Author's Note, 11-22-03: There was going to be more to this chapter, but I
felt like updating. The ER writers leave us hanging enough as it is. sigh.
Is this chapter as crappy as I think it is? Maybe next time I should reread
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood when I don't need to feel confident
in my own writing skills. Anyway. *Warning*: Offensive language herein.
---
"I'm nobody's fool and yet it's clear to me, I don't have a strategy. It's just like taking candy from a baby, and I think I must be under attack. I'm being taken. About to crack, defenses breaking. Won't somebody please have a heart, come and rescue me now, 'cuz I'm falling apart?" - Sophie Sheridan [Mamma Mia!]
*
Chapter 7: Ace Vasquez: Prison Escapee
Most of the time, Susan was self-assured in the ER. Able to hold a patient's life in her hands and perform complicated procedures while medical jargon bombarded her from all sides. It was not a job for those easily flummoxed or faint of heart. But everything County had ever taught her about keeping a clear, level head in the midst of chaos evaporated as she played human-shield to the man with the gun.
She kept hoping this was an elaborate (and really lousy) prank. Pretty soon Shannen Doherty -- that slinky bitch -- would materialize and be like, "Hey, you're on Scare Tactics." The gun-wielding maniac would turn out to be a sweet actor named Marv. The cop would sit up and laugh, removing his shirt to reveal squib-detonated packets of fake blood taped to his chest. Abby would smugly proclaim, "I got you!" And Susan would take great pleasure in stomping the little pipsqueak into the ground for scaring the shit out of her.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.
"Back off! I'll kill 'er!" The man took turns brandishing his weapon and pointing it at Susan's head. Caught in a sort of permanent chin-up position, she clutched his forearm with both hands, trying to lessen the pressure at her neck before her air supply ran out. She wanted to kick and struggle, but the hot steel against her right temple, the scorched odor of a recently fired handgun, had a paralyzing effect. He was using a Glock, she thought. Or was it a Beretta?
Suddenly, all those times her ex-boyfriend had droned on and on about firearms, and which was more lethal than the other, seemed of utmost importance. Per Dix's request she had learned the basics of gun use: how to load, proper handling, firing. But after a single jaunt into the country to practice shooting at some cans, Susan had gotten extremely bored and made a raunchy joke about preferring to handle Dix's "gun." They had ended up making love in the bed of his truck. And that was the culmination of her markswoman days. A lot of good it did her now.
The cops finally got the hint and withdrew behind their squad cars, still shouting for the man to release Susan. His chokehold did loosen for a fraction of a second, then commenced squeezing again when an unexpected movement startled him. It was Suzy, darting towards her aunt, spindly legs pumping as hard as they could. She threw her arms around Susan's waist, holding on for dear life, as if that might prevent the unthinkable from happening, might protect Susan from the deadliest of bullets.
"Goddammit, what is she doing?" the man growled into Susan's ear.
"Sh-she's scared." Susan tried in vain to steady her voice. This should not be too different from talking to a psych patient. Show no fear (yeah, right!), keep a calm tone, use familiarity. And when all else failed . . . beg. "Let her go. Please. She's only eight, you-"
A large, callous hand clamped over her mouth, its thick fingers tipped by untidy, jagged nails and a mysterious substance Susan didn't care to think about. His other hand, the one holding the gun, lowered and she felt it tugging at something near her hip. He had Suzy by the arm, pulling her away from Susan. He gave the little girl a vicious shake when she attempted to wrench out of his grasp. Fresh waves of terror surged over Susan as she prepared for the gun to be set off.
"Listen to me, you little shit." The man shook Suzy again. "If you don't want me to kill your mommy, you gotta do what I say."
Suzy gave up fighting and stared at him, eyes enormous, as if she was face- to-face with an angry and vengeful god. Too much crying had given her the hiccups, and her chest leapt with every spasm, breaking her words into fragments. "My mom-my ain't h-ere." She snuffled and gazed longingly at Bernadette, who had fallen to the floor during the struggle.
