If I survived, at least.
So maybe not, after all.
Nobody appeared along the street as I walked, either looking for me or not. Still, instead of ringing the buzzer, I asked the security door to open and slipped inside.
Dave Clarke wasn’t likely to answer anyway.
And if someone else was waiting, I didn’t want him to know I was coming just yet.
The door to number 3 wasn’t locked, or even completely closed; it pushed open easily without me turning the knob. Inside, the small apartment was cold and dark. The smell of burned coffee hung in the air, almost pungent enough to cover a fouler, coppery odor.
I slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind me before letting the Reaper drop away. Perhaps I should have been more cautious, but it seemed unlikely my adversary would lie in wait behind an unlocked door.
From the front entry, my view of the living room and kitchenette was clear. Both were empty.
Dave lay on the floor of the sleeping area, behind the half wall, in a crumpled heap amidst piles of computer equipment. There were two gunshot wounds in his chest, and a third to his forehead. A large blood pool covered much of the bedroom floor, dried around the edges but still glossy in the middle.
In the center of Dave’s bed sat a large silver handgun with a black rubber grip. It wasn’t gift wrapped, with a shiny pink bow…but with the placement, so ridiculously obvious, it might as well have had a gift tag that read, “Merry Christmas to Seattle PD.”
Someone like Detective Erik Thomas wouldn’t think twice. It was a clear condemnation, and there was no doubt in my mind the same gun would match not only Dave’s attack, but Karen’s, Michelle’s and mine as well. There was no way to link the gun directly to me, but that wouldn’t be necessary for another arrest.
Maybe not even for a conviction.
If things ever even went that far.
I sighed.
Dave was so young—so energetic; his life should have lasted for, at least, decades more. Instead, he was simply discarded…crossed off a list.
And added to another.
I had no room for more anger; it had boiled over days ago. When the opportunity came, though—for retribution and to even the scales—David Clarke would be one more burning memory, driving me forward.
I carefully skirted the edges of the blood pool, doing my best to move without leaving further evidence of my presence. More than anything, I wanted to keep my name clear.
Or, at least, a little less dirty.
Being discovered here, with a dead body crumpled in the corner and the murder weapon laid out in plain sight—that was the last thing I needed.
A loud knock echoed through Dave’s tiny apartment. It wasn’t a casual sound, but rather the three heavy, evenly spaced impacts generally reserved for official business.
Son of a bitch, seriously?
“Mr. Clarke,” a voice of authority called through the door.
Someday, I swear, I’ll learn from my mistakes.
If I live that long.
“Seattle Police,” the voice continued.
A familiar voice.
“We have reason to believe you’re in danger. Please come to the door, or we’ll be forced to let ourselves in.”
XXXII
An Unexpected Friend
My body froze as my mind raced.
I had seconds.
At most.
It would be no use trying to clean up all evidence of my presence. Even if I had enough time, which I certainly didn’t, I’d spent an entire careless day in David Clarke’s apartment. Fingerprints, fibers, whatever else they needed—they’d certainly find it here.
There was also no point trying to hide the body. People don’t survive that amount of blood loss. No one needed to see his corpse to know he was dead. And, more importantly, I had no clue how to hide it in what little time I had.
That left the gun.
The single most damning piece of evidence in the entire apartment—hell, in this whole crazy story—was that gun. It linked all the murders, and if found in this apartment would irrefutably, in certain minds, tie them all to me.
It had to go.
A boot made heavy contact with the front door. In the movies, a stiff kick or even a shoulder is enough to topple pretty much any door. Real doors are far more solid, made for keeping people out instead of letting the rugged leading man look heroic to a stirring soundtrack. The sound of splintering wood filled the apartment, but the door held.
For now.
I leaped onto the bed. My ankle screamed; my lungs screamed.
I may have whimpered a little.
The door weathered a second splintering impact as I struck the bed and rolled. I fumbled for the gun as my unchecked momentum carried me, in a whirlwind of heavy-duty tan cotton fabric, straight over the side of the bed.
David Clarke’s front door finally gave on the third kick, just as I gained my feet. The door swung wide violently, crashing into the wall behind.
My trench coat billowed down behind me, settling like the slow-motion money shot in a superhero movie. It probably looked pretty damn cool; if I didn’t feel quite so much like day-old dog shit, I might have cared.
Okay, maybe I cared a little bit.
Two policemen loomed in the hallway: Detective Erik Thomas with his cocky grin, still in jeans and green polo, and a uniformed officer, whom I didn’t recognize, with a shock of red hair and a two-finger-wide yellow aura. They both held their side arms, drawn and aimed through the doorway, directly at me.
I, in turn, held them in the sights of my assassin’s gun. It was far heavier than I’d imagined, and very, very cold. Everything about it sent tendrils of revulsion through my body. It had killed countless people I didn’t know, and a few that were very important to me.
Including myself.
But now, ironically, it was my lifeline.
The smirk on the detective’s lips faded slowly away as he considered the gun, the loathing in his eyes now completely undisguised. His nose wrinkled as he took in the odors of the apartment. The gruesome display of David’s body was hidden behind the half wall, but the meaning of the olfactory evidence was clearly not lost on him.
