A Killer's Daughter

by Jenna Kernan

  “Farther,” he ordered.

  She inched back as her chances to overpower him slipped away. When she was against the opposite wall, he turned to the latch and tugged it free. He opened the door wide and pulled it before him, using it as a shield.

  “Go on.”

  She looked at the open door to the cage and Demko’s inert form beyond. His torso rose and fell in short shallow breaths. He was still alive. How badly was he injured?

  Nadine’s gaze traveled over the opening and then back to her uncle.

  “I’m not going in there.”

  He nodded again. “Very good. It’s our nature to suspect a trap and avoid it.”

  “Speaking of avoiding a trap, if I kill Demko, how am I supposed to avoid going to jail for the rest of my life?”

  She was trying the bit where you keep them talking until help arrived, but, really, she’d given up hope that law enforcement personnel would come speeding in and surround the place.

  They were all capturing Anthony Dun with the news cameras rolling.

  “You won’t go to jail. This is perfect for your first. You don’t have to dispose of the body or even dump it. You just have to call it in. The big bad serial killer has struck again. You kill Demko, I kill the girl and we both walk away. Then I can go back to my way of hunting, knowing that you are on your own path. You can join me after you fulfill the terms of your contract. Our legacy lives on.”

  “You said you’d let the girl go.”

  “I did say that. Yes. I will.”

  He was lying. She understood now. She and Uncle Guy killed them all and walked away, or she killed her uncle.

  Him or her. Easy choice.

  He was an experienced killer. This latest run of death was only him trying to stir her instincts, as he called them.

  “Do you really want him to go free, or do you just want deniability?” asked her uncle.

  She knew what he wanted to hear and gave it to him.

  “Deniability.”

  “Perfect.” He sighed.

  Nadine remained where she was as he smiled, encouraging.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this. You don’t know. It is as close as I will ever come to reliving my first kill.”

  Except the only one she wanted to kill was him.

  “I’m not going in that cage.”

  He swung the door clear and stepped into the pen, giving her his back for an instant. She took a hesitant step. Where should she cut? The throat or stab him in the back?

  Her hesitation was costly. Uncle Guy already had Demko by one leg and easily dragged him out into the corridor.

  “There. No cage. Now make your first cut.” For incentive, he stepped before the cage holding Joanna and pointed the pistol at the girl. This brought Uncle Guy even farther from her. If she ran at him, how fast could he swing that pistol around and shoot?

  Nadine circled Demko, pretending to decide where to begin. Behind her, she could hear Uncle Guy’s breathing accelerate. The sound made her sick.

  He wanted this. Wanted to see her do this terrible thing. And once she did, would she be forever changed?

  He’d still kill the girl. Offering his captive’s freedom was just a way to soothe her conscience. But Joanna was a witness. The girl could identify him, so her uncle couldn’t let her live.

  But he wanted to watch her cut.

  That desire gave Nadine one advantage. She moved to block his view of the knife in her hand with her body. She stooped and then squatted over Demko, who now lay on his back, arms stretched over his head, eyes fluttering. A large purple welt bloomed on Demko’s forehead, and a trickle of dried blood had run down his temple and clotted in his hair.

  Nadine had turned her back on a killer, leaving herself exposed. But he couldn’t see her cut. Would he come closer?

  Behind her came the rasp of Guy’s footsteps.

  She leaned in, holding the knife to Demko’s throat, blocking her uncle’s view.

  He moved again. The sweep of his feet whispered across the concrete. Beyond, empty cages sat. And then, in her periphery, she saw it. His leg, the hem of his dark gray trousers covered with bits of straw bedding and the brown leather loafer.

  Nadine lifted the knife. He sucked in a breath as she swept her arm across Demko’s throat, overreaching and slicing, hard and fast, at her uncle’s calf.

  He howled with pain, lifting his wounded leg as she dove into the other one. Her shoulder struck his shin and the pain of the impact sent stars exploding behind her eyes.

