by Roger Johns
Don watched the time change from 12:59 to 1:00. If he sprang the trap at exactly one o’clock it might seem too pat and Matt’s survival instinct could take control, causing him to run—so Don waited.
Don watched as Matt checked the time, then raised his binoculars to scan the house again. He watched as the nervous chemist shifted from foot to foot on the branch, checked his watch again, and turned to scan the alley.
As the time changed from 1:01 to 1:02, Don saw Matt look toward the house, then back at the alley. At 1:03, the tempo of Matt’s jittery movements sped up. At 1:05, Matt stowed his binoculars and looked in the direction of the alley, then started his descent toward the branch that overhung the alley. Don reached into his bag and pushed the button.
* * *
Just when he had decided Carla would be a no-show, Matt heard the heavy hum and rattle of her garage door going up. He quickly climbed down and dropped into the yard, wanting to catch Carla just as she was entering the house from the garage. He accelerated past the shed, reaching into his pocket for the key to the back door.
* * *
Don pressed the remote again, sending the garage door back down. The noise covered the sound of his footsteps as he darted from the shed, closing the distance between himself and Matt. Just before Matt reached the back door, Don fired his Taser and Matt collapsed in the grass. Don yanked the Taser darts from Matt’s neck and shoved the device into his pack. He skipped lightly around Matt’s deflated body, grabbed the puzzled-looking scientist’s wrists, and dragged him to the back door. Don bumped the door open with his backside and hauled Matt through the small utility room, into the kitchen.
“Hello, hello,” Don crowed.
Matt was on his back on the kitchen floor, his flaccid muscles useless.
“Remember me?” Like a rodeo calf roper, Don rolled Matt onto his stomach, then duct-taped Matt’s ankles and wrists into a single package behind his back.
“Almost done,” Don intoned. He dragged the hog-tied Matt down the hallway and into the bathroom, then heaved him into the tub. Don wedged Matt down on his side, so that Matt’s arms and legs pressed against the far side of the tub and his face was mashed into the near side. Don reached down and turned Matt’s head until he was facing upward, looking directly at Don.
Matt tried to speak, but a mewling whimper was all he could manage.
“Won’t be long, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle,” Don said. He stopped and stared down at Matt. “You know why we’re here, and you know what I want, so here’s the deal. Sooner is better. More is better. I ask the questions. You give the answers. If you’re clear, complete, and, most important, if you’re quick about it, you’ll live to tell the tale.”
Don pulled the Taser from his bag and gently jabbed the darts into Matt’s face, one on each side of his nose, just beneath his lower eyelids. He brandished the control box in front of Matt.
“Do I need to explain?” Don asked.
“Uh-uh,” Matt croaked.
“Wonderful. Then let’s get underway. First things first. Tell me where your car is. Just in case we need it.”
“We?” Matt whispered.
“I’m not an unreasonable man,” Don said. “There could be a place for you in the enterprise I’m going to set up around your little discovery. Your skills are obviously very unusual, not to mention very valuable. Think about it. Now, where’s the car?”
As Matt gave directions to the car, Don produced a box cutter and thumbed the blade to full extension. He reached into the tub and cut the straps of Matt’s backpack and hauled it onto his lap. The unmistakable weight of a gun inside made Don smile. He emptied the contents of Matt’s pockets and backpack into his own pack.
A quick pat down revealed a nylon pouch taped to the small of Matt’s back. Don cut it free and pulled it open. It contained a small notebook and a couple of flash drives. Don paged quickly through the notebook, seeing sketches of laboratory setups and diagrams of chemical reaction sequences.
“I’ll assume these flash drives amplify what’s in the notebook.”
“Just copies,” Matt rasped.
“Good man,” Don said. “Now tell me—and I’ll be watching your face very closely, so you don’t want me to get the impression that you’re lying—where else is this information stored?”
