As I round the lawn’s perimeter I see light from the windows along the back of the house. There is a television on inside. I move closer to the house and stop behind a thick tree. I look around the tree and see a man inside, seated on a sofa, watching the television.
I hunch over and make a quick dash to the back of the house and press against the wet brick next to the window. I edge toward the window and look inside. The man is seated with his back to me, watching a soccer game on a huge flat-screen. He is thick-necked, with short blonde hair. Four empty bottles of beer are on the coffee table in front of him, and he is sipping from a fifth bottle.
I watch him for a minute. He looks at the game and drinks beer. I try to see further into the house but it is dark, which suggests that the man watching TV is the only soldier holding down the fort.
This is the Glendale army?
I wonder for a moment if Erlacher had lied about this being the place, then move around to the other side of the house, sliding along the wet brick. There is a lighted window on the second floor. The shade is half-drawn and there are no curtains. I back away from the house to see further into the room, but the window is too high. I go to a tree and climb up a few feet, then squint through the rain at the upstairs window.
Karen is inside the second-floor room, sprawled on her stomach on a small bed, looking at a magazine. There is no one else in the room.
I climb back down, nearly falling when my weak leg slips on a wet branch, and drop to the ground. Pain flares up from my leg again and I kneel on the wet grass and wait until it recedes and I can think clearly.
I could turn on my phone and Wen could track it in minutes—seconds, for all I know. Then all hell would break loose. LAPD would come down on the house in force, and Karen could be caught in the crossfire or taken hostage.
I could shoot the blonde soccer fan through the back window and go get her. That would be cold-blooded murder, which would be efficient and not altogether unsatisfying, but it would violate my own personal code against cold-blooded murdering—not to mention send me to jail for life.
What, then? Ring the doorbell and run? Throw pebbles at Karen’s window and recite sonnets to her?
I turn my face up to the rain to let the cold downpour clear my head further. If I wait any longer, Sal and his friends will arrive and I’ll have four footsoldiers to deal with instead of one.
Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.
I look at the house again and try to imagine the layout inside. There is one other lighted window on the second floor—an ornate, round window next to Karen’s—the kind of window that would most likely be at the end of an upstairs hallway, not in a bedroom. And where there’s an upstairs hallway, there will be a stairway nearby. I look down from the round window. Beneath it is a set of French doors, on the ground floor, which look out to a small patio.
I take the little automatic from my wet sock and check the magazine: seven rounds. I turn off the safety and put it back in my sock. The gun is wet, but wet guns will fire. I check the magazine in the Ruger tied to my thigh, and then check the Glock in my pocket. I turn off the safeties on both of them. I have four guns, with a total of forty rounds—including three left in the 500. Not to mention a bladed tire iron. An army of one.
You’re in way over your head, you stupid prick.
I am far from home, far from the fictional crimes on my word processor in my comfortable office inside my comfortable Manhattan apartment.
Am I really going to do this?
I think of Nicki, who is probably lost to me now. I think of Karen upstairs in bed, and of Melvin, in whatever bed he’s in, and of Sal, on his way back here with his pump and his two goons.
I take a breath, empty my head, and move out from behind the tree.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I run to the house through the rain and press against the brick next to the French doors. I look inside through the door beside me and see a dark dining room. It is large and formal, with a doorway to the foyer at the opposite end from me. In the foyer I can see the foot of a broad staircase.
I try the French doors, which are locked. I take up my tire iron and slide the bladed end between the matching brass mortise sets where the knobs meet. I wedge the blade in until it won’t go any further, then push gently on the tire iron. There is a soft crack when the wood starts to split, but it’s not loud enough to hear over the rain and the television in the back room. I wedge the blade deeper and push again and there is another crack. I push hard, praying there are no alarms, and the doors pop open with a final, loud CRACK. I close the doors and flatten myself against the outside of the house, the 500 raised, waiting.
No alarm. No lights. No bullets shatter the glass in the French doors.