“Hello…again…Michael.” The words were slow, and sharp as daggers, with a long pause between each.
“And hello to you as well, Erik. It’s been, what? Three whole hours? So, what’s new?”
The detective sneered as his finger tightened and relaxed repeatedly on the trigger. “You won’t escape this time.”
I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could manage with an aching ankle, burning lungs, and an awkward grip on the assassin’s heavy gun. “To be fair, you didn’t expect it last time either.”
A flash of large, furry black shot past in the hallway.
The uniformed officer, unfazed, kept his eyes and aim steady. Detective Erik Thomas, however, squinted, his gaze darting about the room. “Put down your gun, Michael, and this will go easier.”
“Once again, easier for you—not so much for me. Besides,” I countered with a sly smile, “I know something you don’t.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed further as he searched frantically. They began to water. In response to Erik’s agitation, the uniformed officer fidgeted ever so slightly.
Erik growled, biting out his words. “Really? And what’s that?”
I silently counted the seconds, on bated breath. I’d have a very narrow window, just a moment, and it needed to be perfect.
Detective Thomas sniffed, his discomfort obviously growing. Finally, he inhaled two short, powerful breaths.
And I smiled. “I’m not here alone.”
Unable to hold it back any longer, Erik sneezed—an explosive, uncontrollable, soul-rocking sneeze—the first of many. He knocked into the uniformed officer on the second sneeze, throwing both men into temporary disarray.
I’d like to say I leaped sideways, graceful as a gazelle, landing lightly in the bathroom with nothing but
time to spare.
That’s what I intended, after all.
The plan all looked beautifully fluid in my mind’s eye.
Sometimes, in comparison, reality sucks.
My ankle gave out at the effort. The end result was a shuffling, sideways stumble. I landed hard on linoleum; the pain from broken ribs stole my breath, just barely keeping me from screaming out like a little girl.
More an elephant dancing ballet than a gazelle.
Not my proudest achievement, but my life and freedom were more important right then than my dignity.
It was enough.
I kicked three times with my good foot, slamming the bathroom door on the third attempt.
Just in time.
A thunderclap echoed within the tiny apartment as a small hole ripped its way through the bathroom door and the opposite wall.
Out in the apartment, Detective Erik Thomas sneezed yet again.
I owed Elliott a fresh tuna steak, or maybe the whole damn fish.
You know, if I got out of this alive.
“You can’t hide in there forever, you son of a bitch. We’ll gas you out, or riddle the whole damn room with bullets and haul off your bleeding corpse.”
Gee, what a sweet guy. Must be a blast at Christmas parties.
I strained to lock the door, looking around the bathroom for options. There wasn’t much; it was, after all, just a bathroom. A small window high in the far wall might have worked if I were in top physical condition. As it was, for the time being, I couldn’t even manage the monumental feat of standing.
“Johnson,” Erik barked, no longer speaking to me. “I need a perimeter, and I need this building evacuated, now.”
“But, sir…” Johnson stammered in reply.
“I said now!”
I smiled while struggling into the bathtub. The bell tolled in my head and a frigid wave washed over me. Nausea settled like a comforting blanket.
“Don’t worry, Erik,” I mumbled to myself. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Fist on wood—the sound echoed through the entire apartment. I’m guessing Detective Erik Thomas punched a cabinet.
“Are you sure?” His voice was low and gravelly, sounding very dangerous.
It had taken nearly twenty minutes for them to reach the inevitable conclusion. Well, to be fair, I hadn’t been certain the conclusion was actually inevitable, but I’ve come to trust Elliott when he’s certain.
Which is, honestly, pretty much all the time.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Completely damn sure?”
“Yes, Detective.”
Interior doors are much lighter, and more fragile, than entry doors. Maybe those are the ones heroes break open in those movies, in a world where every door is inexplicably a bathroom door. A single rage-fueled kick was certainly enough to break this one open.
Detective Erik Thomas filled the frame, his chest heaving, eyes red with anger as he surveyed the bathroom. He never looked quite fully into the bathtub, but he found the window quickly enough, just the right size for a single person to squeeze through.
It stood wide open. I’d managed that much at least.
He mumbled under his breath, too softly to be heard outside the bathroom. “That son of a bitch did it to me again.”
I heard just fine.
It was a struggle to stifle my laughter.
“What was that, Detective?”
“Get the coroner in here,” Erik responded, turning back from the window without missing a beat, “and make sure the men on perimeter know Michael Reaper’s out there, somewhere.”
“Most technology and nearly every person will simply choose to ignore you.” That’s what Elliot had said, and the little fur ball had been right again. Erik had used IR, thermal imaging, to search the bathroom. It hadn’t seen the Grim Reaper, beaten, battered, and wheezing, as he hid in the bathtub.
Erik hadn’t seen me either.
Sometimes being a Reaper is really freaking awesome.
Of course, that still left me hiding—beaten, battered, and wheezing—in the bathtub.
Which was less really freaking awesome.
