by Jacob Stone
“Champ, you have five seconds to unlock the door, or you’ll be wearing your fiancée’s brains. Either of you make as much as a whimper, the same thing.”
Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus, Gilman whispered to himself. He fumbled with his keys and somehow kept his hand steady enough to fit the key into the slot and turn it.
“Slowly,” the man ordered in the same soft, menacing tone. “You try closing the door on me, you both die.”
Gilman willed his legs to move forward and he stepped into the apartment. Rachel followed him, and the man kept pace so the gun barrel never budged from the side of her head.
Gilman’s focus was only on the gun and everything else melted into a red haze. A roaring in his head drowned out any other noise. Without conscious thought, he shoved Rachel forward so that she fell into the apartment and away from the gun. He then seized the gun with both hands and tried to wrestle it free. The man in the ski mask was thinner than he was, but he had a wiry strength, almost like his arms were steel bands, and the barrel of the gun forced its way toward Gilman until it pushed into his stomach and backed him up several steps. Gilman could see the man’s eyes through the eyeholes in the ski mask. Blue, cold, unforgiving. They exploded into a blind rage. It was a startling thing to witness, and before Gilman could move the man pulled the trigger. The blast rocked Gilman’s body and he fell like a rag doll to the floor.
Rachel was picking herself off the floor when she heard the gunshot. An iciness filled her head, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain at the sight of Doug lying on his back and bleeding from the bullet wound. She could see the surprise in the masked gunman’s eyes as she rushed him. It had to be the last thing the bastard expected, and she delivered a roundhouse kick to his left leg that dropped him to his knees. She roared out in her pain as she drove her knee into his chin, knocking him onto the floor. The gun tumbled out of his hand and she dove for it. Her fingertips were grazing the gun’s grip when he grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her head into the floor. The world disappeared on her.
* * * *
Duncan pushed himself to his feet and tested his jaw, moving it from side to side to make sure it wasn’t broken. Damn, she had nailed him good.
He pushed her body with the toe of his boot. She was out cold. He felt a grudging admiration for her. Stunningly beautiful and as fierce as could be. The way she went after him was really quite something, and Duncan knew in his heart she did it to save her fiancé’s life and not her own. He shifted his gaze to Gilman and he felt nothing but loathing. Fucking weakling. The guy had gotten both hands on the gun, and he still couldn’t keep Duncan from forcing the gun barrel into his stomach, even though it would’ve meant saving the life of the woman he loved. Absolutely pathetic. If Duncan had been given that same chance, Julia would be alive now.
Gilman was still breathing, but he wouldn’t be for much longer. The plan hadn’t been to shoot him, but the hatred he felt for the guy became so overwhelming that he couldn’t help it. Gilman could’ve been the president of the oh-so-happy privileged-few club with his tanning-booth tan, perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect fiancée, and perfect life. Before today he would’ve believed the kind of senseless, random violence someone like Duncan could bring would never touch him. Well, he’d just been proven wrong.
Duncan needed to think this through, and he decided it didn’t matter that Gilman wouldn’t be alive to tell the police about the snarling-wolf tattoo. Even though there hadn’t been anything on the news about the tattoo yet, the last guy, Kammer, must’ve told the police about it.
He reached behind and stuck the gun in his waistband. Gilman had dropped his keys and Duncan picked them up. Earlier he had tried picking the door lock, thinking he’d wait inside the apartment and surprise them when they returned, but he couldn’t pick the damn lock. As he examined the four small magnets built into the key, he realized it wasn’t a matter of him losing his touch, but that they had installed a space age–type door lock that was impenetrable. In the end, it didn’t help them one bit. Tough luck for them.
