Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  “Fuck. You,” Sam said.

  Atta girl, Taylor thought. She heard the steps move away from the door, the voice grew fainter. Now. Now was her chance.

  She kicked the door open and entered the room, gun raised. The room was small and she was quick. He didn’t see her coming, turned with a look of pure shock. She grinned wildly—she’d caught him by surprise. She had him. He moved toward her and she lashed out with the weapon, caught him on the temple. She followed with a roundhouse left, caught him square on the cheek. His head snapped back, she heard a crack. She’d broken something, blood bloomed bright on his cheek. His fragile cheek. She got her first unencumbered glimpse of him as he was going down. It was Iles all right. He didn’t look anything like the man she’d seen in Control. It was hard to believe that was the same man, it was astounding how much work he’d had done. He had smooth, unnaturally tanned skin, the nose straight and narrow, the chin full and square. She threw another punch toward his chin as he went down.

  He grabbed at her legs and she kicked him hard, twice, right in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. She glanced at Sam. Her face was screwed up in pain, the cream cashmere sweater she was wearing bloodied around her waist. She was handcuffed to the chair, her arms behind her. Taylor saw the ammonia—he must have been using it to keep Sam alert while he cut her. She saw the extra blood on her, in between her legs, on the floor beneath her.

  Oh, God.

  The baby.

  She hadn’t been in time to save them both.

  Taylor turned back to Copeland in a rage. He was starting to get up, she stomped on his thigh as hard as she could, gloried when he screamed. A broken femur would slow him down. He reached for his leg, crying out like a wounded animal, fighting not to pass out from the pain. She stepped back, took a deep breath, steadied herself. Pointed the Glock at the son of a bitch’s head. Smiled at him when his eyes got wide.

  “Let’s play,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Baldwin drove while Marcus called it in and got them backup. They weren’t taking any chances, but Baldwin knew they were going to be too late. Taylor would do anything to save Sam, including going into the house guns blazing and getting herself killed in the process.

  Did she think she would get away with killing Copeland? Was that why she’d been so quiet over the past few days? He should have seen it, should have recognized that she was going to take it upon herself to end the Pretender’s life.

  If he’d been less worried about himself and his own stupid problems, he’d have seen her withdraw. He could always read her, and he hadn’t even bothered. This was his fault. It was all his fault.

  His phone rang, Charlaine Schultz’s name popped up on the screen.

  “Charlaine, what’s up?”

  “I just sent you the most recent picture of Ewan Copeland. The plastic surgeon said he’d done at least five facial procedures on him in the past ten years.”

  “We know who he’s supposed to be, let me just confirm with your picture. Hold a sec.”

  He pulled up the attachment, recognized the face easily as the death investigator Barclay Iles.

  “That’s him. Good job, Charlaine. We know where he is now, I’ll let you know how things shake out.”

  “Be safe, boss.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  They were screaming down West End. Thank goodness they were going against traffic, people were still flowing into downtown, the morning rush hour compounded by the untimed stoplights and joggers, mostly Vanderbilt students getting a run in before classes started for the day. They were at the tail end of rush hour, though, and heading out of town, so they were able to make good time. They passed Centennial Park and the roads cleared. Baldwin ran the red light at West End and Murphy Road. Time. He looked at the dashboard clock, it had been two minutes since he’d hung up with Taylor.

  He shared Charlaine’s information with Marcus. “It’s confirmation, at the very least.”

  Marcus shook his head, face tight. “I can’t believe we’ve been working with this guy the whole time. What a devious prick.”

  “No kidding. Go faster.”

  It would take another five minutes to get to Belle Meade, even speeding through the lights.

  He caught himself praying. “Please, God. Don’t take her from me. Let me get there in time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Copeland had the common sense to look scared. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Taylor saw the pain and fear in them. It was perfect. Just like she’d been dreaming of.

  He was incapacitated enough that she felt comfortable getting Sam out of there. Without looking away, she said, “Are you okay, Sam? Can you walk?”