I lean over and look into the dining room and see no one—no shadows in the doorway of the foyer—nothing moving.
I head to the back of the house and slide along the brick to the rear windows and see the man on the sofa. He sits with his legs up on the coffee table, draining a sixth beer and watching the game, his arms folded, eyes at half-mast. Dereliction of duty.
This can work. I can do this. In and out. Grab Karen and get the hell out of here. Quick.
I return to the French doors and open one of them and slip inside, closing the door behind me.
It is warm and dry in the dark dining room. I hear the ticking of a grandfather clock next to me, the faint sound of the soccer game from the back of the house, and the rain splattering outside on the flagstone patio.
I step onto the Persian rug beneath the dining room table and move toward the doorway to the foyer. I pass a large, rococo cabinet full of silver and china, and a painting of a racehorse on the wall next to it. I stop at the doorway and hear the TV more clearly from the back of the house. I lean my head around the doorway just enough to see down the hall, where the flickering light from the television plays across the carpet in the back room. I can’t see the sofa or the man who was seated on it.
I move across the foyer in five quick strides, then head up the stairs, staying on the edge of the carpet runner where the wooden treads are less likely to squeak. I reach the top of the stairs and turn left, toward the ornate, round window at the end of the hallway. The last doorway is on the right side of the hallway—the room where Karen is inside.
I stop at Karen’s door, keeping the gun aimed toward the stairs, then reach down and turn the doorknob and open the door and walk in.
Karen glances up when I enter the bedroom, then sits up suddenly, her eyes and mouth open wide with surprise.
“Jesus—” she says.
I put the barrel of the 500 to my lips.
“Shh.” I close the door softly.
She stares up at me. She is wearing pink sweatpants and a pink hoodie over a white T-shirt. She has thick white socks on her feet, which are tucked halfway under a heavy quilted blanket that is decorated with baby ducks.
“Put your shoes on,” I whisper. “Let’s go. Right now.”
She opens her mouth to speak.
“No talking,” I say. “Sal and the others are coming here for you. They’ll be here any second.” I pick up her Uggs from the floor and put them on the bed beside her. “We have to go now.”
She blinks at me and doesn’t move. I knew I would startle her, but I didn’t take into account that my appearance would heighten the effect—I am soaked, bleeding, covered with mud, carrying a giant handgun and a tire iron. I feel like Arnold Schwarzenegger at the end of Terminator 2.
She stares up at me, wide-eyed, frozen.
I hold out my hand to her.
“Come with me if you want to live,” I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It takes an excruciating full minute for her to get ready. I wait as she pulls on her Uggs, then goes to the closet and digs through clothes to select a jacket, then grabs a small, pink clutch. She pulls her hair back in a ponytail and wraps a white, fluffy elastic thing around it to keep it in place. When she turns to t
he mirror and starts adjusting her hair I reach up behind her and yank the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and turn her toward the door.
“Now,” I say, and take her by the arm and lead her to the door. I take out my cell and replace the battery and turn it on. LOW BATT appears on the screen, then the screen goes blank. The phone is dead.
Shit.
I turn it on again and the screen lights up with the LOW BATT message again, then the message goes away but the blinking green light on top of the phone tells me it’s still on. I make sure the ringer’s off, then stuff the phone under the mattress on the bed. I put the tire iron with it, take the Glock from my pocket, and move Karen behind me and turn the doorknob and look out into the empty hallway. I open the door wide and move out into the hall, keeping Karen behind me and the two guns in front of me.
We reach the stairway and I peer around the corner. I can’t see the entire foyer below but there is no one at the foot of the stairs.
I head down, leading Karen. We move slowly, trying not to make a sound. The front door comes into view.
Twenty feet and we’re out of here…
I don’t know where we’ll go once we’re out of the house, but anywhere is better than here.
Head for the hill, get down it, then over the fence, then…
We’re halfway down the stairs when I see them waiting for us.
