by John Lutz
It seemed to be fading already . . .
80
“Looks like my timing was perfect,” D.O.A. said.
He held a gun in each hand. Quinn recognized one as an altered Kalashnikov. The other was a small semiautomatic handgun. He noticed the killer’s unnatural bulkiness and realized he was wearing a bulletproof vest. The vest didn’t fool Quinn. It wasn’t to save a life; it was to delay a death. Tonight was going to be the killer’s grand and glorious exit. His reign of terror mustn’t end with a single, inglorious gunshot.
The killer craved a final, glorious achievement, before his meteoric streak to eternal infamy.
Infamy would be his final, precious possession. His goal. Fame would be brief, but infamy had longevity.
It wasn’t a live woman that he sought this time, but one who was a beauty of the ages.
“You know what I want,” he said to Quinn. “We think the same way.”
Castle, eyes popping with fright, glanced at Quinn.
“You won’t possess her very long,” Quinn said.
“I don’t need to.”
“He yearns to be famous,” Quinn explained to Castle. “More than that, he might have found a way to be the most famous murdering psychopath. He wants to possess Bellezza.”
Castle moved protectively toward the marble bust. D.O.A. laughed and hefted his automatic rifle.
“Cops will hear the shots,” Quinn said.
D.O.A. aimed his smile at Quinn. “You mean like with the dead woman in your car? Pearl, wasn’t it? I wish I could have had a little more amusement at her expense. You’ll be glad to know I made her death a relatively fast one. Though it probably didn’t seem that way to her.”
Castle couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Didn’t want to believe it. He moaned as his terror bent him forward. He was trembling so violently that he was almost vibrating. His knees gave and he stayed in his awkward, doubled-over position, kneeling like a penitent frozen by fear.
“Your friend seems to have a keen notion of what’s about to happen,” the killer said, staring for a moment, searching for the fear in Quinn’s eyes. He didn’t find it, which angered him.
The two men’s gazes remained locked. Quinn saw in the killer’s eyes a feverish fear and desperation as well as anger. And there was something else, unmistakable and infuriating: It took Quinn a few seconds to realize that riding the crest of the killer’s fear was a glint of something incongruous but undeniable: amusement. The bastard was actually amused by what was going on around him. Hell was about to break out, and he relished the coming carnage.
The killer said, “I think I’ll save Fatso for last, then strike out for new methods and arousals.”
Turning to see the effects of his words on Castle, the killer instead stood shocked.
The paunchy, terrified man apparently hadn’t been as paralyzed as he’d appeared. He’d managed to escape silently into the garden’s hedge maze.
Quinn took the opportunity to unholster his revolver, but only managed to touch the gun with his fingertips. The killer had quickly swung both his guns to point toward the real and immediate danger. Quinn. Not the bloated phony who had fled in fear into the hedge maze.
The killer had spent hours memorizing the maze from a high window across the street. But he wasn’t sure he would know the maze’s mysteries better than the man who’d possibly designed them.
Another possibility: Was Quinn bright enough to have misled him? Maybe the terrified fat man hadn’t entered the maze at all.
Either way, he was surely free of the maze by now.
As if to confirm the killer’s thoughts, there were sounds of activity from out in the street, beyond the garden and maze.
Then, yes, the fat man’s voice. Almost surely.
The killer, his gaze and guns still fixed on Quinn, listened intently. He hadn’t made out what the man said. Only that someone was really out there. But something surely was wrong.
Quinn, for the first time, saw vulnerability in D.O.A. Something essential had changed. Hunter had become hunted, and knew the heightened senses of the doomed.
Traffic beyond the garden. But not enough. So quiet . . .
The killer understood what the silence meant. Others who hunted him were arriving, arranging themselves strategically. Positioning and preparing.
But they wouldn’t be prepared quite yet. Wouldn’t be in place.
Opportunity. Limited, but exactly what the killer wanted.
Without warning, he sprinted to the hedge maze’s dark entrance.
Quinn, who hadn’t had time even to consider taking a shot at the killer, ran toward where he’d disappeared in darkness, and followed him into the maze.
Into blackness almost complete.
And isolation.
The only sound was the faint brushing of legs and shoulders against the hedges, both men moving fast, each knowing the other’s mind. It was like a dance where neither partner could see the other.
Both knew where the maze would lead.
81
Quinn ran as fast as possible through the hedge maze. He couldn’t build up much speed because of the frequent right-angle turns that required almost complete stops. If he wanted to keep up with the killer he had to dig in toe or heel and pivot sharply with each turn.
He could hear D.O.A. crashing along on the other side of the hedgerow to his right. It sounded as if the killer was directly opposite him, only five or six feet away. But Quinn couldn’t be sure enough to take a blind shot through the thick hedges. Even if his sense of hearing provided enough accuracy for his bullet to find its mark, the hedge’s thick branches and foliage might be enough to divert it to God knew where.
Quinn ran hard, feeling the pain in his thighs and chest, using his ears to direct his feet. He tried to calculate if he was gaining ground on the killer. Now and then he’d make a wrong turn, and he’d have to try to crash through the hedges to the next pathway. That never worked, but he was lucky enough to gain gradually on the killer, to stay close enough to gauge their respective positions.
