“You say something, Happy Roy?”
“I should have stayed single.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Relationships can be murder.”
Body Shots
Amazon.com introduced a program in 2005 called Amazon Shorts, where customers could download short stories for 49 cents. I wrote this story specifically for Amazon. It was an attempt to really take Jack to the brink, by making the situation get worse and worse no matter how hard she tried to fix things. It's as dark as Jack has gotten, so far…
“And can you mega-size that meal deal?”
I reach over from the passenger seat and give my partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, a poke in the ribs, except I don't actually feel his ribs because they're encased in a substantial layer of fat—the result of many years of mega-sizing his fast food meals.
“What?” he asks. “You want me to mega-size your fat-free yogurt?”
“No. You told me to point it out whenever I saw you overeating.”
“How am I overeating?”
“You just mega-sized a triple bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.”
Herb shrugs, multiple chins wiggling.
“So? It's just one meal.”
“The mega-size french fries come in a carton bigger than your head. The shake is the size of a rain barrel.”
“Be realistic here, Jack. It's only 49 cents. You can't buy anything for 49 cents these days.”
“How about another heart attack? How much is that—”
My words are cut off by two quick pops from the drive-thru speaker. Though October, Chicago has been blessed with unseasonably warm weather, and my passenger window is wide open, the sound reaching me through there as well. It's coming from the restaurant.
Only one thing makes a sound like that.
Herb hits the radio. “This is Car 118, officer needs assistance. Shots fired at the Burger Barn on Kedzie and Wabash.”
I beat Herb out of the car, pulling my star from the pocket of my jacket and my .38 from my shoulder holster. I'm wearing flats and a beige skirt. A cool wind kicks up and brings goosebumps to my legs. The shoes are Kate Spade. The jacket and skirt are Donna Karan. The holster is Smith and Wesson.
As I near the building, I can make out screams, followed by another gunshot. A spatter of blood and tissue blossoms on the inside of the drive-thru window, blocking my view of the interior.
I hold up my pinky—my signal to Herb that there are casualties—and hurry past the window in a crouch, stopping before the glass doors. I tug the lanyard out of the badge case and loop it over my head. On one knee, I crane my neck around the brick jamb and peek into the restaurant.
I spot a single perp, Caucasian male, mid-thirties. I can't make out his hair color because he's wearing a black football helmet complete with face gear. Jeans, black combat boots, and a gray trench coat complete the ensemble. And under the trench coat...
An ammo belt.
Two strips of leather crisscross his chest, bandolero style. Instead of bullets in the webbing, I count eight clips. Four more clips are stuck into his waistband. I assume they're for the 9mm Beretta in his hand, currently pointed at a family cowering under a plastiform table.
A mother and two kids.
Before my mind can register what is happening, he fires six times. The bullets tear through the table and into the mother's back. Blood sprays onto the children she's been shielding, and then erupts from the children in fireworks patterns.
I tear my eyes away from the horror and scan for more hostiles, but see only potential victims—at least twenty. Behind me, I hear footfalls and Herb's labored breathing.
“At least four down. One perp, heavily armed.”
“You want to be old yeller?”
I shake my head and swallow. “I want the shot.”
“On three.”
Herb flashes one, two, three fingers, then I shove through the door first, rolling to the side, coming up in a shooting position just as Herb yells, “POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!”
The gunman swings toward Herb, I let out a slow breath and squeeze—angle up to discourage ricochets, aiming at the body mass, no ricochet because the shot is true, squeeze, the perp recoiling and stepping back once, twice, dropping the green duffle bag that's slung over his shoulder, squeeze, screams from everywhere at once, Herb's gun going off behind me, squeeze, watching the impact but not seeing blood—
Vest.
I scream, “Vest!” and roll to the side as the gunman takes aim, firing where I was, orange tile chips peppering the side of my face like BBs.
I come up in a kneeling position behind a rectangular trash can enclosure, look at Herb and see that he's out of the line of fire, gone to ground.