CHAPTER FORTY
I see the guns first. Four of them, aimed at us from the dark doorway of the dining room. Sal with the pistol-grip pump, his two goons with their handguns, and the blonde soccer fan from the TV room with a compact submachine gun.
Standing behind them, in the darkness of the dining room, is Erlacher.
“Jaaack,” he says, drawing the word out and shaking his head with dismay. “You stupid fuck.”
Karen grabs the back of my wet shirt and holds herself close behind me. Both of my guns are aimed at the men below.
“Tried to warn you, buddy,” Erlacher says. “Karen, move away from him.”
Karen presses tighter against me.
“Kar-en,” Erlacher says, in a sing-song voice. She stays put.
Erlacher shakes his head like a disapproving parent. His demeanor is changed, yet again. He is calm and confident now. In charge.
“It’s over, honey,” Erlacher says. “Your dad can’t help you any more.”
I feel her trembling, pressed against me.
“Jack, put the guns down and move away from her,” Erlacher says.
I stand where I am, the 500 aimed at him, the Glock aimed at Sal.
Erlacher sighs.
“Alright,” he says. “Alex, take those guns from him.”
The giant with the catcher’s mitt hands moves across the foyer, his pistol aimed at me. I follow him with the Glock, keeping the 500 on Erlacher.
The giant moves up the first step, then the second, climbing slowly toward my gun, his gun aimed at me. It would be a Mexican standoff except there are three other guys ready to shoot me.
The giant takes one more step then stops, three stairs below us. His eyes are arctic blue and tiny, set deep inside his massive blonde head. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he kneels and aims up at me.
“I can get him from here and not hit the girl,” the giant says. His accent is Russian and thick.
“Sure?” Erlacher says.
“I’m sure,” the giant says. His gun is aimed under my chin, from below, where he kneels on the stair. His huge forefinger barely fits inside the trigger-guard on the pistol.
“Okie-doke,” Erlacher says. “Go for it.”
The giant’s finger tightens on the trigger and I shoot him in the eye with the Glock. He falls backward and slams on the foyer floor with a loud thwack.
Guns bristle and click and I turn to aim at the men below—
“NO,” Erlacher shouts.
Nobody moves, but I hear one of the men muttering in Russian—the blonde from the sofa.
“Jack,” Erlacher says. “I’m not gonna lie to you. You know you’re a dead man. It’s just a question of whether you want to take your daughter with you.”
I wait, praying that the phone under the mattress upstairs isn’t dead.
Come on, Wen, you scrawny little geek…
“Put the guns down and move away from her,” Erlacher says. “She’ll be okay. I told you, I’m gonna take care of her. And you won’t suffer. We’ll make it quick. Come on now, do the right thing. It’s the only way.”
Stall. Talk to him…
“How do I know you’ll take care of her?” I say.
“Dude. You’re not that stupid,” Erlacher says. “I went through some pretty amazing shit to protect her.”
“Why?”
“I told you why.”
“Karen, he said you were in love with him,” I say. “Is that true?”
“No,” Karen says, her voice muffled in my shirt. “I hate him.”
Sal says something in Russian to the sofa blonde. The blonde moves out from the doorway, trying to get an angle on me from the side. I train the Glock on him, keeping the 500 on Erlacher.
“I said NO,” Erlacher yells at the blonde, then glares at Sal and shakes his head. Sal looks pissed. I can see Erlacher’s hands now, which are empty.
“How much is he paying you, Sal?” I say.
Sal just stands there, aiming the pump at me.
“Enough to lose three of your guys? Four?” I say. I turn the 500 from Erlacher and aim it at Sal. “Enough to get your own head blown off? You know I’ll do it. I did it to your guys at the Bowl.”
“You don’t blow my head off,” Sal says, his accent thick Russian as well. “I blow yours off. Just like I blow off the head of your nehgr friend, the FBI.”
“So it was you,” I say. “Then I’ll make sure and shoot you first.”
