Indigo Man Page 7

  He stood. His heart beat like a drum in the hands of a madman on meth. Numb and barely breathing, Zach walked from behind his car and slowly passed the battered black SUV, keeping a wary eye on the two unconscious forms in the street. “Christ,” he said, in disbelief, when he came equal to the smashed driver’s side of the truck and turned to survey the damage.

  It looked like a toy truck a malicious child had folded partly in half over a knee. The roof was crumpled into a twisted peak at the center. The driver’s side front wheel was bent at an odd angle, and there was no glass left in any of the windows. Inside, a half-dozen airbags had inflated, protecting no one. The older version Auto-drive system emitted a soft beep. A small, metallic voice repeated, “Accident detected. Do you wish the police informed?”

  He slowly shook his head and stared in silence at the wreckage that had been the truck chasing him. “Jesus,” he whispered to himself. “What could those guys possibly want with me?” The big, internal combustion SUV, the black suits, the wonky way his Auto-link had quit working like it was being jammed when they closed in. The whole scenario could’ve had “government” stamped all over it in big, red, letters. The hair at the base of his neck prickled.

  He blew a breath through pursed lips as he surveyed the other vehicle. It had been a large, antique American sedan in its former life. Now, its hood was bent up in the middle, blocking his view inside the car. The front end had tried to fold under the rest of the carriage, angling the body up almost two feet at the driver’s door.

  The car’s flattened front wheels pointed in different directions. Steam billowed from the crumpled radiator, hissing into a misty cloud that obscured the interior. The car’s coolant streamed into a shining, iridescent pool on the pavement underneath it and ran toward the edge of the street. A choking, gurgling sound escaped from somewhere deep inside what was left of the engine compartment, like something dying.

  Zach moved to get a better angle on the passenger compartment and his savior. What was left of the windshield was a fine texture of crazed glass, with fracture lines spreading out from two holes in the driver’s side. A fine haze from the airbag clouded the inside of the passenger’s compartment and hid the driver from view. Zach’s stomach lurched as he made out a still, dark form in the driver’s seat.

  Zach threw caution aside and stepped to the door. No tones or warning voices issued from the antique vehicle. His nose wrinkled in reaction to the smell of spent gunpowder mixing with the overly sweet scent of engine coolant. The driver’s window was at chest level, allowing him a clear view of the unconscious driver’s face. His breath hitched in his throat. Special Agent Goode sprawled on the partially reclining seat, the deflated driver’s air bag lay in her lap. Blood trickled past her closed left eye.

  CHAPTER 7

  Zach swallowed past the knot forming in his throat. “Special Agent Goode?” He laid a hand on the door. The other, he rested on the car’s roof as he leaned toward the opening where the driver’s window should have been. “Special Agent Goode, can you hear me? Are you all right?” he managed to croak. Adrenaline dried his mouth and pitched a ragged edge into his voice. As he wondered how he would get her safely out of the mangled car, a weak cough escaped her lips. She groaned, and coughed again, this time rolling toward the passenger seat and retching. As she moved, shattered chunks of safety glass fell off her with a soft rattling sound.

  “Special Agent Goode? Can you hear me?” He tried the door handle, but it refused to budge. He tugged again, harder, with the same result.

  Goode wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and pushed up in her seat. “Ouch,” she said to no one. “Fuck, that hurts.” Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

  He slapped the bent metal of the door with his palm. “Special Agent Goode,” he practically shouted.

  At the sound, Goode jumped in her seat, sending another shower of safety glass to the car’s floor. Turning her head toward Zach, she stared at him through glazed eyes. She blinked. Recognition bubbled into her eyes. “You’re okay.” She blinked a couple of times, still dazed.

  Goode rolled her neck, then shook her head, sending the glass chips flying from her hair. They glittered on her black suit jacket. “Little help here, would ya?” Goode unhooked the seat belt, but it refused to retract. She yanked the door handle from the inside and nudged her shoulder against the door with a grunt. The door stayed where it was.

  “I tried that already. Just stay there. The police will be here in a minute. They can call the fire department, and they’ll get you out safely.” The sound of distant sirens punctuated his statement.

