“But the guards downstairs. They know you. They’re friends of yours. They helped us identify Langer.”
Gus chuckled. “Did they now? You saw them wave to an old man, then do their job and hand me my wallet after I went through the security line. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s all about perception, Ethan. Like what goes on inside that courtroom.”
Gus crossed to the monitors and picked up a backpack that was sitting on the floor beneath the table. He opened it, then grabbed the stack of DVDs and stuffed them inside.
“There was a time I’d do all the footwork myself. I must’ve had my fun with thirty or forty little gals before I called it a day. Prostitutes, office workers, students. You name it, I’ve probably done it, and had a helluva good time in the process.” He paused. “But as you get older, you get tired, son. You may not lose the desire, but you lose the energy to do anything about it. And that’s when you have to make a decision. You either quit having fun, or you find a new way to play the game.”
Hutch thought he understood now. “You recruited Langer to do the killing for you.”
Gus nodded. “He’s not the first and he won’t be the last. I always let him pick out the girls, because that doesn’t matter much to me. He’s the one who has a thing for gals like Veronica, and that waitress and all the others Matt told you about. I think they remind him of his sister, who used to sexually humiliate the poor boy.” Another smile. “We started with her.”
Hutch glanced at the monitors again, nausea sweeping through him at the sight of Ronnie lying there so helplessly.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “If Langer picked out Ronnie, then why is she still alive?”
“I told you he’s a slow burner and I like to give him room. I’m in no hurry myself.” He patted the backpack. “I’ve got my DVDs to tide me over. But by the time he was ready to do the deed, your ex-girlfriend wound up dead and Veronica got herself arrested for it. And I can’t say we were anticipating that particular turn of events. Coincidence is cruel sometimes.”
“So why not move on?”
“Trust me, we considered it. Even picked out that waitress you saw. But I have to admit the thought of seeing our little gal on trial for her life got me excited. I do like to watch. And when you and your friends came along, gettin’ all riled up about Langer, making all your plans, talking about finding the real killer, well that was a show I just couldn’t say no to. Better than any episode of TV I’ve ever seen. No offense.” He gestured to Ronnie onscreen. “And now, here we are, ready to make our own little TV show, and I’m your new director.”
“You sick son of a bitch.”
Gus laughed. “Oh, that I am, son. That I am. But we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
Good part? There was a good part?
Hutch couldn’t imagine what qualified as good in this psycho’s brain, but then a thought suddenly blossomed—an image he’d conjured up as he lay in bed tonight: Ronnie and Christopher standing hand in hand as they waited to board a train.
With sudden ferocity, dread coursed through his veins. Pure unadulterated horror. If Christopher was with Ronnie when Langer and Gus took her, where the hell was he now?
“I can see that mind of yours working, Ethan. Wondering what’s about to happen. Are you gonna die? Is Veronica? And what about that boy of hers? What did bad old Gussie do with him?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got him stashed somewhere nice and safe, and I’m thinking he might turn out to be my new protégé. That boy is raw material, just waiting to be molded.”
Hutch struggled against the bonds. “You motherfucker.”
Gus chuckled again. “I confess I’ve been there, too, right before I killed the old bitch. But that was a long, long time ago and isn’t particularly important to the here and now. I know you’re thinking this is the end of the line, but that doesn’t necessarily have to be so. I wouldn’t be a sporting man if I didn’t give you a chance to redeem yourself. That is, after all, what you’ve been after, isn’t it?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Gus slung the backpack over his shoulder, then crossed the room and crouched in front of him. “This is your trial, Ethan. A chance for you to make things right. A chance for you to save Ronnie from certain death, save her boy from the likes of me, and prove her innocence all at the same time. So the stakes are high. But I gotta warn you, it isn’t gonna be easy. And it all comes down to you, son. It all comes down to you.”
The nausea swept through Hutch again. “What are you saying?”
Gus tapped the watch on his wrist. “You have three minutes. And keep in mind these are the most important three minutes of your entire career.”
“To do what?”
“Well now, that’s up to you, isn’t it? You’re gonna have to improvise. But you’d better make it an Emmy-winning performance, or your girlfriend is dead, and her little boy spends his life learning a new sport.” He gestured to the monitors. “But, lucky you, you’ll get to watch the best part in glorious color.”
He stood up again and reached into a pocket of his backpack. He pulled out a kitchen knife, showed it to Hutch, then crossed the room and set it on the table, next to the monitors. He gestured to the first screen—the shot of the stairway and the lobby door.
“As you might’ve guessed by now, we’re not in the same apartment that Veronica’s currently occupying. That would make things too easy. But to give you a head start, I told our friend Mr. Langer to wait downstairs in the street. You’ll have three minutes to stop him from gutting your little whore.” He pointed to a camera mounted in a high corner, then pulled a computer tablet from the backpack and showed it to Hutch. “I’ll be watching it all from my car.”
“You sick, crazy fuck.”
