Kill Switch

by Neal Baer

  Claire drew a breath. “I want to come back. I’m ready to return to the program.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” asked Curtin, with no trace of surprise on his face. “I didn’t expect you to recover so quickly. You suffered severe emotional trauma.”

  “Nick helped me deal with it,” Claire said.

  “Really?” Curtin mused, turning to Nick. “Maybe you should join my program. I could use a cop who’s also a shrink. You could teach us how you lay traps in your interrogations.”

  “I can teach that to you anytime,” Nick said with the slightest edge in his voice, “whether I’m in your program or not.”

  “It’s a deal, then. After I recover,” Curtin said. “And tell me, Claire, how did Detective Lawler help you ‘deal’ with your trauma? I ask so that I can be sure you’re ready to return.”

  “He helped me overcome my past,” Claire said without a noticeable reaction from Curtin. “I blamed myself for something over which I had no control.”

  “Peter Lewis,” Curtin said simply.

  “Bonnie told me you knew I found him,” Claire said, referring to Curtin’s secretary. She was surprised Curtin hadn’t brought it up.

  “Bonnie talks a bit too much for her own good. She probably also told you how impressed I was. And how proud I am,” he added, correcting himself. “I’ve had some prodigies in my program, but never anyone who’s accomplished what you have. I must say, Claire, you simply amaze me.”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything?” Claire asked, confused. “When we first came in.”

  “I’m a therapist, after all. I wanted you to bring it up so I could see how this all has affected you.”

  Claire’s mind was racing. All the threads she thought she had woven together were coming undone. Is Curtin connected to any of this? Or is it a coincidence that he interviewed Lewis?

  She turned to Nick, who looked puzzled too. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? Is he wondering what the hell is going on?

  Claire decided the only way to find out was to face him head-on.

  “You testified against Peter Lewis for the prosecution back in ninety-four when he confessed to kidnapping and murdering a little girl outside Toronto.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Her name was Meredith Palmer.”

  “Did you know about Amy too?”

  “The one on the news?” Curtin responded without blinking. He sat forward and looked Claire straight in the eye. “You must be referring to your best friend. What an incredible coincidence that I testified against the man who murdered her.”

  “And Lewis never mentioned her?” Nick asked. “When you did your psychiatric evaluation of him.”

  “I wish to God he had. I know I would have researched the case.”

  Then Curtin reached out and took Claire’s hand. All Claire could think was that his fingers and palm felt cold and waxy, like those of a corpse.

  “I could have spared you all those years of grief.”

  Claire wanted to pull away from him, but he held her hand tight.

  “I’m sorry, Claire, for everything. For pushing you so hard, for assigning Quimby to you, for not helping you.”

  “Helping me?” Claire asked, not knowing what he meant.

  “With Quimby. You’ve obviously been suffering from PTSD all these years. Quimby only compounded it.”

  He let go of her hand and sat back. “You are blessed, Claire. With resilience. That is a gift.” Then he nodded, as if having convinced himself of something. “I do think you’re ready to come back.”

  Claire didn’t know what to make of any of this. Yes, she had come through this terrible ordeal, losing the man she loved and finding the man who had made such a gaping hole in her heart all those years ago. Maybe Curtin was right. She had more strength than she was ever aware of. She could go on with her life now. She was no longer a prisoner of her past. She could even accept that it was sheer coincidence that Curtin had testified against the man who had raped and murdered her best friend. After all, Paul Curtin was a world authority on what made psychopaths like Lewis tick.

  But what about Quimby? Was that another coincidence? Claire wondered. He murdered six women. At least, she and Nick had thought he’d murdered them. Alone. Until they’d discovered the link that led from Tammy Sorensen to Charles Sedgwick.

  Claire needed to find out what Curtin knew. Or didn’t.

  “You look like you have something on your mind,” Curtin said to her.

  “Doctor,” Nick began, “I need to ask you a question.”

  “Go right ahead, Detective,” said Curtin.

  “When you accepted Todd Quimby into the early release program, did you know anything about him that may not have been in the file you gave Claire?”

  Curtin replied instantly. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Can you take me through it?” Nick asked.

  “Sure. At the end of their year of study, my fellows evaluate the next group of prisoners from Rikers Island who are up for parole. The fellows are the ones who choose the parolees. I hear their cases and sign off on who they decide makes the cut and who doesn’t—and why. Most importantly, the cases are presented to me without names. And then the parolees are randomly assigned to the new crop of fellows who enter the program in July.”

  Nick seemed mollified, and then Curtin sat back in his chair and looked him straight in the eye. “Do you mind telling me why you asked?”

  “We’re just trying to figure out how Quimby might have come into contact with a Dr. Charles Sedgwick,” Claire said.

  If the name meant anything to Curtin, his face gave nothing away. “I don’t remember seeing that name in his file,” he answered, “and I don’t know him. Is he another psychiatrist?”

  “No, he’s a molecular biologist and pharmacologist,” Claire informed him. “He runs a company called Biopharix up in Putnam County. He worked with one of Quimby’s victims, Tammy Sorenson.”

