“Fine,” Alex decides. “Same place as yesterday, behind O’Hare. If I sense something is funny, I won’t show up.”
“Twenty minutes,” Jack says.
Alex pulls back onto the expressway. Jittery—from nerves, excitement, and anticipation.
How fun it will be to live life as Jack Daniels.
CHAPTER 59
IT ISN’T MURDER. Like my dad said, killing a rabid dog is actually mercy.
Which is why, when I pulled into the vacant lot and saw Alex parked in the distance, sitting behind the wheel of a Prius, I floored the gas and headed straight for her.
I had no idea what Alex had been expecting. Maybe a gunfight. Maybe a fistfight. And maybe she could have beaten me in both.
But in a demolition derby, a two-and-a-half-ton Ford Bronco truck beat a compact Toyota hybrid any day of the week.
By the time I got close enough to see Alex’s expression—pure shock that I wasn’t going to stop—she hit the accelerator. But it was too little, too late. The Bronco crashed into her front end with a satisfying, metal-crunching clang, the four-wheel-drive climbing up onto the hood of the tiny car, a heavy steel-belted radial smashing through her front windshield.
I jammed it into reverse, my tires found purchase on the gravel-covered asphalt, and I rocketed backward off the Prius, bouncing high in my seat from the shocks.
Alex was buried under an airbag, the front end of her car smashed to half its height. I backed up until I was a good fifty yards away, then punched it and rammed her again.
The Prius lurched sideways, its tires shrieking, the big truck pushing until it reached a divot in the cracked pavement and rolled up onto its side, and then over the top, rocking upside-down like a big metal turtle.
I backed up again, but after a few feet something begin to whine under the floorboard. I tried to pop it into gear, and the truck jerked, then was still. I’d killed the transmission.
No biggie. I was just getting started.
I tugged on the door handle. It didn’t budge. So I stuck my Beretta in my teeth and climbed out the missing windshield onto the hood of the Bronco. I slid off the bumper and onto my feet, then went after her.
When I got within twenty feet of the Prius I fired three shots, bursting all three airbags. Keeping the Beretta aimed, I pressed on the airbag fabric, deflating it, ready to fire at the first thing underneath.
But there was nothing there. The car was empty.
I spun around just as I saw the blur. The kick connected solidly with my hand, my gun taking flight and arcing through the air, clattering to the concrete a few dozen feet away.
I pivoted, brought my own leg around, aiming at Alex’s chest. She turned into it, absorbing the kick on her shoulder. Then she shoved me away, backpedaled, and assumed a tae kwon do stance, legs apart and fists raised.
I got in the same stance.
“I’m going to rip your fucking head off,” Alex snarled at me.
“Bring it, bitch.”
Alex advanced, feinting with her left, hooking with her right. I ducked my head down, her knuckles grazing off my skull, and then I brought my knee up, driving it into her ribs.
She recovered quickly, spinning to my left, whacking me in the neck with the back of her hand. I staggered from the blow, and she followed up with a scissors kick, her body taking to the air.
Her foot met my jaw, hard enough to bring the stars out. I spun with it, and kept spinning until I hit the ground, slapping both palms against the tarmac to cushion my fall.
Alex was on me quick as a snake, punting one of my kidneys up into my lungs. I screamed, but managed to pin her leg on the second kick, shifting with it, flipping her onto her face.
I kept hold of her ankle, rolling her up, getting on top of her.
Then I grabbed her bleach-blond hair and introduced her face to the pavement. Once. Twice, three times, and then she tangled her hand in my hair and yanked me off.
We both rolled to our feet. Alex spat out blood and teeth. Her face was the picture of rage, the scar tissue stretched so taut it was pure white. She lunged, but anger had replaced form and I easily sidestepped the move, giving her a one-two punch to the nose.
She wiped a sleeve across her face, mopping off blood.
“You’re all alone, Jack. No one is here to save you this time.”
I thought of every major case I’d ever been on. Each time, someone had come to the rescue. Herb. Harry. Phin. None of them were here now to watch my back.
Alex was right. This time I was totally alone.
But this time I didn’t need any help.
I moved in, kicked at her instep, dropping her to one knee, then hammered a right cross home, jerking her head back. Alex brought up her fists, swung and missed. I followed the right with a left, rocking her sideways, then another right, and another left. It was like hitting a heavy bag, except heavy bags don’t whimper.
She fell onto both knees, not even fighting back, keeping her head covered up.
I grabbed her arms and my knee met her nose. If it hadn’t been broken before, now it was.
Alex slumped onto her ass. She wasn’t getting up again.
“Lucky,” Alex said, blood dribbling down her face from eight different places. “You got lucky.”