“You’re pretty hostile for a man who’s about to be given a second chance. You should be grateful. Normally, I wouldn’t do this.” He smiled again. “But I like you, Ethan. Have since the moment we met. And just between you and me, I’ve grown a little tired of our friend Langer. So, believe it or not, I’m rooting for the good guys this time.”
Small comfort, Hutch thought, then glanced at the knife next to the monitors. “You want me to kill him.”
“That would be a wonderful thing to see, no doubt about it. Question is, do you have it in you?” He gestured to the image of Ronnie onscreen. “If you do, if you can manage it, you’ll find a reward for your services underneath that mattress. Something that’ll help answer all your questions, find that little boy, and lead you straight to Jenny Keating’s killer.”
Gus zipped up the pocket of his backpack and started toward the door. Sudden panic rose in Hutch’s chest—and he knew this was it. This would be the start of the clock. But his head was still reeling and he wasn’t sure he had it in him to play the action hero. Not for real. He thought again about his encounter with Langer in the alley. About his failure to act.
Would he fail this time?
In his panic and confusion, all he could think to do was stall Gus. Keep him talking. Keep that clock from counting down while he tried desperately to clear his head.
“So it really wasn’t you,” he said. “Or Langer. Neither one of you killed Jenny.”
Gus stopped. “Considering the current circumstances, what on earth makes you think I’d need to lie about that?”
“But you know who did kill her.”
“Oh, I’ve known for some time now, and I think you’ll be surprised. Assuming you make it that far.”
“Why not just tell me?”
Gus chuckled. “I’ve never understood you young people and your inability to delay gratification. You’ve gotta earn it, son. Prove to me you deserve to know.”
“And if I do get Langer,” Hutch said, “what happens then? Where will you be?”
“On to the next adventure. You’ll never see or hear from me again.” The twinkle in the old guy’s eyes had not disappeared, but now it took on a whole new meaning. “Good luck
, Ethan. I mean that quite sincerely. And don’t be too hard on yourself for getting it wrong. At least you got one thing right: you’ve been very entertaining.”
He checked his watch and seemed to be counting off the seconds as he circled around toward the door. Then he said, “Aaaaaaaaand—Action!”
And the chair suddenly flew out from beneath Hutch, knocking him to the floor.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
HUTCH CRASHED HARD, the impact jangling his brain.
Pain radiated through his skull as the apartment door slammed shut behind him. But he didn’t waste time thinking about it. He immediately brought his wrists to his mouth and started biting at the gaffer’s tape, trying to tear it free.
He glanced at the first monitor, at the shot of the lobby door. If Gus was true to his word, Hutch now had less than three minutes before that door flew open and Langer appeared.
He kept biting at the tape, but it wasn’t coming loose. Gus had secured it good and tight and there were several layers to rip through. Hutch tore into it as if he were gnashing on a tough piece of meat, but the tape just wouldn’t yield.
Glancing toward the monitors again, he saw Ronnie shaking on the bed, tears streaking down her face.
Her sobs were the only sound in the room.
Hold on, kiddo. Hold on.
He kept tearing at the gaffer’s tape, but it was no use. The seconds were ticking by and he’d barely made an inch of progress.
He needed the knife.
Glancing at it atop the table, he rolled onto his side and pressed his hands against the floor, trying to push himself to his knees. But his brain jangled again, dizziness throwing him off balance, and the blow to the head seemed to have sapped him of strength. Try as he might, he couldn’t push himself upright.
Fuck.
How much time had passed?
A minute?
More?
He dropped to his side, straightened out, then rolled, heading in the direction of the table. As he reached it, he tried again to get to his knees, but he still didn’t have the strength and his body wouldn’t cooperate.
Instead, he grabbed hold of one of the table legs and shook it, trying to knock the knife to the floor. He heard it rattle above him, but it didn’t fall. He shook the leg again, harder this time, and it suddenly came lose in his hands and broke free, the world crashing down around him.
The table toppled sideways, barely missing him, but one of the monitors beaned him on the head. Pain exploded, radiating through his skull like an electric charge as the monitor tumbled to the floor and landed next to him. For a moment he thought he might pass out again, but he held fast, willing himself to stay conscious.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and looked at the monitor. It was the one showing the lobby door. He thought he saw a shadow onscreen, approaching beyond the frosted glass.
Langer about to enter the building.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Turning now, he frantically searched the floor, looking for the knife. But the only light in the room had come from the monitors, and the second one had either blown or landed face down. There were too many pockets of darkness around him, and the knife could be anywhere.
Remembering his cell phone, Hutch jammed his hands into his pants pocket, hoping to Christ Gus hadn’t taken it. Then his fingers touched plastic. Relief washed through him as he worked the phone free, then touched a button on the side to activate it.
Shining the light from the screen toward the mess around him, he caught the glint of a blade and saw it poking out from beneath the edge of the overturned table.
He dove toward it, ignoring the protests of his aching skull. Scooping up the knife, he shoved the handle into his mouth and clamped his teeth against it, so that the blade pointed to one side. Then he rolled onto his back, turned his head to angle the blade toward the ceiling, and brought his wrists up to the sharp edge, positioning it between them.