  Goode turned away from Zach and mumbled something unintelligible as she crawled between the seats into the back of the sedan. More glass dropped off her as she went.

  “Special Agent Goode,” he shouted, as he followed her to the rear seat. “Please don’t move. You could be hurt.”

  “Please back up, Dr. Marshall.” She tugged the rear door handle, and kicked the door. It was stuck as solidly as the front. Shattered safety glass disintegrated from the frame. “Damn. Sorry, Dr. Marshall.” Goode dropped onto the rear seat and braced herself against it, her head and shoulder on the console. She kicked the large rear window of the sedan with both feet, peeling the window out and to the side like heavy canvas.

  She turned onto her knees on the rear seat and crawled through the hole left by the rear window. “Little help, please, Dr. Marshall?” she grunted. “If you’re not too busy.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” He scampered onto the car’s trunk and grabbed Goode’s hand. He pulled her through the opening, sending a cascade of glass spilling off the rear of the car. As soon as she was out, he jumped to the pavement, glass crunching under foot, and offered his hand to help her down. She took his hand, dropped onto the trunk lid and slid to the pavement next to him, losing her balance and stumbling into him. She grabbed his shirt, and he threw an arm around her for support.

  He grasped her arm at the elbow. “Special Agent Goode,” his voice trembled again. “Please sit down and wait for the Med Techs. You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, standing on her own. “We have to leave the vicinity. Right now.”

  “But you’re bleeding.” He pointed to his own forehead.

  Goode touched her forehead at the scalp line and glanced at her bloody fingertips. “So I am.” She tugged the white handkerchief from her suit jacket pocket and pressed it against the laceration. Wincing as she did, she stepped away from Zach and brushed at her powder-covered black suit. The movement caused her to stumble again. Moaning from the other side of the SUV sharpened her movements. She kept her eyes in the truck’s direction as she spoke, “Dr. Marshall. Please go and back your vehicle out past the SUV.” She pointed to where his car sat.

  “I don’t—”

  She strode toward the SUV.

  “Maybe we should—”

  She continued toward the wrecked black hulk, ignoring his protestation. “Now, Dr. Marshall. If you don’t mind,” she barked. She dipped her hand inside her suit’s jacket pocket as she walked.

  Zach trotted to his car, lifted the door and slid into the driver’s seat. As he closed his door, the sharp snap of an electric discharge followed by a feeble groan came from the direction of the SUV. The sound of ripping cloth came next. He backed the Mitsu even with the SUV as Goode stood up, turned, and walked toward her wrecked car, still a little unsure of her footing. She brushed more of the safety glass from her hair, wisps of which had come loose and spilled onto her shoulders. He pressed the accelerator, moving alongside her.

  Standing at the rear of the crumpled sedan, Goode popped the fuel inlet, stuffed one end of a length of what appeared to be part of a shirt into the opening. She lit the other end with a lighter, then stuffed the lighter into the opening with the cloth.

  He unlocked the passenger door, allowing it to lever up and forward.

  Goode straightened her suit jacket and brushed more glass chips onto the pavement. She dropped
into the passenger’s seat and dragged the door down into position. Leaning her head against the seat back, she closed her eyes. “Please drive away from the scene, Dr. Marshall. Drive at the posted speed limit, and obey all traffic laws. If you aren’t sure you are able to do so, please engage the car’s Auto-drive function.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Dr. Marshall. I’ll explain once we’re safe, but we don’t have long.”

  They backed past the wrecked antique Cadillac, turned out of the side street, and drove slowly away. “Auto-drive,” he said after a moment. The thin green stripe shone across the dash. “Laz’s house.” He released the wheel. Behind them, the smashed sedan exploded in a fireball, lighting the surrounding buildings and throwing bits of debris skittering across the street. Zach winced.

  He turned to where Goode leaned back in the seat next to him, applying pressure to her forehead.

  “Is Laz’s house okay?” he asked.

  “That’s fine, Dr. Marshall. I was going to suggest it myself.”

