Chapter 14 - The Weight of the Tablecloth
The cold air in the basement archives seemed to thicken, smelling of iron, damp paper, and raw, cornered desperation.
I stood between two towering steel shelving units, the heavy radiology folder clutched tightly against my ribs with both hands.
The two men behind Whitman fanned out slowly, blocking the only narrow passageway leading back to the magnetic exit door.
"Donald, think about what you are doing for five seconds," I said, keeping my voice level, drawing on every drop of emergency room discipline.
"This hospital has three separate security rings, and the microfiche system logged my access credentials the second I opened the door."
"If you touch me, Vincent won't just file an injunction; he will bury you and everyone who signed your retainer checks."
Whitman let out a high, ragged bark of laughter that bounced crazily against the exposed pipes along the ceiling.
"Vincent Caruso is finished, you stupid little waitress!" Whitman screamed, his eyes bloodshot and wild with frantic greed.
"The federal marshals are serving a preliminary asset seizure warrant on the Columbia Heights mansion right now!"
"Castiglione’s people leaked the allegations to the New York Post two hours ago; Vincent can't move a single car without three patrol cars trailing him."
"He isn't coming to save you, Lucy; nobody is coming to hold your hand in the dark today."
He took two aggressive steps forward, raising the aluminum bat with both hands, his face contorting into an ugly mask of vengeance.
"Give me the file, or I swear to God I’ll smash your kneecaps against this floorboards."
I didn't back down; I reached behind my hip, my fingers curling around the heavy brass handle of an industrial CO2 fire extinguisher.
Hospital safety protocols had drilled the location of wall-mounted fire suppression units into my muscle memory for two solid years.
With one fluid, violent jerk, I ripped the brass extinguisher from its wall bracket, breaking the plastic inspection seal with a loud snap.
Before Whitman could swing the bat, I jammed the rubber horn directly into his face and slammed down the heavy discharge lever.
A deafening, pressurized hiss filled the aisle as a freezing cloud of white carbon dioxide snow blasted into Whitman’s eyes and mouth.
The manager let out a shriek of choked agony, dropping the aluminum bat as the sub-zero chemical gas blinded and suffocated him.
He stumbled backward into one of the Jersey thugs, knocking the larger man against the metal shelving with a thunderous clatter.
Dozens of heavy archive boxes tumbled from the top tier, raining down hundreds of loose medical charts like a paper avalanche.
I didn't wait to see them recover; I swung the heavy brass cylinder by its handle, smashing it into the second thug’s shinbone.
The man cursed loudly, collapsing onto one knee on the concrete floor as I bolted past him into the main hallway.
My boots pounded against the linoleum as I threw my shoulder against the emergency push-bar of the stairwell fire door.
An alarm siren began wailing through the hospital corridors, a piercing, rhythmic screech that shook the concrete walls.
I sprinted up the four flights of stairs, my lungs burning with cold air and my injured left shoulder throbbing with sharp pain.
Behind me, the heavy fire door slammed open, followed by the frantic, echoing footsteps of the two thugs chasing me up the stairs.
I burst through the ground-floor exit doors into the torrential autumn rain, the freezing downpour instantly soaking my hair and scrubs.
I cleared the hospital steps and sprinted toward the corner of Flatbush Avenue, clutching the waterproof folder beneath my coat.
Fifty yards down the street, the black utility van’s headlights flashed twice through the rain-streaked darkness.
The sliding side door of the van flew open with a violent metallic screech, and a man leaped out onto the flooded asphalt.
It wasn't Marco.
It was Vincent Caruso, soaking wet, his overcoat gone, wearing only a black shirt and slacks, sprinting directly toward me through the storm.
He caught me by the waist just as my wet boots slipped on the curb, his powerful arms lifting me clean off the ground.
"I’ve got you! Lucy, I’ve got you!" he roared over the howling wind and the distant sirens.
He pulled me behind his back, his right hand drawing an automatic pistol from his waistband with deadly, practiced precision.
The two Jersey men burst out of the hospital alleyway thirty yards away, skidding to a halt on the wet sidewalk as they saw the muzzle.
Vincent didn't fire; he simply leveled the black steel at the center of the lead man’s forehead, his eyes burning with lethal certainty.
"Come three feet closer," Vincent whispered, his voice cutting through the downpour like a sharpened scythe.
"Give me a reason to finish what your boss started thirty years ago."
The two men took one look at Vincent's face, turned on their heels, and sprinted back into the hospital shadows like whipped curs.
Vincent didn't pursue them; he holstered the weapon, turned around, and wrapped both arms around me, pulling me against his soaking chest.
He buried his face in my wet hair, his body trembling with an intensity of relief that almost knocked us both to the pavement.
"Are you whole? Did they touch you?" he whispered, his hands frantically checking my shoulders, my face, and my arms.
"I'm fine, Vincent," I gasped, holding the wet radiology folder up between our chests like a hard-won trophy of war.
"I have the Glasgow scores; Carmine was in a deep coma two weeks before he died; the codicil is an absolute forgery."
Vincent looked down at the folder, then brought his gaze back to my face, his dark eyes shining with profound, reverent wonder.
"You held on to it," he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a mixture of rain and plaster dust from my cheek.
May you like
"I told you at The Alder, Vincent," I whispered, leaning my forehead against his wet collarbone as the rain poured around us.
"I don't let go when things get rough."