Moving his hands back and forth, he frantically sawed through the gaffer’s tape, straining to watch the monitor as he worked.
Onscreen, the lobby door was opening, the creep stepping inside.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Hutch moved his wrists faster, cutting through the thick layers of fibrous tape strand by strand, all the while pulling his wrists apart, trying break them free. The seconds were ticking by and this process seemed to be endless, taking forever. This goddamn tape had to be made of buffalo hide.
On the monitor, Langer was at the stairs now, his dead eyes looking straight into the camera as he mounted the steps. He had five flights to go and he wasn’t wasting any time, and all Hutch could hear were Ronnie’s terrified sobs.
Hutch watched the creep clear the first landing and disappear from view, and knew he was running out of time. There was no way he could beat the clock.
Then finally, thankfully, the tape came loose and his hands broke free.
Ripping the knife from his mouth, he grabbed the edge of the overturned table and pulled himself upright. The room spun around him. A new wave of nausea swept through him as he leaned forward, using both hands to saw at the bonds around his ankles.
Bile rose in his throat and for a moment he was sure he would puke, but he swallowed hard and forced it back as his hands kept working, kept sawing, kept hacking away, as he flexed his ankles, trying to pull them free.
Finally the tape came lose and he quickly unwound it and tossed it aside, then grabbed hold of the table edge again. Using it for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet. The room tilted sideways, and his knees buckled, threatening to send him sprawling.
Catching his balance, he reached up with one hand, touched the back of his head and found something wet and oozing there, along with a knot about the size of a golf ball.
It was a wonder he could stand up at all.
But he didn’t have time to be thinking about this. Listening to Ronnie’s sobs rise from the speakers, he steadied his legs, turned, then launched himself toward the front door.
The room was still spinning but he didn’t stop. He kept moving forward until he reached the knob, yanked the door open, then staggered out into the hallway.
Across the hall was the door marked STAIRS, and he realized that he was in the first apartment. The one he’d seen when he stepped out of the stairwell.
Turning, he barreled down the graffiti-scarred hallway toward the apartment at the far end, its door hanging open a crack. Langer was nowhere in sight and there were only two possibilities here—either he was already inside, or he hadn’t yet made it to this floor.
Hutch much preferred option two.
Stumbling forward, he attacked the apartment door with his body weight, slamming it open, then held the knife in front of him as he barreled inside.
But something felt wrong the moment he passed the threshold.
Something was different.
There should light coming from the bedroom at the end of the hallway.
He should be able to hear Ronnie crying.
He spun around now, grabbing the wall to steady himself, and looked back toward the door he’d just come through.
Either this wasn’t the right apartment or Ronnie had been moved.
And he doubted Ronnie had been moved.
As he stood there trying to get his bearings, a faint but familiar sound trickled down from overhead: muffled sobs, coming through the ceiling.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
He was on the wrong goddamn floor.
Gathering himself, he took a deep breath, tried to ignore the throbbing in his head, and went back out into the hallway.
And that was when Ronnie started to scream.
CHAPTER SIXTY
WHILE HUTCH WOULD be the first to admit that he was no Bob De Niro, there were times in his career that he had found himself in the zone.
The zone, as he defined it, was that moment when the cameras started rolling and the external world fell away around him. No distractions, no crew mem
bers, no hot lights strategically placed to make the visuals pop. He was so singularly focused that he began breathing the character’s energy, getting lost in it.
And at that point, the choices made themselves.
When Hutch heard Ronnie scream, he immediately slipped into the zone. He flew across the hallway and ran up the stairs, no longer a victim to such trivialities as pain and fear and dizziness and nausea and a body that didn’t want to cooperate. This wasn’t a role he was playing, and the stakes here were much, much higher than the Nielsen numbers or a weekend’s worth of box office bounty.
He took the stairs two at a time, bounding onto the fifth floor landing and into the hall, then made a straight line for the apartment door—the right apartment this time—Ronnie’s terrified screams the fuel that drove him forward.
When he reached the room with the lights and the overhead camera, Frederick Langer was kneeling on the mattress, trying to smother Ronnie’s cries as he raised the switchblade—about to plunge it into her naked, heaving chest.
Hutch shouted, “Langer!” then launched himself across the room.
Hutch tackled him, hard, driving him off the mattress, slamming him into the wall. One of the work lights toppled and began to stutter and spark as they bounced to the floor and rolled across the threadbare carpet.
For a moment they were a tangle of flailing limbs and desperate grunts, Hutch struggling to gain momentum. But he was still in that zone, still acutely focused, and he anticipated the creep’s moves before Langer even made them. The switchblade arced toward his face, but Hutch deflected the blow with his forearm and brought his own knife down, burying it in Langer’s left shoulder.
Langer howled and fell back, pain and rage in his black eyes. He dropped the switchblade and began to cry like a child, clawing at his shoulder, trying to get at the knife, which was still lodged there, as Hutch pulled himself free and staggered to his feet.
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