I stick my head around the garbage island, watch as the perp vaults the counter, shooting a teenaged cashier who's hugging the shake machine and sobbing. The back of the teen's head opens up and empties onto the greasy floor.
“Everybody out!” I yell.
There's a stampede to the door, and I glance back and see Herb get tackled by a wall of people, then I take a deep breath and bolt for the counter.
The gunman appears, holding a screaming employee dressed in a Burger Barn uniform, using the kid as a human shield. Her face is streaked with tears, and there's a dark patch in the front of her jeans where she's wet herself. The Beretta is jammed against her forehead.
The perp says, “Drop the gun, Jack.”
His voice is a low baritone, and it's eerily calm. His blue eyes lock on mine, and they hold my gaze. He doesn't seem psychotic at all, which terrifies me.
How does he know my name?
I stand up, adopt a Weaver stance, aiming for the face shot.
The gunman doesn't wait for me. He fires.
There's a sudden explosion of blood and tissue and the girl's eyes roll up and the perp ducks behind some fryers before her body hits the floor.
Too fast. This is all happening too fast.
I chance a look at the door, don't see Herb among the panicking people. I can't wait—there are probably more employees in the back. I dig into my blazer pocket and find some loose bullets, jamming them into my revolver. When I leap over the counter, my gun is at full cock.
No one by the grill. I glance left, see a body slumped next to the drive-thru window. Glance right, see a dead man on his back, most of his face gone. Stare forward, see a long stainless steel prep table. There's a young guy hiding under it. I tug him out and push him toward the counter, mouthing at him to “Run.”
Movement ahead. The freezer door opens, and my finger almost pulls the trigger. It's another employee. Behind him, the perp.
The perp is grinning.
“Let's try this again,” he says. “Drop the gun or I shoot.”
I can't drop my gun. I'm not allowed to. It's one of the first things they teach you at the police academy.
“Let's talk this through,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“No talk.”
He fires, and I watch another kid die in front of me.
I aim high, putting two rounds into the gunman's helmet, where they make dents and little else. He's already running away, pushing through the emergency exit, the alarm sounding off.
I tear after him, slipping on blood, falling to my hands and knees but holding onto my weapon. I crawl forward, my feet scrambling for purchase through the slickness, and then I'm opening the door, scanning the parking lot left and right.
He's standing ten feet away, aiming his Beretta at me.
I throw myself backward and feel the wind of the shots pass my face.
“Jack!” Herb, from the front of the restaurant.
“He went out the back!”
My hands, slippery with blood and sweat, are shaking like dying birds. I force myself to do a slow count to five, force my bunched muscles to relax, then nudge open the back door.
He's waiting for me.
He fires again, the bullet tugging at my shoulder pad, stinging like I've be
en whacked with a cane. I scoot backward on my ass, turn over, and crawl for the counter, more shots zinging over me before the back door closes under its own weight, having to climb over the girl he just killed, the scent of blood and death running up my nostrils and down the back of my throat.
I lean against the counter, pull back my jacket, feeling the burn, glancing at my wound and judging it superficial.
A soft voice, muffled, to my right.
“Hey!”
I see the green duffle bag that the perp dropped.
“Hello? Are you there, Jacqueline?”
The voice is coming from the bag. I go to it, tug back the zipper.
Gun. Another Beretta. Loose bullets, more than a hundred. And a walkie-talkie.
“Jack,” the walkie barks.
How the hell does he know my name?
“Can you hear me, Jacqueline?”
I look around, find some napkins on a table, pick up the radio and hit the talk button.
“Who is this?”
“I'm doing this for you, Jacqueline. This is all for you. Do you remember Washington?”
Thoughts rush at me. Seven dead so far. He knows me. The perp has over a hundred bullets left. I don't know this guy. I've never been to Washington, the state or the capitol. He knows me. Someone I arrested before? Who is he?
