Without Sin (An Owen Day Thriller)

by Rachel Ford

  The other guy was turning toward me now. I kept moving, propelling myself up and off the ground. I caught him halfway into his spin with a vicious kick to the knee.

  I felt the bones break. I saw him shudder and go down. His cries echoed through the garage.

  I moved on, putting distance between myself and these guys. Three down, but not necessarily out. I didn’t want to leave an opening for someone to sneak up behind me with a knife.

  Three down. One to go. Maybe two, if Tiny decided he wanted more broken bones.

  The last guy moved past his writhing buddies, and he reached into his jacket.

  For a split second, I waited in cold suspense. What he pulled out would determine if I lived through the next five seconds. If it was a gun, I was dead. I was too far away to disarm him, and too close to hope he’d miss. Even a lousy shot could make that kill.

  He drew out a switchblade. Not good, especially if he knew what he was doing with it. But I’d probably outlast the next five seconds, anyway.

  He came at me, the silver blade flicking this way and that faster than I could track its movements. I retreated and kept retreating.

  Tiny repeated some kind of angry command, telling me to stand my ground like a man or some such. I couldn’t quite make out a few of the words.

  The fourth guy didn’t make the mistake his buddies had. He seemed not to notice Tiny or anything else. His eyes were fixed on me, like there was nothing else in the world: him, me, and that brutal cutting edge.

  I kept moving and moving fast. His breathing got a little heavier. He was doing more work than I was, with the knife show.

  I lined myself up with one of the pillars and retreated toward it, not in a straight line but in a random zigzag. Not truly random, I suppose. I’m sure there was some underlying bias in my movements that a smart analyst might have picked up on.

  The fourth guy wasn’t a smart analyst, though. He didn’t pick up on anything.

  He smiled as my step faltered once or twice. His eyes gleamed as my breath grew heavier. He moved faster and harder with the knife, slashing and diving, stabbing and swiping at me.

  He saw me lining up with the pillar when I got close. Triumph settled onto his face. He’d won. I was going to take three more steps backward and find myself trapped between a knife and a hard surface. Three.

  Two.

  He lunged as I took the last one. Only, I didn’t step straight backward this time. I sidestepped and spun, grabbing his wrist and slamming it into the concrete pillar. Pinning his knife hand to it; immobilizing it.

  At the same time, I drove my knee into him, hard in the groin. Then I stomped his foot under mine, all in quick succession.

  He staggered backward and sagged, but didn’t let go of the blade. He started toward me with his left hand, all balled up into a giant fist.

  I brought my own free hand to his throat, a quick strike that arrested his forward motion. He shuddered and gasped and tried to breathe.

  The knife clattered out of his hand to the concrete. I shoved him backward, and he took three staggering steps before collapsing.

  I kicked the knife, and it skittered across the floor, far from his reach.

  Then I headed for Tiny. His bravado melted. He took a few backward steps, then turned and ran. I ran after him, catching up to him as he reached the side of the Camaro.

  I grabbed him by the collar and smashed him into the car. He let out a muffled cry. Some kind of plea for mercy, maybe.

  I spun him around and locked eyes with him. “I had nothing to do with Travis’s death,” I said. “Which I think you know. You may be stupid, but you’re not that stupid. I didn’t kill him, but I will kill you if you so much as breathe near me or my family again.

  “But first, I’ll break every one of your bones. Starting…” I tapped him hard on the nose. He squealed in pain. “With this, again.

  “You understand me?”

  He nodded. “Alright. Yes, yes.”

  “Good. Collect these assholes. Get them to the hospital, and be gone by time I return. And you lay a finger on my vehicle, you’re going to be in the hospital with them. Understand?”

  He nodded again.

  “Good.”

  I left them in the parking garage, dispersed in a wide pattern. I headed back across the street and toward the coffeeshop. The morning was bright and the sky full of warm pinks and oranges now.

  I burst inside. The girl behind the counter glanced up, surprise in her eyes. I turned to Clark’s table. She was gone. The whole place was empty, except for me and the barista.