“Wrong. I’m better than you. And I just kicked your ass.”
I scanned the empty lot, found my Beretta only a few yards away. I strode over to it and scooped it up. Then I returned to Alex, sticking the gun in her face, pointing it at her eye socket so she could look up the barrel.
Alex tried to smile, all red gums and broken teeth.
“You’re not going to kill me.”
“Yes. I am. And I don’t want your last thought to be a hopeful one, so stop trying to convince yourself of that. In five seconds, I’m pulling this trigger.”
“You can’t do it.”
“You’ll find out in four more seconds.”
Alex’s half grin faltered. “You’re a cop.”
“Not anymore.”
And there it was. The sneering, mocking face that had haunted my dreams for so long became something pitiful, pathetic, filled with fear.
“Jack. Don’t do this.”
“This is for Latham, and Alan, and Coursey, and the dozens of others you’ve slaughtered. But mostly, it’s for me.”
“Jack, please—”
“When you get to hell, say hi to Charles.”
Alex cried out, “Jack—no!”
The bullet took off the back of her head. She flopped onto her side, blood spraying the broken concrete. I put two more into her skull, kicked her over, and fired three more into her dead heart.
Dad was right. It was like killing a rabid dog.
I checked her pulse, found none.
But just to make absolutely sure, I waited ten minutes before calling the police.
CHAPTER 60
I WAS SWEEPING UP my wreck of a house—something I’d put off during my three-week bout of drinking and depression—when a car pulled into the driveway.
“How’s the nose?” I asked when I opened the door.
“I’ve got an extra nostril.” Harry’s voice was nasally, for obvious reasons. He had a big white ban dage across his face, with some sort of nose brace, and his black eyes made him look like a raccoon.
“Nice,” I said.
“Doc said it came off pretty clean, so it should look more or less normal when it heals. Thanks for giving it to the EMT. And thanks, you know, for coming to my rescue and saving my ass.”
“My plea sure, Harry.”
Harry looked down at his feet, then scratched himself in a bad place.
“So I was thinking. Alex is dead, right?”
“Yeah.”
I’d found Alex’s gun in the wrecked Prius and given it back to her, so it looked less like an assassination and more like self-defense, but otherwise told the authorities everything that happened. There would be a hearing, but I’d learned from on high that no charg
es would be filed. Stopping a serial killer’s multi-state crime spree and recovering over eighty thousand dollars in stolen money counted for a lot, and supposedly no one was anxious to prosecute me.
The only weak link was Officer Scott Hajek. After leaving the cemetery I’d visited the Crime Lab with the phone Harry had found, asking Hajek to get Alex’s number off the SIM card. He agreed, and promised he’d keep quiet about helping me, as long as I promised to go out with him sometime.
Sometime wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
“And you’re not a cop anymore, right?” Harry asked.
I nodded. “I start getting my retirement pension next week.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking, since this is the big day—”
“Big day?”
“DNA Day. Today we get the test results.”
Oh, brother. Or in this case, Oh, I hope it isn’t my brother. “Yeah, it’s supposed to be today.”
“Did you call yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. I wanted to be there when you called. Anyway, I was thinking that since you aren’t a cop anymore, maybe you’re looking for some gainful employment.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“What are you saying, Harry?”
“I’m saying that the Crimebago is gone. So is my partner.”
“You had a partner?”
“Slappy. He wasn’t a very good partner, but he was all I had.”
I tried to look concerned, but didn’t quite make it. “I’m sorry your monkey blew up, Harry.”
“No, he didn’t die. He ran away before the explosion. Haven’t you been watching the news? All the monkey attacks in Rosemont?”
“Missed it.”
“Well, he’s at large, and when they catch him there’s no way in hell I’m claiming him, because I’m not paying the medical expenses of all those people he bit. He also assaulted a Chihuahua. The papers didn’t go into details, but I think there was sex involved and I don’t think it was consensual.”
“I’m not quite sure how to reply to that.”
“Anyway, he’s out of the picture and I figured, maybe, if the DNA tests show we’re actually related, maybe, you know…”
I folded my arms. “Maybe I can join your private investigation business?”
Harry nodded, smiling. “Full partners. Fifty-fifty. Think about it, Jackie. We’d be the only brother-and-sister crime-fighting team in the country.” His eyes danced like candle flames. “Mom will be so proud of us.”
“We don’t even have the test results, Harry.”
“Okay. Call.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
I led Harry through the shambles that was my dwelling, made my way into the kitchen, and picked up the phone. The number for the DNA place was written on a pad.
“Biologen, this is Dr. Stefanopolous.”
“Hi, I’m calling about a DNA match check. The name is Daniels. The batch number is 8431485.”
