Herb finishes for me. “You live in the suburbs, even though you’d be fired if they found out, and even though there were many perfectly nice single-family homes in my neighborhood.”
“I’ll be two and a half hours, tops. Just make sure they don’t go to my old apartment.”
Because then they’ll know I don’t live in the city anymore.
“Take three hours,” Herb says. “I use a lot of adjectives when I tell stories.”
I pat his shoulder. “Thanks, Herb. Good luck with those stitches.”
“If my wife asks, I didn’t get shot. Tell her I was bitten by a monkey.”
“Sure. She’ll buy that.”
“She’s terrified of monkeys.”
“Wouldn’t a dog be more realistic?”
“She loves dogs. If it’s a monkey, I’ll get sympathy sex.”
I speak to the deputy chief and inform him I have a family emergency, but he can debrief my partner at the hospital. I promise I’ll be back within an hour. Which is an outright lie, because I live an hour away.
During the ride to the suburbs I obsess about my mother. If something happened to her, why hasn’t Latham called? Or perhaps the emergency has to do with Latham, and Mom is too shocked to go into details.
I’m overwhelmed by mental snapshots of death: car accidents, strokes, heart attacks, earthquakes, floods. Are they en route to the ER? Is that why they couldn’t pick up the phone? It can’t be a fire, because the answering machine keeps going on — a fire would destroy the line.
Is it something to do with my father? Mom never forgave Dad for leaving us, and while I’ve been trying to rebuild a relationship with him, she refuses to acknowledge his existence. Maybe Dad had shown up at my house, which would cause Mom to go supernova.
Or is this something more insidious?
I look at my cell, find the call from the Heathrow Facility. The caller ID indeed reads HEATHROW, but maybe that can be faked. I dial 411, get the same number, and let them patch me through. I speak to three different people, all of whom confirm that Alexandra Kork is dead as dead can be.
Okay. I’m being paranoid. Even if Alex were alive — and she isn’t — she still didn’t know where I live.
Maybe Mom saw the sniper shootings on television and is simply worried about me. Not picking up the phone is a guarantee I’ll rush home.
Or maybe Latham has some sort of surprise planned. I think of the mariachi band he hired when he proposed, and a smile breaks through my mask of worry. He truly is a sweetheart.
I get off the expressway on Route 20, heading for York Road. What ever the emergency is, I’ll find out soon enough.
My thoughts momentarily shift to the shooter. Finding sex offenders is a snap — thanks to Megan’s Law, anyone can log onto the Internet and access the National Sex Offender Registry and get their names and addresses. But if this is some sort of warped vigilante group, why kill cops? Did the sniper simply get carried away? Or is he really out of his mind? And are his two partners just as unbalanced?
I turn left down my twisty road, heading home. I hear the dead leaves crackling under my tires, see glimpses of the moon through the canopy of trees, and wonder what Mom loves about this neighborhood so much. Can it even be called a neighborhood? We’ve never met our nearest neighbor, who lives a quarter of a mile away. Come Halloween, I wonder if parents drive their children house to house for trick-or-treating. If I had kids, I’d drive them — to the city.
Thinking of children makes me think of Latham, and I get sort of gooey inside. I pull into the driveway and park next to his car, convinced that this emergency probably has to do with Mom fudging points in their card game, or burning the apple pie. I do a quick mirror check, finger comb my hair, and hop out of my Nova.
The front door is locked, and the front room is dark. I notice a light in the kitchen through the bay window. I unlock the door and go in.
“Mom? Latham?”
I smell food. Stew, and some sort of baked goods. Maybe I’m right about the pie after all.
Mom is in the kitchen, sitting at the table. It takes me a second to realize she has duct tape over her mouth and around her arms, and then something appears in my peripheral vision, something blindingly fast.
I duck, but not quickly enough, and get knocked to the floor, my vision all lopsided and swirly.
“Welcome home, Jack.”
I can’t focus, but I recognize the voice.
Alex is alive.
And that means we’re all going to die.
8:02 P.M.
KORK
JACK’S MOMENT of realization is priceless. It’s an expression of fear and helplessness, and it’s so raw and honest that I feel like a peep-show voyeur watching it.
I want to hit her again, to turn her fear into pain. But there isn’t any need to rush. Better to play it safe, make sure she’s restrained first.
“Handcuffs,” I say.
Jack doesn’t answer. I don’t think she’s trying to defy me. I think she’s so scared she can’t even speak. I give her a kick in the ribs to help with her articulation.
“Handcuffs,” I repeat. “You’ll have plenty of time to be scared speechless later.”
“Purse,” she says.
I follow her eyes, see an ugly clutch on the floor. I keep the gun on her and walk over to it. There are handcuffs inside, but no gun.
“Where’s that little toy Colt you carry around?”
“Internal Affairs. Had a shooting to night.”
I wonder if she’s lying, then notice that she has blood on her skirt, her shirt. Looks like Jack has had a busy night.
It’s about to get busier.
“Cuff your hands behind you,” I say, tossing her the bracelets.