  “Shouldn’t we have waited for the police?” Zach asked, as evenly as he could manage. “They’ll have questions.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Yes. They will. Like what a former Secret Service Agent was doing ramming a Secret Service vehicle with a stolen car.”

  His mouth fell open. “Former…?”

  Goode turned toward him, and flashed him a quick smile. “I don’t think I care to answer those questions at this time. Also,” her face went flat. “There’s the little matter of keeping you alive until I can assure your safety.”

  “What? Why?”

  “How far are we from Dr. Thomas’s home?”

  “About twenty-five minutes,” he answered. “He lives on the north side of town, up past Dunedin, almost to Tarpon. It’s one of the new subdivisions and he got a really good deal, because…” he trailed off. “Sorry,” he offered. “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Understandable, given our current circumstances.” She nodded. “Please speed up.”

  He reached for the steering wheel. “Manual drive.” He felt the wheel go responsive in his hands. He pressed on the accelerator. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on now, Special Agent?”

  Goode shook her head, “I’d rather wait until we get to Dr. Thomas’s house. Then I only have to tell it once. I feel a little shaky at present and would like to lie down for a moment.”

  He pressed a little harder on the accelerator. “Okay, but the anticipation is killing me.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not what’ll kill you tonight, Dr. Marshall, if I’ve screwed up. When we’re close to Dr. Thomas’s house, please find an inconspicuous spot to park the car, off the street and less than an eighth of a mile from the house if possible.”

  “Why?”

  “So we aren’t observed as we approach the dwelling.” Goode checked the blood stained handkerchief, grunted once, lay back in the seat, and closed her eyes.

  ***

  Newman rolled onto his back and gagged. Fighting panic, he struggled onto his right side and coughed fresh blood onto the asphalt. His head throbbed and spun like he’d been on a two-week binge, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in his nose. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered to the pavement. “What the hell happened?” Sirens sounded in the distance, growing louder by the second.

  He opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. He was in an alley, lying on pavement strewn with sand and pea-sized gravel. It was dark. “Where’s…” When he couldn’t breathe past the swelling in his nose, he took a breath through his mouth. He’d been with Murphy. They’d trapped that asshole doctor in the alley. “Murphy?”

  A groan from a few feet away floated over to Newman. The sirens rose in pitch to deafening levels as flashing red lights ricocheted off the surrounding surfaces.

  Someone knelt in front of Newman, shining a bright light into his face. The voice was that of a young man, early twenties, by Newman’s guess. The light made him wince and he shut his eyes tighter in response.

  “Are you all right? Can you hear me?” the man asked.

  “Yeah. I’m okay. Get that thing outta my face. It hurts like hell.”

  “Don’t move.” Another young voice sounded from where Murphy lay about five feet away on the pavement.

  “Goddamn it.” It was Murphy’s voice, but it was thick and slurred. The medic backed off as Murphy’s arm swung wild at the kid.

  “Hey, buddy! Calm down. We’re here to help.”

  The first medic shined the light into Newman’s eyes. “Can you tell me your name?” The man handed Newman some gauze. “Here. Your nose looks like it might be broken. Man,” the medic said and shifted his attention behind Newman. “That’s quite a crash. Which one were you driving?”

  “Name’s Newman,” he said, in response. “I was driving the SUV.” Newman worked his way to a sitting position and shifted until he saw the remains of the specially equipped vehicle. “Jesus,” he said. Beyond the twisted truck, a car sat, its front end pounded flat. Past that, a fire truck blocked the street at the corner. Three men were spraying foam on the smoldering pile of metal. “What happened?”

  The medic pulled a flexible cuff out of a white plastic box at his side on the pavement. “Can you take your arm out of your jacket, sir? I need to get a set of vitals.”

  As Newman did, Murphy shouted, “Get your goddamn hands offa me.”

  “Was he driving the other car?” the medic asked. He wrapped a cloth sleeve around Newman’s arm and started pumping a black, hand-sized bulb connected to it by a slim rubber hose.

  “No,” Newman shook his head past the throbbing. “He was in the SUV with me. We couldn’t see the other driver.”