But not so close as to chance taking a shot.
Luck. Good for me, bad for the killer. He’ll run out of hedgerows eventually.
Then Quinn suddenly wondered if it was luck. The killer was younger and should be able to outrun him.
But the killer didn’t seem to have gained ground.
Wrong. Something was wrong.
Quinn was being led.
Short of breath, his legs and lungs aching, Quinn realized the killer had deliberately lured him through the maze in a circuitous route, back to where the chase had begun.
He wanted to be sure that Quinn understood. That he’d been led. The killer was in control and had chosen the time and place. He wanted death, and knew he was going to die. And he wanted Quinn to die with him, knowing that he, Quinn, had lost the game.
The game that meant everything. Quinn understood now the keen amusement in the killer’s eyes.
Timing was so important.
Both men broke from the hedge maze at almost the same moment, simultaneous to an armada of police and emergency vehicles arriving at the scene. And there were plenty of news media representatives. Vans with tower aerials mounted on their roofs, media wolves already dismounted and on foot, units of camera and lighting professionals, and well-coifed media stars, all running toward police barricades that were already in place. The scene was epic. The night electric.
The killer felt his heart swell. This was what he wanted, even better than he’d anticipated. Here was a drama that would dominate every news outlet, every Internet scan, and hold the population in thrall. The finale of the hunt, with the hunted and hunter locked in deadly combat.
Quinn would understand what had happened, even as his life faded. He’d know he’d been outmaneuvered.
Let the fools of the world think what they may. Quinn would breathe his last knowing he’d lost the game.
And the world will be watching.
Quinn and
the killer were both clear of the hedge maze now, and through the garden. Uniformed cops advanced across the street toward them, along with darkly clothed members of the Tactical Unit. They were approaching at slight angles, allowing for a cross fire.
The killer thought his bulletproof vest would keep him alive at least as long as Quinn lived.
Quinn wasn’t so sure. He raised his police special revolver, dropping to one knee so he’d be a smaller target, and opened fire on D.O.A.
The killer seemed invulnerable in his bulky vest. He was smiling as he leveled the Kalashnikov at Quinn.
That was when one of Quinn’s bullets found its way beneath the side of the vest and lodged in the killer’s chest. He dropped hard and didn’t move, supporting himself on one elbow.
Still without a clear shot, the Tactical Unit held its fire.
Wounded in the same leg that had been shot years before, Quinn limped toward the killer, who had struggled up and was now seated cross-legged on the pavement, his arms and hands hanging limply at his sides.
As Quinn came near, he saw again the madness and amusement in the killer’s eyes. The eyes were hypnotic, and Quinn was distracted enough that he didn’t see until it was too late the killer raise a handgun that had been concealed beneath his right thigh.
Quinn knew that from this range, he was dead.
The killer hesitated, savoring the moment.
Steadied his aim.
Pearl shot him.
The heavy Glock round slammed into the killer’s head, just behind his right ear.
As he lay dying, the killer stared up at the night sky and knew he’d be huge in tomorrow’s papers. Where he’d always wanted to be. Above the fold.
Quinn had a round left in his revolver. He stood and started to walk over so he could shoot the killer again in the head. He needed to be sure that D.O.A. was finally and forever dead. There was no pain, but his right leg gave out and he was on his knees again. He looked down and saw that his thigh was bleeding.
He raised his gaze to look at Pearl. She seemed calm, standing there with her Glock still in her hand. The hand and gun were as steady as if they were sculptured stone.
“You never were one to wait in the car,” Quinn said.
Pearl looked down at him. “Lucky you.”
A uniformed cop walked over and bent low, found the stray gun beneath the killer’s body, and slid the weapon ten feet away. He didn’t straighten up, but stayed still with his head bowed, listening to something the dying killer had to say. Then the killer turned his head toward Quinn, but his eyes were closed, his mouth half open, as if he’d been interrupted mid-word.
Then, incredibly, the mouth smiled.
The uniformed cop sauntered over to Quinn and squatted down near him. He motioned with his head toward D.O.A. “He’s good as dead. On his way out even if the paramedics pump blood in him by the gallon.”
“Good,” Quinn said.
The cop smiled thinly. “I wouldn’t contradict you.”
Pearl laid her hand on Quinn’s forehead. “Have we got medical transport on the way?”
“We do,” the cop assured her.
“He whispered something to you,” Quinn said, gripping the cop’s sleeve as the man started to straighten up.
The cop nodded. “Told me to give you a message. Said I should tell you checkmate. Just that one word.”
Quinn looked over and still couldn’t be sure the killer was dead.
“I think he’s gone,” the cop said.
Quinn clenched his teeth against the pain and fought to stand up on his good leg. The cop helped him, even though Quinn pushed him away at first.
“Checkmate,” the cop said again.
Quinn ran out of strength and sat down again hard on the pavement.
“Go tell him royal flush,” he said.