  “The woman at that table,” I called, “where is she?”

  The girl at the counter hesitated, like she didn’t want to say. Like I might be some kind of crazy person, and telling me Clark’s whereabouts might put her in harm’s way.

  I didn’t have time to argue with her or convince her otherwise. So I said, “She’s a cop. Call 9-1-1. Tell them where she went and tell them the Nursery Rhyme Killer is after her.”

  Then I left. I hoped she’d do it. I left my own cell in my pocket. I could run faster without it, and if I was running toward NRK, I did not want to be distracted by my phone.

  I ran down the trail. There were plenty of small visitor lots along the way in either direction, but the closest was a mile away. And Clark said she’d walked a mile to get to the coffeeshop to wake herself up. Didn’t do a damned thing.

  I ran hard and fast. The encounter with Tiny’s crew had got my heart pumping and adrenaline flowing. But the idea of NRK being just down the trail, of Clark being in peril, had me moving faster than I’d probably ever moved.

  My senses were on high alert. I seemed to hear everything – every rustle of the wind through leaves or grass, all the chirping and chattering of the wildlife.

  What I didn’t hear was Clark, or anyone else.

  I kept running. I passed empty park benches, and long stretches of trail canopied by giant trees. I followed twists and turns in the path, climbed hills and dipped into valleys. I passed a marshy little body of water, and a swimming beach.

  All of them empty, with no sign of Clark or the Nursery Rhyme Killer.

  Then I saw them. I rounded a bend in the trail, with scrubby bushes and newish tree growth on either side. Clark lay on the ground, slumped and unmoving.

  And the graying guy with broad shoulders and an athletic build stood over her, a garrote in his hand.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  I had the sinking feeling that I’d been too late. Clark was dead. I’d failed her.

  Anger boiled inside me.

  Anger for Clark.

  Anger for Angela Martinez and Mason Anderson, for the entire Dandridge family and Terri Lange, for Charlene Fleming. For Officers Cooper and Keats and Captain Dorn.

  Anger for Andy.

  I rushed him. I had no weapon. I didn’t care if he did or not. He wasn’t leaving the park. Whether he killed me in the process or not, he wasn’t leaving the park.

  He knelt down beside her body. I didn’t know if he was checking for a pulse, or pinning his damned note. Whatever it was, he didn’t notice me. Not yet.

  The path was mulch. Every year, the park services would replenish it with brush and clippings from the forest. It was a low cost, eco-friendly, ultra-green design, the kind of thing bureaucrats patted themselves on the back for. It checked all the boxes.

  Right now, I blessed the bureaucrats. Because mulch muffled my steps in a way gravel or pavement wouldn’t.

  I got within ten steps of NRK before he realized he wasn’t alone. He glanced up, behind him. I screamed. Not a frightened scream. Not a martial arts kiai or kihap. This was rage. Hate. The desire to kill, boiled down and distilled into sound.

  He stared at me, confusion and recognition playing across his face. He was placing me – the guy who Clark had talked to, the brother of the third victim. He was processing the sound, and recognizing it too. He was understanding his own peril.

  I’d gotten three more ste
ps in before he reacted at all. Then he started to push onto his feet. I got two steps closer before he stood, and a sixth step nearer by time he’d turned to face me.

  He raised his fists. He was wearing some kind of leather gloves.

  I ran two steps and jumped the last two, careening into him with a force that sent us both barreling backward. He got a punch in to my face before we hit the ground. I was pretty sure it drew blood. I barely felt it.

  He landed hard, but on a soft surface. We went down in a tangle of arms and legs, knees and elbows. I drove my fists into him with every ounce of rage I felt.

  I got two hits in before he grabbed me in a fierce bear hug, pulling me toward him and driving his knee up. He was going for my groin.

  I shifted my leg just in time, and he hit my thigh. Brutal pain spasmed through my leg.

  I struggled against his grasp, but to no avail. He was strong – stronger than me. He held on tight, squeezing and crushing and trying to reposition his legs for another strike.

