“You killed all spontaneity.”
“I apologize. Would you like me to take spontaneity lessons?”
Now he was being cute. Which was even more irritating.
“You know what? I haven’t been home in three days.” I put extra emphasis on the word home. “I think I need to check on my mother.”
I sat up in bed.
I wanted him to argue with me.
I wanted him to fight for me.
Hell, I would have settled for him being righteously irritated, and giving me a dismissive, “Whatever.”
Instead, the bastard said, “Whatever makes you happy, Jack. Want to go out tomorrow night?”
And he meant it. I was being a Queen Mother of All Bitches, and he was asking me out. And being sincere about it.
What the hell was I doing with this guy? I didn’t deserve him. And he deserved better than me.
You’d think that I would apologize, go back to bed, and have a fun time with the man I loved. Especially since it would mean I avoided going home and dealing with Mom and her ball-dragging friend, Mr. Long.
But not me. I was directly asking for some space, Latham was giving me that space, and I resented him for that. My reward for an evening that I screwed up was to make it even worse by picking a fight with my mother.
No wonder I was a homicide cop. Chasing scumbags was what I deserved.
I dressed angrily, if such a thing is even possible, and when I went to leave, Latham walked with me to the door.
“See you tomorrow?” he said, gently holding my shoulders.
Tomorrow? That’s ridiculous. We need to go back to bed, right now.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
He moved to kiss me, I tensed, and instead his lips met my forehead.
“Drive safe. Love you. Give Mom my best.”
Drive safe. Love you. Give Mom my best.
What a jerk.
# # #
I cried in the car, furious with myself and my bad behavior.
Why was I trying to drive away the best guy in the world?
Did I fear marriage? I was married, once. It didn’t work out. I spent too much time at work, and he resented it and started to show me how much he resented it.
On the surface, that was a decent enough argument. Freud would eat it right up.
But I knew there was more.
Earlier, I thought someone had broken in to kill me. Broken in to my fiancé’s apartment.
And I knew what to do. How to act. Hell, I was practically expecting it to happen to me.
It would happen again. Maybe to Latham. And maybe I wouldn’t be there when it did.
I hated living in the suburbs. And living with my mother was hard. But I did it, because Mom was attacked by a monster who had gone after me. She’d almost died.
I lied to myself, and said the best way to keep my mother safe was to live with her.
The truth was much simpler. The best way to keep her, and everyone I loved, safe and sound was to quit my job.
Latham and I had discussed having kids. Which, to me, was the same thing as giving up my career.
I chose to accept a long drive to boring, suburban Bensenville, over the many advantages to living in Chicago, because I chose the Job over my mother. And I seemed to be choosing the Job over Latham as well.
What was missing in me to make me want to put murderers away? Why did I have to be the one to peer into the back of stolen rental trucks and memorize the horror?
My mother was a cop. She did it to support me, when my father left. But she could have taken countless other jobs.
I asked her about that, years ago, and she said something that stuck with me.
“Since the beginning, people have preyed upon each other. The will to attack is in our genetic code. But so is the will to defend. All mothers know this. They are the protectors, who guard the innocent. I have that in me. You do, too. Without the ones who protect, who defend, the whole world would fall to the predators.”
I believed that then, and I believe it now.
But Mom never mentioned what a soul-destroying, thankless job it was.
One more thing to fight with her about when I got home.
I flipped on the radio. Of course it was in the middle of a Kenny Rogers song.
Just what I deserved.
HARRY
The face staring back at me on my computer, the one that gave me such a surprise, was Harrison Harold McGlade.
Me.
My mind rifled through possible explanations. Time travel? Perhaps a past or future version of me travelled through time to kill me. Parallel dimensions? Somehow an alternate universe overlapped with ours, and a doppelganger crossed over to this dimension.
No, those explanations were more suited to silly science fiction books.
Had someone broken into my condo and pressed the bullets to my fingers while I slept? If so, why not kill me then?
Maybe fake fingerprints. Like in spy movies.
Or some super-hacker hacked into the Chicago Police Department files to frame me for my own murder.
“Or maybe you left the print when you put the bullet into your fuming chamber,” said Rover’s voice in my head.
“Maybe,” I said aloud. But I also liked the super-hacker explanation.
I ran the other prints, didn’t get any hits, and tried again on the NCIC.
Garrett McConnroy, out of Briarpatch, Minnesota. According to his National Crime Information Center rap sheet, Garrett liked assaulting women. I didn’t know the guy, and none of my old cases intersected with his.
So why did he want to kill me? And what was I supposed to do about it?
The smart thing, the legal thing, was to turn it over to the cops. Let them deal with this asshole.
But I’d already contaminated the chain of evidence by sneaking into a crime scene. And the CPD had already shown how much it cared about my case.
Besides, I didn’t depend on others to solve my problems. I took care of everything myself.
“Mr. McGlade,” said one of the cleaning team. “This couch is full of holes. Should we throw it away?”
Okay, I mostly took care of everything myself, except when it came to cleaning my condo.
“Keep it,” I said.
