Healing Wolves
Part Ten - The Beacon
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., Amblin Entertainment, and ConstantC productions, used here without permission. This story has been written entirely for entertainment value. No copyright infringement is intended, and no form of profit is being made on this work. Any errors in continuity, characterization, or common sense may be blamed entirely on me. Sorry. If this hasn't given you eyestrain already, read on.



The iron-gray clouds that had hidden the sun all day were darkening. Either rain or sunset. Probably both, I thought. Sure enough, droplets began to spatter against the windshield. I put the windshield wipers on. Visibility was falling and drivers were turning their headlights on.

If night were falling, it would be both good and bad. It would make it harder for Lonnie to spot us tailing him. We would be just one more set of anonymous headlights in the traffic behind him. On the other hand, it worked the other way around. I would have to keep sharp lookout for his set of taillights. You can distinguish one set from another if you have enough practice, but it's far from foolproof.

Soon after leaving the hospital, Lonnie had turned onto the freeway, and we followed close behind him. Freeways were better for tailing someone. It's not as suspicious as residential streets, or city blocks, where people tend to turn off at a corner. On the freeway, you can have the same cars going in the same direction for miles on end, and nobody thinks twice about it.

"Who is it we're following?" Jeannie asked me.

"I think it's Lonnie Bledsoe," I told her.

"The one from the news?" she said, "In Calumet City?"

"That's the one. If it's him."

She was silent for a bit, then said, "How does he figure into this?"

I told her about Kerry Weaver walking into my office a couple of weeks ago, and how I had located Glorianna Rossili, a.k.a. Gloria Russell, at her apartment in Los Angeles. I told her that a police source had mentioned Edward Lonnegan Bledsoe's possible print on Kerry's crutch. I did not mention Lydia Wright's name, or that John Carter and I had searched Kerry's home. I told Jeannie about what I had learned from the newspapers, and about seeing Thomas Garrett Bledsoe in Gloria Russell's apartment, and I told her my theory about Glory being the driver in Calumet City, and about them coming to Kerry Weaver for help. I did not speculate about the blood that had been found on Kerry's clothes. I told her that I had picked up Lonnie Bledsoe at Gloria Russell's apartment in Chicago. I didn't mention that the last part had been the sheerest, dumbest luck I've ever had. You have to omit things like that if you want to build a reputation as an ace crimebusting superheroic detective kinda guy.

Jeannie Boulet listened without comment, and when I had finished, she digested it silently for a few minutes. Then she said, "That's pretty flimsy, Daniel."

I shrugged. So much for ace crimebusting.

"You're hanging everything on that thin chain of reasoning?"

"This from the woman who jumped into my car on a mad impulse," I said. "I mean, that was a very 'Charlie's Angels' thing to do."

"No, you're right," she said, ignoring my attempt at humor.

I said, "This is how it works. I have to look at the long shots sometimes. The distant possibilities that everyone else glosses over. Sometimes you're right, sometimes you're wrong."

She nodded. "How did you become a private detective? Were you a police officer?"

"No. After I got out of the Air Force, I actually tried my hand at being an actor."

"Oh. Have I seen you in anything?"

"Maybe. Did you see 'Clear and Present Danger'?"

Jeannie brightened. "Yes," she said.

"Did you see 'Scent of a Woman'?"

She smiled. "Yes, I did!"

"Did you see 'Ninja Brainsuckers II'?"

"Uh...no."

"Guess which of those three I was in. Briefly."

"Aha."

"So, naturally, I needed a day job. I met a guy named Richard Wintergreen, and went to work for him. He made me a partner a few years back."

"He's a private detective, too?"

"The best. Wintergreen's the kind of guy who can tell you what you had for breakfast just by looking at how you tied your shoes. He used to be the pride of Scotland Yard." Of course, that was before they learned that he was homosexual. Four decades of truly outstanding service, and suddenly they wouldn't give him the time of day, except to force him into retirement. Thank you, Queen and Country.

"Did he teach you a lot about finding people, like this?"

I nodded. "A lot, yeah, but some things you kind of have to learn on your own." I was thinking about a case I worked with Richard about five years back. We had been hired by the family of a missing nine-year-old boy. The cops had looked, but it was down to pictures on milk cartons. Richard performed the most brilliant piece of detective work I have ever seen, and located the boy and his abductors. Four days after he had died. It's one of the only times I ever saw Richard's composure crack.