David’s small apartment quickly transitioned from Mexican standoff to murder scene awash with activity. Officers, crime scene techs, and eventually two medical examiners with a gurney, all crammed into the tiny space.
In all the commotion, it was trivial for the Reaper to limp slowly, unnoticed, through the front door.
Nobody inside the apartment was looking for me.
Detective Erik Thomas paced in the hallway as I passed. He shivered slightly at my approach, but gave no other obvious sign of detecting my presence
The handle of my unseen scythe tangled in his feet, spilling him hard to the ground.
It was another accident, of course.
I swear.
Reaper discarded, I hunkered down in the Mustang’s driver’s seat. I was parked well beyond any perimeter the Seattle Police had established around David Clarke’s apartment building, but that certainly didn’t mean I was forever beyond detection.
Erik Thomas, in particular, wouldn’t give up the search quickly.
I kept one eye on the street, filled with a slow but steady morning crowd moving in and out of Seattle Center. Roughly half a block ahead, several small concrete spheres separated the street from a pedestrian entrance to the Center, where the walkway passed under rolling ocean waves shaped from corrugated steel sheets. Key Arena was a straight shot south through that gate and a line of trees, while the Space Needle was further off to the southeast.
The crowd was heavier than I would have expected on a weekday morning, but then the Center houses many concerts, gatherings and festivals in addition to its standard tourist attractions. There was no telling what the draw might be today.
An empty manila envelope lay in my lap, beside the heavy weight of an assassin’s silver gun. I’d addressed the envelope to Steve Richards, and was working on a short note to include with the package.
Stevie,
Sorry about this. I’ll explain later.
“Keep it secret. Keep it safe.”
It felt like I should say more; I was asking for another very large, very difficult favor from my brother, and I didn’t think he entirely trusted me yet.
Sending him a murder weapon ought to clear that right up.
At least the topical Gandalf quote should help assuage his fears that I was me.
But then, was I me anymore? Really?
I wished my own fears were so readily dealt with.
Minutes passed, but nothing else came to mind. With a feeling of resignation, I signed the note, “Griffin Bell,” and slipped it inside the envelope.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked tentatively.
Elliott, in the passenger seat, rolled his eyes. “This is my job. I assure you I will deliver the package.”
I hefted the gun in one hand with a grunt, being careful to keep it hidden from the street. “It’s pretty damn heavy. Gonna carry it in your teeth the whole way?”
The cat mewed, shaking his head. “Worry about your duties, Reaper—let me worry about mine.”
“All right, fur ball.” I lifted the envelope, preparing to seal the gun inside. An image flashed briefly in my mind: Elliott in a brown ball cap, brown button-down shirt and brown cargo shorts.
With a little yellow logo: UCS.
Elliott stiffened, and I briefly wondered if he could read my thoughts. His attention, however, was instead fixed down the street, toward the Seattle Center entrance. “Is that a friend of yours, Michael?”
A man stood half a block away, frozen mid-step, ready to slip through the concrete and steel arches into Seattle Center. He was perhaps 5’10”, and had the kind of handsomely chiseled, but unremarkable features one expects of a secret agent, or the dad in a coffee commercial. His piercing blue eyes stared directly at me, expression painted with incredulity.
He wore torn jeans, a simple gray t-shirt, and a b
lue flannel jacket. That made sense, since his expensive slacks wouldn’t blend in nearly as well here as they had on Magnolia Hill. This was a man who preferred not to draw attention, and would dress accordingly.
His golden retriever was nowhere to be seen.
The dog was probably just part of his disguise.
“That’s no friend of mine.”
I slipped slowly from the Mustang. My emotions roiled, tumultuous and dangerous, held tenuously behind a dam of numb shock.
He stood not more than a hundred feet away, appearing calm and casual. We might easily be old acquaintances, unexpectedly meeting after years apart.
Unless you actually paid attention.
His muscles were tense, his constantly searching eyes alert. The fingers of his right hand flexed repeatedly, hovering inches above the buttons of his open jacket.
He was a coiled viper, poised to strike.
“Hello, Michael,” he called over the milling crowd.
He laughed briefly, but it wasn’t a joyful sound. It was the same humorless chuckle that had taunted me on the phone just last night.
My emotional dam began to crack; the full intensity of my hatred fought to break through.
“I must say,” the murderous bastard called again, “this is a surprise.”
XXXIII
Cat and Mouse
A screaming mob gathered inside my head, a few faces of which I recognized: Marcus Olsen, Walter Scott, David Clarke, Robert and Karen Winston, Michelle Harris.
A ten-year-old boy whose name I never even knew.
And, cold and alone, in the very back of the mob, Henry Michael Richards.
“Yes,” I heard myself respond hollowly, as if through a great, long tunnel. “The feeling’s mutual.”
The assassin patted the left breast of his jacket meaningfully. “Unfortunately, I am ill prepared to offer you a proper greeting.” He sighed melodramatically.
More than a few bystanders stopped to watch us curiously, sensing the tension.
“You just carry the one, then?”
He shrugged with a smirk. “I like to travel light—and I typically only need the one.”
I pulled his gun slowly from behind my back, training it as best I could between his eyes.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 24
