| Subject: WTTS2 - 88a |
Author:
KT
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Date Posted: 22:51:39 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 88a
By KT
Copyright June 6, 2001
Tension rose steadily at the precinct and the jail. Though the streets were being cleared, the prediction for another storm front was quickly becoming a reality. People were scrambling to get home or to work before the next wave of snow swept over the city.
O'Brien was a man on a mission, and decided not to wait any longer. He took off in a squad car as soon as their building was plowed out. He called Cossins en route to meet him at Petrosian's gallery, but Cossins was stuck at dispatch. Patrick agreed to have backup on the way as soon as possible.
"But no guarantees with the shortage of manpower... Sorry, Marcus."
O'Brien dialed Michael Samuelle's number and spoke to his answering machine.
"Mr. Samuelle, Marcus O'Brien here. I thought you should know that Egran Petrosian has escaped from the Lockup and his whereabouts are currently unknown. You and Ms. Wirth could possibly be in danger. Please take precaution and call me on my cell phone at your earliest convenience." He left the number.
O'Brien headed to Wicker Park, his frustration growing as he continually encountered slow pedestrians and even slower vehicles. It was beginning to snow again, and he cursed the unpredictable early spring weather. He turned on his windshield wipers with an exasperated grunt. Just when he thought all the pieces had fallen neatly into place, this had to happen. Driven by his loathing of Petrosian, he vowed that the man should not get away with the murder of Karen Kent and his role as accomplice in the death of Jaime Zalman... that these would be the last crimes he would ever commit.
It seemed like forever until he reached his destination. He parked his car a block away from the gallery and walked the opposite side of the street. He ducked into an entry way and pulled out his binoculars. The gallery appeared to be closed, judging from the dark interior, and he could detect no movement within. O'Brien crossed the street at the next corner and worked his way into the alley behind the building. As he turned the corner, his instincts kicked in and he paused to observe. O'Brien's eyes narrowed as he noted a man's tracks in the snow and... blood. The tracks disappeared into the rear of the gallery. So... his target was here. And injured to boot. He pulled out his radio.
"O'Brien, Dispatch."
"Dispatch, O'Brien." It was good to hear Patrick's voice. "What's your 20?"
"I'm in the alley behind Petrosian's gallery." O'Brien knew that Cossins had the address, so he dispensed with details. "Our suspect is most likely inside. There's a trail leading into the rear entrance, and some blood on the snow. If he's injured, he's no better than a caged animal." Marcus had his hand on his gun. Snowflakes stuck on his eyelashes and stung his face with ever-increasing frequency. His flags were up, and Patrick's reply confirmed his thoughts.
"But if he's cornered, he might be even more dangerous."
"What's my backup status?"
"Two officers were all I could drum up."
"Their ETA?"
"Hard to say, with the road conditions. How long did it take you to get there?"
"About forty minutes."
Cossins calculated. That was about twice as long as usual. "I'd say you've got another forty minute wait. They just left."
"Forty minutes?" O'Brien's face registered consternation. With the snowfall, he would have to backtrack to his car. He couldn't spend that long holed up in the alley. And that would mean leaving the scene.
"Best I could do, Marcus."
"Thanks, Patrick." O'Brien made a decision. "But I don't think I can wait that long. Make sure we have a search warrant in the works. I'm going in."
Cossins was not in favor of this breach of standard operating procedure, but knew better than to try to talk him out of it. He reasoned that O'Brien could cite any number of conditions that would hold up under investigation, should anything go awry.
"Be careful, and call me back in ten."
"Copy that."
O'Brien signed off. Glancing around to assure himself that there were no observers, he waded through the snow, stepping in the footfalls of whoever had preceeded him, then silently grasped the door handle, pressing the thumbplate and pulling outward. The door gave way and he stepped inside. He pushed the door shut without looking back.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw a trail of melted snow and blood and followed it across the floor to where the body of Petrosian lay motionless, face to the ceiling. O'Brien sucked in his breath as his gut tightened. He could see a gun protruding from the waistband of the man's trousers, and blood pooled around his leg. It was impossible to tell if the man was breathing or not, and he had a moment of reprieve as he considered his next move.
