by John Lutz
Sometimes.
Sherman was waiting and ready. He was surprised by how fast the cop got there, but his gun was held high, in both hands, and the cop was slightly off balance from kicking open the door. It would be instantaneous, but Sherman knew he had the instant.
The gun in the cop’s hands couldn’t drop fast enough to sight in on Sherman. And Sherman wasn’t at all distracted by the noise. Now noise of any kind was no longer a factor.
He squeezed off two shots even before the cop’s gun was at shoulder level, their combined roar drowning out that of the cop before he dropped lifeless to the floor.
The damaged door was wide open now, the doorway framing Mom sitting upright in shock in bed.
Gun in one hand, knife in the other, Sherman vaulted the fallen cop who had half a face and ran toward her.
Quinn and Pearl paused when they saw the fleeting figure burst from the bathroom. They knew it wasn’t Allsworth.
Still, they’d been caught by surprise and they stood paralyzed.
Sherman almost made it to the foot of the bed.
Pearl fired first, and kept firing. Beside her, Quinn opened up with his ancient police special revolver, feeling it buck like something alive in his hands.
Sherman took two sideways, wobbly steps and stopped as if in confusion. His gun slipped from his grasp. His legs trembled, and he dropped to a kneeling position.
Pearl lowered her gun. She felt weak and thought she might drop like Sherman. The Butcher.
She swallowed the coppery residue of fear beneath her tongue and found her resolve.
Work to do.
Damn it! Work to do!
The bedroom was suddenly full of noise and motion, Neeson, Jeb, the uniform from the landing.
They diverted attention only for a second.
Neeson was pointing. “He’s up!”
And Sherman was up, moving like a zombie, propelled by sheer will, knife raised, lurching toward Myrna, who seemed too shocked, or mesmerized, to move.
Quinn knew they’d never be able to react in time. Sherman would reach her, stab her, and probably kill her.
Even as he thought this, there was a deafening roar and Sherman spun away, spraying blood across the room.
He lay motionless and silent in the reverberation of the shotgun’s thunder, blown almost in half by the massive force of the gun at such close range.
Jeb, racing toward his mother the moment he’d entered the room, had reached the shotgun in time to save her life.
Everyone stood motionless, more in awe and exhaustion than shock. The handcuffs Pearl was about to clamp on Sherman still dangled from her hand.
After the incredible flurry of motion and noise, the only sound now was the regular hissing of heavy breathing.
Until a thud, clatter, and yelp of horror from the bathroom.
Gun at the ready, Quinn moved to the door and peered inside.
Wormy.
71
Myrna lay curled into a ball near the headboard, where she’d waited for almost certain death. She looked small there, and vulnerable.
Harmless.
She smoothed her hair back from her eyes, then climbed out of bed and stood with her arms crossed tightly across her body, squeezing herself as if for reassurance that she still existed. But she no longer appeared to be in shock. Her deep-set dark eyes were moving about slowly, taking everything in, assessing. When they met Quinn’s gaze she averted them and stared at her son Jeb, who was standing over his dead brother, obviously distraught by what he’d done. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Tension had suddenly drained from the room, leaving the acrid stench of cordite, the reverberations of gunfire, and a heavy sadness. The air seemed weighted and stilled by death.
Jeb wasn’t quite sobbing, but Quinn thought the convulsive breakdown might come at any second. And who could blame Jeb? He’d just saved his mother’s life by killing his brother. The two brothers might not have met before tonight, but they were of the same blood. Quinn knew from other homicides what a devastating effect that could have. It wasn’t like killing an unconnected stranger, which was enough of a horror in itself.
He moved toward Jeb. “You did the right thing,” he said softly, but Jeb seemed not to hear.
Instead he looked over at his mother, still standing hugging herself.
He racked another round into the shotgun, brought the barrel up, and swung it around to point at Myrna.
She saw it and knew it was too late and knew what was coming. She stood taller, dropping her arms and staring defiantly at her son.
Quinn’s gun had barely cleared his shoulder holster. Around him he sensed the sudden uncoordinated motion of the others redrawing or raising their weapons.
The shotgun fired first, filling the room again with thunder, and Myrna flew back against the wall, bouncing in the corner as she went down.
Quinn wasn’t looking at her. He’d been concentrating on Jeb beyond his gun sight, like the others in the room, praying he could get off enough shots in time to stop him. Watching Jeb do the same awkward dance his brother Sherman had done as the bullets tore into him.
When he was down, Pearl reached him first. She kicked the shotgun away, under the bed, so hard it felt as if she’d broken a toe.
