting out there in the South African bush, not knowing which way the battle was going. Them seeing the rifles of their comrades blazing pockets of red flame up on Gun Hill and there being little the mounted volunteers could do to help in that part of the action.
Back at the barricade where they had departed the outer trenches earlier that evening, Lieutenant Pierce found Sergeant Major Toft taking count as groups of raiders filed by. From the sound of the senior non-commissioned officer’s voice, he was a happy man.
“All the lads have returned safe and sound, sir. Not a scratch on ‘em. I’d say we stuck it to the Boer this time if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, and brought home two of their guns to boot.”
“Perhaps we had a piece of luck, Sergeant Major.”
Bringing up the tail of the column, Lieutenant Pierce quickened his pace to keep up with the senior NCO. Now that they were safely back in garrison, the memory of the blinking lights from inside Ladysmith returned to mind.