by L T Vargus
“Sorry… they’re, uh…” Loshak shook his head, hard, trying to get back his train of thought. “The DEA…”
Walsh leaned forward, his eyes focused on Loshak like some ancient predatory lizard watching its prey.
“Sorry,” Loshak mumbled again. He swiped some sweat from his face. His heart was pounding now, but the fog wasn’t lifting. “It’s a little warm in here. Is there any way…”
He reached out to set his coffee down, but the table was gone, suddenly moved a hundred feet away from the couch. The mug tumbled to the rug, spilling blood all over Loshak’s left shoe.
“Jesus.” Loshak tried to apologize, but his tongue crumbled to dust in his mouth.
“Don’t worry about it, Agent,” the lizard Walsh said. The nictitating membrane flashed out again, re-wetting its eye.
As Loshak reached for the cup, Walsh’s hand grabbed his wrist, claws digging into the flesh.
“Let me help you with that.”
Chapter 55
Loshak jerked his arm in toward his body instinctively, trying to break free of the lizard’s grip. Walsh’s reptilian eyes bugged out as the motions pulled him off-balance, practically dropping him in Loshak’s lap.
That was something, Loshak remembered. Something about self-defense. The voice in his head offered up another command: Now hit the off-balance attacker in the back of the neck.
But before he could follow his brain’s orders, Walsh untangled himself and came up swinging.
Loshak tried to lurch out of the way, kicking out with one foot at the same time, but pain cracked through his cheekbone and brow, lighting up the whole side of his head. Part of him recognized the noise — the same ceramic thunk a coffee mug made when you dropped it on carpet. Walsh had hit him with the dropped cup, swinging it by the handle.
Loshak fell. Fell. Weightless. Apart.
One final synapse of revelation flared in his head.
Drugs. Walsh had drugged him.
It made sense. Even with his thinking warped, his perceptions altered, the sense knocked out of him via ceramic mug, Loshak understood now.
Walsh was the shooter.
And then his addled brain fixated on the wrong detail: that cup needed to be preserved for evidence. It was a weapon. It was…
He drifted in the dark. Alone. Unconscious. Untethered from the physical world.
Afloat in the nowhere. Peaceful.
A moist sound brought him back part of the way. Trickling wet that came in little pulses.
Blood oozed from the throbbing spot on Loshak’s brow bone, the hot liquid burning down his temple and dripping into the cup of his ear. The wet sound made him think of water in a cave. He’d heard it before, years ago, when they went on vacation to visit his family and show off their new baby.
Tennessee. It was a state full of caves, and he and Jan had toured one with Shelly, even though she’d only been three or four months old at most. When the guide turned out the lights to show them just how dark it could get, Loshak had held the tiny, warm body against his shoulder and listened to the constant drip, drip, drip that formed and reformed the insides of the Earth over centuries.
Now, though, something was lurking in that lightless black. Something hungry.
A buzzing, insectile chirp called Loshak’s mind back from the cave. His wrists were locked together, and he was staring down a tunnel at a yellowed popcorn ceiling.
A face leaned into his tunnel vision. Early thirties white male with dark hair and hollow black pits for eyes. Hands rifled through Loshak’s jacket. He felt a tug at his hip and belatedly tried to fight back.
A familiar matte black Glock appeared at the end of the black-sided tunnel, blocking out the face, the popcorn ceiling, everything but the sound of dripping cave water.
Chapter 56
Ben Walsh’s shoulders heaved as the breath rushed in and out through his teeth. Adrenaline and amphetamines surged through his system, making everything shrill and bright. The fucker had got him good with that kick to the knee, but Ben could hardly feel it over the pain-dampening opioids.
He shook out his head, slinging sweat droplets off his hair, and blew a puff of air at his burning face. He hadn’t expected the guy to fight back once the trippy stuff started kicking in, but it made sense now. They wouldn’t let somebody into the FBI and not teach them hand to hand combat. Maybe the hallucinations had even heightened his response time, given the agent an edge by scaring him into a state of aggression.