  Sam was crying. “I don’t know. Thank God, Taylor. I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “I lost the baby.”

  The quiet, cracked voice of her best friend nearly tore Taylor in two. Sam was the strong one, the fearless, the good. Taylor had visited this upon her. She’d never forgive herself.

  Another death at Copeland’s hands. Taylor had to force herself not to squeeze the trigger. Not yet. She couldn’t let Sam see her do this. She needed to get her from the room.

  Sam’s hands were awkwardly handcuffed to the back of the chair. Without looking, Taylor used her key and undid the cuffs with her left hand, a little awkward, still pointing the gun at Copeland’s head. He watched her, wary now. There was no confidence in his gaze.

  She helped Sam to her feet. She wobbled, then got her balance. She clutched onto Taylor’s arm so hard that Taylor felt the bruise begin.

  She walked her across the room, stepping backward carefully, the gun never wavering.

  “It’s going to be okay, honey. I promise. Go out the back stairs. There’s a short tunnel. You can get out there—it goes into the garden. Baldwin should be on his way. The front door is locked, so be sure you show him the back entrance in. Go. Go now.”

  “Thank you, Taylor,” Sam said softly. She took the first steps unsteadily, without looking back, her hands cupped around her bloody stomach.

  Taylor shut the door behind her. They were alone. She heard the first siren then. Copeland did, too, his mouth turned up in a bloody grin.

  “Here comes your boyfriend.”

  “Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to talk to me. You get to listen.”

  “But don’t you want to know why I chose you?”

  She hesitated, and he took the quiet as permission to continue. He spat a large bloody wad toward her boot, and she didn’t move.

  “You laughed at me.”

  “I’ve never met you before in my life.”

  “That’s not true. You pulled me over. Right after I killed Tommy Keck, as a matter of fact. You had everyone out on the highways looking for the shooter, remember? I’d already changed cars, you had no hope of finding me. But you pulled me over and questioned me, like a good girl. I asked you to dinner. And you laughed at me, you bitch.”

  “You’ve hurt all these people, killed so many, because I wouldn’t go to dinner with you? You’re insane.”

  “Not the dinner, no. It was the way you laughed at me, like I was just a piece of shit you’d gotten caught on your boot. Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t deserve the opportunity to talk to you. I’ve been waiting for this moment for four years. For a chance to tell you that all of this is your fault. That you killed everyone. That you dug the baby from your best friend’s womb, that you stole the sight from your father figure. All these things you’ve done to yourself, Taylor. If you’d shown a little courtesy, been a little nicer, I’d have gone on my way and never come back.”

  Voices now, shouts from the driveway. Reinforcements had arrived. She needed to make this quick. She sidestepped to the window, keeping her eye on Copeland. She took a quick glance out, the window overlooked the driveway. She hoped they wouldn’t hear the shots.

  Her head was only turned for a fraction of a second, but it wa
s long enough. Copeland attacked her from behind, punching her low in the back. She stifled a scream, whirled around and lashed out with her leg. She felt her boot connect, heard the sickening crunch as his arm broke.

  He grunted in pain and collapsed on his side. She kicked him in the ribs again, hard, and heard the breath whoosh out of his chest as more bones gave way.

  She felt nothing now but the pure, fine energy of her wrath. It made her strong, omnipotent, yet anchored her cruelly in the moment. She must stop. She must. Her breath came in ragged jags, the veil was lifting from her eyes. It took every ounce of her being to stop her fists, to stop the beating.

  Taking back all that energy was a near impossibility at this point. She staggered four feet away, bent over to catch her breath. After a moment she stood up, and pulled the Winchester hollow point round from her jeans pocket. Two strides and she was on top of him again, legs straddling his body, teeth gritted with the effort it took not to smash her boot into his face. He wouldn’t look up, just stared at the ground. He was defeated.

  Walk away, Taylor. Walk away. He’s beaten.

