I CUP THE badge in one hand and slam through the double doors with the other. There are other officers already in the emergency room, who register who I am and point down the hall with looks of apology, sympathy on their faces. The hallway feels narrow and too bright, full of people in police uniforms or surgical scrubs. Someone tries to stop me and I say, “I’m next of kin.”
There are rooms to the left, all covered with gray-blue curtains. A gurney pops through one of them, several doctors and nurses jogging alongside it, holding bags of fluids and calling out stats to one another.
An arm grabs me. Isaac Marks says, “They’re taking him to surgery, Murphy. He—”
“Call Aunt Chloe,” I tell him.
“I did already.”
I pry my arm free and follow the doctors. “I’m his niece,” I say when they object, and I position myself between them and the elevator so they can’t stop me.
Uncle Langdon looks foreign, ancient, a mask over his face for oxygen, a bulge in the covers by his lower torso. I take his right hand in mine. “I’m here, Lang,” I manage, yelling over the commotion.
His hand squeezes back. The elevator opens and we all go inside. I angle between two medics who don’t resist, allowing us as private a moment as they can possibly give us.
“You’re going to be fine,” I whisper, my face close to his.
Lang slowly raises his arm, like he’s doing a difficult biceps curl, his hand finally reaching the oxygen mask. He pulls it down to his chin. “Jenna Rose,” he says, the words thin and whispery.
“I’m here,” I choke out.
“You’re … a good cop.”
“I learned from the best.” I place my hand delicately on the top of his head, tears streaming down my face, my throat hot and full. “I’m so sorry I questioned you and said all—”
“No.” His eyelids flutter, and his head turns ever so slightly back and forth. “Don’t ever stop … questioning … look up … Chloe … look …”
“I will—Chloe’s on her way—”
“Okay, we have to go!”
The elevator doors part. I press my lips against his forehead. “You’re my favorite uncle.” I squeeze out the words through a sob.
One side of his mouth curves just for a moment; a tear slides down his temple into his ear. “I’m your … only uncle,” he whispers.
And then we are separated, a tug on my arm holding me back, my uncle wheeled off to surgery, my view of him narrowing as the elevator doors move toward each other and then shut.
Not Lang, I think. Not Lang, too. No. Please, no.
When the elevator doors open again, I hear Isaac Marks’s voice, talking to another cop. “Five gunshot wounds to his extremities,” he says. “And then he heated up a fireplace poker and drove it through his kidney.”
I turn in Isaac’s direction, not looking at him, the words echoing between my ears. Shot in the extremities and speared with a poker.
Tortured. Just like Zach Stern. Just like Melanie Phillips. Just like the prostitute impaled on the tree stump in the woods.
“Oh, Murphy.” Isaac’s hand rests on my shoulder. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t speak.
“It’s going to be hours before he’s out of surgery, Murph. Maybe—maybe get some fresh air. Get away from this place for a while. But take the back exit. The press is gathered out front. The chief was supposed to testify tomorrow against Noah Walker.”
Noah Walker.
I stagger toward the rear exit, into the humid night air, where I finish the long hard cry that I started in the elevator. I don’t cry much, but when I do, it’s a heaving, gasping avalanche. I fall to my hands and knees and let it all out, the images from my childhood rushing back, Langdon holding me in his arms after Dad and Ryan died, showing up on weekends at our house in the Bronx, always with a little toy or gadget for me, always ready with stories about the bad guys he put away.
Not Lang. Please, God, I know I’ve doubted you, but I’ll do anything now, anything at all, just please, please don’t take him away.
And then, after some amount of time I can’t quantify, it stops. I get up and brush myself off. The soft tide of sorrow running through my chest turns hard. My senses readjust, back to alert, cop-alert. My vision clears. My nose stops running. My muscles tense.
Noah Walker.
I check my magazine for bullets, then reholster the weapon.
Hours, Isaac said. That will be more than enough time. Noah Walker’s house is only a half hour away.
I shove my star deep in my pocket. I won’t need a badge tonight.
20
NOAH WALKER’S HOUSE is dark. If he’s home, he’s pretending to be asleep. But he won’t have to pretend much longer, and this time he’ll never wake up.