Not that it had mattered in the end. Blunt trauma to the side of the head did it for just about anybody. Now Ben had the gun and all the power, and everything was right in the world once more.
A grin pulled his lips away from his teeth. They had come at him with their best, sent the big shot profiler from TV directly to his apartment, and he’d beaten him, bludgeoned the poor bastard with something as banal as a coffee mug. He’d won. Again. The undefeated. The two-time motherfucking champion.
The agent’s eyes focused on the Glock Ben had wrestled out of his belt holster. The guy’s pupils were still blown, and red capillaries showed in the whites around them. Ben saw fear there in the lines of his face, but he didn’t see panic.
Not good.
This was the point in the movies when the hero suddenly lunged at the overconfident guy holding the gun.
Ben backpedaled a couple steps, putting some distance between himself and the agent just in case. The cable tie holding the Agent’s hands together wouldn’t allow for much of a fight, but Ben wasn’t going to take a chance. He’d been pristine so far, always following the clock at the shootings, never letting himself get carried away and caught. He just had to keep that up now.
Discipline. Focus.
The next step seemed obvious enough. Old Agent Loshak needed to stop breathing real quick. Ben had to kill this guy, but he couldn’t do it here. Somewhere else. Somewhere easier to dispose of the mess. And it had to be fast, because once the famous FBI agent disappeared, everyone would be looking for him. They would know he came to Ben’s apartment to ask about the case, and they’d sweep every inch of the place for clues. As it was, he was already going to have to sanitize that coffee cup and bleach the places this guy was dripping blood.
Another challenge. That was all. He could still make all of this work.
“Listen up,” Ben snapped, an edge still in his voice from the adrenaline. “I know you can hear me, shit heel. Remember, I know everything that those drugs do. I know the perfect dosage for a man your age and height and weight. You dance on my strings now, motherfucker.”
The agent’s eyes shifted from the bore of the gun to Ben’s face.
“That’s right,” Ben said. “Now, we’re going for a walk. When I say, you’re going to stand up, open the door, and walk out into the hallway. We’ll go down the stairs and outside to a white Toyota Camry halfway down the block.”
Ben could see the gears turning in the agent’s head as he spoke. Either the guy was coming up with an escape plan, or he was hallucinating.
“Hey, whatever you’re thinking, forget it.” Without stepping forward, Ben leaned the gun a little closer, drawing the agent’s attention back to the business end of the weapon. “Your only way out of this alive is to do what I say.” He had to fight off a smile at that load of horse shit. “You obey, you live. Got it?”
After a few long seconds, the agent finally pried his eyes away from the barrel of the gun and nodded.
“Let’s go,” Ben said.
Chapter 57
The world shifted and changed around Loshak, kaleidoscope fractals of red and blue overtaking the walls. The shapes looked like the jeweled segments of a slice of citrus fruit, except large enough to fill whole panels of sheetrock, flicking this way and that. He opened the shooter’s apartment door and walked out into the hall as directed, the building morphing around him all the while.
Just drugs, he reminded himself. Hallucinations. Stay sharp, now.
The voice in his head stayed level.
Calm. That was a good thing. He swallowed in a dry throat.
Once Walsh locked the deadbolt, he nudged Loshak in the back and they moved forward again, trudging toward the steps. Going down.
His mind hung up pictures, made it look like he was walking down the stairs at home, photos of Shelly and Jan and him projected on the wall as he passed, some of them moving, playing videos, a montage of dreams and memories intertwining there. Things that he knew had happened, then others he wasn’t so sure about.
The memories flashed in rapid-fire.
He and Jan drunk at Denny’s. She’d ordered the Moons Over My Hammy and couldn’t stop giggling about it.
Holding Shelly’s hand during one of only three times he’d taken her to chemo. Her frail fingers so small and dry in his.
The three of them playing badminton in the yard one summer Sunday waiting for their hamburgers to finish grilling.
Walking Shelly down the aisle at her wedding.
His eyes went wide at this last memory, breath and saliva sucked in with his gasp.
