Deadly Decisions

by Kathy Reichs

I turned away, but he cupped my chin and twisted my face to his. His beery breath made my stomach lurch.

  “She don’t look like such a ball buster to me.”

  I said nothing.

  “You out slummin’, plotte?”

  Ignoring the whore reference, I looked him straight in the eyes.

  With his free hand Tank fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. When it opened I could see the butt of a .38 tucked into his waistband. Fear slithered along my nerves.

  On the edge of my vision, I saw a man slide from a bar stool and move in our direction. He stepped close and gave Tank a shoulder-jab greeting.

  “Tabernouche, I could definitely get a bone on for this.”

  The man wore baggy black trousers, gold neck chains, and an open vest showing skin that was fish-belly white. Jailhouse art decorated his chest and arms, and wraparound shades covered his eyes. His muscles were swollen with steroids, and he spoke in heavily accented French.

  Tank released my chin and stepped back, staggering slightly.

  “She’s the bitch dug up Gately and Martineau.”

  Stay calm, I told myself.

  “You dig Pascal, sugar, you come up with something really big.”

  When Pascal removed his shades my fear escalated. His eyes had the bright, glazed look of omnipotence only meth or crack can bestow.

  Pascal reached toward me, and I yanked an arm free and parried his move.

  “What the fuck?” He glared at me, all pupil.

  “Somebody put this guy on his leash.” I said it with much more bravado than I felt.

  Pascal’s flush deepened and the muscles in his neck and arms corded.

  “Who the fuck is this bitch?”

  Again he reached for me. Again I knocked his hand away. I was almost numb with fear, but I couldn’t let them see it.

  “You probably come from a dysfunctional home where no one can spell the word polite, so the lack of manners may not be your fault. But don’t ever touch me again,” I hissed.

  “Sacré bl—” Pascal’s fingers balled into fists.

  “Want me to shoot her ass?” asked Tank, reaching for the .38.

  “Be cool, bitch, or these guys’ll leave your brains on a wall.” JJ giggled, shoved me forward, then melted into the crowd.

  I started to bolt, but Pascal grabbed and spun me, angling my arm up hard against my back. Pain shot to my shoulder, and tears blurred my vision.

  “Not in here, Pascal.” Rémi spoke in a low, bloodless voice. He’d positioned himself behind my assailant, the bat still on his shoulder. “Take it somewhere else.”

  “No problem.” Pascal wrapped an arm around my throat and pressed his body into mine. I felt something cold and hard against my neck.

  I flailed and twisted as best I could, but I was no match for the drugs pumping through his veins.

  “Allons-y,” Pascal snarled, half-pushing, half-dragging me toward the back of the bar. “This bitch is going to the opera.”

  “NO!” I PROTESTED, TERROR OVERCOMING MY RESOLVE TO STAY cool.

  One arm compressing my trachea, the other bending my elbow at an excruciating angle, Pascal drove me through the crowd. His blade jumped with each step, and I felt blood ooze down the side of my neck.

  Rage and fear rocketed my adrenaline, and my mind screamed conflicting orders.

  Do as he tells you!

  Don’t go with him!

  Frantic, I looked around for sources of help. The bartender just watched our progress, smoke curling across his face. Rockabilly music pounded from the jukebox. I heard catcalls and hoots, but the faces we passed were passive, carvings in apathy. No one showed interest in what happened to me.

  Don’t let him take you outside!

  I struggled and twisted, but my efforts were useless against Pascal’s strength. Increasing the pressure on my throat, he forced me out a back door and down a set of metal steps. Bootfalls told me Tank was right behind.

  When my feet hit gravel, I took a deep breath, ducked and twisted, but Pascal only tightened his choke hold. Desperate, I dipped my chin and bit his hand with all the strength my jaws could muster.

  Pascal bellowed and threw me to the ground. I scrabbled through soggy wrappers, condoms, beer caps, and cigarette butts, my stomach curdling at the smell of sludge and urine, trying to unzip the pocket that held the Mace.

  “No such fucking luck,” Pascal snarled, coming down hard with a boot to my back.

  My chest slammed into gravel. Air burst from my lungs, and white light exploded in my brain.