  It just didn’t feel like enough to her.

  She couldn’t help herself—she snarled at him, holding the bullet in her left hand. “You see this, you son of a bitch? This is the one you sent me. I’ve been carrying it with me, just waiting for a chance to put it in your brain. And here’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. The great big bad Pretender, whimpering on a dusty attic floor in the house of the man who made him. You couldn’t even become a killer on your own. You had to use the people around you. You are nothing. And this is the end of your story. Some end, huh?”

  Taylor ejected the bullet already in the chamber and dropped the magazine into her hand. Inserted the Winchester. Popped the magazine back in. Pulled the slide and smiled as the bullet slid into the chamber. Troy, Barclay, Ewan—whatever the hell his name was—wouldn’t meet her eyes, just cowered on the cold floor.

  The window was closing. They were still alone, just for a moment. There was no one to see. No one would know. He had lunged at her. She had been fighting for her life, the gun between them. It went off in the struggle. She could do it.

  Jesus, God, she could pull the trigger and end his life. She wanted it so bad, she could taste it. Death was metallic on her tongue.

  The gun never wavered.

  “Get on your feet,” she said.

  He crawled to a sitting position, then pulled himself up the wall until he was upright.

  She watched carefully, there was still some fight left in him. He eyed her, listing to one side, favoring the broken leg.

  He finally spoke, his voice strong, mocking, despite the obvious pain. “After all we’ve been through, you’re just going to kill me.”

  “Do you have another suggestion?”

  “You could let me go. I hate for our dance to come to an end. You’ve been a worthy adversary. It’s always been you. If I can’t have you, I’d take death quite willingly.”

  “You will never have me. But tell me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “What were the copycats about?”

  “Oh, them. I like an audience. I promised them I’d kill you using their copycat’s MO. And the Boston Strangler was by far the front-runner. He would have gotten the reward of a lifetime, watching me fuck you and strangle you. Too bad. Such a shame that we couldn’t see this to its proper end.”

  She curved her finger into the trigger. Eased the pad of her finger into the metal. Just needed a bit more pressure.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s too bad he’s not here to watch me end your miserable existence. I only need to pull the trigger once. That bullet is either yours or mine. And I’ve got a few things left on my to-do list.”

  Point at the heart, critical mass, center shot.

  “Goodbye, Ewan.”

  More pressure. The trigger started to cave. The voice spoke to her again.

  This is murder. It’s murder, and you know it. What are you doing, Taylor? This isn’t you.

  Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. This is justice.

  How many more pieces of your soul can you shear away and still be capable of living, Taylor? Every bullet, every life, chips away at your soul. He’s helpless. He can’t run. This is wrong. This isn’t the way to do it. It’s not the way.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ewan asked. “Do it already. I’m tired of this. Do it, Taylor. Do it!”

  She felt the anger building in her, the fevered pitch of desire to end this, to end him. To stop all the worry, the pain and the suffering he’d caused, not just for her, but for Fitz and Susie, for Sam, for her unborn child, for the strangers who’d died at this man’s hands.

  An eye for an eye.

  She caught the movement almost before it began. He lunged at her, but she coolly stepped aside and let him lose his balance. He fell to the hard cement floor with a crash, groaning, holding his leg.

  “Do it, you bitch,” he snarled at her. “Just get it over with.”

  She eased the pressure back off the trigger.

  Felt a calm steal over her.

  “No. You’re not worth it,” she said, then holstered the Glock. She heard a noise and turned her head toward the stairs.

  “That was the last mistake you’ll ever make, Lieutenant.”

  She heard the click, spun back just as Baldwin came crashing through the door. Saw Ewan rise on one arm. Her weapon was back in her hand instantly, and the bullets began to fly.

  She started to move to her left, but her legs wouldn’t work.

  Pain. Pain beyond comprehension. Burning. She reached for her head, her hand didn’t move.

  Tears, now, she was crying, the cement hard and cold beneath her cheek.

