by Brent Pilkey
They slid into the hall, back to back, each taking a different arm of the floor. “This way,” Jack whispered, recalling the apartment’s location from his last visit. That time he’d been with Manny and they had no idea what they were about to step into.
The door to 712 was closed. Neither the frame nor the door showed any signs of forced entry.
Guess the fucker still has a key.
Jack checked with his partner across the door and she nodded. Jack reached for the doorknob.
Moonlight blended with the artificial glare from the streets below to cast a meagre light through the balcony windows. Taylor sat in the shadowed apartment, feeling for the first time in days safe and secure. He knew he couldn’t stay here for long; it was only a matter of time before the police learned of his connection to Sherry’s old home, but for now, for tonight, he could stop running.
He sank his head into the armchair’s cushy back and closed his eyes. When he had moved in with Sherry, the only furniture she’d had in the living room was a three-legged sofa and a tv. A mattress on the floor in the bedroom had passed for a bed. Even the dining nook off the living room by the balcony door had been bare.
Taylor ran his hands lovingly along the chair’s overstuffed arms. It was the first piece of furniture they had purchased as a couple.
Home. This had been his home and would probably be the closest he ever came to having a normal life. If he managed to stay alive. Rico and the police both had reason to want him dead.
The room was hot and stuffy, the air baked lifeless from the week’s heat. He was surprised the apartment hadn’t been rented out yet, but maybe even Housing had some respect for the dead. All that remained to give silent testimony to the tragedy that had occurred here were a few latex gloves scattered on the floor, their blue colour muted and sad in the dimness.
Taylor wiped wetness from his face. Tears or sweat, he didn’t know. He’d run to the apartment, keeping to the woods, then laneways among the concrete forest. He hadn’t even considered what he would do if his key no longer worked, but it had and once he was inside the familiar walls, the voices — Sherry’s, his father’s, but mostly Sara’s — had fallen silent. And silent, thank God, they stayed.
Taylor’s eyes snapped open, focusing on the door across the room. Had he locked it behind himself? He couldn’t remember.
He pushed himself up and quietly crept across the floor, careful not to wake the ghosts. After locking up, he would go to the bedroom and wrap himself in the sheets he and Sherry used to sleep in, love in, live in. He wondered if they would still have her smell on them. He hoped so.
He reached for the doorknob just as it began to slowly turn.
Jack faced Jenny across the width of the door and nodded, one, two . . .
Three!
Jack flung open the door, yelling, “Police! Don’t move!”
After the bright lights in the hallway, the dim apartment was almost pitch black. Directly ahead was the little walk-through kitchen with the living room off to the right. Jack cut right, sweeping the living room with his gun. Jenny’s responsibility was the hallway on the left, leading to the bedroom. She scanned the kitchen — empty — as she swung to her left.
And that’s when things went bad, fast.
A shadow lunged out at her and smashed the gun from her hands. The force of the impact across her wrists threw her off balance and she was helpless as an arm, the muscles as rigid as iron, snaked around her throat. She was pulled tight against a body and what could only be the barrel of a gun was pressed to her temple.
“Move and you’re dead, bitch,” a hard voice rasped in her ear.
“Drop the gun and let her go. Do it now!” Jack was not ten feet away, his Glock thrust in front of him, rock steady and aimed somewhere to the right of her head.
Furlington just chuckled and inched to his right. Jenny balked, refusing to co-operate, but the arm encircling her throat squeezed threateningly and she was forced to shuffle-step sideways.
“Let’s keep this private.” Furlington toed the door shut. “Lock it, bitch,” he ordered. He dug the gun in when she failed to move. “I said, lock the fucking door, bitch.”
Ever so slightly, Jack nodded, so Jenny reached out to her side, groping blindly until she found the deadbolt. A flick of her fingers locked the three of them in the apartment.
“It’s over, Furlington,” Jack said, speaking slowly and clearly. “We know who you really are.”
Furlington flinched as if Jack’s words had physically struck him.
“Just open your hand and drop the gun,” Jack coaxed. “You drop the gun and let her go and we all walk away from this. It’s over.”
