Healing Wolves
Part Nine - The Hunt
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.



At 3:30 the next day, on a drizzly, overcast afternoon, I was lying on my hotel bed, imagining patterns in the ceiling cracks and trying to figure out what to do next. Carter had begged off on the hotel, arranging instead to stay with a blonde named Roxanne. It was just as well; I wouldn't have been very good company. Besides, having gotten a look at Roxanne when I dropped Carter off at her place, I didn't blame him a bit.

I had already called Lieutenant Wasserstein and described the connections between Lonnie Bledsoe and Gary Bledsoe and Glory Rossili and Kerry Weaver. I think that what he heard was, blah blah blah Daniel Fox blah blah blah blah blah, like when you talk to dogs. He must really be sensitive about guys like me poaching in his paddock, because he listened impatiently to my information, thanked me sarcastically, then he told me to go hug a rope. I'm paraphrasing, of course.

Next, I tried calling Richard Wintergreen in Los Angeles, but he wasn't in his office. He wasn't at home, either. Nor the Gentlemen's Club. I left messages at all three places for him, but he hadn't called me back. Damn. I could really use his instincts at a time like this.

Then I tried calling Stan Jacobs, and he wasn't in either. I left him a message, too, describing the situation.

Can you believe it? Zero for three. Wasserstein barely counted. Maaa, none of the other good guys will play with me! Well, why don't you see if the bad guys want to play? Aww, ma, they're no funnn! 'Sides, I don't know where they are!

Okay, let's give that one some thought. Just have to apply a little serious methodology. Out loud, I said, "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, if I were the Bledsoes, where would I go?"

It was not reasonable to assume that there was anywhere I could look for the Bledsoes that the police hadn't looked already. Even led by someone as petty as Steve Wasserstein, the cops had warrants and manpower on their side, and I didn't. Maybe they even knew about the Glory angle, already. For that matter, maybe they knew something I didn't. Maybe everyone knew something I didn't. It could happen.

For all I knew, Jacobs had picked Glory up in LA days two days ago, and everything she knew had already been sweated out of her. Maybe that's why Wasserstein was unimpressed by what I had to say. Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe when Gary came to Chicago after I saw him, Glory had come here with him.

I had spent most of the day thinking about Calumet City, and more specifically, about the third person involved in the robbery. The driver. If Lonnie and Gary were planning the heist at the pawnshop, they'd need a third party to drive for them. It would have to be someone who wouldn't be too concerned about breaking laws. Someone whose wild side was stronger than their common horse sense. Someone with years of practice at driving fast and not getting caught. Maybe someone like...Gary's girlfriend, Glory?

I could see Gary approaching her with it, laying it out for her. A little armed robbery, a quick getaway, a big ol' adrenaline rush, and a whole lotta profit. So whattya say, babe? It might appeal to her innate desire to run with the wolves. She might be tempted.

On the other hand, she might also be a little uncertain. Joyriding in a Trans Am is one thing, but being an accomplice to a felony might be hitting the limits of her fearlessness. She might need someone's advice on it, but who could she turn to for counsel? Who might help her decide whether it was a good move or a bad idea? Who always helped her keep things straight in times of crisis?

Why, her old friend and sometime conscience, Kerry Weaver, that's who.

Trouble is, once she hears Kerry's voice on the phone, and learns that her old pal is now a responsible figure in the medical establishment, Glory's nerve fails her and she bails out of the conversation at the first opportunity. She hangs up on the voice of reason and casts her lot with good ol' Gary and his lunatic brother.

Then, when the big day comes, it all goes sour. Lonnie, being the sociopath he is, can't resist the itching of his trigger finger, and he butchers three people. An off-duty cop hears the shots and comes a-runnin' and a-shootin', and Glory is hurt. Suddenly, it ain't so much fun anymore, is it?

So there she is, bleeding badly in the back of the getaway van, and she needs help, bad. So what do they do? Can't take her to a hospital, or they're all busted. If they drop her off and speed away, Lonnie can't be certain she won't blow the whistle on him and Gary. On the other hand, she's going to die if she doesn't get a doctor. Who do they know who's a doctor? Who would help Glory, no matter what?

Again, Kerry Weaver, that's who.

I jumped off the bed. Okay, so far, so good. It was assuming a lot, and it might well be wrong from beginning to end, but it sounded plausible. But it left me no closer to finding Kerry Weaver, and it did nothing to increase the chances that she was still alive at all. Even if she were able to help Glory, Kerry wouldn't be safe in Lonnie Bledsoe's hands. He'd have no compunctions about using her, abusing her, and disposing of her when he was done. He'd be the sort who takes pride in being a "double veteran." If you don't know what that is, I'm not going to be the one to tell you.

So, how to find them? That is the question. Val Besch often said that the best way to think about a problem is to stop thinking about it, and just let your subconscious mind free-form the answer. Richard pooh-poohed this "fuzzy-headed approach", as he called it, having gotten results with dogged persistence and good, solid deductive reasoning his whole career. I tended to be somewhere between the two viewpoints.

