look me half in the face.
“My name is David Trevellyan,” I said. “I’m from the British Consulate. The man you’ve been helping is a friend of mine. Was a friend, anyway. That’s why I’m prepared to give you a break.”
“He’s your friend?” Rollins said. “He’s a psycho. He’s insane.”
“No, he’s a soldier. A veteran, from Afghanistan. He has PTSD. Very badly, I’m told.”
“So what’s he doing in Chicago? Running me all around the city? And threatening my family? He did that, you know. That’s why I helped him. There was no money involved.”
“It’s a long story. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He may not even recognize me, he’s so far gone. But if I don’t talk him down, the police will shoot him. Half the officers they have out there are snipers. Six of them. All top-of-the-line experts. I have one chance to save him. Only one.”
“That’s not my problem. I’ve done my part. Why won’t you just let me go?”
“I will. But I need your help, first.”
“All I did was to give a sick man vital treatment. I’m a doctor. It’s my sworn duty. And now I want to go. Right now.”
“Did you report it? The gunshot wound? To the police?”
He didn’t answer.
“Talking of your duty,” I said. “Did you report it?”
“I guess not,” he said. “I was too busy saving his life. Why? Does it even matter?”
“It does. Because that’s a felony, right there. As a physician, you’re obliged under several laws—state and federal—to report all gunshot wounds. Immediately. Before the patient even leaves your care. If you don’t do that, you’re screwed.”
“Wait. I didn’t know. I’m a cosmetic surgeon, for goodness’ sake. I’m not used to criminals. Or crazy soldiers, or whatever he is.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s an absolute offense. There’s no way to mitigate it. If I hand you to the police, you’re toast. And that’s what I’m going to do. Right now. Unless . . .”
“Unless what? What do you want?”
“Information. I want to know everything about the guy’s situation, upstairs.”
“No problem. I’ll tell you. I’ll draw you diagrams, if you want.”
“Just tell me. That’ll be fine. Oh, and one other thing.”
“What?”
“I’m going to make a call to my office. Then I want you to go back up there with me.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might like to knock on his door, one more time.”
FOUR
When I was a kid I loved watching movies. All different kinds. Cops and robbers. Spies. World War II. Disaster films. Comedies. Anything that could transport me to another world. Looking back, I’d sit through pretty much everything I could find on the box.
Except musicals, obviously.
There were fewer channels on TV in those days, and no video or DVD, but I still seemed to have plenty of choice. The BBC showed at least one movie every Saturday, for example. Early in the evening. Often Westerns, for some reason. They must have been cheap. But I didn’t mind. I enjoyed them. There was bound to be a gallant hero to cheer for. A cruel villain to despise. A beautiful girl to rescue. Plenty of fighting to act out in the playground at school the next week. The knowledge that good would always overcome evil.
And however dicey things became, there was no need to worry.
Because, when the chips were down, you could always rely on the cavalry to arrive.
I stopped Rollins midway up the second flight of stairs. I’d made him describe the entrance to the apartment McIntyre was holed up in four times, but I still wanted to see it for myself. I didn’t trust amateurs. Especially not ones who gave me the feeling they’d say just about anything to save their skins. The mirror I’d taken from his medical kit was small, but it gave me a good enough view to suggest that his account was reasonably accurate. There was nothing obvious to derail the plan I’d just briefed Fothergill on. So, I took out my cell phone, turned the ringer volume up to