“Hold on, please.”
Harry poked me. “What did they say?”
“She’s checking.”
We waited, Harry’s eyes pressing on me, his ruined face awash with expectation.
“You’re looking for the results of the Daniels/McGlade comparison?” the doctor finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Negative. No relation.”
“You’re sure?”
“We’ll mail the detailed results to you within the next five business days. Thanks for choosing Biologen.”
She hung up.
“Well?” Harry asked.
I’d known him for over twenty years, and had never seen him so excited, so happy, his face so lit up.
Then I thought of Mom, and how pleased she was to have found her long-lost son. She’d be so disappointed.
I weighed that against the ickiness I felt. But, strangely, now that I knew we weren’t actually related, some of the ickiness was gone.
“Come on, Jackie! Don’t keep me in suspense!”
I frowned.
“Welcome to the family, Harry.”
I had to endure a big hug, which hurt like hell because of my various aches and pains.
“I gotta call Mom,” he said, breaking the embrace. “She gets back in a few days. We should all go out to eat. Celebrate.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “Sure.”
“Then we can get our matching tattoos.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Awesome.” I don’t think he heard me. “I’ll call you to night about signing the lease.”
“What lease?”
“Our new office. It’s a primo location, Jackie. Needs a bit of a fix-up, but it will be perfect for our business.”
“Harry, I haven’t—”
“Gotta run.” He slipped in fast and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll tell Mom you said hi.”
And then he was out the door, leaving me to wonder about the monster I’d just created.
Since I was already in the kitchen, and since it was just as messy as the rest of the house, I grabbed a broom and dustpan and began sweeping. It was mindless work, rewarding in a menial, repetitive way. Being domestic wasn’t something I did much of, but I felt like I could get used to it. Maybe even start to enjoy it.
At around noon I got hungry and ordered Chinese food—my domesticity ended at cooking. Half an hour later there was a knock at the front door. I grabbed some cash, brushed some dust off my jeans, and went to pay the delivery driver.
But it wasn’t the food. It was someone else.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
Phin wore jeans and a white T-shirt, tight in all the right places. He had his hands in his pockets and a boyish grin on his face that made him look ten years younger, which would make him twenty years younger than me.
“Thanks for putting up the bond money.”
“I’ve got a little extra in the bank.”
“A hundred grand is more than a little.”
“Let’s call it even. I know you talked to the Feds, got the charges against me dropped.”
“We’re not even. Not even close.”
“I trashed your truck,” I said.
“I can steal another one. But the money…Jack, I can’t pay that much back.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“And chances are high I’m not going to appear on my court date.”
I nodded again. “I know. It’s okay.”
He moved a little closer to me, his gaze intense.
“Look, Jack, I know how you feel about me. And if you really want to just be friends, I’d rather have your friendship than none of you at all.”
I stared at Phin, and felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks. Happiness. I was actually happy. It was such an alien feeling I wasn’t sure what to do.
My mouth made the decision for me, locking onto his with a heat, a passion, an intensity that made me realize maybe, just maybe, things might work out after all.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Phin whispered. “I come with some pretty hefty baggage.”
I smiled, wicked, free, and wonderfully alive. Maybe for the first time in my entire life.
“Well, Mr. Troutt. I guess we’ll just have to take it one day at a time.”
Then I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him into my house.
Acknowledgments
SPECIAL THANKS TO Don Oakes and John Nebl, two very smart cops. Any mistakes in this book are mine, as they don’t make mistakes.
A toast to my fellow writers Raymond Benson, Blake Crouch, Barry Eisler, Jack Kilborn, Henry Perez, James Rollins, Marcus Sakey, and Jeff Strand for their unwavering support.
Thanks to my family and friends, everyone at Dystel & Goderich, Hyperion, the booksellers, the libraries, and the fans.
And finally, to a select group who continue to spread the word, including Ben Springer, Brenda Anderson, Brian Prisco, Corky Mayo, Dan Blackley, Dave Eaton, Elizabeth Br
ux, Greg Swanson, Jan May, Jeanne Donnelly, Jim Munchel, Joe Menta Jr., Karen L. Syed, Kathy Cox, Melanie Williams, Michele Lee, Nick Goodrick, Patricia Reid, Patrick Balester, Paul Pessolano, Robert Mosley, Robyn Glazer, Sean Hicks, Steve Jensen, and all the JAKaholics on my message board.
OTHER WORKS BY J. A. KONRATH
Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Fuzzy Navel
Copyright
CHERRY BOMB. Copyright © 2009 Joe Konrath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-1-4013-9446-2
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination
THE JACK DANIELS SIX PACK. Copyright © 2010 by J.A. Konrath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 145