On impulse, I picked up the phone, even though I had no idea who to call. I listened to the dial tone, as though it were a form of electronic meditation. A mechanical "Ommmm..." Sometimes, if you can just clear your mind, that little idea in the back of your head will jump to the front. Not often, but sometimes.

I let my fingers drift lightly over the numbers, hoping for a flash of insight, and then I dialed information. "I need an address for Glorianna Rossili," I told the operator, spelling the name. I had a vague idea that the Bledsoes might have an apartment under someone else's name, maybe Glory's, just in case they needed to lay low. It was a long shot, by any definition, but I couldn't think of anything else to try.

There was no listing under Rossili. Figures. It couldn't be that easy. I was about to hang up, but then I said, "Try Gloria Russell." It's not going to be there, I told myself. You're just pushing your luck. Way off base on this one.

"I have a G. Russell in Chicago," the operator said.

I took down the address, thanked him, and hung up. I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the nightstand. There had to be a thousand G. Russells in the world. It was a common enough name. No reason to think there's any connection. But still...

I took the stainless steel Smith & Wesson .38 revolver out of my suitcase and loaded it. What the hell. Let's go find out. Like the man says, I've got nothing better to do.

Forty minutes later, I was sitting in my rented Buick, sipping from a styrofoam cup of 7-11 coffee and gazing at a low-rent apartment building. No Old Hollywood styles here. Brick and mortar. I watched a couple of tenants come and go through the front door. No security gates, either. Maybe they had more faith in the benevolence of their fellow man in this town. Or maybe they were just cheap.

I got out of the car, still carrying the cup of coffee, and walked inside. The foyer had faded carpeting and needed a paint job, and the place looked sort of crummy. Nobody yelled an alarm or shot at me. It was like walking into any public building anywhere in the civilized world.

G. Russell was in apartment 517, and I decided to take the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. A little exercise never hurt anyone. As I climbed, I reminded myself that the chances of this being anything other than a fool's errand were somewhere between slim and none. G. Russell was probably a retired grandmother. Or a fat steelworker. It was probably Gertie Russell, or Gilbert Russell, or Grover or Goober or Gagarov, or...

As I rounded the third floor landing, Lonnie Bledsoe was coming down the stairs towards me, carrying a long black vinyl case.

At moments like this, if you panic, you die.

Instead, I did the only thing I could think of. I let my eyes slide over him and past him as though he were any stranger on the street, and brought the coffee cup up to my mouth, finishing the last dregs. Maybe it would hide a little of my face.

We passed each other on the stairs without comment or reaction, and we each continued on our way. Me going up, him down. A little symbolism there, perhaps?

I continued up to the fourth floor, where I acted as if I was looking for a particular apartment number. I listened to Lonnie's footsteps as he went down to the ground floor. I thought I heard the front door open and close. I counted to ten. Then I hightailed it back down the stairs.

Can you believe it? Lonnie freaking Bledsoe, Public Enemy Number One, and we breeze right by each other. Some days, it is truly better to be lucky than good.

I damn near hadn't recognized him. He had gotten a shave and a haircut, probably not for two bits, and he wore a Chicago Bears ball cap and a pair of glasses like Drew Carey's. It would be enough of a disguise for most of the public. Nobody really expects to see America's Most Wanted strolling around their neighborhood in broad daylight, anyway. If I hadn't had the Bledsoes on the brain, I might not have picked up on him, either. But he still had that lethal look in his eyes. The thousand-yard-stare.

I paused by the front door, looking through the glass. I saw Lonnie throw the vinyl case into the back seat of a Tan Oldsmobile, and drive away. I hustled out to my Buick and pursued him.

This was a bad situation six ways from Sunday. It is very difficult to tail somebody one-on-one, even when they don't have reason to look for someone following them. It's that much harder with someone like Lonnie, who's bound to be rather squirrelly even when he's not wanted by the law. The fact that he'd seen my face once already wouldn't help matters. He didn't have any reason to recognize me on the stairs, of course, but I bet he'd remember me if he saw me again. Maybe not, but you have to assume.

I lost him once in traffic, but picked him up again a block later. If we are each allotted a lifetime supply of good luck, I was rapidly using mine up.

After a while, we entered an area of the city I recognized, and I thought I knew where he was going. I hoped that I was wrong...but I wasn't. Lonnie Bledsoe was going to County General.

He parked in a handicapped spot and got out of the Oldsmobile. I guess if you're armed and dangerous, you don't sweat stuff like parking tickets. He had traded the ball cap for a blue coat like the ones used by hospital staff. Lonnie Bledsoe, Master of Disguise. I lucked into a parking space near his and I followed him as discreetly as I could, and watched as he went into the emergency room.