  “I’ve heard of Biopharix, of course,” Curtin responded. “Unfortunately, Sedgwick doesn’t ring a bell. But I’d be glad to check him out for you if you’d like.”

  “That would be a great help to us, Doctor,” Nick said.

  “I’m happy to help you in any way I can,” Curtin assured them.

  Claire stood up to leave. Nick followed her lead.

  “Thank you,” she said to Curtin. “For everything. For letting me come back so quickly.”

  Curtin stood up slowly, painfully. Claire wondered why mono would be so debilitating, and then recalled from medical school that it’s not uncommon for mono to cause severe muscle aches and weakness.

  “I’m a man of my word, Claire,” he said as he led them to the door, referring to the promise he’d made her when she left the program. “I said you could come back when you were ready. I’m just glad to see you came through all of this whole.” He opened the door and turned to Claire. “I know you gave up your apartment. But I’d be glad to have Bonnie send your reinstatement papers to wherever you’re staying.”

  Before Claire could say anything, Nick jumped in. “She’s staying at my place. Until she gets settled.”

  “Then I needn’t worry, because you’re in good hands,” Curtin said. “Take care.”

  “Feel better,” Claire said to Curtin as he closed the door. She headed with Nick toward the elevator, about ready to burst, but she knew she had to hold off talking until they were out of Curtin’s earshot. The moment they were in the elevator and the doors closed, Claire let loose. “Why did you tell him I was staying at your place?” she demanded.

  “Because you are now,” Nick said, and Claire knew from his tone that she didn’t have a choice. “I’m not leaving you alone until we put all the pieces of this puzzle together.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “The question is,” Claire asked Nick, putting down her coffee cup, “do you believe Curtin?”

  “I’m not sure I know what to believe anymore,” Nick said, taking a bite of the stale apple pie that had
lost its taste at least an hour earlier.

  They’d stopped at the diner on Broadway at 56th after leaving Curtin’s apartment, talking for hours, sometimes heatedly, about what they knew, thought they might know, or didn’t know about the link between Sedgwick and Quimby, and whether Curtin was in some way involved.

  “You know the guy better than me,” Nick said. “Did it sound to you like he was lying when he said he didn’t know Sedgwick?”

  “I couldn’t get a read on him,” Claire said. “Maybe I was too busy concentrating on how sick he is.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Nick said, taking another bite of pie. “For Sedgwick to know about Quimby would be one coincidence too many. I’m telling you, Curtin’s in this up to his pointy little head.”

  “The man has gone after killers his whole career,” Claire argued. “Why would he become one? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Along with all the other evidence in this case that doesn’t track,” Nick added. He was frustrated and tired and running out of the time Lt. Wilkes had given him to come up with something fresh.

  The waitress put the check on the table and said, “You can pay at the register up front.”

  “What do you want to do?” Claire asked Nick.

  Nick eyed the check, then looked at his watch. “It’s after midnight,” he said, the fatigue beginning to show in his voice. “And we’ve been going around in circles for hours. Whatever Curtin’s involvement, we’re not going to prove it tonight. I vote we head home and get some sleep.”

  Claire’s eyelids were starting to feel heavy, despite the three cups of coffee she’d had. “Agreed,” she said.

  It was past one a.m. when they emerged from the subway station around the corner from Nick’s apartment. He was technically off duty and didn’t have use of the Impala, and the cab fares they had spent getting around the city were starting to add up. Claire had always been careful about her money, never spending what she didn’t have and refusing to borrow from anyone, so taking the subway and staying at Nick’s was a welcome way for her to both save some cash and feel safe.

  But now, heading back there in the middle of the night, when the city was starting to quiet down, she was having second thoughts. Part of it was that she valued her privacy. But she also didn’t want him to feel obligated.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked as they walked down Lexington Avenue.

  “What’s bugging you?” Nick replied.

  “I feel like you’re bringing your work home with you.”

  Nick couldn’t help but smile. “If I felt that way, I wouldn’t have offered.”

  “I just don’t want to be an intrusion.”

  “You’re not. It won’t be the first time I’ve been banished to the couch,” Nick said.

  “You really know how to charm a girl.”

  “I live with my mother and two daughters. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to charm anyone.”

  They turned the corner onto Nick’s block, just in time to see a man pop open the hood of his ancient Dodge minivan, which he’d double-parked a few yards in front of them. Must’ve broken down, Nick thought.

  They walked along Nick’s street, coming upon the van, and Nick took a look at the driver, whose head was buried under the hood. That’s odd, Nick thought. He’s not working on the engine.

  Instinctively, Nick looked down and saw the man’s boots. They were black, tapered to the toe, and expensive. Nick didn’t think they fit with the piece of crap the guy was driving.

  Just then, he heard a grinding sound down the street and looked up and away from the guy and his car. On the corner, brightly lit by the overhead streetlamp, was the profile of a city sanitation truck, backing up to empty the public trash can on the corner.

  “Look at that,” Nick said, annoyed. “Idiot’s blocking the whole damn street.”

  And then he realized. The truck wasn’t beeping as it backed up.