  Scream!

  My thorax was on fire. I couldn’t make a sound.

  The boot withdrew, then I heard footsteps, and a car door opening. Gasping for air, I started hitching forward, elbows and knees sliding in the reeking mud.

  “Is today the day, cunt?”

  Feeling a gun barrel against my temple, I froze. Tank’s face was so close I could smell his breath again.

  I heard boots on gravel.

  “Your limo’s here, bitch. Tank, get her fuckin’ feet.”

  Rough hands lifted me like a rolled carpet. I squirmed and bucked as best I could, but it did no good. Panicked now, I cast desperate looks up and down the alley. There was no one in sight.

  Stars and rooftops wheeled out of sight as I was turned and thrown into a car. Tank climbed in back, placed a boot across my shoulders, and forced my face into the carpet. Smells of dust, dried wine, stale smoke, and vomit sent a wave of nausea through my body.

  Doors slammed, tires spun, and the car sped down the alley.

  I was trapped! I was suffocating!

  I maneuvered my hands to shoulder level and raised my head. The boot lifted, and a heel struck my back.

  “Make a sound and you get a bullet up your ass.” Tank’s voice had grown hard, less slurry than in the bar.

  With the booze and pills to stoke their ordinarily malevolent dispositions, I had no doubt these men would kill me without a hitch in their thoughts. Don’t provoke them while there’s no opportunity for escape, I thought. Look for an opening. I lowered my head and waited.

  Pascal drove erratically, hitting the gas and brake pedals with quick, jerky movements. The car rolled and lurched, intensifying my nausea. Unable to see out, I counted the stops and turns, trying to memorize the route.

  When we stopped, Tank’s boot withdrew, and doors opened and slammed. I heard voices, then the back door opened again. Pascal grabbed my arms and dragged me from the car.

  As I struggled for balance my gaze fell on Tank, and a wave of terror traveled up my spine. He held the .38 aimed directly at my head. His eyes gleamed black in the pale pink of the streetlight, feral with anticipation. I resisted the impulse to beg, knowing my pleas would only fuel his blood lust.

  Pascal shoved me up a short walk toward a building with a green roof and brick exterior wall. When he withdrew a key, unlocked the gate, and pushed me through, my painfully constructed calm crumbled.

  Run! Don’t go inside!

  “No!”

  “Move your ass, bitch.”

  “Please no!” My pulse beat at a ferocious pace.

  I tried to plant my feet against the advance, but Pascal forced me across the courtyard toward the house. Tank followed closely. I could feel his gun on the back of my head, and knew escape was impossible.

  “What do you want from me?” I was almost sobbing.

  “All you got and then some, bitch,” Pascal snarled. “Shit you ain’t even dreamed of.”

  He spoke into an intercom. I heard a metallic voice followed by a click, then he shouldered open the steel-reinforced door and pushed me inside.

  There are moments in life when it seems clear the wrap-up is at hand. Your heart pounds and your blood pressure rises, but you know the blood will soon be spilled, never to flow again. Your mind flip-flops between an urge to launch one last desperate effort and a sense of resignation, a desire to just give in.

  I’ve had this feeling a time or two, but never as vividly
as at that moment. As Pascal shoved me down the hall, I knew with certainty I would not leave that house alive. My brain opted for furious action.

  I turned and drove my fist as hard as I could into Pascal’s face. I felt something crunch, but swung back with my elbow and brought it up under his chin. Pascal’s head flew back and I slipped below his arm and bolted through a doorway on my left.

  I found myself in a game room similar to that at the Vipers’ clubhouse in St-Basile-le-Grand. Same bar. Same neon art. Same video monitors. The only difference was that these were working, throwing a cool blue light over the bar and its occupants.

  I ran to the far side of the pool table, grabbed a cue in one hand, and fumbled for the Mace with my other, my eyes searching for any door or window.

  Two men sat at the bar, another stood behind it. All three had turned at the sound of Pascal’s roar. They watched me tear across the room, then shifted their attention back to the door when Pascal burst through it.

  “I’ll kill that little bucket of shit! Where the fuck is she?”

  Light from the neon sign angled obliquely across Pascal’s face, deepening the furrows and casting shadows across his eyes and cheeks.