Jeb could see only white ceiling at first, and then watched the dark forms advance toward him. They still seemed afraid and were keeping their weapons aimed at him. He would have tried to reassure them only he didn’t have enough strength. What he’d had to do was done.
He was thinking about the swamp of the past, how you could never escape it entirely. It was always with you, awake or asleep, tooth and claw. And eventually���
A voice from far away: “She’s dead. Shotgun from that range, there’s not much left.”
The big cop, Quinn, was bending over him, blocking the light, saying something.
“Why’d you do it? Why kill your mother?”
The big man’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, puzzled. Jeb felt compelled to answer, and he knew there wasn’t much time.
“When Mom and I lived in Louisiana,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “we were dirt poor. Lived by the swamp. We took in boarders.”
“What?” Quinn asked, kneeling to get closer, still puzzled.
Instead of answering, Jeb started to close his eyes. They didn’t make it all the way.
“He’s gone,” Pearl said.
“Holy Mary!” one of the cops said. “Shot his own mother.”
Quinn looked down into Jeb’s half-closed eyes, as if there might be an explanation there. But nothing was there, no one behind the eyes.
Quinn sighed and straightened up. He could hear sirens outside, one of them nearby that abruptly ended its shrill singsong yodel below in the street. They’d be on their way up soon. More uniforms, plainclothes cops, a crime scene unit, paramedics, the medical examiner, all to shape the wild violence and death that had occurred here into something categorized, comprehensible, and not nearly so horrifying-on the surface. Cop world.
“What did he tell you?” Pearl asked.
“I don’t know. Something about being poor in Louisiana and taking in boarders.”
“Boarders?”
“I have no idea what he meant. Maybe he didn’t, either. He was shutting down.”
“Long time ago,” Pearl said. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
Quinn looked down and saw blood on the toe of his shoe, from when he’d knelt over Jeb.
“Guess not,” he said.
72
It was late the next afternoon when they found themselves driving back to the office in Quinn’s Lincoln. The sun was still hot, and traffic was beginning to build, but Quinn knew the rhythm of movement and alternate routes in the maze that was his city, so they were making good time.
There was still plenty of work to do. It would take them a few days to clear everything out and officially close the file. And of course they’d have to handle the media, though they
could put that off for a while, maybe avoid some of it altogether. Just maybe. The media had tumbled to where the office was and would be lying in wait for them there.
“What next?” Quinn asked.
“Goddamned paparazzi,” Pearl said.
“I mean after all of that?”
Fedderman, in the backseat, said, “I’m going back to Florida. Maybe take up fishing again.”
“What about golf?”
“Screw golf.”
Quinn avoided a pothole and smiled. “I hope it works out this time.”
“If it doesn’t, there’s always hunting.”
“You’ve already done that,” Pearl said.
Quinn glanced over at her. “You, Pearl?”
“I don’t golf or fish.” When no one commented, she said, “I think I can get my job back at the bank.”
She thought Quinn might try talking her out of it, maybe even hoped he’d try, but he remained silent, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Mister Mt. Rushmore. She understood his silence and it made her angry.
He doesn’t think he needs to talk me out of it. Doesn’t think I can do it. That I can live a quiet life and stay away. The bastard doesn’t understand.
“What about you, Quinn?” Fedderman asked from the backseat.
“Me? I’m a retired cop.”
But Quinn knew better. His retirement wouldn’t last. And neither would Pearl’s job as a bank guard. And Fedderman would be more than relieved to give up fishing.
Pretenders, all of them.
That evening at his hotel, Fedderman told the desk clerk he wanted an early wake-up call and would be checking out in the morning.
While that was happening, Quinn was seated in his leather armchair with his feet propped up on a matching ottoman. He was smoking a Cuban cigar and feeling pretty good.
When Pearl finally got back to her apartment that evening, she downed half a bottle of Pellegrino, then removed her shoes and padded in her stocking feet to the phone.
She pecked out her mother’s number at the assisted living home.
Blood calling to blood.
Lauri and Wormy resumed their relationship, with Quinn’s grudging approval.
Wormy’s sudden fame garnered The Defendants a record company contract, and their CD of Lost in Bonkers debuted on the charts as number 473 with a bullet. Wormy remained afraid of Quinn. Quinn never told him he sometimes found himself humming Lost in Bonkers when he was in the shower.
Maybe Lauri really would someday be a cop, Quinn thought, while he waited patiently for another phone call from Renz.
He was sure there would be one.
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