“Bullshit,” Furlington snarled. “Nothing’s over. You know my name. Big fucking deal. That don’t mean shit.”
“Let her go,” Jack ordered from behind the sights of his gun. “Let her go, Sara.”
Furlington moaned at the sound of the name. “That’s not my name,” he groaned. “That useless bitch is dead.”
“No, she isn’t. She isn’t dead. You’re Sara.”
Furlington moaned again, a deep, wounded sound. Jenny began to slowly inch her hands up to Furlington’s arm.
“No, no, no.” Jenny could feel Furlington’s head shaking in denial, in refusal of the truth. “I’m not Sara. Sara’s dead. I’m Taylor.” He thrust the gun at Jack. “My name is Taylor!”
As soon as Furlington’s arm straightened out, Jenny reached for it. If she could pull the gun away from Jack —
Roaring in anger, Furlington shoved Jenny at Jack, driving her forward with a hand on her back. Jack couldn’t get out of the way — Jenny’s face slammed into something hard and her world exploded in darkness.
Not again. Not again. Not again.
The words echoed in Jack’s head like a funeral bell tolling endlessly. Another standoff, another partner taken hostage. Jack’s vision wavered and suddenly an image of Sy, a knife to his neck, ghosted in front of Jenny. Jack’s hands were slick with Sy’s hot blood.
No! Not now!
He violently shoved the memory away. He had to concentrate. Jenny’s life depended on it.
Furlington had a thick arm wrapped around Jenny’s neck and a snub-nosed revolver, its silver skin gleaming deadly in the dim light, pressed to her temple. His face was hidden behind the gun and Jenny’s hair. The target was too small; Jack dared not risk a shot, even as close as he was.
All he could do was talk, reason with Furlington, get her to drop the gun. He couldn’t even reach for the mitre in his back pocket; he needed both hands on his gun in case an opportunity arose. If this was a movie, he’d know the words to say to gain Furlington’s trust, to work past the anger, but how could he reason with a woman who’s been masquerading as her dead brother since she was sixteen?
Reason and orders weren’t working. The only thing that elicited a reaction was confronting her with the truth about herself.
If I can get her mad enough to point the gun at me, it might give Jenny the chance she needs. He noticed Jenny’s hands slowly creeping upwards.
“No, she isn’t,” Jack said. “She isn’t dead. You’re Sara.”
“My name is Taylor!” Furlington screamed, shoving the gun toward Jack.
Jenny lunged for Furlington’s arm as it straightened out, then suddenly she was flying at Jack, the crazed woman driving her forward. Jack had time to pull his gun up out of the way before Jenny crashed into him but that was all. Jenny’s injured face whacked into his elbow as the three of them tumbled to the floor.
Furlington shoved Jenny’s limp form aside and pounced on Jack. Her knees drove into his broken rib and pain, nauseatingly sharp and exquisite, exploded in him. He couldn’t hold back a scream. Furlington pinned Jack’s gun hand then swiped her gun at his head. The barrel cracked off his skull and his vision flared with spots of darkness.<
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Furlington’s voice came out of the inky blackness. “Got a problem with your ribs, fucker?”
Furlington stretched a leg back then drove it forward. Jack tried to curl protectively around his rib, bracing himself for the blow, but nothing he did could have prepared him for the white-hot lance of agony that ripped through his guts. His gun was wrenched from his hand and he dimly heard it clatter onto the floor.
Fucked. I’m fucked.
Cold steel kissed Jack on the forehead. His eyes refused to focus; Furlington was a large blur as she held her gun to Jack’s head.
“What’s my name, fucker?” When he didn’t answer, she nudged him in the ribs and his stomach clenched against the burst of pain. “What’s my name?”
“Doesn’t . . . matter.” Jack forced the words out through gritted teeth.
“I’m Taylor, you fucker. Taylor.” She leaned on the gun and Jack concentrated on the precise circle of pressure, using it to block out the pain in his rib and the throbbing in his skull.