  “Hold it right there.”

  The voice was low and hard as quartz, and stopped Pascal dead. The sound of the outer door suggested Tank had opted out of further involvement. I stole a look at the man who had spoken.

  He wore a double-breasted tan suit with a pale peach shirt and matching tie. His skin was tanning-booth bronze, and he probably paid his hairstylist eighty dollars per visit. Large rings adorned each of his hands.

  It was the man beside him who caused my heart to stop.

  Andrew Ryan wore black jeans, boots, and a gray sweatshirt with the arms razored off. The muscles in his face looked hard and tense, and stubble roughened his cheeks and chin.

  Ryan’s eyes met mine and the flesh underneath tensed slightly, then he looked away.

  I felt heat rise up my neck and spread across my cheeks. My legs trembled, and I leaned into the pool table to steady myself.

  After several seconds Ryan swiveled on his bar stool and stretched his legs in my direction. A smirk spread across his face.

  “Well, if it ain’t shit for brains.”

  “You know this fuckin’ cunt?” Pascal’s voice trembled with rage. Blood trickled from his nose, and he wiped it on his sleeve.

  “It’s Dr. Too Goddam Many Degrees,” Ryan said, drawing a pack from his pocket and tapping out a Marlboro.

  The others watched as Ryan placed the cigarette between his lips, drew a wooden match from under the cellophane, lit up, and exhaled.

  So did I. Ryan’s hands looked so familiar on the match and cigarette I felt tears behind my lids. My chest gave a small heave.

  Why is he here?

  Ryan took his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, upended the matchstick between his teeth, then arched and sent it winging across the room toward me. I watched the match drop onto green felt, and fury exploded inside me.

  “You turncoat bastard! You contemptible son of a bitch! Read my lips, Ryan. Drop dead!”

  “See what I mean.” Pascal wiped his nose again. “We’re gonna teach this cunt some manners.”

  “Bad idea,” said Ryan, taking a long drag.

  The man in the gabardine suit stared at the side of Ryan’s face. Several long seconds passed. The tension in the room was enough to launch arrows. Then, “Why do you say that?” he asked quietly.

  “She’s a cop.” Another drag. “And the cops already have a two-by-four up Pascal’s ass for exactly this kind of shit.”

  “So? You got no balls?” Pascal challenged.

  Ryan blew smoke out both nostrils.

  “Here’s the news flash, asshole. You’ve already screwed up big time messing up one of your tramps, and now you drag a cop in here. You mess up a cop, particularly a dame, and the whole force comes screaming up your butt. Now, you may not mind taking the bounce for Goldilocks here, but the rest of us sure as hell will. All the shit we have in the works goes into the deep freeze while the cops dissect us top to bottom.”

  Pascal looked at Ryan, his eyes blazing with fury and speed.

  “The fucking bitch hit me! I’m gonna tear her a new asshole.” The muscles in his face jumped and his eye and mouth twitched.

  The man in the suit continued to study Ryan, his face devoid of expression. Then he turned to Pascal.

  “No,” he said calmly. “You are not.”

  Pascal started to bluster, but Ryan held up a hand.

  “You want to bloody her up? Watch this.”

  Walking to the end of the bar, Ryan snatched a red plastic bottle, circled the pool table, and held it over me. Then he squeezed, making circular movements with his hand. I didn’t budge.

  “Read that, Shakespeare.” He slammed the bottle onto the table.

  I looked down. Ketchup swirled across my shirt. As my eyes crawled back to Ryan’s face, words eddied in my head I knew I wouldn’t use.

  The smirk was gone, and for a long moment the Viking blues held mine. Then Ryan’s gaze left me and slid back to Pascal.

  “This party’s over.”

  “The party’s over when I say it is.” Pascal’s pupils were wider than a sewer main. He appealed to Ryan’s companion.

  “This puke can’t talk to me like that. He’s not ev—”

  “But I can. This party’s over. Now get the fuck out of here.” Barely above a whisper.

  Pascal’s brow furrowed, and a vein bulged along his temple. With one last “Sonovabitch!” he turned and exited the room.

  The man in the gabardine suit watched in silence as Ryan swung back to me.