He tossed the keys onto the floor, bent his knees, and lifted Rachel into his arms so he could carry her into the kitchen area. He’d undress her there and then bind her with duct tape to one of the chairs. Even though Gilman was too out of it to realize what would be happening to his fiancée, Duncan was still going to kill her exactly the same way he had the others. While he wouldn’t get the release from tormenting Gilman through Rachel’s torture and pain, it still needed to be done. He knew that Rachel’s dad was Morris Brick, and that Brick was the one in charge of the Cupid Killer investigation. Duncan needed to make damn sure Brick was left highly motivated to catch the guy responsible for these killings.
“Sorry, lady,” he murmured under his breath. “I’m not going to get any pleasure out of this. I can promise you that. If we had only met under different circumstances...”
He stopped in his tracks, wondering why he was suddenly smelling a funky, rotting-garbage odor, and why it seemed familiar. Then he remembered in all the excitement he had forgotten to lock the apartment door.
He turned to see that Stevie the meth head from the rooming house had snuck into the apartment and was the source of the unpleasant odor. He tried ducking the ancient-looking rusted crowbar Stevie swung at his head, but it struck him above the ear and knocked him and Rachel to the floor. He scrambled to get to his knees, but the meth head kicked him in the ribs, knocking him over.
“You think you can throw me into a dumpster?” Stevie seethed, his voice sounding like a badly rusted garbage disposal. “Who’s the one with goo for brains now?”
Duncan had his arms up to protect his head, and Stevie was breathing hard as he battered Duncan with the crowbar, hitting him repeatedly on the arms, all the while ranting about how he had followed Duncan from the rooming house and that Duncan was too stupid to realize it. That he watched while Duncan hid in the bushes, and later followed him into the apartment building and onto the back staircase.
“When I saw you put on your ski mask, I knew what you were up to,” Stevie exclaimed excitedly. “You’re that Cupid Killer freak. I’m gonna beat your skull in and hand you over to the police, and I’ll be living large on the reward I get. So who’s the dumb-ass now?”
Duncan tried once more to get to his knees. This time when the meth head tried to kick him over, Duncan caught his foot and lifted it up, sending Stevie crashing to the floor. Duncan crawled on top of him and hammered him in the nose until it was a bloody mess. He picked up the crowbar and drove it down with two hands as if he were driving a stake into a vampire, striking the meth head’s mouth, splintering his ruined teeth and pushing the piece of metal halfway down his throat.
Duncan’s voice was something guttural as he swore, “Choke on that, you dumb fuck.”
He watched Stevie struggle feebly for a few seconds, and caught the moment his life bled out of his wide-open, panicked eyes.
He rolled off the dead meth head and gingerly held his head in his hands. Goddamn, did he hurt! His head, jaw, arms, back, ribs, and the back of his leg where Rachel had kicked him. It felt like he’d crawled away from a car crash. He was carefully working his way onto his feet when he heard a rustling behind him. He looked back to see that Rachel had woken up and picked up the gun that had fallen out of his waistband during his struggle with Stevie. She was woozy and listing a bit to one side, but she was still aiming the gun at his face. He watched as the knuckle of her trigger finger began turning bone white, and he dove to the floor as a gunshot rattled the apartment.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He crawled toward the door, zigzagging the way he’d seen actors do in war movies. Another shot rang out and he thought he’d been hit, but realized what bit into his thigh was a jagged piece of the hardwood floor splintered off by the bullet.
He reached up for the doorknob and felt the heat from a bullet zipping past his cheek. So
mehow he swung the door open, fell out of it without being shot, and pushed the door closed behind him. He wobbled as he got to his feet, and nearly fell over before he steadied himself. Several of Rachel’s neighbors had opened their doors to see what the commotion was about, but none of them tried to stop him as he hobbled for the back staircase.
* * * *
Rachel gasped as she saw that Doug’s skin color resembled curdled milk. Any thought she might’ve had of chasing after the Cupid Killer disappeared once she saw that. She also noticed the dead man with a piece of metal sticking out of his throat, but she didn’t have time to wonder who he was and how he was connected to the Cupid Killer. Doug was still alive and she needed to do whatever she could to save him.