That was another one of my virtues. Undying loyalty. You take a bullet for me, I’ll stick by you forever.
“It has blood on it,” she said.
“Garbage. Throw it away.”
I didn’t want to ever be reminded of that dick condo manager, bleeding all over without any regard at all for my not-very-hard-earned possessions. When he was well enough to come back to work, he was getting the cleaning bill.
I used my cell phone to call a special contact of mine, who got me special equipment when I needed it, and made an appointment for after lunch.
It was time for me to take out the trash.
Figuratively, I mean. Literally, I had a cleaning service to do that.
Being rich was awesome.
PHIN
I found my gun and crawled out of the closet and into a bedroom, so shaky I felt like I was on a carnival ride.
Listened.
Didn’t hear anything.
Made it across the floor and to a door.
Bathroom.
I drank out of the toilet like a dog, still too weak to stand. The water was cool, sweet. I got my throat working again. Stuck my entire head in the toilet and let it bathe my face.
Still tired, delirious, hungry, and in pain.
But getting better by the second.
I held the sink and pulled myself up to my feet.
Lifted my gun and pointed it at the psycho in the room.
I didn’t shoot. It was a psycho, for sure. But a slightly familiar one.
Me, in the vanity mirror.
I looked like a zombie. Covered in blood and dust, ten pounds thinner, whole face droopy.
I tried to smile, revealing dried blood in my teeth, and I was positively t
errifying.
“Hi there, handsome,” I croaked.
And I laughed.
The cabinet produced a bottle of Advil, of which I took five. There was a bottle of Tums antacid, and I popped a handful in my mouth and started chewing.
Time to explore.
I needed food, more water, and to clean my wounds. But first I had to make sure I was all alone in the house.
I left the bathroom and crept through the bedroom on rubbery legs, my AMT leading the way.
The bedroom closet I escaped from was adjacent to a living room. I recognized it as the place Shears shot me. The soft leather couch whispered to me, begging to be napped on, but I controlled the urge and kept prowling.
I was almost to the next room when instinct made me return to the couch. I felt between the cushions, got myself a dart pistol. Up close it looked like a paintball gun, stainless steel with a long barrel, plastic grip, and a bolt handle.
There was a screw at the base near the clip, which I took to be the CO2 port. I pulled back the bolt handle, saw a dart inside.
I hoped Shears walked in.
You just escaped with your life, and rather than embrace this precious gift, you’re dwelling on thoughts of revenge.
“He’s first,” I told Earl. “You’re next.”
That shut him up.
I crept from the living room into the foyer, and up some stairs. I moved slowly, stopping every few steps to listen. Upstairs there were two empty bedrooms, a bathroom, and a den.
I went back down the stairs and checked the first floor again, looking for a basement door. There wasn’t one.
A patio door let me out into the backyard, and I walked cautiously over to the garage, confident the trees hid me from nosy neighbors.
The garage door was locked, and so was the side door.
I found a concrete block alongside the house, brought it around to the side garage door, and banged it against the door knob three times. On the third time the door frame splintered and the door swung in.
No Land Rover, standard garage stuff, nothing of immediate interest.
I needed a shower, and food, and first aid. Sticking around wasn’t a good idea. This was the point in the movie where everyone in the theater was yelling “get out of there!” at the screen.
But I wasn’t quite ready to go yet. Something was itching my brain.
I could call the police. Shears was facing a handful of charges; aggravated kidnapping, unlawful confinement, assault, attempted murder. But he was a bad guy who’d done worse than what he’d done to me. He deserved more than ten years in prison.
So, against the advice of all the screaming moviegoers, I went back into the house.
The first thing I did was open all the windows, so I would hear it if a car pulled up.
Then, the refrigerator. I scarfed down a brick of Swiss cheese, and half a gallon of milk, in about thirty seconds.
I washed my hands in the kitchen sink, using dish soap on all my cuts and scrapes.
Back in the upstairs bathroom, I found a first aid kit. I used gauze and tape to wrap up my arms, mummy-style, while I used the toilet.
AMT in my hand, dart gun in the back of my jeans, I went upstairs to his bedroom. His nightstand bore the usual bedside crap, along with a cigar box that held an assortment of lighters, matches, razor blades, needles, condoms, and a salt shaker. Some of the razor blades had blood on them.
Under the bed were two pairs of handcuffs, a pair of old fashioned leg irons, and a long, dirty Rambo knife.
There was only one picture hanging in the room, a framed print by H.R. Giger featuring a naked woman in some sort of sex/torture machine, which was putting needles into her skin.
I looked behind it, and found a wall safe.
My experience with safecracking was nonexistent. But I did know that some people hated the hassle of dialing the whole combination every time they wanted to get inside, so when they locked it they just turned the dial slightly. Because the first two numbers were already dialed, and the pins had already dropped, it was just a question of dialing that last number and the safe would open.
The dial was set on 22. I tried to open it.
Locked.
I turned the dial and tried 23. Nothing. 24. Nothing. 25. Nada. I went the opposite way. 21. Nothing. 20. Zip.