The correction went unnoticed.
"See that dead cop over there? Go get his gun and bring it to me. Don't try to run, I'll shoot you both." The man trained the Glock on Susan, then swung it back to Suzy. "Understand?"
Suzy massaged the spot on her arm where she had been grabbed, and paused like she was gathering courage. "Uh-huh." She peered up at Susan for approval, but Susan could neither speak nor nod, her slightest movement restricted by the jumpy gunman. Two blinks sufficed as a 'go ahead', though what Susan really wanted to do was tell her niece to run like hell. But suppose the man was telling the truth. Suppose he shot Suzy. He had no qualms killing police officers; he might be just as indifferent with children. It was a risk Susan wasn't willing to take.
Still hiccupping, Suzy turned and crept towards the felled officer, her measured steps resembling a cautious swimmer estimating the drop-off point in an ocean bed.
Now the man targeted Abby, who stood off to the side and a few feet away, the same position she had been in for the past several seconds. "You." She flinched when he waggled the gun at her. "You get over there by the car and stand in front of my friend so he can get out."
It occurred to Susan then that this man, this harsh, threatening creature with his hand practically cemented over her mouth, must be Ace. His other stats had long since been forgotten, along with those of his fellow escapee, but she remembered that name. He was the fugitive she and Abby had poked fun at in the car. And a tattoo on his muscular arm confirmed her suspicions. Four aces, one of each suit, were etched onto his tawny skin, ace of spades in the forefront. That curvy shape with its pointed apex had never struck Susan as such an ominous symbol until now. She had to look away, her eyes first seeking out Little Suzy crouched beside the prone cop, then swerving in Abby's direction.
While Susan watched, her friend timidly approached the trashed vehicle and -- looking as small and vulnerable as Suzy did -- waited for the other man to slip into place behind her. But he wasn't a man really. More of a boy. He had the angular body of a teen. He didn't stand but a few inches taller than Abby, which quickly changed as he scrunched lower, keeping his head level with hers. Unlike his partner, he didn't use a great deal of force to control his hostage. His gun aimed against her lower back, the young man coaxed Abby backwards, peeking over her shoulder once or twice at the band of policemen in the parking lot, and barely touched her at all.
"Yer a real pussy, Marshall," Ace said, disdain written on his features when the younger man approached, still shadowing Abby. "They're not gonna shoot and chance hitting these putas. At least feel her up a little." He removed his hand from Susan's mouth and demonstrated by grabbing her breast, a quick and senseless gesture he apparently found amusing, because he chuckled as he did it.
The absurdity of it wasn't lost on Marshall. His wide, almond-colored eyes swept over Susan, and in the brief moment that their gazes met, she sensed in him the same fear and disgust she was feeling. He made an obvious effort not to look her way again. "We can't keep standing here, screwing around," he said, glancing fretfully at the ruined entrance that left nothing but air between them and the cops outside. "What if they got snipers?"
Ace snorted. "Well, go ahead and turn yourself in, boy. They'll strap your nigger ass to the chair for killing a cop."
"You shot him! They'd just as soon kill a spic."
If this kept up, Susan thought they might do everyone a favor and shoot each other. But no such luck. The police's attempts to call Suzy to them fueled another bout of murderous threats from Ace, and he continued to rage until the little girl returned, a heavy gun balanced on her upturned palms, as if she carried a platter, and a hi-tech walkie-talkie secured under her arm. Ace went for the gun first, tucking the barrel into the waistband of his jeans, his other weapon hovering near Susan's earlobe.
"The man on here said to give this to you," Suzy said, hiccup free, as she offered the walkie-talkie to Ace.
Sure enough, a voice broke through the static, crackling and hollow, requesting to speak with Ace or Marshall. It was difficult to hear over the cacophony of Breaking News on television ("-in a stand-off with police, after plowing the Sedan into a video store. At least three hostages..."), the stuck horn that was beginning to fade and sputter like an amplified death rattle, and the outdoor sounds of city life and choppers; Ace didn't even try to reply, but kept the walkie-talkie in hand as he began to drag Susan farther away from the destruction, into an area less visible from the parking lot.