Okay, what to do now? Stay by his car and trust that he'd come back to it? Or follow him into the ER and risk him spotting me? I bet myself he'd have something lethal under his coat. Maybe a .45, maybe a sawed-off shotgun, maybe a machine pistol. If he was here to commit violence, I had no faith in the hospital security's chances of stopping him before it was too late. I might be able to stop him, just maybe, since I was aware of him. Readiness is all. On the other hand, if he was just passing through, and he saw me, it might provoke him into starting something. I wasn't confident I could outgun him, if it came to that. Dilemma, dilemma.

I followed him inside.

Beyond the admissions desk, I spotted Lonnie's back, walking through the place like he owned it. You see? Just about anywhere. Maybe he had the right idea with the coat.

I saw Jerry Markovic on the phone, and waved to get his attention. He gave me a little "hi" nod, but kept talking. "Jerry," I hissed, "give me your coat."

"You want my coat?" he said. "No, not you, Mrs. Adelman! Danny, I'm on the phone."

I went around the desk, hauled him to his feet, and jerked the coat off his shoulders. He protested, and I said, "I'll give you six hundred and forty-four dollars for the coat, okay?" He managed to juggle the phone and get the coat off, looking at me like I was nuts.

I pulled it on. It was several sizes too big, but the jacket and sweater I was wearing helped fill it out. I snagged a clipboard off the desk as well, ignoring Jerry's objections. He was too busy placating Mrs. Adelman to argue with me.

Following in the direction I had seen Lonnie going, I rounded a corner and saw him disappearing into what looked like a large closet or a supply room. I leaned against a doorway across the hall. If I followed him any closer, he'd spot me. If he came out and caught me staring...

"It's Mr. Fox, right?" said a voice behind me. I turned and came face to face with Jeannie Boulet. "Why are you wearing...?"

"Jeannie. Listen, I need your help, and this is very important," I said to her. "Look very casually over my shoulder. Where's that door lead to?" I was keeping my voice low, my tone conversational. The sound should blend in with all the other activity.

She was good about it. Obviously puzzled, but she moved only her eyes. "The supply closet," she said. Right again. "What's going on?"

I said, "There's a guy with sunken cheeks and glasses, going to come out of it in a second. Don't react, but tap me when he-"

She tapped my arm.

I didn't look behind me, but opened the door I was leaning against, and ushered her in with me. The door led into an examination room, inhabited by a cadaverous man in his sixties. His fringe of white hair stuck out in a sort of abbreviated fright wig, and he wore only a pair of black socks and one of those patient examination gowns that leave you with a draft up your rear. He was digging a finger in his ear, but looked at us as we entered.

I gave him the John Larroquette smile and said, "Hi, what seems to be the problem, sir?"

He said, "I...I have...ants...in, in my ears..." in a tremulous voice.

I nodded seriously and mumbled, "Ants...in...ears..." as if I was writing it down on my clipboard. What I actually wrote was, PEEK OUTSIDE. IS HE GONE? in big letters so Jeannie could read it.

She glanced into the hallway, and said, "Yes," very softly.

"Okay, sir, we'll have an ant specialist come and take a look at you right away," I said to the patient.

"I, I can hear them...marching...at night..." he said.

I nodded and smiled and left the room. I saw Lonnie heading out the front door, carrying a tray full of supplies. I was surprised that no one asked him where he was taking the stuff, but it was just as well they didn't. If he was questioned, he could start shooting.

"You're following that man, aren't you?" Jeannie asked me.

"Uh-huh." I handed her the clipboard.

"Does he have something to do with Kerry?" There was a forceful edge in her voice. "Is he the one who hurt her?"

"I'll tell you later," I said, stripping off the staff coat. I hustled outside, dropping the coat on the desk in front of Jerry as I went. "Sorry, bud," I said to him, "Didn't fit."

Outside, I was able to shadow Lonnie back to his car, and he drove away. I dashed to my Buick and was about to follow him, when there was a sharp banging on my driver's side window. I nearly jumped out of my skin until I saw it was Jeannie. "Tell me now," she demanded.

"I don't have time to explain," I said as I put the car in reverse to back out of the parking space.

She jumped behind the car, blocking my way. "Let me in," she said.

"Jeannie, I'm gonna lose him!"

"I'm going with you! Let me in!"

I didn't have time to argue. I unlocked the passenger door, and she jumped into the car before I could change my mind. I peeled out of the parking structure and was just able to catch sight of Lonnie's Oldsmobile before it turned a corner.

"This is really not a good idea, your coming along," I said to Jeannie.

"If Kerry needs medical attention, I'm better qualified to give it to her than you are," she said.

I shook my head. "You heard what Mark said. Odds are, she's already beyond any help that we can give her."

She looked at me, and there was a tigerish quality in her face and voice. "Then I want to see his face. The one who did it."

I shook my head again, but didn't argue, and we sped after Lonnie Bledsoe.

Some days.