  He started to roll, trying to get on top of me. My breathing was labored and getting more difficult by the moment.

  I wasn’t going to outmuscle him. So I stopped straining. I dove forward, smashing my forehead into his face. I felt the bridge of his nose collapse against my skull.

  He loosed his grip. I rolled away, gasping in long breaths of air.

  He pulled himself up, and so did I. I was ready for round two. Sure, he might have suffocated me if I hadn’t gotten away. But lesson learned. I wouldn’t let myself get that close. I wouldn’t underestimate him again.

  He eyed me warily, hesitantly. I got it. I was an unknown quantity. He knew I existed. He’d seen me around, and he probably knew my relationship to Andy. But I was just a victim’s relative to him.

  Until now.

  I wasn’t hesitant, though. I’d been waiting for this moment for weeks. And here it was.

  I moved closer. He took a step back.

  Then I heard something behind me. Something faint. Something that six million years of evolution had finetuned my brain to respond to.

  A woman’s cry.

  I glanced behind me. Clark was stirring, murmuring in a low, confused way.

  Then I heard another sound: quiet steps on mulch, growing more distant. NRK had bolted.

  I hesitated for a moment. Clark was alive. But in what state? I could see blood on her face. I could see that she was barely moving.

  But NRK was getting away.

  I gave chase. He had a lead on me, and the way was clear. He was relatively fresh to the fight. I’d expended a lot of energy fighting Tiny’s crew, and then more energy than I probably should have attacking him.

  I was still panting hard from the bear hug, but I threw everything I had into the chase. We wound our way through turn after turn. His lead widened and went on widening.

  I turned back. I wasn’t going to catch him. Not today, and not right now. And Clark was alive, maybe in a bad way.

  I ran back to her, back through the twists and turns, the dips and rises. She’d risen to a seated position. She was on the phone, hunched forward and talking earnestly.

  “Andrea,” I said.

  She looked up, startled. Then, she smiled and pushed to her feet. “Son-of-a-bitch. He’s alive, Chief,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and raspy.

  She exchanged a few more words with the person on the other end. Then she hung up and staggered toward me. “Son-of-a-bitch,” she said again. “Owen, you’re alive.”

  I nodded. “As far as I can tell.”

  She pulled me into a hug. “What happened?”

  “Nevermind what happened to me – what the hell happened to you?” I glanced her over. She had blood coming from a busted lip, and a black eye. I could see purple fingermarks around her neck.

  “You saved my life is what. I was on the phone when I got your call. I’d called the chief, to talk about the gun. Once I hung up with him, I listened to your message.

  “It was too late, obviously: I’d already left the coffeeshop. I tried to see if I was being followed, but without being obvious. I didn’t see anyone, but I thought I heard someone.

  “So I ducked off the trail as soon as I got around the bend there.” She gestured behind us to the turn in the path. “I waited in the brush. Sure enough, the son-of-a-bitch showed up. I pulled my gun and tried to clap him in cuffs. He made like he was surrendering. I got the cuff on one wrist, but…”

  She touched the swelling around her mouth and winced. “He’s quick, and he’s good.”

  I nodded. My chest still ached from the compression earlier. “Yeah.”

  “He knocked the gun out of my hands. We fought, and he clocked me on the head. I blacked out after that.” She studied my face now, and the bruises I was sure were starting to form all over it. “I saw you chasing him just as I was coming to.”

  I told her my side of the encounter – all of it, starting with Tiny and his guys, and ending with the fruitless pursuit.

  She shook her head. “He owns guns, Owen. He could have shot you.”

  “He didn’t want to shoot. Not in the open like this. Even with a suppressor, someone might have heard. That’s why he tried to strangle you instead of shooting you.”

  “Yeah, but he might have taken the risk with you chasing him.”

  I conceded the point. “He might have, but he didn’t.”

  She rubbed the purple skin of her neck. “And after I told you not to do anything stupid…”

  I grinned at her. “You wouldn’t have wasted your breath if you knew me better, Detective.”

