“I think I’ve got splinters in my keister,” Mom says.
I cry in relief, give Mom a hug. The shooting stops.
“Latham!” At the top of my lungs.
“I’m okay!”
Thank God.
“I’m okay too!” Harry yells. “If anyone cares!”
I use a Dixie cup to get my mom some water from the sink. Then I holler at Harry, “Where’s Alex?”
“Don’t you care that I’m okay?”
I use the scissors on my legs, cutting away the tape.
“Dammit, Harry, do you see her?”
“I don’t see her. But her gun is in pieces.”
I stare down at my wrists. My handcuff keys are in my purse, in the kitchen. But I have extra handcuff keys, and an extra gun, in my bedroom. Unfortunately, it’s a handgun, and won’t help against the psychos outside. But it will help against the psycho in the house.
“Stay here!” I order my mother.
Then I rush out into the hallway, and bump right into Alex.
She stands there, hand bleeding, eyes wild, apparently unconcerned that she might get shot at any moment.
I still have the scissors. I thrust them at her, and she grabs my wrist with one hand and swings at me with the other, a round house punch. I bunch up and take it on the shoulder, then jerk my head forward, aiming for her nose.
I connect solidly, and Alex releases me, staggering back, hitting the hallway wall directly behind her. We face each other. A bullet whips through the small space between us.
“Lock the door!” I scream at my mother.
“Jack…”
“Dammit, Mom! Listen to me!”
I hear the door close, feel it press against my back. A bullet digs into the ceiling, raining bits of plaster on Alex and me. Her face twists in a half smile.
“What are you going to do with those scissors?” she asks. “Give me a haircut?”
I have other ideas. Gripping the scissors with both hands, I hold them before me like a sword, and feint a poke. She moves to dodge the fake attack, and I launch my real attack—a spin kick aimed at her ribs. Alex spins away and I miss, my foot making a dent in the wall.
“Jack!” Harry yells. “I think Alex is in the hall!”
I turn around, feel a breeze, and blink as a bullet passes in front of my face. Alex kicks my wrists and the scissors go flying. I throw myself at her, driving my shoulder into her side, using all of my 135 pounds.
Alex stumbles, falls. I sprint for my bedroom at the end of the hall. I open the door and see my cat, Mr. Friskers, sitting on the remains of a down pillow, surrounded by feathers. We keep him locked up in the bedroom because he has the tendency to destroy things and attack people. The shooting must have agitated him, because all the hair on his back is sticking straight up, as is his tail.
I keep one eye on the kitty—he isn’t an animal you turn your back on—and head for the closet.
Alex tackles me from behind, driving me to the floor. She lands on top, and she forces her arm under my chin, around my neck, and begins to squeeze.
It’s like having my head in a noose. I can’t take a breath and everything gets blurry. I look to my right, see Mr. Friskers staring. Apparently my looming death doesn’t interest him, because he trots out of the room. I look left, see a bunch of stuff under my bed, all of it covered with dust, none of it useful.
Alex lets up a bit on the choke hold—I guess she doesn’t want to kill me yet. I still can’t pull free, but I’m able to lower my chin just enough to clamp my jaws on her forearm.
She yelps. I bite. She pulls away. I twist onto my side, make my fingers stiff, and shove them into her kidney.
Alex grunts, rolling off of me. We both get to our feet, Alex cradling her bleeding arm. I’ve bitten pretty deep. Her eyes narrow to slits, and her scar tissue flushes bright pink.
“Is that what you got your black belt in?” Alex says. “Biting?”
“No.”
I pivot my hips, whip my leg around, and reverse-kick her upside the head. She staggers, but doesn’t fall. I follow it up with a flying kick, knocking her backward over my bed.
“Hey, Jackie!” Harry calls. “Is your cat friendly?”
My extra handcuff keys are in the jewelry box, on the dresser behind her. My gun is in the closet, zippered up in my shooting bag. If I go for the gun, there’s a chance Alex might wrestle it away from me before I get it out. But if I leave the room, she might go searching for it.
