| Subject: WTTS2 - 87 |
Author:
KT
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Date Posted: 22:48:04 01/11/02 Fri
In reply to:
KT
's message, "Window to the Soul 2 - More (splitting the thread *as requested by Sanlin*)" on 21:52:29 01/11/02 Fri
Window to the Soul 2 - Part 87 (language warning)
By KT
Copyright May 12, 2001
The Cook County jail crew were not happy campers as the snowstorm forced them into doing double shifts. A phone call from downtown verified that city snowplows were busy clearing driveways for fire and police stations and hospitals, but the going was slow.
Double shifts turned into triple shifts as the swing crew became the day crew became the night crew. It wasn't only that they couldn't get out. No one could get in. Personnel were simply trapped in their homes until the streets were cleared. Residential neighborhoods would have to wait until emergency services were back on line.
The day shift for the kitchen never made it in to work. There was general grumbling when breakfast wasn't delivered to the inmates. The dull roar became increasingly louder when lunch didn't appear either. The security personnel were stretched as far as they could be, and by early afternoon emotions were running high due to lack of food and frustration with not knowing when relief would arrive.
Egran Petrosian sat in his cell doing his best to ignore the general commotion around him. He was already tired of waiting for Gerald Price to arrange his release. What could be holding up the process? The judge had granted him bail, but Price was shuffling his feet, and Petrosian was nearing the end of his patience. What the hell did he pay the guy for anyway? At least he had been allowed to wear his own clothes.
His thoughts turned nasty as he comtemplated the mentality around him, deciding that he was quite the superior intellect compared to most of the inmates. His mood darkened. As the prison guard paced up and down the hallways, his rage began to rise.
"Hey!" he shouted abrasively.
The guard stopped and looked over his shoulder. " 'Hey!' yourself... What?" His eyebrows came together in an irritated frown. Just what he needed... a rebellious prisoner.
Petrosian waited until the guard started walking back toward his cell, hanging his arms through the bars and watching like a hawk.
"When are we going to get some food around here?"
"What, you think you're the only one who's hungry?"
This pain in the ass making like he was some kind of prima donna pushed the guard's buttons and his anger flared. Fatigue made him careless. As he passed back in front of the door to Petrosian's cell, the prisoner's hands grabbed at the gun in his hip holster, freeing it with one startling movement. The guard heard the safety click off and found himself looking into the barrel of his own weapon. The next thing he heard was the very soft, very menacing voice of Petrosian.
"If you make a sound, you'll regret it. Now, unlock this door... and no sudden moves. Make no mistake. I'll kill you if I have to."
The guard reached for his key and opened the door as Petrosian waved him inside, his back to the wall. They circled each other slowly like two cats, but the guard couldn't find an approach. Petrosian spoke again with quiet, deadly precision.
"Now, hand me the keys." The guard did as he was told.
"Now your hat. And your ID card." Petrosian donned the hat and the ID clip, then exited and locked the door, keeping the gun carefully trained on the center of his prisoner's chest. His eyes burned into the guard's and they exchanged a tense look.
"One word and it will be your last." The guard nodded.
Egran turned and strode down the hallway, tucking the gun into the waistband of his trousers. As he approached the doorway, he kept his head down, his face hidden under the brim of the guard's hat. He ran the ID card through the magnetic reader. The door opened and he made his way to the next. The ID passed him through two more doors until he reached the very last door that led to the waiting area at the entrance to the jail.
Petrosian took a deep breath. This would be the hardest part. He opened the door and walked straight past the guard on duty there, making for the entrance with controlled haste. The guard never even looked up, his eyes glued to the television and the breaking news about the storm. As he exited the jail, Egran found himself hip deep in snow. He made his way around the perimeter of the building, staying close where the snow was not quite so deep.
Finally he reached the back of the yard where the trash containers were kept, burrowing his way through the snow until he reached the enclosure. He climbed on top of one of the dumpsters, discarding the hat and ID, and surveyed his possible egress. The fence top was barbed wire, three rows deep. Well, there was no going back, and no helping it. Petrosian reached up and pulled the barbed wire down, biting back the pain in his hands as he clambered over the fence.
The wire caught in his clothing and ripped his pant leg, tearing a deep gash along the side of his calf. He suppressed his urge to scream and fell backward onto the ground. It was a lot farther down on the other side, but the snow had some cushioning effect. Still, he had the wind knocked out of him, and he lay shivering until he could draw breath.
As the cold penetrated his body, Petrosian's mind raced. It would give him great pleasure to settle up with Gerald Price. No doubt Price knew the name of the man who had identified him. He clenched his teeth as the snow came in contact with his injured leg.
Revenge first, then escape. He had plenty of contacts who would help him leave the country. It would be tricky. He couldn't go back to his own country, but there were still places in the world where a man with enough money could become invisible...
* * * * * * * *
The snow was both Petrosian's foe and his ally as he made his way back to his gallery. He cursed the depth of it as it slowed his progress, and praised it at the same time when he realized that the city was basically at a standstill. There were no moving vehicles, no pedestrians, and no police cars.