First things first, she locked the door so that psycho bastard couldn’t return. Next, she needed to put pressure on the wound to stanch the bleeding. She grabbed a throw pillow, got down on her knees, and pressed it against the wound.
She fought back tears as she saw how close Doug was to death. Crying was for later. For now, she needed to call 911, but where was her pocketbook? She had no idea where it had ended up during the melee. But Doug kept his phone in his pants pocket. While pushing down on the pillow, she searched one pocket, then the next, and pulled out his phone, using his index finger to unlock it.
She called 911 and her voice had an eerie calmness to it as she told the operator to send an ambulance and the police to her address. It was almost as if she had left her body and was only a spectator to what she was now doing and saying. “The Cupid Killer shot my fiancé in the stomach and he needs immediate medical attention.”
The operator sounded unconvinced as he asked whether Rachel was sure it was the Cupid Killer.
“Yes. He ran out of my apartment less than a minute ago. If you send the police right now they can catch him.”
“Miss, how do you know it’s the Cupid—”
Rachel hung up and called her dad and told him what happened. “Please, get an ambulance here,” she pleaded.
“I promise, honey. Right away.”
Rachel felt too numb all of a sudden to hold onto the phone; her hands and arms icy cold, like she might pass out. She dropped it. She needed to concentrate on pushing down on the pillow and putting enough pressure on the wound to keep Doug from bleeding to death. He was still alive, but his skin had gotten unnaturally gray and his eyelids were fluttering.
“You’re not leaving me,” she told him, her voice breaking up, tears suddenly streaming down her face. “You promised me we’d have a life together. You’re keeping your promise!”
She heard sirens off in the distance and they were coming fast. “Help’s coming,” she told him through her sobbing. “We’re having babies together. We’re growing old together. Don’t you forget that!”
His eyelids stopped fluttering and she knew he had died.
In her grief, she barely noticed that someone was pounding on the door.
Chapter 60
Los Angeles, four months ago
Jack had paid off a waiter to find out who the big winner was at the Hopper’s backroom poker game, and after the game broke up at midnight he followed the guy to a Hollywood hotspot and took a photo of him so Grace would know what the mark looked like—pear-shaped, sweaty, balding. For the last ten minutes she sat at the bar at this same hotspot, watching him act like a big shot, buying good-looking women drinks and being shot down by all of them. If these women knew he’d left Hopper’s backroom game with over eight grand stuffed in his wallet, maybe they wouldn’t have been so quick to tell him to get lost.
Grace was wearing what Jack had picked out for her: A dress so short you’d be able to see her panties if she were wearing any and knee-length red leather boots. “Sexy as all hell, Grace,” Jack had told her. “Pillsbury Doughboy won’t be able to resist you.” No kidding. From what Grace could tell, that butterball would be drooling over any woman in the place willing to give him the time of day no matter how much leg or cleavage she was showing, and she was showing plenty of both. Well, time to get to work.
She caught his eye, took a sip of her watermelon vodka, and made a show of slowly licking her lips. Just like Pavlov’s dog, he came running over. Well, as much running as a pudgy guy could do in a crowded bar. He gave her a crude look up and down, all the while grinning like an idiot.
“That’s got to be the shortest dress I’ve ever seen,” he said.
What a toad! Still, she had a job to do. She manufactured a look as if she were actually interested in him, and said, “You like it, then?”
“With your legs? Oh, yeah.” He licked his lips, but on him it just looked grubby. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re wearing any panties.”
She had her legs crossed. If she uncrossed them, he’d know the answer.
“Smooth line,” she said.
His doughy face deflated as he realized he might’ve just blown it with her. “I stuck my foot in it again, didn’t I? I just never saw a dress so short and your legs are just so… wow, but I didn’t mean to insult you. Let me buy you a drink to make up for it.”
His move, she thought. Act like a jerk so he could apologize by buying a drink. Actually, not bad. It might even work every blue moon.