"Move it," he ordered, letting the others know they were to follow. Suzy scooped Bernadette off the glassy floor and scurried to catch up, nearly bumping into Marshall. They both shied from one another, Suzy falling back a pace to walk in front of Abby, Marshall quickening his steps and using some coercion to keep Abby moving with him.
"There more people here besides you three?" Ace demanded when they were concealed behind a row of movie racks that had withstood the crash. Susan inadvertently shot him a dirty look when he released her and yanked Abby from Marshall's grasp, shoving her into Susan. Suzy eased herself behind them, her hand finding its way to her aunt's.
"Is there?"
"I don't know." It came from Susan's mouth without any thought, a reflex brought on by her desire to keep others out of harms way. She let Ace's eyes bore into hers, determined not to reveal the truth, though she wanted to use Abby's head-down-stare-at-feet technique. But neither was convincing enough.
Ace chucked the walkie-talkie at Marshall, caught a fistful of Susan's blond hair, lank from the heat, and twisted it around his knuckles. Sharp pains traveled through her skull, burned like chlorinated water up the nose, and prickled to the surface in the form of tears, when he gave a quick jerk downwards. Through clenched teeth she drew her breath, making a noise like air hissing from a balloon. The gun was against her forehead this time. "Who else's here, lady?" Ace snarled.
"There's- there's three. Three girls," she said, voice strained, the skin on her neck pulled taut as she tried to keep her head at a careful angle.
"Where they at?"
"I don't-"
Another violent tug and Susan almost dropped to her knees. Suzy was crying again, such hard, rattling sobs.
"Where?"
"One was by the counter over there, two might be farther towards the back," Abby broke in. "We weren't really paying attention."
Unraveling Susan's hair from his hand, shaking it from his fingers the way crumbs are dispensed in the trash, Ace turned to Abby as if he had just noticed her for the first time. And he liked what he saw. Very petite. You didn't see many petite women in a prison, if any at all. After barely serving out a yearlong dent in his sentence, the only women he had come across were butch types. Plump security guards who buzzed off their hair and could have passed for men. Sixty-year-old nurses who wore dentures and were in dire need of cosmetics and waxing. They sickened him, made him lust twice as much for the kind of girls that wore tacky red lipstick and undersized clothes, the kind of girls that had always been accessible to him. But not necessarily the kind he preferred. No, his personal favorites were small, their blue jeans and white tank tops just the right amount of snug, butterscotch hair artfully untidy and ponytailed, their faces wholesome, youthful...
"Marshall." Ace barked the name, a humorless grin tugging at his lips when Abby and Susan winced like he had hit them. "See if you can find one by the counter while me and the putas find the other two." He made a circle in the air with the gun muzzle, indicating that Susan, Abby and Suzy were to turn and lead him.
"Shouldn't we talk to-"
Ace seized the walkie-talkie Marshall was holding up and gave the younger man a not-so-gentle push. Something dangerous and menacing sparked behind Marshall's eyes then, his broad nostrils flaring as he regained balance. Susan noticed his fingers flexing around the grip of his gun, a rebellious index finger curling up on the trigger like a housecat getting cozy on its favorite chair. But if he had any intent to retaliate, he didn't follow through. Dropping to the position of track runner at the starting line, Marshall stole towards the counter, keeping himself camouflaged as best he could.
"Ladies first," Ace said, coal black eyes mocking when he looked from Susan to Abby, then back again. Susan felt him watching her as she swiveled and gathered Suzy into her arms, fastening them protectively around the girl. Likewise, Suzy melded to her aunt, both legs slung about Susan's hips, ankles clasped firmly in place. No one was going to separate them now.
"Bernadette wants to go home," Suzy whispered, nuzzled into the curve of Susan's neck and shoulder, her breath warm against the skin there.