The walk was long and arduous, and by the time he reached his destination, he was hypothermic. He moved through the alley to the back of the building and searched for his hidden key. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely slip the key into the lock. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing was moving anywhere. He entered quickly and was dismayed to find that the heat had been turned off.
He was shivering so violently that he could hardly remove his wet clothes, and as he turned to walk to the bath, his knees buckled under him. Exhaustion and lack of food, in addition to the cold and wet, exacted their toll. He hit the floor, chilled to the bone. As he lay fighting for consciousness, his body temperature continued to drop. Petrosian tried to crawl toward the bath, his mental faculties fading quickly, and with a perplexed look, he rolled onto his back and passed out.
* * * * * * * *
The guard in Petrosian's cell began to shout as soon as his former prisoner had cleared the first door, but there were no other guards in this block. The inmates began to shout back and derisive laughter rang out in the hallway, and finally the ruckus penetrated the complacent oblivion of the guard on duty at the main entrance. As he resumed scanning his surveillance monitor, he caught sight of the hands of the captive guard waving through the bars of a cell, and quickly dispatched personnel to check on conditions.
The imprisoned guard's account of Petrosian's actions was soon disclosed, and the police would have been in pursuit but for the fact that they were totally immobilized by the snow conditions. A search of the perimeter of the building revealed the pedestrian trail of the escapee, and an APB was issued to the dispatch center. There were still people on the job from the swing shift, unable to get home, and unrelieved by those who could not make it in to work.
One of those people was Detective Marcus O'Brien. Things had been fairly calm in spite of the weather, and the rash of crime that was expected had not materialized. The snow had apparently discouraged the criminals as well as the law-abiding citizens. As he listened to the details of Petrosian's escape, he swore under his breath. His shoulders tightened as a sarcastic laugh escaped his lips. Trust Petrosian to take matters into his own hands.
O'Brien picked up the phone. At least communications were not affected. He called the Lockup and talked with the duty officer about Petrosian's self-liberation and learned coincidentally about the food problems. He then dialed up Gerald Price's office and wasn't surprised to get his answering service. The weary attendant, who had also been stuck at work above and beyond the call of duty, gave him Price's home number.
"Hello Gerald."
"Well. Detective O'Brien. How are our 'city's finest' holding up against Mother Nature?"
"Save the lame humor, Price. I have some rather distressing news regarding your client Egran Petrosian."
Price sighed. What had the fool done now?
"I'm listening."
"He has freed himself from the confines of the Cook County Lockup."
"What???" Price exclaimed his shock before he had time to curb his reaction. "Could you repeat that, please?"
"Petrosian commandeered the weapon of the guard on duty and traded places with him. He actually left by the front door."
"He just... walked out?"
"Precisely."
"But... how did he get through the check gates?"
"He helped himself to the guard's magnetic ID card. The guard at the main entrance would never expect a prisoner to get that far. The snow situation didn't help. They're all so fatigued over there that they can't think straight. No one has eaten, since the kitchen crew didn't make it to work with all the transportation problems." He let Price absorb his story, then inquired, "Do you have any idea where he might be? Where he might go?"
"What, you think I know where he is?"
"He hasn't been in touch with you? How do I know he isn't there with you now?"
Price mused. O'Brien was right. He would be the logical choice for an unscheduled visit from Petrosian. Perhaps one that would place his life in danger. He decided to play it cool.
"Come on, O'Brien. You don't actually believe I would put my life on the line for that scum, do you?"
"You are his lawyer."
"He pays me well. That's as far as it goes. I've..." He was about to say that he'd done nothing illegal by doing business with Petrosian, but caught himself in his own lie.
"You've...?"
Price forged ahead on a different tack. "I've been letting Petrosian stew for awhile, and he probably thought I'd abandoned him. I wanted him to ripen a bit before I bailed him out. Figured a short stint in the can would mellow him a little."
"Well, that plan has certainly backfired. Your boy is in deep now. And you may be a target."
Price was tired of this banter. "Look here, Marcus, what is it you want from me? This is police business, and I see no reason to continue this conversation. There's nothing I can tell you, but if Petrosian does come by, I'll be calling on you for my God-given right to police protection, you can be sure."
O'Brien let his contempt out. " 'We serve and protect', Mr. Price." He hung up before his anger really got rolling.
O'Brien reasoned that Petrosian had only two places he could go without breaking and entering - his apartment and his gallery. The gallery would be the closest place for him to hole up, unless he paid a visit to one of his underworld compatriots. Not likely, though. Petrosian would realize that they would have just as soon killed him as have undue attention drawn to them. He would have become just another dismembered body in the trunk of a car.
No, Petrosian's survival instinct was as strong as any O'Brien had ever seen. He would avoid the mob. Marcus paced in his office, itching to get to the gallery, but he was as trapped by the snow as everyone else. He knew that if he went on foot, as his fugitive had done, he would be at a definite disadvantage, and Petrosian was considered armed and dangerous. Time would become a factor as the streets got cleared and operations resumed their normal pitch. Until then, patience and preparation.
* * * * * * * *
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