Alex stands up. I tug open the closet door, grab the bag, and head for the door.
“JESUS CHRIST! THE CAT HAS MY JOHNSON!”
A shot comes through my bedroom window, making a hole in my sleeve but missing my arm. Alex and I both drop to the floor. I take the opportunity to unzip my bag, and Alex gets onto all fours, poised to come at me. I toss the bag onto the bed, into the line of fire. The sniper proves my hypothesis by shooting the bag. Alex doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I. Instead, I scramble for the door.
“HE’S BITING ME! HE’S BITING ME!”
I feel her hand brush my ankle. I twist free and run in a crouch. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.
Mr. Friskers has latched on to Harry’s crotch. Harry is unsuccessfully trying to yank him off.
“Don’t pull,” I say, running past. “It just makes him dig in.”
“HE’S GOT THE TWINS!”
Harry tugs on the cat’s tail, which Mr. Friskers really hates. He becomes a blur of fur and claws, hissing and scratching as Harry screams.
I search the floor for my purse, find it, dump the contents.
My handcuff key. I snatch it up just as Alex appears in the kitchen.
Two more shots ping through the windows, both of them hitting the fridge. Rather than duck down, it looks like Harry is trying to stick his groin in front of the bullets.
Then Alex pounces, coming at me low, arms outstretched and eyes crazed.
I go at her even lower, aiming for her ankles. I hook my elbow around her foot, tripping her, then roll to the side, bumping up against the dishwasher. I still have the handcuff key. I fumble with it, trying to find the keyhole.
Another shot, very close to Harry. Mr. Friskers screeches, jumping high enough to hit the ceiling. He lands on the floor and streaks out of the kitchen, apparently having had enough. Harry, bleeding and pissed off, points a finger at me.
“Why would you have a cat like that? Why?”
I get the key in, turn it.
My hand pops free. I yank open the dishwasher, intent on grabbing a knife.
Alex kicks the dishwasher door closed, and I barely escape with my arm. I thrust the knife, stabbing at her leg, and realize I have a spoon instead. She hits me with a right cross that brings the stars out, but I’ve been hit harder and I gather up a handful of her shirt and deliver an uppercut that sends the bitch staggering.
Then I’m on my feet. On my feet, hands free, angry as hell. I swing lefty, not making a fist, catching her just above the eyes with the handcuffs hanging from my wrist. I open up a gash on her forehead, and the blood trickles into her eyes, making it hard for Alex to see.
I scan the countertop, see the apple pie. I pick it up, still steaming hot, and chuck it at Alex’s head.
She ducks. The pie hits Harry, in the groin.
“JESUS CHRIST, IT BURNS!”
He slaps at the apples, which must only add to his discomfort. I fly back to the counter, grab the coffeemaker, and bounce it off Alex’s chest. Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I’m not aiming to knock her out. I’m aiming to knock off her fucking head.
I release the cord. Alex puts up her hand to protect her head, and both her hand and the toaster smash into her face. Somehow she stays on her feet. I charge at her, snarling, ready to tear her throat out with my bare hands.
But before I can get to her the kitchen becomes a firing range, bullets zinging into cabinets and countertops. Glasses and plates s
hatter, pots and pans ding-dong with ricochets. Alex and I kneel on the ground and cover our heads, and McGlade pulls food and drawers and shelves out of the refrigerator as fast as he can, trying to fit himself inside, which is like trying to stuff a pot roast into a tube sock.
“Jack!” Mom cries from the bathroom. It’s a cry of concern, not pain.
“Stay there, Mom!”
The shooting eases up again. I look around for something to hit Alex with, and then I glance up and she’s standing over me, holding up the tabletop micro wave oven, ready to cave my skull in.
“Hey, pork chop face!” Harry says.
Alex turns.
“Got milk?” Harry asks. Then he smacks her in the head with a full jug of moo juice, hitting her so hard that she spins 360 degrees before sprawling out onto her back.
Her eyes are closed. She’s out cold.