Grace signaled the bartender for another drink. “Mr. Smooth here is buying.”
The butterball beamed at the nickname. “I like that,” he said. “Mr. Smooth. Maybe I’ll get business cards with it.” He leaned closer to her and said with a dim-witted grin, “Would you hold it against me if I told you you have a beautiful body?”
“Wow,” she said. “That is just so unbelievably clever. Did you just think of it?”
His face turned red, not sure whether she was making fun of him or actually meant it as a compliment.
“I might’ve heard it before,” he admitted. He held out a hand that felt every bit as pudgy as it looked. “Scott Wallaban.”
“Lulu Palooza.”
He gave her a look as if she were putting him on. “That can’t be your real name,” he said. “Is it?”
She laughed. “As bright as you are witty. It’s my stage name. I’m an actress.”
The last part was almost true. There was a time when she hoped to be an actress, but she was never able to get her big break, and then she met Jack, and well, that was that.
“An actress, huh? Have you been in anything I know?”
“Doubtful, but I’ve got an audition tomorrow afternoon.” She crossed fingers on both hands. “Wish me luck.”
“Hang out with me, Lulu, and I bet my luck rubs off on you.”
Grace tipped her martini glass back, finishing her drink. “So you’re a lucky guy?”
“Tonight I was.” He lost himself reminiscing about his earlier victories than night. “Drawing inside straights. Taking three cards and picking up a full boat. Yeah, tonight was something special.” He gave Grace a hopeful look. “Who knows? Maybe it will get even more special.”
She laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“Hey, I’m a hopeful guy.”
“So how much did you win?”
He got cagey then. “Enough.”
The bartender brought over a fresh watermelon vodka for Grace and Wallaban, realizing his glass was empty, asked for another scotch. “Make it a Dewar’s this time,” he said. After the bartender left, he asked Grace about the role she was auditioning for.
“It’s a small part. A love scene.”
That got his interest. He edged closer to her and gave her a wolfish leer, which looked obscenely idiotic on him.
“I wouldn’t mind helping you practice for it.”
“It’s a nude scene,” she said.
“I could do that.”
She gave him a look that made him blush. “We might have to run through the scene a few times. You think you’re up to it?”
> “I carry around a little blue pill for this very reason.”
She laughed at that. “Just in case an actress asks you to practice a scene with you, huh, sport?”
“You know what I mean.” He started to look antsy, as if he were afraid if he didn’t move fast she’d change her mind and he’d see his fantasy blow up on him. “What do you say, babe? We blow this popsicle stand?”
“Blow this popsicle stand? What are you, an extra from the forties?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I must’ve heard the line from an old movie.” He yanked up his jacket sleeve to glance at his watch and see that it was already 2:30 in the morning. Last call in Los Angeles was supposed to be two o’clock, but this hot spot paid off the right people and was known to serve until four each morning. “So what do you say, ready to go practice for your big audition?”
She teased him with a smile. “What about your scotch?”
The bartender was at the other end of the bar chatting with a couple of skimpily-clad blondes. Wallaban tossed forty dollars on the bar to cover the drinks—the one Grace was sipping and the scotch he was never going to have.
“The bartender can have it.” He grinned at her. “For the best. Another scotch might affect my performance, and we can’t have that. We’ve got hours of practicing to do, right, honey lips?”
“Call me that again and I’ll break your nose.”
He looked taken aback as he realized she wasn’t joking. “Sorry, Lulu,” he said, meekly.
“Just don’t let that happen again.”
She got off her barstool and halfway to the door realized Wallaban was where she’d left him, looking chagrined. What a schmuck, she thought. She gave him a wave and he came running after her like a puppy dog.
“My motel’s on Sunset Boulevard,” she said. “You want to drive, sport?”
“Sure, thing, Lulu.” He looked tongue-tied, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. “I’ve got a nice place on the outskirts of Laurel Canyon, complete with hot tub and pool if you want to go there instead.”