"We're going to be okay, sweetheart." Susan petted the child's hair, which was damp and sticky with sweat. Abby looked equally wilted when Susan glanced her way, their uncertainty reflected in each other's eyes. And this time when Susan spoke, it was done for their benefit as much as Suzy's. "We'll be okay."
---
"I'm nobody's fool and yet it's clear to me, I don't have a strategy. It's just like taking candy from a baby, and I think I must be under attack. I'm being taken. About to crack, defenses breaking. Won't somebody please have a heart, come and rescue me now, 'cuz I'm falling apart?" - Sophie Sheridan [Mamma Mia!]
*
Chapter 7: Ace Vasquez: Prison Escapee
Most of the time, Susan was self-assured in the ER. Able to hold a patient's life in her hands and perform complicated procedures while medical jargon bombarded her from all sides. It was not a job for those easily flummoxed or faint of heart. But everything County had ever taught her about keeping a clear, level head in the midst of chaos evaporated as she played human-shield to the man with the gun.
She kept hoping this was an elaborate (and really lousy) prank. Pretty soon Shannen Doherty -- that slinky bitch -- would materialize and be like, "Hey, you're on Scare Tactics." The gun-wielding maniac would turn out to be a sweet actor named Marv. The cop would sit up and laugh, removing his shirt to reveal squib-detonated packets of fake blood taped to his chest. Abby would smugly proclaim, "I got you!" And Susan would take great pleasure in stomping the little pipsqueak into the ground for scaring the shit out of her.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.
"Back off! I'll kill 'er!" The man took turns brandishing his weapon and pointing it at Susan's head. Caught in a sort of permanent chin-up position, she clutched his forearm with both hands, trying to lessen the pressure at her neck before her air supply ran out. She wanted to kick and struggle, but the hot steel against her right temple, the scorched odor of a recently fired handgun, had a paralyzing effect. He was using a Glock, she thought. Or was it a Beretta?
Suddenly, all those times her ex-boyfriend had droned on and on about firearms, and which was more lethal than the other, seemed of utmost importance. Per Dix's request she had learned the basics of gun use: how to load, proper handling, firing. But after a single jaunt into the country to practice shooting at some cans, Susan had gotten extremely bored and made a raunchy joke about preferring to handle Dix's "gun." They had ended up making love in the bed of his truck. And that was the culmination of her markswoman days. A lot of good it did her now.
The cops finally got the hint and withdrew behind their squad cars, still shouting for the man to release Susan. His chokehold did loosen for a fraction of a second, then commenced squeezing again when an unexpected movement startled him. It was Suzy, darting towards her aunt, spindly legs pumping as hard as they could. She threw her arms around Susan's waist, holding on for dear life, as if that might prevent the unthinkable from happening, might protect Susan from the deadliest of bullets.
"Goddammit, what is she doing?" the man growled into Susan's ear.
"Sh-she's scared." Susan tried in vain to steady her voice. This should not be too different from talking to a psych patient. Show no fear (yeah, right!), keep a calm tone, use familiarity. And when all else failed . . . beg. "Let her go. Please. She's only eight, you-"
A large, callous hand clamped over her mouth, its thick fingers tipped by untidy, jagged nails and a mysterious substance Susan didn't care to think about. His other hand, the one holding the gun, lowered and she felt it tugging at something near her hip. He had Suzy by the arm, pulling her away from Susan. He gave the little girl a vicious shake when she attempted to wrench out of his grasp. Fresh waves of terror surged over Susan as she prepared for the gun to be set off.
"Listen to me, you little shit." The man shook Suzy again. "If you don't want me to kill your mommy, you gotta do what I say."
Suzy gave up fighting and stared at him, eyes enormous, as if she was face- to-face with an angry and vengeful god. Too much crying had given her the hiccups, and her chest leapt with every spasm, breaking her words into fragments. "My mom-my ain't h-ere." She snuffled and gazed longingly at Bernadette, who had fallen to the floor during the struggle.
The correction went unnoticed.
"See that dead cop over there? Go get his gun and bring it to me. Don't try to run, I'll shoot you both." The man trained the Glock on Susan, then swung it back to Suzy. "Understand?"