To change the subject, I said, "How about you? We haven't talked much. Are you and Kerry close?"

"Not really."

I glanced at her. "You abandoned work and dashed off with me pretty quickly," I said. "You do that for everyone you work with?"

"No, it's...it's more complicated than that."

I waited.

"Kerry came to work at County shortly after I did," she said. "At first, I had the same opinion of her as everyone else. I thought she was an officious, cold-hearted bureaucrat. Then some things happened that changed my mind."

I waited some more. Either she'd tell me or she wouldn't.

"I'm HIV-positive," she said, at last. Telling me, a guy she barely knew, was a big step.

"I'm sorry," I said. Why are the most beautiful people in the world the ones whose lives are defined by sorrow?

"When I found out, I thought my life was over," she said. "I thought they'd never allow me to keep working at the hospital. Kerry Weaver surprised me. She bent over backwards to come up with a way to let me stay on." She rolled her neck, easing the tension in her shoulders. "She followed all the rules, and made sure everything was official. That doesn't make it sound like much of a gesture, but it made me feel like she protected my dignity, my..." She searched for words.

"Your worth as a human being, rather than a victim?" I said.

"Yes," she nodded, "Yes. Everyone else I knew looked at me and saw the disease, she saw the person. That small amount of respect meant so much to me, I can't even tell you. So many other people would have found an excuse to fire me."

We drove quietly for a while.

"Actually, she did fire me, eventually," Jeannie said. "We had an agreement about which procedures I could do and which were too risky. I broke that agreement. I had no choice, a man would have died, but it was done. Kerry felt she had no choice but to let me go."

"How'd you get back?" I said.

"I took legal action and the hospital was forced to rehire me," she said. "But Kerry and I were never as close after that. I felt so betrayed by her, and I think maybe she felt the same. Our relationship has improved, but not as much as I always wished."

I changed lanes to vary the pattern of lights Lonnie might see behind him.

"It's all so unfair," Jeannie said, "I lost a good friend to illness, recently. Someone far too young. Now this happens..."

"I know. Kerry didn't deserve this."

Jeannie didn't look at me. "I've never met anyone who got what they deserved," she said.

Between the rain and the darkness of night, all I could see of Lonnie Bledsoe was a pair of red lights up ahead. If I lost sight of those, or got them confused with another car, we were screwed. Jeannie was right. This was banking a lot on a gut feeling. I've learned to listen to those, but sometimes they're wrong. No matter how often you do this sort of thing successfully, you never stop thinking, what if this is the time you fail?

Maybe Lonnie wasn't leading us to Kerry Weaver. Maybe he wasn't really responsible for her disappearance. Maybe it wasn't even Lonnie Bledsoe in the car ahead of us. No, I told myself, you know better than to second-guess yourself. You know it's him.

I wished I could put on the radio, listen to some music, but I knew it would only distract me. You have to focus entirely on your goal, or it will slip away like a Will-O-The-Wisp. Sometimes I understood how the three Kings of Orient must have felt on their way to Bethlehem, guided only by a point of light in the sky and a sense of faith that someone was waiting for them at the end of the road.

I heard Jeannie sort of whispering to herself as we drove, her voice just barely audible. I think she was praying.

Lonnie Bledsoe's taillights winked, and he turned onto an off-ramp ahead. His lights disappeared from view as the ramp curved. I slid over and took the same ramp.

This section of town was old and industrial. Factories and warehouses and run-down buildings. Everything looked closed, some places for the night, some permanently. There was lots of cinderblock and rusted sheet metal and padlocked chains and faded, peeling paint and broken glass. Maybe one in every three streetlights was out. There was more life visible on the dark side of the moon. Not a place you want to go strolling after sundown. Unfortunately, that's my job.

I slowed the Buick, cruising between the dark, squat buildings, searching for some sign of Lonnie's car. I turned my lights off, trusting that the ambient light would let me spot him, if he was there to be spotted at all. My headlights would do more to give us away than to help us. The rain was letting up.

Catching sight of a parked car down the street to my right, I stopped and backed up. Was that the Oldsmobile? You have to trust your gut at times like this. I parked the car and shut off the engine, but left the keys in the ignition. The silence was enough to let you hear your own heartbeat.

I turned to Jeannie. "Okay, I'm going to take a look. Stay here and keep your head down. If you have any trouble, sound the horn and drive away.  Anybody tries to stop you, run 'em over. Otherwise, wait here."