  Uncle Guy hit the concrete, emitting a grunt as she used the knife like a grappling hook, jabbing it into his thigh and heaving herself on top of him.

  He screamed as the blade bit into his shoulder. She straddled him now. His pupil was learning, but not as he expected. One quick cut across the neck would end him.

  With widening eyes, her uncle perceived the murder she intended. This was her first kill, and he wanted to watch. And here it was.

  She hoped he enjoyed the view.

  He had inadvertently brought her to the choice. Kill him or spare him. The third outcome surfaced as he lifted the pistol. He might kill her.

  Nadine swung the knife. The arc narrowly missed his throat on its way to her target. Her mother’s blade was still so sharp. It sliced through the thin fabric of his shirtsleeve and carved deep into the muscle of his upper arm. She felt the resistance as she hit bone.

  The muzzle flashed.

  The vibrations of sound and bullet reached her in the same instant. There was no immediate pain, just the sensation of being punched in the midsection. She was too focused on finishing this. She lived in the seconds it took for the blood to jet from the deep laceration parting muscle and vessels in his bicep.

  The spray of blood told Nadine that she had compromised the brachial artery. Their eyes met. She saw the fear in his.

  The pistol clattered to the floor.

  He was bleeding from his lower leg, thigh, shoulder and arm. He had become a soaker hose of blood. The last lesion might prove fatal. He made his only choice, grabbing the wound with his one good hand and pressing hard. Blood spurted between his fingers, but the flow slowed.

  Blood dripped from her face and onto his chest. She pushed off the floor and rose above him, only now registering the pain in her side. She used the hand not clutching the knife to press her stomach. Her shirt was sodden, stained with his blood. His blood, but also hers.

  He’d shot her.

  Uncle Guy used his one good leg to push off, inching backward and away from Nadine.

  “What have you done?” he shouted.

  “What you asked. You got to watch.”

  His eyes widened and then narrowed to slits, going cold as a reptile’s.

  “I’m not going to die.”

  “Your choice,” she said. “Let go of that arm and you’ll bleed out or hold tight and go to prison.”

  Nadine groaned as she took a step closer to the pistol he’d dropped. Drawing her leg back caused such pain that it brought tears to her eyes. But she kicked the weapon, giving a cry of agony as every muscle in her stomach cramped.

  The pistol skidded over the concrete, like a sled on ice, coming to a stop between her and the exit to the kennels.

  He fumbled at his belt buckle as she staggered toward Demko. Before reaching the detective, she saw the glint of something shiny on the floor.

  Her phone.

  Nadine needed to grip the chain-link fencing of the kennel to keep from toppling over as she stooped. Her knee banged the ground as she reached and used her thumbprint to unlock the device.

  Despite her mind’s command to rise, she slumped against the aluminum cage. Demko was stretched out before her. Dust motes swirled through the air, growing thicker.

  And then a sharp stab of terror startled her back to alertness. It wasn’t dust motes. It was her vision, failing, as she… what? Was she drifting into shock?

  Uncle Guy had his belt around his upper arm. If she lost consciousness,
he’d kill them all, and then walk out of here. She knew it. She could see the plan forming in his mind. He watched her, like a hungry dog, just waiting for his chance.

  Nadine lifted the phone.

  His gaze flashed to the pistol. He would have to get past her and the knife to reach it. Already, he was rising, somehow ignoring the wounded leg, as he balanced, storklike.

  Nadine wanted to live. She wanted the girl and Demko to survive this ordeal. But more than either, she wanted this evil stopped. If she could do this one thing, it would be enough.

  “They won’t get here in time,” he promised.

  Nadine just smiled as she punched 911 into her phone.

  “Hang up, Nadine. We can still walk out of here.”

  She shook her head, refusing his offer. “My job is to catch our killer.”

  Her uncle might still murder them all. But they would be the last.

  The voice in her ear sounded far away.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “This is Dr. Nadine Finch. I’m a criminal psychologist for Sarasota County. We have an officer down.”