  And then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “She’s hit, she’s hit. Taylor’s hit!” He heard the words screaming from his mouth.

  It happened too quickly. He’d gotten into that room as fast as he could. They’d found Sam, bloody and crying, in the garden, all her strength gone. She’d told him where Taylor was.

  Taylor had turned, saw him enter the room full speed, the look on her face not exactly a smile, more like satisfaction, and relief, as if she were saying, “See, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t go through with it.”

  But Copeland was moving behind her. Sitting up fast. The glint of metal in his hand. He had a gun. Taylor must have seen or heard the movement, she turned back to Copeland, her mouth a grim line of fury, her gun moving fast. But not fast enough. Baldwin’s logical mind proceeded with the proper response—start shooting. He started to squeeze the trigger. He wasn’t quick enough. He saw Taylor go down, collapsed in a heap, not graceful or slowly, just all of a piece, on the floor. Blood pooled beneath her head, and his heart froze.

  Baldwin had only a fraction of a second to decide, the space between the heartbeats—go to Taylor, or put this dog down. His finger never left the trigger. He pointed the gun and squeezed, four times, in quick succession, a tracking line from Copeland’s sternum to his forehead. A fine mist of blood, the thump of the body hitting the floor, and he knew it was over.

  Marcus came into the room yelling, “Officer down, officer down.” He dropped to the floor on the other side of Taylor, frantically feeling for a pulse.

  Baldwin couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t breathe—was he shot? No. Too hyped. Adrenaline. A ragged breath finally entered his lungs and the scene in front of him grew clear.

  Taylor.

  He threw his gun down and knelt at her side.

  The entry wound was an angry red hole above her right temple, a little left of center. He felt the back of her head, there was no exit. The gun Copeland had used was four feet away, lying quietly on the cement floor. She mustn’t have frisked him, or she would have found the weapon. Sloppy. But the gun was a .22. Small caliber. There was a chance.

  “Taylor Jackson, you are not allowed to be dead. Goddamn it, woman, respond. Open
your eyes, Taylor. Open your eyes!”

  Someone pulled his arm, forced him away and held him back while they started working on Taylor.

  “V-tach. Shit, we lost a pulse.”

  “Pupils fixed and nonresponsive.”

  “Start CPR, now!”

  He wasn’t breathing, and neither was she. He watched them work on her, hands at his side. Pumping on her chest, the ribs cracking from the pressure, creating a strange concavity. The stretcher arriving, them practically throwing her body on the thin mattress, the crash as they brought it full open and rushed her out of the room. Then she was gone, her hand trailing over the edge like she was waving goodbye.

  He was frozen. He couldn’t move.

  Blood on the floor. Her blood. Taylor’s blood.

  Something inside him broke in two.

  Nothing mattered now. Nothing.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  NOVEMBER 22

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  I can hear the birds twittering.

  They sound so happy. The corner of my lip rises, I realize I’m smiling. Smiling at the birds. Joshua’s birds. I need to put food in the feeder—damn, always forgetting that. Baldwin must have done it, that’s why they’re outside the window. Happy little things. Cardinals, from the sound of them.

  I’m awake. It’s time to get up. This is my favorite moment of the day—first rising, the moments when I’m no longer asleep but my eyes are still closed. Listening to the birds. I always linger in the bed for a few moments, just hearing the day begin. Trying to fathom at which exact moment you know you’re awake. Is it when you first comprehend sound? First open your eyes? Or when you realize you’re no longer dreaming, that the fresh scent of clean sheets and the warmth of down are tangible under your cheek? I don’t know, but I think I’ll linger in the moment just a bit longer.

  The birds are getting louder. Good grief. They chirp so much. Are they on the sill? Or has one gotten in the room?

  I sigh. Nothing to do but open my eyes and see. I’m fully awake now. Morpheus has been chased away. Goodbye, sweet prince. I’ll see you again tonight.