“It doesn’t matter what you call yourself,” Jack said once he could speak without gagging. “If you kill a cop, you’ll go to prison for the rest of your life. A women’s prison.” The weight behind the gun eased up and Jack pushed harder. “You’ll be forced to live as Sara. There’ll be no hiding who you are. You’ll be Sara and your brother will be dead for good.”
Jack could feel the gun quivering where it touched his sweat-soaked skin. Quivering in uncertainty? Or rage?
“Give up now and Taylor will live. Kill me and you kill Taylor.”
“Fuck you.” Furlington’s hand lashed out again and struck Jack in the jaw with the butt of the gun. More pain and blood flooded his mouth.
Strong hands gripped his shirt and smoothly pulled him to his feet. Jack tried to use the momentum to land an elbow but Furlington brushed his arm away contemptuously.
“My name is Taylor,” she whispered hoarsely in his ear before driving a fist into his stomach. Jack doubled over and caught her knee in his face. Something cracked and new daggers of pain sliced through the agonized cloud already clogging his head.
Furlington seized his shirt with one hand and grabbed a handful of hair with the other. She spun once, Jack’s feet tripping across the floor as she twirled him around like a child, then flung him away. He had an instant of freedom before he crashed through the glass door and out onto the balcony. He slammed into the railing and his head snapped back as if the metal barrier had just rear-ended him.
He collapsed to his knees, only one hand desperately gripping the railing holding him upright.
Glass crunched as Furlington followed him onto the balcony.
Jack slowly lifted his head. The pain from his rib, mouth and skull had massed into one throbbing, pounding entity. His vision wavered. Furlington blurred, became two, three, then back to one person. Jack’s baton was tucked into his back pocket and his hand ineffectively twitched toward it as Furlington dragged him upright again.
Leaning in close to Jack, close enough to kiss, she told him, “Time to die, fucker.”
“The same way . . . you killed your girlfriend?” Jack managed.
Furlington jerked back. “What?”
Jack’s mouth didn’t want to work; it was wadded up with pain. He spat a mouthful of blood, dimly aware that most of it ran down his chin.
“Like you killed Sherry?” Talking hurt. He sucked in a ragged breath. Breathing hurt more. “Throw me over, too?”
Furlington flinched as if Jack had physically struck her. “Sherry jumped. I didn’t push her. She jumped.”
Furlington let go of Jack and he slowly toppled to the side, fetching up in the balcony’s corner. His rib issued another bark as he thumped into the railing. He wrapped his arms around the railing to keep from collapsing.
“She jumped,” Furlington was muttering. “She said if I left her she’d tell. She jumped, I didn’t push her.” Her head came up, eyes suddenly, firmly, fixating on Jack. “I didn’t push her but I’m gonna push you.” One hand gripped Jack’s throat, the other his belt. “Say goodbye, fucker.”
The pain in Jack’s head was gradually ebbing, receding to a level where he could think. Time, I need time.
“You . . . owe me . . . your life,” he wheezed.
“What are you shitting about?” She laughed uncertainly.
“Four months ago.” He forced the words out between clenched teeth; the hand on his throat was jamming his jaws together. “In the bathroom down the hall.”
“No! Shut up!” Furlington dropped Jack. His heels struck the concrete floor with a jarring thump, rippling a shockwave of pain up through his body. He threw out his hands to the sides, desperately gripping the railing to keep from falling.
Furlington moaned and Jack could hear her pain, could almost share it; he knew how agonizing memories could be. He had her shocked, stunned, but to live he was going to have to do more than that. His hand fell to the butt of his baton. He was only going to get one swing at her and it would have to count.
“I saved your life,” he pushed. He slid the baton free of his pocket, held it closed, gripped it like an ice pick. “The night Randall Kayne raped you.” One shot to the temple and pray it’s enough. “The night you cut your breasts off.”
“No, no, no.” Furlington chanted the word as she shook her head. Her hands went to her chest, clutching at the ragged scars Jack was sure lay beneath her shirt. “I’m not Sara. Sara’s dead.”