Just a dream, the calm voice inside told him. Just the drugs painting pictures in your head. Forget the dreams. Stay focused on what’s real. Walsh. The gun. Finding a way out of this scenario.
More movies opened on the walls.
Him and Darger driving somewhere in the dark, the headlights of their rental car piercing the gloom hung up over a desert road.
Zakarian straddling Spinks, the knife lifted up over his head, glinting under the streetlights. The arc of the blade plunging down, down, down.
Spinks patting his mouth with a napkin, then folding it carefully and setting it aside. His mouth spotless as always.
Jan laughing until she was red in the face at something Spinks had said.
Each of the frames played like a movie while he wasn’t looking, then stopped mid-scene when his eyes locked on. Frozen on some still life that seared itself into his brain.
“Keep moving,” Walsh snapped behind him.
Loshak obeyed. The stairs seemed to stretch out in front of him for miles, like they led straight into the bowels of hell. Maybe they did. There was no way Walsh would let him live after this. Moving to a secondary location was always a death sentence. Killers only told victims that to keep them docile, to make the inevitable job of disposing the corpse easier.
Loshak would have to pick his spot. Catch Walsh off guard. Make his final stand. Soon.
When they made it to the lobby floor, Walsh came up alongside him, still pointing the Glock at Loshak through his coat, the barrel making a lump that couldn’t be anything else.
“Get the door,” he growled.
Walsh had lost that reptilian coldness somewhere. Maybe when Loshak had tried to fight back. Now all that came through was aggression. The pharmacist’s face melted a little at the edges, sharpening the anger somehow. Amplifying it, and making it radiate in a mane of darkness around his head.
For a second, anticipation surged in Loshak’s brain. It felt like his skull was pressurizing, a boiler about to blow. His heart hammered in his ears, every thud made extra loud by the wetness sealing up his right one.
He swallowed hard, trying to pop his ears like he would in a plane. It didn’t work. His head was going to crack open if some of this pressure didn’t release.
“I said open the fucking door.” Walsh shoved him aside, then shouldered it open. He nodded down the block. “That way.”
The second Loshak stepped out of the building and into the swirling snowstorm, the pressure leaked away. He let out a long exhale that seemed to wrap around the flakes and snake in and out of them before disappearing.
Hard metal jammed up against Loshak’s ribs.
“We stop walking when I say.” Walsh’s steaming breath puffed over Loshak’s shoulder, cutting through the snow like cheese wire through a block of cheddar. “Right down there. The car by the streetlight.”
They started walking again, Loshak lifting his knees higher than usual to wade through the calf-deep snow. Icy slush soaked around his ankles and stuck to his pant legs, trickling down his socks and into his shoes.
Walsh directed him to squeeze between one car-sized hill of snow and another, following Loshak out into the street. The black mane around Walsh’s head pulsed and throbbed in time to some silent music. Or maybe to the pharmacist’s heartbeat.
“Stop.” Walsh’s free hand rooted through his pocket.
The hill of snow chirped and the locks inside unlocked with a clunk, proving that there was a car in there after all. They were standing at the driver’s side door.
“Open the back and climb in.”
Loshak fumbled for a door handle, his zip-tied hands sifting like one appendage through cold, fluffy white until they bumped against metal. Chunks tumbled off the side and hit the snow by his feet with an almost silent whump, more like the idea of a sound than a sound. His thumb grazed the curve of the handle. He pulled, ice crackling in the door’s seal before finally letting go. The door swung open. Snow flurried from the roof to dust the seat.
“Get in.”
“Fuck this guy,” Darger said in Loshak’s ear. “Make a run for it. He’s going to kill you either way.”
The Glock jammed against Loshak’s temple, shoving until his head was cocked painfully against his other shoulder. The metal was warm from being inside Walsh’s jacket.
“Do you want to fucking die right here?” the beast growled, death rumbling around inside the words. “Get in the fucking car.”