Harry points to the milk all over the floor.
“Now promise me you won’t be crying over this, Jack.”
I can’t help myself. I have to grin at that.
“I promise, Harry.”
“Good. Now bring me that goddamn cat. I want my foreskin back.”
9:08 P.M.
HERB
“WHERE IN THE HELL is your partner?”
Herb stares at Blake Crouch, Chicago’s deputy chief, and says, “I don’t know.”
Crouch resembles a mole, with a long, sharp nose and tiny black eyes. Came from out of state, so he didn’t rise up through the ranks like much of the brass. Because of this, Herb suspects, Crouch thought he had to be a hard-ass to gain respect. Hence his nickname, Deputy Grouch. Someone needed to lecture this man about flies and honey and vinegar. Someone other than Herb, who spent an hour getting stitches in his leg and then even longer tap dancing with the Grouch in the ER, waiting for Jack to return.
Herb had called Jack on her cell and at home, several times each. No answer. Which worries him. Jack is the poster girl for being responsible. Being incommunicado isn’t like her at all.
“I’m going to send a team to the lieutenant’s apartment,” the Grouch says. “If I find out she’s deliberately hiding something…”
Herb shakes his head, his jowls wiggling.
“She’s not hiding anything, sir. It went down like I said.”
“I still need her statement. There’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling the wagons.”
Herb has no idea what that means, and he guesses the Grouch doesn’t either. But he can’t let the deputy chief find out that Jack lives outside the city.
“She’s not at her apartment,” Herb says. “She’s with her mother. Her elderly, sickly mother.”
“Her mother is sick?” the Grouch asks.
“Very sick.”
“Which hospital is she in? I can meet—”
“She’s sick in the head,” Herb says.
“Is it pyromania?” the Grouch asks.
“Huh?”
“I had an aunt with pyromania. She’d knit sweaters, then set them on fire.”
Herb tries to judge if the Grouch is being funny, but he sees a tear in the corner of the man’s eye.
“I think she’s just failing mentally,” Herb says. “Jack ran out to the suburbs to check on her.”
“Do you know where?”
Herb shakes his head. The Grouch gets in close, so close his pointy nose almost touches Herb’s. Herb rears back slightly, afraid he’ll lose an eye.
“I will bring your partner before a disciplinary committee if I don’t hear from her within the hour. So if you have any clue where she might be, Sergeant, I suggest you find her.”
“Jack saved lives today,” Herb says, his voice steady.
“I don’t care if she saved the mayor’s daughter from being eaten by sharks…”
What is with this guy and sharks?
“…I want her debriefed right now. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Herb says.
The Grouch backs off a few feet.
“Good. Now I’ve got to talk to the media. They’re having a field day with their cockamamie theories.”
“Are they jumping the shark?” Herb asks innocently.
The Grouch doesn’t respond, already walking away from Herb’s hospital bed. Herb looks for nurses, then discreetly picks up his cell phone, which isn’t allowed in the ER. He can’t reach Jack at either number.
Herb knows his partner well. If Jack’s phones are off, that means something really serious is happening, something so serious it is making Jack neglect her responsibility here. Though Herb made up the story about Jack’s mother failing mentally, he knows she has some health problems. Could that be what’s taking Jack so long?
Herb tries the two hospitals nearest to Jack’s suburban home. Neither has admitted Mary Streng, or any elderly Jane Doe. He calls Dispatch, has them check suburban 911 calls. While he’s on hold, he digs into his pocket stock and eats a power bar. For energy. He considers drinking the bag full of bran-fortified breakfast shake, but dismisses the idea. Dispatch comes back, informs Herb there haven’t been any calls from Jack’s house.
The Novocain numbness makes it difficult to put his pants back on because he can’t feel if his leg is in the hole, and he can’t really see it either, thanks to a belly forged by de cades of poor dietary choices. But he manages, and then he straps on his empty holster—IA took his gun to rule out friendly fire from the crime scene—and puts his jacket on.
Then Sergeant Herb Benedict heads to the suburbs to find his partner.