But the D.O.A. killer was dead, in a pool of his own blood, seduced by a woman.
82
Two days after the shoot-out at the Far Castle, Renz dropped by the Q&A office and informed Quinn that tests had established that the Bellezza bust found buried beneath the thornbush outside the restaurant was less than ten years old. The letters, which had been artificially aged, were also phony.
Another imitation.
Quinn wasn’t surprised.
“Any word on where Winston Castle or Maria are?” he asked.
“Blown in the wind,” Renz said, “like the answers to a lot of questions. The Ohio family members—or whatever they are—know from nothing.”
“I have a feeling Castle and his wife—if Maria’s really his wife—will turn up again. There aren’t any warrants out for them.”
“There would be if I could think of some charges,” Renz said. Not meaning it. Why stir up this mess and make it politically radioactive again?
“What about the restaurant?” Quinn asked. He adjusted his bandaged leg where it was propped on a low hassock.
“The Far Castle is closed. Sign in the window says it’s temporary, for remodeling. Doesn’t say for how long.” Renz glanced around the office. He and Quinn were the only ones there. “Pearl okay?”
“Physically, yeah. But she’s got a lot of mental baggage to rummage through.”
“Feds?”
“Minor wounds,” Quinn said. He smiled faintly. “They seem to have saved his marriage.”
“Weaver’s out of the hospital already,” Renz said. “She’s a tough lady.”
“Pearl visited her there,” Quinn said. “That’s probably as well as those two will ever get along. And it won’t last.”
“Tough ladies,” Quinn said. “That’s what brought D.O.A. down.”
“Poetic something,” Renz said. “Justice would have been if we could have let Pearl, Weaver, and Feds’s wife, Penny, team up with all the victims and beat the bastard to death.” Renz raised both hands. “I know, I know. ‘Then we’d all be just like him.’ ”
“No,” Quinn said, “I wasn’t going to say that.”
This was the second time Pearl visited Nancy Weaver. They were alone in the room, which was on the fifth floor and let in too much traffic noise.
“It’s nice of you to come by,” Weaver said. She was resting on her back in bed, an IV tube snaking to the back of her right hand. What was visible of her body showed bruises that were every color of the spectrum
“We’re on the same floor,” Pearl said. “So it’s no big deal.”
Weaver didn’t nod. Didn’t move.
“It’s not like us to get along this well,” Pearl said, for a moment wondering what the hell she was doing there.
“I’m not hurt as bad as I look,” Weaver said. “I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Same for me,” Pearl said.
Weaver shook her head. “God, you almost died. You can’t just walk out of here after a few days.”
“We both almost died,” Pearl said.
“Occupational hazard.”
Pearl wondered if Weaver was as far along on the recuperative scale as she thought. Like she might disentangle herself from all those tubes, struggle out of bed, and stroll out of here.
“Are you two plotting something?” a woman’s voice asked.
Both women looked at a hefty nurse in a blue uniform. She was holding a clipboard and staring over it at Pearl and Weaver. A plastic tag pinned to her uniform declared that her name was Florence.
“Should you be out of your room?” the nurse asked Pearl, fixing her with a Quinn-like look.
“Doctor said it was okay,” Pearl lied.
“I’d like for you to step out for a while,” Florence said.
Pearl nodded, moved to the bed, and squeezed Weaver’s hand. “You’re a good cop,” she said.
Weaver smiled up at her. “We both are.”
Pearl was in her room, fully dressed, when Florence knocked and then entered.
Florence’s eyes widened and became hard. “What do you think you’re doing out of your hospital gown?”
“Checking myself out,�
�� Pearl said. “Going home.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can,” Pearl said. “I’m a cop. I can do whatever I want as long as it’s legal.” She pushed past Florence and felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“If you impede me in any way,” Pearl said, “I’m going to handcuff you to the bed and leave you there.”
Pearl felt the hand on her shoulder become lighter. She walked out from beneath it and went out the door.
Florence followed her into the hall. “I know there’s something going on between you and Nancy Weaver. Some kind of competition. I could see it in the two of you. This isn’t the time or place for that kind of nonsense.”
“What kind of nonsense would you suggest?”
“Anything that won’t turn relatively minor injuries into something more serious.”
Pearl stopped and stood so she was facing the nurse, holding her ground. “You really can’t stop me, you know.”
“I know. But I should be able to. For your own good. Some of those wounds might become infected.”
“Doubt it,” Pearl said. “But if they do, I’ll come back. I promise.”
Florence watched her as she walked down the hall, toward the elevators.
Then the concerned nurse headed for Weaver’s room, praying that she wasn’t dressed in street clothes.
“Lord save them from themselves,” she murmured.
83
The week after D.O.A. died, Quinn was at his desk at Q&A, leaning back in his swivel chair and barely keeping it upright by using his new cane. There was a space of about half an inch where perfect balance was achieved with the cane’s tip only slightly touching the floor. He was getting tired of that game and wondered if he could remove the cane altogether and remain upright, when his desk phone rang.
The sudden noise surprised the hell out of Quinn, and he and the chair almost went over.