I press talk. “If it's me you want, come and get me.”
“I can't right now,” the walkie says. “I'm late for class.”
I race for the front doors. When I step onto the sidewalk, I see the perp darting through traffic and running full sprint down the sidewalk.
Heading for Thomas Jefferson Middle School.
I don't hear any sirens. Too soon. Look left and right, and don't see Herb.
I rush back into the restaurant, drop the radio into the perp's bag, grab the handle and run after him.
Three steps into the street I'm clipped by a bike messenger.
He spins me around, and I land on my knees, watching as he skids down the tarmac on his helmet, a spray of loose bullets from the gunman's bag jingling after him like dropped change. A car honks. There's a screech of tires. I manage to make it to my feet, still holding the bag, still holding my gun, too distracted to sense if I'm hurt or not.
The school.
I cross the rest of the street, realize I've somehow lost a shoe, my bare right foot slapping against the cold concrete, pedestrians jumping out of my path.
An alarm up ahead, so piercing I feel it in my teeth. The metal detector at the school entrance. It's followed by two more gunshots.
“Jack!”
Herb, from across the street.
“Cars in the parking lot!” I yell, hoping he'll understand. Guy in a football helmet and ammo belts didn't walk in off the street. Must have driven.
The school rushes up at me. I push through the glass doors, the metal detector screaming, a hall monitor slumped dead in her chair, blood pooling black on the rubber mat.
I drop the bag, pocket the Beretta and a handful of brass, hit talk on the radio.
“Where are you?”
Static. Then, coming through the speaker, children's screams.
Followed by gunshots.
I run, trying to follow the echo, trying to pinpoint the cries for help, passing door after door, rushing up a staircase, hearing more gunshots, seeing the muzzle flashes coming from a classroom, going in low and fast.
“Drop the gun,” he says.
His Beretta is aimed at the head of a seven-year-old girl.
A sob gets caught in my throat, but I refuse to cry because tears will cloud my vision.
I can't watch anyone else die.
I drop my gun.
The perp begins to twitch, his face wet behind the football helmet.
“Do you have children, Jack?”
I'm not able to talk, so I just shake my head.
“Neither do I,” he says. “Isn't...isn't it a shame?”
He pats the girl on the head, crouches down to whisper.
“You did good, sweetheart. I don't need you anymore.”
I scream my soul raw when he pulls the trigger.
The little girl drops away, her pink dress now a shocking red, and I launch myself at him just as he turns his weapon on the children cowering in the corner of the room and opens fire.
One.
Two.
Three.
He manages four shots before I body-tackle him, both hands locking on his gun arm, pushing it up and away from the innocents, my head filled with frightened cries that might be from the children but might also be mine.
I grip his wrist and tug hard, locking his elbow, dropping down and forcing him to release the gun. It clatters to the ground.
His free hand tangles itself in my hair and pulls so hard my vision ignites like a flashbulb. I lose my grip and fall to my knees, and he jerks me in the other direction, white hot pain lacing across my scalp as a patch of hair rips free.
I drive an uppercut between his legs, my knuckles bouncing off a plastic supporter, then I'm being pushed away and he's leaping for the door.
My jacket is twisted up, and I can't find my pocket even though I feel the weight of the gun, and finally my hand slips in and I tug a Beretta free and bury three shots into his legs as he runs into the hallway.
I chance a quick look at the children, see several have been hit, see blood on the wall covering two dozen construction paper jack-o-lantern pictures, then I crawl after the perp with the gun raised.
He's waiting for me in the hall, sitting against the wall, bleeding from both knees. I hear him sobbing.
“You weren't supposed to drop your gun,” he says.
My breath is coming quick, and I blow it out through my mouth. I'm shaking so bad I can't even keep a bead on him. I blink away tears and repeat over and over, “he's-unarmed-don't-shoot-he's-unarmed-don't shoot-he's-unarmed-don't shoot...”