9:09 P.M.
MUNCHEL
JAMES MICHAEL MUNCHEL takes another sip of Gatorade from his canteen, wipes the sweat off his eye, and peers through the scope again. So far, he’s been the lucky one. He has the kitchen covered, and that’s where most of the action has taken place.
From what he’s figured out, the tall bitch with the messed-up face is causing all sorts of problems for the female cop, the guy next to the refrigerator is stuck there because he has some kind of James Bond mechanical hand that won’t let go, and there’s a cat in the house in serious need of a distemper shot.
Munchel could have ended it for all of them, at any time. But he didn’t. He made sure his shots came close without hitting any of the targets. Scaring them, but not wounding them. He’s having too much fun for this to end.
That tight-ass Swanson is looking to kill everyone, then high tail it out of here, quick and dirty. But this should be savored. There’s a real-life drama going on inside the cop’s house. It’s far more interesting than Munchel’s everyday life, punching a clock at the English muffin factory. Munchel is the gluer there. His job, for eight mind-numbing hours from ten p.m. until six a.m., five days a week, is to add glue chips to the melter, which is then picked up by the roller, which paints glue on the flat cardboard blanks prior to them being folded into muffin packages. His work is literally about as much fun as watching glue dry.
He’s going to miss his shift to night. Maybe he’ll even be fired. But he doesn’t care. Right now he feels like he’s watching a movie. No, like he’s starring in a movie. Starring in it and directing it. He decides who dies first, who dies last. He has the power.
“Did you hit anyone yet?” Swanson, through the radio.
“Negative,” Pessolano answers.
Munchel hits the talk button. “I came close. They’re hiding. Don’t have a shot.”
He squints through the scope. The chick cop is right in his crosshairs. All he needs to do is pull the trigger, and it’s game over.
But where’s the challenge in that?
That gives Munchel an idea. A way to make this even more interesting, and to get the same adrenaline rush he got in Ravenswood. But he needs to get back to Pessolano’s pickup truck, which is parked in the woods half a mile away.
“I gotta take a leak,” he tells the guys. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Then Munchel stands up, stretches, and heads off to get another rifle.
9:10 P.M.<
br />
JACK
AFTER A SEMI-FRANTIC SEARCH I find the handcuff key on the kitchen counter. I unlock the remaining bracelet, drag Alex across the floor by her hair, and secure her wrists around the U pipe under the sink.
“See if she’s got my battery pack in her pocket,” Harry says.
I don’t like touching Alex—even restrained and unconscious she frightens me. But when I reach for her pocket she doesn’t leap up, break free, and then plunge a knife into my chest. She just lies there, unmoving. I locate the bulge in the front of her pants and tug out Harry’s battery. Well, a few pieces of it.
“Shit hell damn,” Harry says. “Kick her in the head, from me.”
“Can’t you pry open your hand?
“Yeah, why didn’t I think of that? Then I could have actually tried to hide, rather than just squat here like an idiot.”
I frown. “Maybe we could pull off the handle.”
“I already tried. Who the hell made this fridge? Brinks?”
Harry reaches inside, helps himself to one of my Goose Island India Pale Ales.
“Latham!” I call to the living room. “We got Alex subdued. You holding up okay?”
My honey answers affirmatively, but his voice is weak.
“How about you, Mom?”
“I’m good. Did you punch her lights out?”
“Harry did.”
“Nice job, Harry!”
“Thanks! But your daughter hit me in the dumplings with a hot pie.”
“Jacqueline!” Mom scolds. “Why did you do that?”
“It was an accident, Mom.”
“Did you apologize?”
I mutter, “Sorry, Harry.”
“She didn’t sound sincere!” Harry tells my mom.
I roll my eyes, then fish out a bag of peas from the freezer. I hold it to my sore chin and consider the situation.
Alex, for the moment, is secure. We have no cell phone ser vice, which means the snipers are jamming the signal. My landline is also out. Since my home phone goes through my cable connection, I assume my cable Internet is gone too.
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