  Nick took a breath. Claire could feel him tense up.

  She looked at him and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” he said without affect. “We’re almost home.”

  They were only about fifty yards from Nick’s building. His eyes darted between the front door and the garbage truck across the street. The driver was just climbing down from the cab and moving slowly toward the rear. Alone.

  They never ride alone. And they never pick up garbage this late.

  The driver appeared, passing the truck’s rear opening, grabbing a garbage can, and wheeling it toward the compactor. For a split second, he lifted his head, his eyes on them, confirming Nick’s fears.

  He’s looking at us. And he’s not wearing gloves.

  Nick’s right hand found his gun. His left hand tightly latched on to Claire’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Just keep walking,” he said.

  “You’re scaring me,” Claire replied.

  As if on cue, the unmistakable sound of a car’s hood slammed shut behind them. Nick looked back just as he heard the engine turn over.

  The minivan.

  His head whipped around, just in time to see the sanitation worker leave the trash can behind and reach inside the truck’s hopper.

  Not to put something in but to take something out.

  Nick picked up the pace, pulling Claire with him.

  “What’s going on?” Claire asked, now terrified.

  “Just do exactly as I say.”

  As he said it, the minivan’s engine gunned behind them. Nick turned just in time to see the headlights, blinding him.

  The door to the building was still a dozen yards in front of them. The man from the garbage truck walked toward them, and Nick considered running for it.

  He’s got something in his hand. . . .

  He realized they’d never make it.

  Nick made his move when the minivan screeched to a stop behind them.

  “Get down!” he screamed, pulling Claire to the ground between two parked cars.

  “What’s happening?” Claire said with hysteria in her voice.

  “Stay down!” Nick yelled.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  A spray of bullets tore up the cars in front of and behind them. But there was no sound of gunfire. Only metal piercing metal.

  They have silencers, Nick realized. They’re professionals. Hired assassins.

  For a second, the fusillade of bullets stopped. Nick knew they were reloading. He raised his head above the trunk of the car in front of him. Both killers stood in the shadows.

  I can’t see a damn thing.

  He handed the gun to Claire.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

  “Shoot them!” Nick ordered. “I can’t see them!”

  Claire looked down at the gun, scared to death. “I don’t know how!”

  “Just point and shoot! Now, dammit!”

  Only a few seconds had elapsed. Claire stood up. The garbageman, surprised to see a woman facing him ten yards away, let his guard down for a second too long. Claire raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

  And then she heard a groan of pain.

  Nick looked up. Claire had hit the garbageman in the right leg. He dropped his gun and fell to the ground.

  “Cover me!” he whispered to Claire.

  “How?” she asked, scared out of her mind.

  “Just keep pulling the trigger!”

  Claire pointed the gun and fired. Nick maneuvered around the sidewalk side of the cars, moving fast but keeping low, covering the distance between them and the corner in no more than five seconds, grateful for the city’s bright streetlamps. He ran around the blind side of the garbage truck where he could see the legs of the hired gun, trying to drag himself back over to where he’d dropped his weapon.

  Nick reached the assassin before he could get to his gun and grabbed him under his arms, flipping him headfirst into the hopper so that Nick could snatch the weapon he knew was hidden there.
/>   It was an Uzi with a huge, custom-made silencer on the barrel.

  Nick saw the wound; somehow Claire’s shots had found the man’s femur and had shattered it. He was contorted in pain when Nick hit the lever that started the compactor. Then he reached in and closed his hand around the assassin’s throat, pulling him up and bending his head backward out of the hopper as the compactor’s blade rose above the man’s waist, ready to pulverize him. “Talk now or that thing’ll cut you in half,” Nick threatened. “Who else besides you and the guy in the minivan?”

  The killer only struggled against him. Even his agony didn’t make him talk. Nick tightened his grip on the man’s throat. “How many?” Nick screamed at him. “Who the hell sent you?”

  “Screw you!” the killer said.

  Nick released the man’s neck just as the compactor’s blade descended. Nick backed away from the hopper’s opening, watching the man scream and blood spray from the rear of the truck.

  An engine gunned. The minivan roared up the block, then screeched to a stop.

  Right where Claire’s hiding.

  Nick ran toward the headlights and could see the man in the boots bolt from the vehicle with something in his hand. Nick knew it was a gun, probably an automatic weapon like the Uzi he had taken from the other guy. He wanted to shoot the bastard down, but he couldn’t see Claire and was afraid to fire.

  He did the only thing he could.

  “Police!” Nick screamed, advancing on the guy. “Drop the gun or I’ll blow your head off!”

  Assassin number two stopped and spun around to face Nick, who pointed the Uzi and pulled the trigger.

  Click, click, click.

  It’s jammed. Shit.

  The assassin smiled at Nick. Raised his weapon.

  Boom.

  All Nick saw was the man’s forehead explode from an exit wound. His gun clattered to the ground as he went down, revealing Claire standing behind him, Nick’s gun still in her trembling hand, pointed at where the assassin’s head had been. Nick bent over the dead man, still holding his Uzi, and ripped the gun away.