I hit pay dirt at number 19. The safe made a pleasant clicking sound and opened up like an old friend. I peered inside.
The first thing I saw was a dime bag of weed. Next to it, a big manila envelope. Inside were twenty-six Driver’s Licenses, all of different women.
Amy’s was among them.
Also in the safe were—surprise surprise—my 9mm, keys, switchblade, and brass knuckles. Behind my stuff was twenty-three hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and a Llama Super Comanche .357 Magnum with a four inch barrel. It was well oiled and loaded.
I also found a checkbook in the name of Charles Gardiner, and an address book.
In the back of the safe was a brown vinyl case. It held two dozen cassette tapes. I pulled one of them out and it had a label that read March/April ‘08 Others were similarly labeled, going back several years.
I did one final check of the safe, and saw a small baggie shoved in the back of the top shelf.
A small baggie filled with white powder.
I picked it up. Some of the powder was on the baggie’s top seal. I touched my finger to it and had a taste.
Like kicking a live wire. Cocaine. Good stuff, too, from the way it numbed my tongue.
I wanted more.
But if I wanted to stay with Pasha, I had to be off cocaine.
I wanted to stay with Pasha. Earl made me realize that.
I did?
“Yeah, asshole. When I die, I don’t want the last voice I hear to be yours.”
I closed the safe, leaving the coke, but taking everything else.
I found a duffle bag in the closet, ignoring the wooden box, and put everything inside except my Smith & Wesson, which I kept in my hand. I also took a blue polo shirt and pulled it on.
Downstairs, I hunted through the kitchen and living room. I discovered a bagel, which I ate, and an answering machine. I took the tape, and the brand matched the ones that I’d found in the safe.
During the search, I’d had time to think about my next step. I’d already dismissed calling the police, and unless Shears found my parked truck, he had no idea who I was. But he would know I escaped. Chances were good he’d either go on the run, or wait around for my return.
Neither option was good for me. Plus, having enjoyed the hospitality of his wooden box, I didn’t think it prudent to let some other poor soul endure a similar ordeal.
So I went to the garage, picked up the gas cans I saw there, gave the interior a good soaking, and let the place burn.
# # #
My Bronco was where I’d left it, in the drugstore parking lot. I climbed in, the relief so deep that I almost started sobbing. I managed to regain control, and opened the glove compartment and got my phone.
Checked the date.
I’d been in that closet for three days.
No messages, because Pasha didn’t have the number. I called her at her clinic.
“It’s me,” I said.
Pasha began to shout questions at me, and I said “Shhhh” until she let me talk.
“I was kidnapped. I’m in bad shape. Can I come over?”
“I’ll meet you at my place.”
My eyes would barely stay open as I drove to Flutesburg, and twice I actually fell asleep and jerked myself awake when my head hit the steering wheel. It took me an hour to get there.
I don’t remember knocking on her door, or her worried questions upon seeing me.
I don’t remember her putting me to bed.
I just remembered dreaming that I was sleeping between two clouds, with an angel watching over me, and that I was safe.
JACK
I got home, ready to yell at my mother for having me, and she was
gone.
Mom left a note that said she went to Florida with Mr. Long, and would call me in a few days.
How ungrateful and inconsiderate was that?
Okay, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Stress. Frustration over the glacial pace of the Mauler investigation. Concerns about my personal relationships and living arrangements. Herb lying about what happened to the tie I bought him. Hormones, though I never put the blame on hormones because it made me feel weak and out of control.
I tried to sleep, couldn’t, finished the Ed McBain book and liked it, but I was a bit irritated that it was realistic in so many ways, yet wrapped everything up in a convenient, neat package.
Life wasn’t neat. Sometimes questions weren’t answered.
Still unable to sleep, I wound up turning on the Home Shopping Network. I called to get in on the discount sale on designer dresses, and the friendly operator told me my credit card was declined.
When I finally drifted off, around 4am, I had bad dreams.
# # #
I woke up exhausted, setting the alarm early because I had to fight an hour of traffic to get to work.
I skipped my exercises and my shower, went to feed my cat and saw that Mom had already left enough food and water in the dish to satisfy a tiger for a week, and then got on the road.
I was ten minutes late. Unusual for me. Herb was waiting in my office with a tepid cup of vending machine coffee for me, which I was grateful for until I took a sip.
“Is that coffee?” I asked, choking back the swallow.
“I know, right? What does that taste like?”
“Like they figured out how to burn water.”
“I was going to say it was like drinking an old campfire, but I like yours better.”
“Updates?” I asked, controlling my wince after taking another sip.
“Still haven’t found my Mr. Coffee. I’ve begun doing interviews. Jerkins, over in reception, has no alibi for the hours it was taken. I’m thinking he’s hiding something.”
“Everyone knows he’s sleeping with Sanchez.”
“Sleeping with her?” Herb raised an eyebrow. “Or making hot, fresh coffee?”
“I thought the whole office knew this. It’s the most repeated gossip in the District.”
Dying Breath Page 23
