Empire's End

Twenty-Four / Break

Voorhees walked into the hotel that served as police department and P.O. housing. He had been thinking of going upstairs and catching a few hours’ sleep, but he decided to spend the afternoon in the squadroom.

There hadn’t been any leads in the Manning case. They now knew beyond any doubt that someone was targeting senators for assassination, including Jeff Cullen, who had been moved to an undisclosed location. Murder by infection. It was the cruelest M.O. Voorhees had ever heard of. It said something about the killer and her agenda. Her targets may have been political, but there was a personal edge.

He entered the squadroom.

In the aisle between desks, Casey’s wheelchair lay on its side.

Voorhees drew his baton and made his way back to the S.P.O.’s office. He peered inside: empty.

Heading out into the hall, Voorhees exited the department and headed for Casey’s ground-level living quarters. The building was deathly silent. He wondered if any of his colleagues were upstairs. Dammit, he’d set his radio on his desk before spying the wheelchair. No time to go back for it. For all he knew, Casey was already dead.

It had to be her. He knew it in his gut. First the senators, and now cops. Likely feared they were closing in on her. But the killer had had the opportunity to kill three cops at Cullen’s office, and didn’t…

The door to Casey’s place was barely ajar. Voorhees eased it open and stuck his head through.

The killer’s back was to him. She had Casey trussed up in a desk chair and was gagging him with a towel.

Voorhees took one slow step, then another, across the room. The killer remained hunched over Casey, unaware, tightening the ropes that bound him.

The bone knife flashed into view. She raised it over her stockinged head.

Voorhees knocked it from her grip with a sharp blow, then brought the baton down over her head to lock her in a chokehold. She pushed off of Casey’s chair and drove Voorhees back into the wall. He held firm, and heard her gasping for breath. “It’s over,” he grunted in her ear.

She stomped on his foot. The pain knifed through his leg, but he refused to let go. Instead, he tightened his grip. She was going to go to sleep.

Casey toppled over in the chair, trying to turn his head to see what was happening. The killer continued stomping and thrashing, but already she was growing weaker; and finally went limp in his arms.

Voorhees relaxed his grip.

She sprang to life. Stupid!

She slammed an elbow into his sternum. Suddenly his baton was in her hand and she cracked him across the face. The world was red. He stumbled wildly, flailing his arms. Another blow to the back of the head.

He caught the baton on the third strike and seized her arms. “Stop! It’s over! Give up!”

They stumbled across the room together, colliding with the overturned chair, and they went through the window in a strained embrace.

Voorhees heard a noise like the world being torn in half as glass shattered around his head. The curtain whispered over his face. Then he was free falling, the killer sailing away from him.

Still falling. But we’re on the bottom floor. Then, in a final thought, he remembered.

The road behind the hotel slanted sharply downward, below ground level. Kids often played there. They were safe there, in the shadow of the police department; it was into that shadow that Voorhees fell, and just before he hit, something clicked in his mind. It was a hunch, a half-formed idea. A collage of memories that resolved into something brilliant, and though it was only a hunch, in that split-second before impact Voorhees knew he was right. It’s a cop.

Then he hit.

“P.O. Voorhees? Can you hear me?”

It was dark. His head felt thick and heavy. Drugged. But it was Dr. Zane’s voice, and that meant he was in the hospital. “I thought you were the medical examiner,” he croaked.

“I do a lot of things.” Zane’s hands prodded his stomach. “Any pain there?”

“No.”

“All right, your nurse and I are going to help you sit up. Your right wrist is broken, so don’t try to prop yourself up. Let us do the work.”

Zane listened to Voorhees’ breathing. “What’s your birthday, Officer?”

“August seventeenth, twenty fifty-two.”

“And what’s your full name?”

“Joseph Thomas Voorhees.”

“Good. In case you were wondering, by the way, your eyes are bandaged. You busted your head pretty good in that fall.”

“Fall?”

“Do you remember the fall, Officer?”

“The last thing I remember is… I was going home. Where did I fall?”

There was low muttering, then Casey’s voice spoke up. “Voorhees, you ran across the killer. She was getting ready to stick me when you showed up.”

“I don’t remember that t all.”

“You both went out the window. She got away.”

“Now,” Zane said, “we don’t yet know the extent of the damage. You’re all put back together, but it’s very possible that there was deeper trauma. Trauma we’d be able to scan for if we had a facility like Chicago’s, but around here we’ve got jack shit.”

“Can we send him there?” Casey asked.

“He’d be on a waiting list. Might as well work with him here. Once you’re up and about, Officer, we can do some basic tests and make sure you’re functioning all right.”

“The fact that I can’t remember…”

“Oh, I would’ve expected that. For now the amnesia’s not a problem.”

It smelled so sterile and dry. He was uncomfortable in this little bed. And he needed painkillers, lots of painkillers. He really just wanted to go to sleep.

“The others will probably stop by later,” Casey said. “You get some rest. You’re a hero.”

He heard Casey leave. Zane was messing with something beside his head. “Think we can increase my morphine?”

“As soon as some gets here,” Zane replied. “Right now you’re not on anything. I’m giving you something so you can sleep through it. I guess there’ll be a guard posted outside, so you can relax.”

It hadn’t occurred to Voorhees that he might be a target now. Somehow he didn’t think so; the killer was… she was…

Off to sleep.

Tow days later, the bandages came off his eyes.

“They’ll likely be very sensitive,” Zane told him. “Fuzzy too. Now, I’m not going to release you back to duty, but so long as there aren’t any problems getting about we’ll probably send you home.”

Voorhees felt the cool air reaching his eyes. He blinked. They ached terribly, as did his entire head, but it was tolerable. At least he’d no longer be an invalid.

He waited for the final layers of gauze to come off. Zane paused. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“How’s your vision?”

“What do you mean?”

Fear seized Voorhees’ heart. He reached up to his face. “Oh my God. Oh dear Christ.”

“What is it, Officer?”

“I can’t see. I can’t see anything.

“I’m blind.”