  “You keep your sorry ass, slut, but don’t get any wrong ideas. This wasn’t for you.” He emphasized each word with a jab to my chest. “For all I care you could be upstairs doing the dirty boogie on all fours with Pascal. And take note.”

  He stood so close I could smell his perspiration, a scent as familiar as my own body.

  “Tonight’s adventure is one big black hole in your memory bank. It didn’t happen.” He grabbed my hair and pulled my face to his. “You talk, and I’ll personally lead Pascal to you.”

  He released me with a shove to the chest, and I staggered backward.

  “We’ll buzz the gate. Now disappear.”

  Ryan rejoined the man at the bar, sucked once on his cigarette, then flipped the butt against the stainless steel below the counter.

  As I watched the spray of sparks, I felt something inside me curl into a cold, hard ball.

  Without a word I lay down the pool cue, and fled on shaking legs. Outside the gate, I finally got the Mace out of my pocket and in a venting of frustration, humiliation, relief, and rage, I turned and sprayed the house. Sobbing, teeth chattering, I clutched the cylinder to my chest and bolted into the dark.

  • • •

  The clubhouse was less than six blocks from La Taverne des Rapides, and, after half-stumbling, half-running that distance, it did not take long to find my car. Once inside, I locked the doors, then sat a moment, legs trembling, hands shaking uncontrollably, my mind numb. I took a deep breath and forced myself to move with slow, deliberate motions. Belt. Ignition. Shift. Gas.

  Though lightning flickered, and raindrops battered the windshield, I broke all speed laws getting home. My thoughts were chaos.

  Ryan had given his companion sound advice. An outlaw enterprise needs a strong reason to mess up even an adjunct cop like me. Retribution would be powerful and the organization would be out of business for an extended time. Unless the cop was wreaking major havoc, it made no sense and the man in the suit had understood that. But what about Ryan? Had sound consigliere advice been his sole motive?

  What had just taken place? Had I stumbled onto Ryan in his new life? Was he there as a member of the pack, or did he have other motives? What did his actions mean? Had he humiliated me as a message that his past life was done and he now belonged to the
other side, or had he done it as part of a scene designed to get me out of there safely? Had he put himself at risk?

  I knew I should report the incident. But what would be gained? Carcajou knew of the clubhouse, no doubt had files on Pascal and Tank.

  Carcajou. Claudel and Quickwater. My stomach knotted. What would they say when they learned how I’d literally thrown myself in jeopardy? Would the incident reinforce Claudel’s desire to have me removed as liaison to the unit?

  What if Ryan was undercover? Could a police report threaten his cover?

  I didn’t have answers, but I made a choice. Regardless of the man’s motives, I would do nothing to hurt Andrew Ryan. If the slightest chance existed that an incident report could harm him, I would make no report. Tomorrow I would decide, I thought.

  When I got home Kit’s door was closed, but I could hear music through the wall.

  Good call, Auntie. This is why you’re not a cop.

  I threw my clothes on a chair and dropped into bed. As I did so, the thought hit me. What if Pascal had taken me someplace else? Sleep came much, much later.

  THE NEXT MORNING I SLEPT LATE, FINALLY WAKING AROUND TEN, sore and achy. I spent the morning nursing myself with aspirin, tea, and hot baths, fighting off flashbacks to the night before. Though I had bruises on my legs and back, and a small cut on my neck, my face had escaped largely unmarked. After a late lunch I applied extra makeup, chose a turtleneck sweater, then went into the lab and spent the day on routine matters. I made no report.

  When I got home Kit and I had a quiet dinner. He had no questions about my previous night’s outing, and I assumed he was unaware that I’d been gone. I did not bring up his storming out, and he offered no explanation.

  After dinner I decided to do laundry. Pulling the basket from the bedroom closet, I added the clothing I’d worn the night before. I sorted, then loaded the washer, holding back items requiring special treatment. My stomach tightened when I lifted the shirt with the ketchup blotch, the scene still vivid in my mind.

  I spread the shirt and began spraying the stain, the product jingle for the spot remover bouncing through my head.

  I’ll Shout you out, you sonovabitch. I squeezed the handle. Phhht!