  “Ma’am, could you repeat that?”

  “I need help. I’m at the home of Margery Crean, inside her dog kennel with an officer down. Detective Clint Demko. I’ve been shot by—”

  “No!” her uncle shouted, wobbling now. He and she both knew that 911 recorded all conversations.

  Once she spoke, there would be no way to erase her words or this recording.

  “Do you have an active shooter?” asked the operator.

  “Yes.” She had to get this into the record. “I’ve been shot by Mr. Gary Osterlund. His real name is—”

  Her uncle fell forward, one palm and one foot on the ground as he scuttled toward her.

  “Name is Guy Owen. He shot me and is holding three others hostage. Joanna Silver is here with us in the kennel. We need EMS and police…” The arm holding the phone dropped away. Nadine’s knuckles knocked the hard floor. Her fingers relaxed.

  “Dr. Finch, are you there? Help is on the way.”

  Uncle Guy had nearly reached her, but she smiled.

  “I’m not like you.”

  Thirty-Five

  You and me and the devil make three

  Nadine awoke in pain, with two strangers in blue-and-white uniforms looming over her. They moved her from her resting place, crumpled against the dog enclosure, to the cold concrete floor.

  What is all that barking?

  “Where is the blood coming from?” asked the one with the earbuds and man bun.

  It’s my uncle’s blood. She thought she had said this aloud, but then she realized she had not spoken.

  Both men had strange halos of light around them. It reminded her of when she was a kid and she spent too much time in the public pool. A rainbow surrounded them as they leaned in.

  “Here,” said the heavier of the pair. “Bullet wound in her lower left quadrant.”

  “Dr. Finch. Can you hear me?” said the other paramedic.

  I’m nodding, aren’t I?

  She lifted one hand and pointed toward the cage where Joanna sprawled. But when she turned her head, she realized the kennel was empty.

  Nadine blinked and spotted the familiar shiny black shoes and navy pants of the police. Three more people surrounded her.

  One squatted, and she recognized the young patrol officer who worked protection one night at the hotel.

  “Dr. Finch, Gary Osterlund and Margery Crean are en route to Sarasota Memorial. Joanna is outside with the EMTs. They’re taking her now. You are going in that ambulance.”

  “Demko?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Her heart twisted. “Dead?”

  “No, ma’am. En route to Sarasota Memorial.”

  The heavier EMT crowded in beside her. “I’m putting a bandage on this. Then we’ll get you on the stretcher.”

  Both the bandage and the transfer hurt more than she expected. Now she was sweating and freezing at the same time.

  Outside the world had turned dark. Overhead, the web of live oaks twisted, black and dense. Lights flashed blue and red on the branches. The white strobe hit her eyes like an ice pick.

  There was something nagging at her. Forgetting something. What was it? Something else she needed to do. But what?

  “I’ll take that now,” said a familiar voice.

  She squinted at the man who stood above her. Special Agent Torrin pried the carpet knife from her fingers with a gloved hand and dropped it in an evidence bag.

  “It’s hers. My mother’s.”

  “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

  She pointed back to the rear door. “Gun?”

  “We got it.”

  And she remembered.

  “Wait! He’s out there.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “The rower. Delconte. Uncle Guy said he’s past the dog waste.”

  Torrin leaned in, as if he couldn’t hear her.

  “Say that again.”

  “Elton Delconte. In the woods. Past the kennel.”

  The agent straightened and shouted something, disappearing from her line of vision.

  Nadine remembered the ride, mostly because each bump caused a stabbing pain to streak from her stomach up her spine. The emergency room staff met her before she even cleared the ambulance and everything from then on went fuzzy. They said “surgery,” and she said, no, she didn’t want that.

  But when she woke up, she was lying on her back in a hospital bed, freezing cold, with her arms lying neatly at her sides atop the thin cotton blanket that covered much of the blue-and-white hospital gown that she now wore.