Don admired Matt’s scheme for hiding his work. The process had been broken into several sequences and each sequence was stored in several different files in the cloud. The proper order for the sequences was hidden in yet another file. All of the files were stored in obscure places and the passwords were lengthy. Don carefully wrote everything Matt told him onto the back pages of the little notebook in which Matt’s discovery was written. He considered using the digital recorder he used to record Carla’s messages, but if it malfunctioned he would be out of luck, so he opted for the safety of hard copy.
“I know you’re holding back,” Don said, trotting out the standard interrogator’s ploy. “Everyone does, and I don’t blame you. The psychology, you know, the game-theory aspect of it is easy to understand. But listen to me. This is no time to play your cards close to the vest. I’m good at this. I’m also a bit impatient.” Don fired the Taser.
Matt seized. His eyes bulged. Strings of spit bloomed from between his lips. Despite Don’s continued cajoling, though, once Matt recovered enough to speak he produced nothing more of value.
“Maybe you weren’t holding back after all,” Don said matter-of-factly, the way one would apologize for jostling a fellow passenger on a crowded subway. “So, have you given my offer of employment the serious consideration it deserves?” he asked. “You do realize your options are limited.”
Matt opened his mouth to speak, but the hoarse laughter of crows and the slam of a car door caused them both to cut their eyes in the direction of the sounds. Don saw a glimmer of hope flash into Matt’s eyes. Hope that the slamming door signaled the arrival of the cavalry. Don shouldered his pack and shoved the little pouch with the notebook and the flash drives down the front of his pants. He might get separated from his pack, but it was unlikely he would get separated from his pants.
The crows suddenly sounded louder. The back door had opened.
“Too slow. Maybe next time.” In one quick motion Don drew the blade across Matt’s throat, then hurried toward the front of the house. Footsteps sounded faintly from the utility room, behind him. The chain and bolt locks were still engaged on the front door, just as he had left them. He wouldn’t be able to open them in time. Besides, there might be others out front.
TWENTY-EIGHT
1:35 P.M.
A fast-moving cloud deck replaced the afternoon glare with an overlay of shadowless gray, as Wallace and Mason entered Carla’s neighborhood. The entire area was in decline and some of the houses had bars on the windows, Carla’s included. Wallace pulled to the curb in front of the house. After donning body armor vests over their clothes, they walked to the front door. It was locked. They walked around to the side of the house. Using the key Whitlock had told them about, Wallace removed the lock and pushed open the gate. They moved slowly to the back door. Wallace extended her hand toward the knob, then stopped. She raised her finger to her lips, signaling for silence, then pointed at the tape over the striker plate.
Mason reached inside his jacket and freed his weapon from its spring-loaded clamshell holster. Wallace motioned for him to crouch low against the outside wall to the right of the door frame. She assumed the same stance on the left side. Gun in hand, she gently pushed on the door and it swung slowly inward. Using a small hand mirror, she peered inside. Nothing.
A stab of doubt ran through Wallace as Mason started to move past her. She placed a restraining hand firmly against his chest and gave him a hard, questioning look. He continued past her with a dismissive shake of his head, moving into a spacious utility room. There was a door to the right and a doorway straight ahead that led into a kitchen. They could see yet another doorway beyond that, that opened onto a hallw
ay.
Using hand signals, Wallace motioned for Mason to take the door on his right and then to go right at the hallway and search the front of the house. She would take the kitchen, and then move leftward down the hallway into the rear of the house.
* * *
As Wallace entered the kitchen, Mason carefully opened the door to his right. It led into a garage. He peered carefully around the door frame, then went in. An anemic shaft of light shone through the slit window in the louvered metal door, illuminating a dust-covered splotch of oil on the concrete. A hot water heater stood in one corner and metal shelves with stacks of old newspapers and plastic bottles of insecticide were attached to one of the side walls. But there was no car. He backed out into the utility room in time to see Wallace disappear leftward down the hall.