If Petrosian's injuries were life-threatening, then he would have to rescue him in order to arrest him... the thought was too ironic! Forty minutes could mean the difference between life and death. And it would be too easy a death for O'Brien's taste. He mused at the fact that he would rather see the man die now, since he probably wouldn't get a death sentence for his crimes... that would save the taxpayers from keeping this filth alive for the next fifty years.
O'Brien moved stealthily around the perimeter of the room until he reached the opposite side and stood at Petrosian's feet. As he got a better look at the prone figure before him, he noted the white aspect of the skin and that the blood from an apparent leg wound was no longer flowing. He moved closer and knelt along side the body, and placing a finger under the crease of the jaw, found a pulse. He leaned down and determined that the man was breathing.
O'Brien sat on his heels contemplating. His suspect appeared to be in shock from hypothermia. Transfering his radio to his jacket, he reluctantly removed his coat and threw it over Petrosian. Casing the area for a light switch, he soon discovered that the power was out. It was cold and it was dark. He chided himself for leaving his flashlight in his car. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was time to check in with Cossins.
He slipped out the back door into the alley and his face was stung by the icy flakes that were now falling heavily. Seeking shelter in the narrow passageway between the gallery and the adjacent building, O'Brien radioed Cossins.
"Looks like I'm going to need an ambulance here. Suspect is unconscious inside the premises, but is breathing and has a pulse. I think he's in shock. Tell them not to run code. They can pull into the alley behind the gallery. I'll be waiting. Oh, and Patrick, can you get an arrest warrant for me?"
"Done deal." Cossins was relieved to hear O'Brien checking in.
O'Brien signed off, then re-entered the gallery, closing the door silently behind him once again. As he moved forward, he heard a noise. He froze as he observed that Petrosian's body was no longer face up on the floor. His skin prickled as the rush of impending danger flooded through him. He instinctively reached for his weapon, reassured by the feel of the heavy metal under his palm. The sound of a gun cocking made him stop in his tracks.
O'Brien swept the area with his eyes. Where the hell was the guy? He couldn't be in any kind of shape to sustain a physical confrontation. The coat must have warmed him up just enough for him to regain consciousness. He slowly began to pull his gun from his shoulder holster.
"That... will be far enough," came a voice from off to the right.
O'Brien turned imperceptibly toward the direction of the sound, pivoting into a ready position. Petrosian was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his gun trained on his would-be captor. They stared at each other, and O'Brien knew that he was duty-bound to identify himself as a police officer. His opponent appeared to be trying to make out just exactly who he was.
O'Brien mentally noted that backup and the ambulance were still a good twenty minutes out. As the moment stretched into an eternity, he made the final move and quickly trained his gun on Petrosian, speaking simultaneously.
"Police officer. You're under arrest."
He barely got the words out when a flash exploded from Petrosian's gun. His own weapon answered as a burning sensation tore through his left thigh, and he fell heavily as his leg crumbled beneath him. It was impossible to tell where his bullet had gone, but he thought he'd heard a grunt as it thudded home. O'Brien lay on his side, his gun still trained on his target. As he looked across the floor, Petrosian seemed to be retreating against the wall.
The detective sidled his body around, pivoting on his upper arm, in order to keep the target in sight. Hot blood was soaking his pant leg and forming a slick puddle on the floor. His vision blurred momentarily as a light-headed feeling passed over him. It was now or never. He took aim and squeezed off a shot just as Petrosian disappeared behind a partition.
O'Brien's mind whirred as he weighed the pros and cons of his situation. If Petrosian was hit, he wouldn't be able to get far in his already weakened condition. Marcus knew that his own wound was serious, and that if he attempted pursuit he might jeopardize his chances of catching his prey, not to mention his own life.
He began to drag himself toward the spot where Petrosian had disappeared. As he moved, a wave of nausea hit him sideways, and he had to stop. O'Brien's head went down as the sick feeling overtook his senses. He fought, but the urge to pass out was too overpowering. His gun lay loosely in his grasp as his body went limp.
Light fell across the darkened room as the rear door of the gallery opened a crack. Petrosian pushed, but the heavy snow had piled up once more, and the door defeated him. He had taken a bullet to the shoulder, and winced with pain as he pressed against the unmoving metal. A deep breath... he tried to stand... then collapsed in the doorway. The cold and snow whirled around him and into the room, and the cold overtook him once again. He began to shiver uncontrollably, and his weapon fell from his grasp... Darkness...
* * * * * * * *
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