She nodded, very seriously.

"Just wait here. Don't come in after me, okay?"

She nodded again

I opened the door, then closed it again. "I mean it. This isn't like the movies, where they say wait here, and then they go in anyway. Wait here means Wait. Here."

"Daniel, I get the message, already. You don't need to go overboard."

"Right. Okay." I got out of the car, took a few steps, then turned back and opened the door again. "This isn't a macho thing, it's just that I do this for a living..."

"Do you want me to go in with you?" she said, exasperated.

"No, thank you." I shut the door and went towards the other car. I stayed in the shadows as best I could, hugging the wall of the deserted body shop to my right. I took the stainless .38 from its holster under my arm and held it down by my leg. The rain had stopped, and the streets had a raw, wet look.

The car was, indeed, the Oldsmobile I had followed from County General. It was empty and locked. The vinyl case wasn't in the back seat anymore. I left the car alone, continuing along to the end of the building.

At the far end was a wide, open area covered in faded, crumbled blacktop. Maybe a parking lot, maybe a loading bay for trucks. I stayed by the corner of the body shop, remaining still and letting my senses take in the area. I heard voices, arguing. Two men. Could be a crack deal, could be homeless people splitting a bottle of Ripple. One of the voices sounded familiar. I peeked around the corner.

Lonnie and Gary Bledsoe were arguing in the doorway of what looked like an abandoned garage. Both were dressed in dark clothing, Lonnie sporting an outfit that made him look like a member of Delta Force, or a SWAT team. Or maybe an extra in a Rambo movie. Lots of black nylon, lots of pockets for flares and spare ammo, like that. You can get stuff like that out of a catalogue, these days. He had ditched the Drew Carey glasses, and the brim of a black fatigue hat was pulled low over his eyes. He carried the vinyl case, slung by a strap from his shoulder. I was thinking, rifle?

Gary was upset about something, hissing intently at Lonnie, but he wasn't raising his voice. Lonnie was looking at him like he'd like to just smack him one, but he wasn't reacting outwardly, much. Guys like that are at their most dangerous when they're quiet and still. You never know when he'll snap.

I watched them, wishing I could hear what they were arguing about. I got the feeling that something had happened, and they were debating what to do about it. I had a bad feeling that I wouldn't like what had happened.

Finally, Lonnie overrode Gary, making his comments short and to the point, with a couple of choppy hand gestures. He clearly wasn't to be argued with. Gary didn't look happy about it, but he backed down.  Lonnie gave him one more look, to make sure they both knew who was calling the shots, then he turned away and slunk into the shadows. He had the look I've seen in soldiers and some cops, who consider the whole world, civilized or not, to be one big jungle to hunt in. Gary went back into the garage.

I waited a while, deliberately taking slow, easy breaths. I didn't like my odds of tackling Lonnie, not on his turf, while he was in full hunting mode. Gary might be a surer bet. I moved stealthily to the garage door, the .38 ready in my hand, and slid inside.

It was cold and musty in the way a place is when it hasn't been inhabited regularly for a long time. The way you'd imagine a tomb to be. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and then I saw a dim light coming from an adjoining room. Maybe an office. I made my way towards it, setting each sneakered foot down evenly. As I neared the office door, another door opened, maybe six feet from where I was.

Gary Bledsoe came out of the restroom, wiping his hands with a greasy towel, and saw me. Tough luck for him, I saw him first.

I put a straight kick into his chest, years of martial arts practice paying off at last. He slammed back against the wall, rebounded towards me, and I clipped him above the right eyebrow with the butt of the .38. He yelled and clutched his face, and I threw him facedown on the cement floor and put the barrel of the .38 under his ear.

"Good evening, sir," I said, "Can I interest you in a subscription to the Saturday Evening Post?" He had a Sig Sauer 9mm stuck in the back of his belt. I took it and made sure the safety was on and tossed it in the corner with a clatter.

"I know you," he growled, "You're that prick from LA. Whatta you want?"

I cocked the .38's hammer and said, "Take a wild guess."

Gary squeezed his eyes shut, and sort of waved to the office doorway. "In there," he said.

I took hold of the back of his collar and hauled him upright, pushing him toward the office ahead of me. As we went through the door, I said, "Kerry?" softly. Then, a little louder, "Kerry?"

A moment later, I was answered by a woman's voice from inside the office, very faint.

"She's dead."