* * *
A quick look in the under-counter cabinets, the refrigerator, and the open pantry had told Wallace the kitchen was clear. She entered the dark hallway. The living room was to her right, but she turned her attention to the hallway on her left. Two doors opened off the right side of the hallway and one off the left. With her back to the wall, gun in a high, two-handed grip, she sidestepped down the hall to the door on the left. A bedroom.
Even in the low light she could see the room was empty, except for a few boxes stacked against one wall. She checked the closet. Nothing. The window was closed and latched from the inside. She crossed the room, crouched just inside the door, then looked left and right into the hallway. Empty. She pushed the knob lock and pulled the door closed as she stepped into the hall.
* * *
Mason locked the garage door behind him, then strode quickly through the kitchen. He stood at the doorway to the hall, listening. He could hear Wallace moving through the back of the house. Crouching low, he turned right into the living room. A couch, against the wall to his left, faced the rest of the room across a coffee table covered with books and magazines. In the far corner a heavy club chair sat catty-corner, facing obliquely toward the couch and the hallway. Further to his right the room opened into a dining area that connected to the kitchen by way of a pass-through window. He walked between the couch and the coffee table to check the space between the far end of the couch and the wall. A floor lamp stood in the space, alongside a pair of sneakers.
* * *
Wallace crossed the hall and opened the first door. The master bedroom. She entered, keeping her back against the wall. Two doors opened off the bedroom. One was open. It led to a closet. She inched around the room to the closet and turned on the light. No one inside. The faint smell of dirty laundry was mixed with the sharp scent of dry cleaning. She locked the closet door. The remaining door would lead to the bathroom.
* * *
The dining area was open and clearly unoccupied. One end of the dining table was covered with piles of bills and other household paperwork. An unfinished jigsaw puzzle took up most of the center of the table. Mason studied the room for some clue as to what had happened after Whitlock had been here. Other than the tape on the back door, nothing even looked out of order. Perhaps whatever was going to happen here had not yet taken place. Perhaps they were too late. A door clicked shut, deep in the house. He recalled the shed he had seen in the backyard. He would check that next. He did a slow turn, running his eyes over everything—the table, the couch, the heavy club chair in the corner. Nothing. Confident the front of the house was clear, he holstered his weapon.
* * *
Wallace checked the bedroom windows. Closed and locked from the inside. Standing to the side of the bathroom door, she gently pushed it open. It swung silently on its hinges until it rebounded against a rubber-tipped doorstop inside. Crouching low, she used the mirror again, to look around the doorframe. Empty. But as she crossed the threshold the meaty butcher-shop smell of unspoiled blood thickened the air. The fresh violence it implied clashed with the fruity shampoo smell and the tranquil gauzy light filtering in through the closed blinds.
She squatted down by the tub. The corpse’s face and chest were covered with blood. She touched one of his hands. Still warm. Then she heard it—the faint plinking sound as a droplet of blood hit the bottom of the tub. A fresh kill—less than two minutes. Don was still in the house. Just not back here.
* * *
Mason heard a low tapping sound. He looked back over his shoulder toward the hallway. Wallace was halfway up the hall, wide-eyed, gently drumming her fingers against the wall to get his attention. She beckoned him toward her, then stabbed her finger furiously toward the front of the house. She was mouthing something—but the light was too low for him to read her lips. Did she want him to go out the front? He turned back toward the front door.
Don was standing in the shadow behind the big club chair—gun raised. He fired before Mason could draw his weapon.
Mason staggered toward the dining table, bracing himself with his right hand on the back of one of the chairs. As Don moved deftly into the room, Mason laced his fingers through the handhold at the top of the chair and flung it into Don’s path. Don became entangled in the chair and fell forward. His gun flew free into a corner of the dining room.
Mason stumbled backward into the kitchen. He slid to his knees, struggling to maintain awareness. Blurry gray crowded in from the edges of his vision. He slewed back onto his haunches, then flopped onto his back.
* * *
Wallace could hear Don scrambling to his feet in the living room, but there were no sounds from the kitchen where Mason had fallen—a very bad sign. She knew Don wouldn’t leave the house without at least trying to eliminate her, because she could tie him to the killings. But she had to help Mason.