Suzy massaged the spot on her arm where she had been grabbed, and paused like she was gathering courage. "Uh-huh." She peered up at Susan for approval, but Susan could neither speak nor nod, her slightest movement restricted by the jumpy gunman. Two blinks sufficed as a 'go ahead', though what Susan really wanted to do was tell her niece to run like hell. But suppose the man was telling the truth. Suppose he shot Suzy. He had no qualms killing police officers; he might be just as indifferent with children. It was a risk Susan wasn't willing to take.
Still hiccupping, Suzy turned and crept towards the felled officer, her measured steps resembling a cautious swimmer estimating the drop-off point in an ocean bed.
Now the man targeted Abby, who stood off to the side and a few feet away, the same position she had been in for the past several seconds. "You." She flinched when he waggled the gun at her. "You get over there by the car and stand in front of my friend so he can get out."
It occurred to Susan then that this man, this harsh, threatening creature with his hand practically cemented over her mouth, must be Ace. His other stats had long since been forgotten, along with those of his fellow escapee, but she remembered that name. He was the fugitive she and Abby had poked fun at in the car. And a tattoo on his muscular arm confirmed her suspicions. Four aces, one of each suit, were etched onto his tawny skin, ace of spades in the forefront. That curvy shape with its pointed apex had never struck Susan as such an ominous symbol until now. She had to look away, her eyes first seeking out Little Suzy crouched beside the prone cop, then swerving in Abby's direction.
While Susan watched, her friend timidly approached the trashed vehicle and -- looking as small and vulnerable as Suzy did -- waited for the other man to slip into place behind her. But he wasn't a man really. More of a boy. He had the angular body of a teen. He didn't stand but a few inches taller than Abby, which quickly changed as he scrunched lower, keeping his head level with hers. Unlike his partner, he didn't use a great deal of force to control his hostage. His gun aimed against her lower back, the young man coaxed Abby backwards, peeking over her shoulder once or twice at the band of policemen in the parking lot, and barely touched her at all.
"Yer a real pussy, Marshall," Ace said, disdain written on his features when the younger man approached, still shadowing Abby. "They're not gonna shoot and chance hitting these putas. At least feel her up a little." He removed his hand from Susan's mouth and demonstrated by grabbing her breast, a quick and senseless gesture he apparently found amusing, because he chuckled as he did it.
The absurdity of it wasn't lost on Marshall. His wide, almond-colored eyes swept over Susan, and in the brief moment that their gazes met, she sensed in him the same fear and disgust she was feeling. He made an obvious effort not to look her way again. "We can't keep standing here, screwing around," he said, glancing fretfully at the ruined entrance that left nothing but air between them and the cops outside. "What if they got snipers?"
Ace snorted. "Well, go ahead and turn yourself in, boy. They'll strap your nigger ass to the chair for killing a cop."
"You shot him! They'd just as soon kill a spic."
If this kept up, Susan thought they might do everyone a favor and shoot each other. But no such luck. The police's attempts to call Suzy to them fueled another bout of murderous threats from Ace, and he continued to rage until the little girl returned, a heavy gun balanced on her upturned palms, as if she carried a platter, and a hi-tech walkie-talkie secured under her arm. Ace went for the gun first, tucking the barrel into the waistband of his jeans, his other weapon hovering near Susan's earlobe.
"The man on here said to give this to you," Suzy said, hiccup free, as she offered the walkie-talkie to Ace.
Sure enough, a voice broke through the static, crackling and hollow, requesting to speak with Ace or Marshall. It was difficult to hear over the cacophony of Breaking News on television ("-in a stand-off with police, after plowing the Sedan into a video store. At least three hostages..."), the stuck horn that was beginning to fade and sputter like an amplified death rattle, and the outdoor sounds of city life and choppers; Ace didn't even try to reply, but kept the walkie-talkie in hand as he began to drag Susan farther away from the destruction, into an area less visible from the parking lot.