“Guys, chill,” Erlacher says, like he’s quelling a squabble at a production meeting. “Victor, come back here. Stop screwing around, you’re gonna get her killed.”
Victor the soccer fan doesn’t move, except to place one hand on the ground to steady himself. Six beers he’s had, at least…
“I don’t think Victor cares,” I say. “Neither does Sal, do you, Sal?”
Sal doesn’t respond. I keep the guns on Sal and Victor. I can’t aim at both with any precision, so I keep my focus wide and aim at the center of mass on each of them, the way Melvin showed me on one of our excursions to Hogan’s Alley at FBI. It was great sport, but the cardboard targets didn’t shoot back.
Erlacher says something to Sal in a low, angry tone. Sal ignores him.
“I’m beginning to wonder who’s in charge here,” I say.
“I am,” Erlacher says. “C’mon, Jack. I’m not stupid, either. You called the cops and you’re playing for time. Well, time’s up. Put the guns down and move away from Karen and do it right now.”
“I’m also wondering why you’d go through all of this over a case of unrequited love, Elli. I’ve only known you to be a heartless prick.”
Erlacher stares at me, his tiny eyes blank, unreadable.
“You’re right,” he says. “I guess I let my emotions run away with me.”
“I didn’t think you had any.”
Erlacher stands still, looking at me hard. Then he shrugs.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ve done all I can do. Sal, spread your guys out. I don’t want her hit, understand?”
Sal doesn’t move.
“I said, understand?” Erlacher shouts at him.
Sal mutters something in Russian and Victor moves closer. Victor sways a little, then steadies himself with his hand on the floor again. The barrel of his gun points up at me, but it drifts a little, unsteady.
“If she dies, you die,” Erlacher says to Sal.
“Then pick up a gun and shoot,” Sal says. “One more gun is good. He can’t hit all of us.”
“Go for it, Elli,” I say. “I’ll make sure and shoot you before I shoot Sal.”
Erlacher stares
at me for what seems like forever. Then he throws his hands up in the air.
“Fuck it,” he says. “I’m outta here.”
He starts to back away, into the shadows of the dining room.
“I’m sorry, Karen,” Erlacher says. “I loved you. I really did.”
He leans a little, trying to see around me, to see Karen. She grips me so tight I can hardly breathe.
“I really did, you know,” he says again. His voice breaks and his eyes shine. Then he turns and walks away, into the dark dining room, and is gone.
“Try not to hit her,” he says from the darkness, and before he finishes the sentence I fire at Sal and Victor simultaneously—they both go down and I push Karen to the stairs and land on top of her as gunfire from the one remaining man blasts the balustrade and the wall over us. I fire back blindly, behind me, as I push Karen up the stairs with my shoulder and feel a scorching pain in my side and another in my hip before we reach the top of the stairs and scramble around the corner of the hallway.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Once we’re around the corner I stop and lean against the wall. The pain in my side and my hip overcome me and I am about to pass out. I try to bend over but the pain tears me apart. I grab Karen’s sleeve. I can’t breathe.
“My sock,” I say, forcing the words. “Gun.”
She kneels and takes the automatic from my sock, which is soaked with blood. I hear shuffling sounds from the foyer below.
“Go. Your room. Anyone comes…just pull the trigger.”
She hesitates, her eyes wide, terrified.
“You hurt?” I say. She shakes her head. She’s trembling all over. I give her a weak shove.
“Go.”
She runs to her room and closes the door.
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, near the corner of the stairway.
More shuffling sounds from below. I put the empty 500 down on the soft carpet and fumble with the Glock to check the magazine. My hands are shaking so hard I have to steady them with my forearms against the wall. Seven rounds left. I replace the magazine and jack a round into the chamber as quietly as I can. I lift my shirt and see a small entrance wound in my side, just below my rib cage. I feel around my back and find an exit wound—right through—
Killer In The Hills (A Jack Rhodes Mystery) Page 12