Jack took an unsteady step toward her, within arm’s reach. Furlington was lost in her own world, oblivious.
“I’m not Sara. I’m Taylor.” Furlington’s head snapped up. She screamed, “My name is Taylor!”
Now! Jack fought through the pain, ate it and spat it back out. Roaring his defiance, he swung his steel ice pick with everything he had.
Furlington casually leaned back and the tip of the baton passed harmlessly by her eyes.
Jack had twisted when he swung. His broken rib was an open target and Furlington drove a fist into it. Jack screamed again, sheer agony this time, and fell to his knees. The baton clanged free from his suddenly useless hand.
Furlington sank both hands into Jack’s hair and once more, for the final time, pulled him to his feet. “Pathetic,” she sneered. “You’re as weak as she is.”
A shadow moved behind Furlington. The shadow lashed out and there was a cracking thud. Furlington grunted and her knees buckled. She fell forward into Jack’s arms and the sudden weight almost pulled him over. He locked his knees and Furlington clung to him, posed like a pleading lover.
“Hit her again!” Jack cried.
Jenny swung her baton again, driving the butt solidly against Furlington’s skull. This time, delivered from above, the blow carried tremendous force and Furlington’s eyes rolled up as if she had suddenly found all the answers in the night sky. Her hands slipped free of Jack’s shirt and she slowly toppled to the side, then crashed to the floor.
Jenny stepped from the shadows, her baton held at the ready in case Furlington twitched. “You okay?”
Jack nodded. “Fucking sore but I’ll live.”
“Good.” She knelt and quickly snapped handcuffs on an unresisting Furlington. With the last metal click, she sagged in relief. She laughed, then fixed Jack with a serious stare. “Can we have one night when we don’t get into a fight with someone?”
Jack started to laugh then winced and pressed a hand to his head. “I’m going to have a fucking hell of a headache. And yes, no more fights. I think we’ve had our quota for the year.”
“Good,” Jenny repeated. She looked into the apartment. “Now help me find my damn gun.”
Jack pulled into his empty driveway in front of what he was sure was his empty house. The Honda was still absent from the driveway’s left side. Jack had taken to parking in the same spot to minimize the oil stains from the
slightly incontinent old Ford.
Old car, old cop.
Jack turned off the engine and simply sat still. It felt like he hadn’t stopped moving since . . . well, since forever. Even at the hospital, in between X-rays and concerned doctors, he was busy. Busy apprising Mason, busy checking on Jenny, busy answering questions, busy doing his notes.
Now, finally, blessed peace.
He was amazed he was home this early. If the doctors had had their way, he’d still be in St. Mike’s, but Jack had insisted on gathering up his collection of injuries and heading home. And it was an impressive collection: a broken rib — not just cracked anymore — a slight concussion, a stitched-up lip, a few loose teeth and a broken nose.
He felt like how Jesse Polan had looked.
He fingered the splint holding his nose in line. Guess I deserved it; I’ve busted a few over the last year or so. Welcome to the crooked nose club, Jack.
Jenny’s doctor friend had poked and prodded Jack, all the while poking and prodding for info on Jenny. He had also seen to Jenny and even though her injuries were a lot less severe than Jack’s — nothing broken, nothing stitched, just one big-ass black eye, thankfully — Brian had spent much more time with her. Jack figured their weekend date had gotten off to an early start.
Well, at least someone’s love life is going well.
Jack stared at his house and wondered how much of a home it would feel like without Karen.
Not much, I’m guessing.
He eased himself out of the car. The heavy air settled around him like a wet blanket, matching his feelings perfectly. It was good that Karen wasn’t home. And she was right, she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to suffer a husband who came home all too often with troubling injuries and who today had come far too close to not coming home ever again.
I had my ass handed to me by a woman and if not for Jenny, I’d be nothing but a stain on the parking lot.
“You’re right, Kare. You can do better than me.” He had failed the people most important to him. Karen should get as far away from him as possible before he did it again. That thought hurt him deep inside and it was a hurt no amount of painkillers could erase.