As she hurried the last few steps to the kitchen doorway, Don rushed her. He seized her gun hand with both of his and yanked her arm high, exposing her belly, before smashing his heel against her rib cage.
Wallace twisted sideways to shield herself from another blow. Still gripping her gun hand, Don wrenched her violently from side to side, slamming the back of her hand against the frame of the kitchen door. Her gun discharged and fell from her hand. With a quick sweep of his foot he kicked it into the dining area where it slid beneath a heavy buffet. Still holding her wrist, he whipped her around and bashed her against the sharp edge of the corner.
The pain was blinding.
She twisted back to face him, cupped her left hand and swiped at his head, trying to box his ear, but he drew back and the blow didn’t land flush.
“Stupid girl,” he roared, then spat in her face.
With both hands, he grabbed Wallace by her shirtfront. He lifted her off the floor and propelled her backward down the murky hallway. She got a glimpse of Mason. The bullet had ripped through his left armpit and his entire left side was slicked with blood. Wallace had seen wounds like that before. They could quickly be fatal. Over Don’s shoulder she saw Mason’s legs twitching.
She swung furiously with both hands, swarming blows to the sides of his head. As he lowered his head to avoid her fists, Don pitched forward just enough for Wallace to get her toes on the floor and halt their backward movement.
She spread her feet wide, then with her left hand, she hugged his wrists against her chest. Swinging her right arm over both of his, she coiled tightly to her left, then spun back, driving the point of her elbow into the side of his head. Instantly, her right arm went numb all the way to her fingertips, but Don wobbled and his grip loosened.
Wallace skipped back half a step, then snapped a toes-up kick to Don’s groin. As he crumpled forward, Wallace brought her knee up to meet his rapidly descending chin. A groan sounded deep in his throat and he fell facedown in the hallway.
She leapt past Don and raced toward Mason. His breathing was shallow and ragged. His eyes were open but they held a vacant stare. A gentle pulse of blood rippled beneath his body armor.
“Hang on, Mason. Hang on. I’ve got you,” she whispered, as she slid to her knees beside him. She tore off one of his shoes and rammed it sole-first deep into
his bleeding armpit, then pushed his arm tight against his side, pinching off the torn artery with the hard edge of the sole. She slid him forcefully against the wall, using the wall to hold his left arm firmly against his body. She sat on the floor facing him and gently pushed with her feet against the right side of his rib cage, keeping him steady, and maintaining the pressure.
With her right hand still feeling fat and barely responsive, she wrestled her phone from her pocket and dialed nine-one-one.
From the hallway, a bullet plowed through the sheetrock wall near her head. She flattened herself against the floor. Don knew she was not going to desert Mason and that, without her weapon, she would be an easy kill. They would both be easy to pick off. Wallace looked down at Mason and her heart started to break. Not yet, she told herself. Not yet. She looked around for some way to improve the odds. There was a heavy butcher block table behind her in the center of the kitchen floor. With her left hand, she reached for it, but it was just beyond her grasp.
Her call was ringing. As she leaned back farther toward the table, her phone slipped from her still-tingling right hand and tumbled into the gloom somewhere near Mason’s head. She could hear the tinny voice of the nine-one-one operator asking for the nature of her emergency.
“Officer down,” she shouted over the operator’s attempt to go through her checklist of questions. Twice more she repeated “officer down” and recited Carla’s address, then she went quiet—listening.
She could hear Don dragging himself up the hallway in her direction. Each movement brought forth gasps of pain that betrayed his progress. He fired another shot through the wall, but this one went high, slamming into the cabinets across the room.
Once more, she reached back toward the table, until she was almost completely stretched out along the kitchen floor—a defenseless target. She looped her fingers around the nearest leg of the butcher block and pulled, but it was heavy and dried mop grime had bonded its feet to the floor. The sounds from the hallway marked Don’s quickening progress.