Movement to my left.
Herb, barreling down the hall. He stops and aims.
“You okay?” Herb asks.
I think I nod.
“Hands in the air!” he screams at the perp.
The perp continues to moan. He doesn't raise his hands.
“Put your hands in the air now!”
The sob becomes a howl, and the perp reaches into his trench coat.
Herb and I empty our guns into him. I aim at his face.
My aim his true.
The perp slumps over, streaking the wall with red. Herb rushes up, pats down the corpse.
“He's clean,” Herb says. “No weapons.”
I can hear the sirens now. I manage to lower my gun as the paramedics storm the stairs. Kids flood out of the classroom, teachers hurrying them down the hall, telling them not to look.
Many of them look anyway.
I feel my vision narrow, my shoulders quake. I'm suddenly very cold.
“Are you hurt?” Herb asks, squatting down next to me. I'm covered with the blood of too many people.
I shake my head.
“I found the car,” Herb says. “Registered to a William Phillip Martingale, Buffalo Grove Illinois. He left a suicide note on the windshield. It said, 'Life no longer matters.'”
“Priors?” I ask, my voice someone else's.
“No.”
And something clicks. Some long ago memory from before I was a cop, before I was even an adult.
“I think I know him,” I say.
William Phillip Martingale. Billy Martingale. In my fifth grade class at George Washington Elementary School.
“When we were kids. He asked me to the Valentine's Day dance.” The words feel like stale bread crust stuck in my throat. “I turned him down. I already had a date.”
“Jesus,” Herb says.
But there was more. No one liked Billy. He had a bad front tooth, dark gray. Talked kind of slow. Everyone teased him. Everyone including me.
I crawl past the paramedics, over to the perp, probing the ruin of his face, finding tha
t bad tooth he'd never bothered to get fixed.
The first body is wheeled out of the classroom, the body bag no larger than a pillow.
I begin to cry, and I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.
Suffer
Another Phin story. Phin comes from a long tradition of anti-heroes, and was influenced by Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer, Max Allan Collins' Quarry, and Richard Stark's Parker. But he's mostly a direct descendant of F. Paul Wilson's Repairman Jack, with decidedly less humanity. I wrote this story at the request of the editor for the anthology Chicago Noir. He rejected it. So I sold it to EQMM and wrote another Phin story for him, Epitaph. He rejected that as well, and I sold that to James Patterson for the ITW Thriller anthology. I'm happy how things worked out.
“I want you to kill my wife.”
The man sitting across from me, Lyle Tibbits, stared into my eyes like a dog stares at the steak you're eating. He was mid to late thirties, a few inches taller than my six feet, wearing jeans and a button down shirt that pinched his thick wrists.
I sipped some coffee and asked why he wanted his wife dead.
“Do you care?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No. As long as I get paid.”
Lyle smiled, exposing gray smoker's teeth.
“I didn't think it mattered. When I called you, I heard you did anything for money.”
I rubbed my nose. My nostrils were sore from all the coke I'd been snorting lately, and I'd been getting nosebleeds.
“Any particular way you want it done?”
He looked around Maxie's Coffee Shop—his choice for the meeting place—and leaned forward on his forearms, causing the table to shift and the cheap silverware to rattle.
“You break into my house, discover her home alone, then rape and kill her.”
Jaded as I was, this made me raise an eyebrow.
“Rape her?”
“The husband is always a suspect when the wife dies. Either he did it, or he hired someone to do it. The rape will throw the police off. Plus, I figured, with your condition, you won't care about leaving evidence.”
He made a point of glancing at my bald head.
“Who gave you my number?” I asked.
“I don't want to say.”
I thought about the Glock nestled between my belt and my spine, knew I could get him to tell me if I needed to. We were on Damon and Diversey in Wicker Park, which wasn't the nicest part of Chicago. I could follow him out of the diner and put the hurt to him right there on the sidewalk, and chances were good we'd be ignored.
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