"Move it," he ordered, letting the others know they were to follow. Suzy scooped Bernadette off the glassy floor and scurried to catch up, nearly bumping into Marshall. They both shied from one another, Suzy falling back a pace to walk in front of Abby, Marshall quickening his steps and using some coercion to keep Abby moving with him.
"There more people here besides you three?" Ace demanded when they were concealed behind a row of movie racks that had withstood the crash. Susan inadvertently shot him a dirty look when he released her and yanked Abby from Marshall's grasp, shoving her into Susan. Suzy eased herself behind them, her hand finding its way to her aunt's.
"Is there?"
"I don't know." It came from Susan's mouth without any thought, a reflex brought on by her desire to keep others out of harms way. She let Ace's eyes bore into hers, determined not to reveal the truth, though she wanted to use Abby's head-down-stare-at-feet technique. But neither was convincing enough.
Ace chucked the walkie-talkie at Marshall, caught a fistful of Susan's blond hair, lank from the heat, and twisted it around his knuckles. Sharp pains traveled through her skull, burned like chlorinated water up the nose, and prickled to the surface in the form of tears, when he gave a quick jerk downwards. Through clenched teeth she drew her breath, making a noise like air hissing from a balloon. The gun was against her forehead this time. "Who else's here, lady?" Ace snarled.
"There's- there's three. Three girls," she said, voice strained, the skin on her neck pulled taut as she tried to keep her head at a careful angle.
"Where they at?"
"I don't-"
Another violent tug and Susan almost dropped to her knees. Suzy was crying again, such hard, rattling sobs.
"Where?"
"One was by the counter over there, two might be farther towards the back," Abby broke in. "We weren't really paying attention."
Unraveling Susan's hair from his hand, shaking it from his fingers the way crumbs are dispensed in the trash, Ace turned to Abby as if he had just noticed her for the first time. And he liked what he saw. Very petite. You didn't see many petite women in a prison, if any at all. After barely serving out a yearlong dent in his sentence, the only women he had come across were butch types. Plump security guards who buzzed off their hair and could have passed for men. Sixty-year-old nurses who wore dentures and were in dire need of cosmetics and waxing. They sickened him, made him lust twice as much for the kind of girls that wore tacky red lipstick and undersized clothes, the kind of girls that had always been accessible to him. But not necessarily the kind he preferred. No, his personal favorites were small, their blue jeans and white tank tops just the right amount of snug, butterscotch hair artfully untidy and ponytailed, their faces wholesome, youthful...
"Marshall." Ace barked the name, a humorless grin tugging at his lips when Abby and Susan winced like he had hit them. "See if you can find one by the counter while me and the putas find the other two." He made a circle in the air with the gun muzzle, indicating that Susan, Abby and Suzy were to turn and lead him.
"Shouldn't we talk to-"
Ace seized the walkie-talkie Marshall was holding up and gave the younger man a not-so-gentle push. Something dangerous and menacing sparked behind Marshall's eyes then, his broad nostrils flaring as he regained balance. Susan noticed his fingers flexing around the grip of his gun, a rebellious index finger curling up on the trigger like a housecat getting cozy on its favorite chair. But if he had any intent to retaliate, he didn't follow through. Dropping to the position of track runner at the starting line, Marshall stole towards the counter, keeping himself camouflaged as best he could.
"Ladies first," Ace said, coal black eyes mocking when he looked from Susan to Abby, then back again. Susan felt him watching her as she swiveled and gathered Suzy into her arms, fastening them protectively around the girl. Likewise, Suzy melded to her aunt, both legs slung about Susan's hips, ankles clasped firmly in place. No one was going to separate them now.
"Bernadette wants to go home," Suzy whispered, nuzzled into the curve of Susan's neck and shoulder, her breath warm against the skin there.
"We're going to be okay, sweetheart." Susan petted the child's hair, which was damp and sticky with sweat. Abby looked equally wilted when Susan glanced her way, their uncertainty reflected in each other's eyes. And this time when Susan spoke, it was done for their benefit as much as Suzy's. "We'll be okay."