  Disconcerting.

  Nadine groaned. The effort of making the sound caused her stomach muscles to twitch and the pain to rouse with the rest of her. If she didn’t know better, she’d say someone had shot her again.

  She threw off the blanket and tugged up the gown, revealing the thick white dressing and bandage wrapping her middle and the catheter threading over her thigh. There was a large tube in her nose.

  So, he hadn’t killed her. But had she killed him?

  The need for answers and pain meds had her groping for the call button. But she changed direction, trying to tug the tube from her nose. A clean-shaven young man in purple scrubs appeared.

  “Uh-oh. Don’t do that. You need that so your intestines can heal.”

  She released her hold on the tube. He smiled down at her.

  “Hey there. Welcome back. You with me this time?”

  His question made her wonder how many times she had replayed this exact vignette.

  “Maybe.”

  He laughed. “Need something for the pain?”

  Nadine nodded. “Detective Demko?”

  “Right over there.” He pointed to a drawn curtain. “Five of you came in last night.”

  “Who?”

  “Rest now. I’ll get your medicine.”

  He returned and added something to her intravenous line that dropped her like an elephant gun.

  The next time she came around, it was to find Special Agent Torrin and Special Agent Fukuda standing at her bedrail, side by side, in matching gray suits.

  “Twins,” she said, and giggled, which hurt, so she groaned.

  The men glanced at each other. They were both male, and that was where the physical resemblances ended.

  “The gray,” said Fukuda, pointing from his lapel to Torrin’s.

  Torrin nodded. “How do you feel?”

  “Like somebody shot me.”

  “Yeah. Your uncle. We didn’t see that coming.”

  “Family biz,” she said, and grimaced against the pain that built with each second. “What happened?”

  Special Agent Fukuda took that one. “You were shot in the stomach. The bullet punctured your bowels but missed your kidney. You had surgery and are on antibiotics to prevent infection.”

  A bowel puncture? She pictured the contents of her lower intestine leak
ing into her abdominal cavity. That could not be good.

  “TMI, Fukuda.” Torrin patted her cheek. “Through and through. You’re okay, kid.”

  “Demko?”

  “He has a fractured skull. Guessed he’s not as thickheaded as he appears. There was bleeding. A subdural…” Torrin’s words failed and Fukuda took over.

  “Hematoma,” supplied Fukuda.

  “Right. They had to relieve the pressure.”

  Nadine winced. Relieving pressure on your brain meant Demko had a new hole in his head. Suddenly her hole seemed preferable.

  “Brain damage?”

  “No. They don’t think so. They put him out for a while, so he can heal.”

  Out? That sounded dismal.

  “You up to making a statement?”

  She shook her head. “Tell me what happened after…” She needed that pain medication. A whimper escaped her lips.

  Fukuda stepped closer. “Sheriffs were first on scene. They got Owen. Found him at his vehicle.”

  “Why didn’t he shoot me? Again, I mean.”

  “Said he had to get past you and the knife to reach the pistol. Decided to run. Back exit.”

  Had she been conscious enough to threaten him? She didn’t remember.

  “But he shot Dr. Crean in the face. The bullet went through her hand and then her cheek. In one side, out the other. She’s having reconstructive surgery, but she’ll live.”

  Shot by a serial killer. She imagined that would boost Crean’s reputation as an expert. It was an unsettling way to become an authority.

  “Sandra?” Tears were rolling from the corners of her eyes.

  Fukuda turned to Torrin. “Get the nurse.”

  Torrin peeled away and out of sight.

  She tried again. “The girl?”

  “They moved her to a regular room. Dehydrated. Wounds and bruises are healing. She’ll come through all right.”

  Because Uncle Guy had been saving her for last.

  “And the rower?”

  “What’s that?” Fukuda leaned closer.

  “Del-con-te?”

  “Oh, well. That’s the miracle. Sheriffs brought their rescue dogs. They started behind the kennel because of you and found him.”