  “I’m starting to understand that,” she said. “And appreciate it. Thank you, Owen. You saved my life.”

  The place was swarming with cops soon after. An ambulance showed up, too. Paramedics examined her. They examined me. They concluded we’d probably live but should both go to the hospital.

  She was going to decline, until the chief ordered her to go. I was going to decline until she ordered me to go.

  So we took a too-expensive ride to the hospital, where an efficacious doctor examined my injuries and determined that I would, indeed, live. I ended up with stitches above my eyebrow, and instructions to follow up with my dentist just to make sure I hadn’t knocked any teeth loose.

  The doctor checked my vision and hearing, my balance and cognition. She concluded that I didn’t have a concussion, but that I should be mindful for the signs.

  Otherwise, my injuries looked to be entirely external. I was a grisly mess, all covered in welts and scrapes. But my face was nothing compared to the rest of my body. I had bruises, scuff marks and gashes all over. My thigh, where NRK had kneed me, was a giant, swollen patch of purple.

  The doctor shook her head and remarked that I was a very lucky man. She didn’t need to elucidate.

  They released Clark about the same time as me. Then we spent our time being interviewed by a whole slew of cops. We gave witness statements. I talked to an FBI agent called Morris. An affable enough guy, though a little too preoccupied with my interest in murder than necessary, I thought.

  I gave my description to a sketch artist, who produced a reasonable facsimile of a middle-aged guy with salt and pepper hair, a square jawline and good features.

  Features that wouldn’t be quite so good anymore. Not following our encounter.

  Clark’s sketch artist produced a similar drawing. They looked like they might be the same person, or not. They looked like they might be half the cops who interviewed us. Hers looked like Morris. She said mine looked like her dad.

  Which was a problem. I knew what NRK looked like. She knew what NRK looked like. But NRK looked like a generic Caucasian male anywhere from in his mid-forties to early fifties with an athletic build and an above average height.

  I felt that I knew him, or knew of him anyway. Then again, maybe he just reminded me of any of a hundred similar guys.

  But a sketch was a sketch. At least the general public would have some idea of who they were
looking for. And there were more reasons for optimism than that.

  The broken nose was one. However average or generic NRK’s appearance might usually be, the broken nose changed that. It would stand out, and it would be impossible to completely conceal.

  There was more than that, though. I knew what kind of car NRK drove and I knew his plate numbers. I’d seen that sedan on multiple occasions.

  Morris took them, and confirmed thrice that I was sure. Which, I suppose, probably should have been my first inkling that something was wrong. I didn’t pick up on it until later, though.

  There were other factors commanding my attention at the moment. Like the note and the garrote. He’d dropped both in his flight.

  The garrote had been found right by Clark. It was a length of blue nylon rope, maybe from a lead rope. Maybe from a horse farm. Maybe they’d be able to get DNA off of it.

  As for the note, that must have come out during our scuffle. It was in a clear Ziploc bag, like the others. It read simply,

  This little piggy had none…

  There were no prints on the bag or the paper. It was the same weight paper as all the other notes, stamped in the same fashion. It told us nothing new, but it confirmed what we already had surmised: Clark had been an intended victim, and we’d met the Nursery Rhyme Killer.

  Then the bad news started to roll in. They traced the plates back to a dark sedan owned by a Margaret Harper: a ninety-two year old widow who lived a county over. She had three sons, but all of them were too old to be the guy we’d seen.

  She had eight grandkids, four of whom were male. Morris reported that three of them were in the right age range. The right age range, but the wrong everything else.

  One of the three was in Germany, in the army; one was about a foot too short and hundred pounds too heavy according to his social media profile pictures; and the other had expatriated to France ten years earlier. He hadn’t been back to the States in half a decade.

  The fourth male grandchild wasn’t in the running because he had died fifteen years earlier.

  Harper and her direct descendants weren’t NRK. So Morris had combed through the in-laws: the husbands and boyfriends of the daughters and granddaughters. All negatives.