  Behind the medic, Murphy struggled to his feet, mumbling curses as he went. Newman made out something that sounded like, “…find out who was driving that piece of shit and break his goddamn neck.” Murphy stood despite the other medic’s protestations, staggered, and waved the other man away. As he strode past Newman’s feet, Newman saw one of Murphy’s shirt sleeves was missing.

  A second later, a cry like a wounded animal echoed through the alley. It was only with the extended string of curses following, that it became Murphy’s voice.

  “I better go see what’s up.” Newman pushed to his feet when the medic undid the cuff from around his arm. Walking around the mangled SUV, Newman shook his head in disbelief at the damage. “Christ, what was that guy driving, that he folded a truck in half like that?” Ahead, Murphy was on his knees on the pavement. His shoulders slouched and jerked, his back was bent, and his arms rested on his legs. Newman wondered what had Murphy behaving in such an uncharacteristic manner.

  Turning away from the sobbing Murphy, Newman looked at the vehicle someone had attacked them with. The burned-out shell still sizzled and pinged, but the fire was out. A stream of water and foam trailed from it to a sewer opening in the curb at the street corner. Newman’s mouth dropped open when he recognized what was left of the car’s lines and paint scheme. Murphy’s car had rammed them, destroying both vehicles. “Oh, Christ,” Newman whispered and shook his head. “He’s really gonna be pissed.” He walked up beside Murphy. “How…?”

  Murphy turned on him. His face was shock-pale. The look in his eye was murderous. “I’m going to find this sonofabitch, and when I do…” he trailed off, and began to shake.

  One of the medics draped a thin, silver-colored Mylar sheet over Murphy’s shoulders. At the corner, the fire crew began the arduous task of rolling up hoses and replacing them on the truck as the first police car showed up.

  “Hey, guys.” It was the medic who Murphy had brushed away. “You should let us take you to the hospital and get checked out.”

  “Go,” Murphy said over his shoulder.

  “What about you?” Newman held pressure on his nose, the gauze under it slowly filling with blood.

  “Go, goddamn it,” Murphy hissed. “While you’re waiting, you can start the paperwork to
explain this,” he gestured toward the wreck, “shit.”

  “What do I say about…” he hesitated to say Marshall’s name, not wanting the medics to overhear anything.

  “We were following the suspect home when he spooked and attempted to evade us.” Murphy drew a breath. “He turned into the alley. We stopped to identify ourselves, but before we could,” he said, rocking back on his heels. The steaming, twisted pile of scrap that had been his pride and joy popped and pinged as the metal cooled. “We were rammed by an unidentified assailant and we fear Dr. Marshall was kidnapped.” He shook his head. “Scratch that. We suspect Dr. Marshall is part of a terrorist cell and a threat to Candidate Stiles.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, then get a ride. Get over to Marshall’s lab. Make sure Hayes and Boone got the computers and stake the place out. He’ll go back there. Stay out of sight. I want the bastard and whoever helped him—sons of bitches.”

  “Murphy?”

  Murphy jerked a thumb over his shoulder as a response.

  “Okay.” Newman climbed into the rear of the ambulance, and onto the stretcher. His last view of Murphy as one of the medics closed the rear doors, was the big man slowly circling his former ride, holding an ice bag against the back of his head.

  The ambulance turned around in the alley and rolled past the wreck. Newman relaxed onto the thinly padded stretcher, realizing he hurt all over. He rubbed his chest at a particularly tender spot. As the medic adjusted some equipment on the wall, Newman unbuttoned his shirt and checked. The two small round burn spots on his chest caught him by surprise, but he said nothing.

  ***

  Zach and Special Agent Goode rode in silence along Keene Road north of Clearwater. He kept the car on manual drive to occupy himself, but glanced at where she lay next to him with her eyes closed, more than absolutely necessary to check on her. She slouched in the seat, her elbow propped against his seat back to keep pressure on the handkerchief pressed to her forehead. After twenty minutes, a series of floodlights shining on pair of landscaped, curved brick walls on either side of the boulevard announced they’d arrived at the Willow Run Subdivision, Laz’s neighborhood. He hooked a right off the main road. “We’re here.”