Another shove of the gun knocked Loshak off balance. He slipped in the snow and slush, unable to catch himself with his hands bound. His top half fell onto the seat, and his knees banged against the snow-padded asphalt, still finding a few sharp rocks below. He crawled into the car, tracking icy white onto the seat and floorboards.
The door slammed behind him, trapping his left ankle for a second between the seat and the door panel. Loshak twisted and pulled until his foot came free.
The front door opened, and Walsh dropped into the driver’s seat. He turned around, pointing the gun at Loshak.
“No, don’t get up. Lay on the floor.”
Loshak settled back down on his side, staring awkwardly up at what was going to be his murderer. An elongated tongue flicked out from between Walsh’s bared teeth, which looked mostly human despite its length.
“I wouldn’t try to fuck with me if I were you,” Walsh said, smiling a little. “Not if I wanted to survive the night.”
Chapter 58
“Hey, Frankie, there’s our guy.” Vince leaned across Frank and pointed out the window. “That’s him, right?”
“Get off me.”
Frank shoved the big lug out of his personal space and looked around. It was hard to tell for sure. The visibility was falling off fast, but yeah, one of those dark shapes headed down the opposite sidewalk was the right gangly shape to be their Feeb.
“Yeah, looks like him.” Frank twisted a little to watch the shapes head down the street. “Who’s his new friend?”
Vince’s face lit up for a second, then fell.
“Not a hooker, unless it’s a dude hooker,” he said. “And this doesn’t look like a hookup to me. Feels all wrong.”
After watching for another second, Frank nodded. He spotted the gun half a second before Vince opened his mouth again.
“Oh, shit, the little dude has a gun,” the knucklehead said. “It’s in his jacket. Looks like he’s… he’s… he’s perp-walking the Fed.”
Frank scratched his jaw with one thumb as he watched the smaller guy follow their Fed out into the street beside a snow-covered sedan.
“I think our boy is getting abducted by this other guy.”
Vince’s brow wrinkled. He took a slurp of his pink glop out of its plastic bottle. Smeared the heel of his hand across his chin. “That sick fuck.”
Across the street, the smaller guy manhandled the Fed into the backseat, then circled around the vehicle and climbed in the front. The sedan’s wipers
kicked on and started throwing snow off the windshield.
Frank put the car in gear, but he didn’t let off the brake.
“What do we do?” Vince asked.
“Just shut up for a second,” Frank snapped.
The sedan pulled out of its spot, the snow crunching audibly beneath its tires. Frank eased the Buick out into the street and followed.
Chapter 59
Spinks stood on the steps outside the station where the task force met, pressing the phone to his ear and shivering. The Chicago winter coat was definitely an improvement over his Miami winter coats, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the chill off.
Snow fell around him, the little ice crystals fluttering down like lacy rain. It had been coming down in huge, fat clumps earlier, more like meteors streaking toward the ground than any of the dainty, light words he usually heard for snow. But that had tapered off not long after Deluca and Brunhauser picked him up from his last interview.
The ringing stopped abruptly, a canned, electronic voice taking its place, letting him know that Loshak wasn’t going to pick up.
Spinks scowled at the phone. Then hung up and stuck it in his pocket.
Loshak was probably still talking to his interview subject. Or he could be driving. Spinks had taken a cab and left the rental to Loshak because he didn’t know the first thing about driving in the snow. Loshak came from Virginia. He would have the good sense not to answer the phone while he was sliding around these covered streets.
For a second, Spinks thought about sending a text to let Loshak know his interview had been a bust. But he stopped himself. He didn’t want to get his friend’s attention away from the road if there was even a chance he was driving. Since becoming a journalist, Spinks had been a lot of places during the winter, but the thought of piloting a metal death trap around slick, snowy roads still freaked him out. He could wait until Loshak showed up at the precinct or called back to let him know that Jannison, the old pharmacist Spinks had just finished with, wasn’t their shooter. Too old and way too boring. Alibi checked out, too. He’d been at work at the time of the movie theater shooting. Spinks had verified that with a call while Brunhauser drove him and Deluca back to the station.