She complies, sneaks a look at Mom. I wait for Jack to say something like “Let her go, this is between us” or “If you touch her, I swear I’ll kill you” or something equally meaningless. She surprises me by saying nothing. Perhaps she knows it won’t do any good. Or perhaps she’s saving her energy because she knows she’ll need it later. For screaming.
I allow them their mommy/daughter moment, then wrap my hand in Jack’s hair and jerk her to her feet. It doesn’t take much effort. At Heathrow, I was able to catch up on two things — soap operas and exercise. The last time I’d encountered Jack, I’d been soft.
There isn’t anything soft about me now.
I check to make sure Jack’s hands are cuffed, then shove the revolver into the back of my pants. I’m still holding her hair, and I bring her face close to mine, letting her see the scars up close.
“See what you did to me? For a while, I wished you’d killed me. I bet you’re wishing the same thing right now, aren’t you?”
Jack stares back at me, but her eyes are glassy. She’s fighting to keep it together.
“It took a long time for the pain to go away,” I continue. “The state doesn’t have the best plastic surgeons, as you can see. They had to graft on some skin from my leg. It actually grows stubble. Can you feel it?”
Jack tenses, strains to pull away. But my muscles are big and strong and it’s like restraining a child. I rub my scarred flesh against her perfect cheek, letting her feel the pointy little hairs that used to be on my calf. She stops struggling. Her muscles relax. Jack knows she can’t fight me, knows I can do anything I want to her.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this.
“Where’s Latham?” Jack asks, meek, submissive.
“We’ll get to him in a minute. First we need to call some old friends.” I find her cell phone in her purse. “Is Harry on here?”
Jack nods.
“You need to convince him to come over.”
“No.”
I half smile, make a fist, and hit Jack in the gut so hard she spits up food she ate last year. While she’s doubled over, I walk over to Mom.
“I understand the reason you’re holding out,” I say, standing behind Mom’s chair. “You figure that you’re going to d
ie anyway, so why should you be helpful? That’s not the correct mind-set. What you should be thinking about is all the things I’m going to do to you before you die.”
Jack coughs, spits. “You’ll do those things anyway.”
“Of course I will. And eventually I’ll get my way, and you’ll call Harry. I know you’re tough, Jack. Maybe if it was only me and you, maybe you wouldn’t call. But we’ve got other people involved here.”
I hold Mary’s hand, her wrists bound to the chair with tape.
“I’ve heard arthritis is agonizing. I poked around in the medicine cabinet earlier. Mom is taking some major pills, isn’t she?”
I swivel the chair around, give Mom a frown that only appears on half of my face.
“I hope you’re not turning into a junkie. That’s a road you don’t want to go down. No matter how bad the pain gets.”
I begin to squeeze her hand. Her eyes get wide, and I watch her shake with the effort not to make any sound.
“Look how brave your mother is, Jack. Trying to hold it in.”
“I’ll call,” Jack says.
“I wonder if she’d scream if I broke a few fingers.”
“I’ll call!”
I release Mom’s hand, give the old gal a pat on the head. Then I drill my eyes into Jack. She’s pale, and appears close to collapsing.
“Convince him to come over here. Do I need to make any more threats?”
Jack shakes her head.
“Don’t look so devastated,” I say to Jack. “We’re just getting started.”
8:15 P.M.
JACK
MOM AND I ARE as good as dead. It’s just a matter of how much we suffer before Alex kills us.
Seeing Alex again stunned me. Instead of acting, of fighting back, I’d been caught off guard. That opportunity has passed. But I might be able to create another one with Harry McGlade.
I need to somehow convince Harry there’s a problem, without alerting Alex. Unfortunately, Harry’s intelligence falls somewhere between a chimpanzee and a crescent wrench. This is going to take some finesse.
Alex dials the number, presses the speaker phone button, and holds it to my mouth.
“Harry’s Den of Dyslexic Sex, where you can duck my sick. Harry speaking.” His voice is nasally, Chicago through and through.
“Hi, Harry. It’s Jack.”
“Jackie! Good to hear from you. Looking for work? Since that Joliet thing I’ve been swamped. I could hire you part-time. You’d do some paperwork, answer some phones. I’m paying seven fifty an hour, clothing is optional.”
Harry McGlade is a private investigator. A hundred years ago he used to be a cop, and my partner. I didn’t like him much then, and don’t like him much now, but he keeps popping up in my cases. Harry’s tough to get rid of. Like an oil stain. Or a wart.
“Look, McGlade, if I asked you to come over to my house right now, as a personal favor, would you do it?”
“No can do to night, Jackie. I’ve got a date with a very special lady. Very special. And if I cancel without giving her twenty-four hours notice, she charges my credit card anyway.”
I glance at Alex. She rolls her eyes, then points her gun at Mom. Even though I don’t have anything left in my stomach, I feel it rumble.
“Harry, I… I broke up with my boyfriend. I’m feeling kind of alone, kind of vulnerable.”
“I get it. You’re a chick, so you need to get laid to feel loved. I’m happy to step up to the plate.”
That hurts to even think about.
“I just need a friend right now. Can you come over?”
“For sex, right? I don’t want to be one of those guys, you cry on his shoulder, piss and moan for two hours, then I leave with snot on my tie and a trouser trout I have to smack around during the car ride home.”
Someone owed me an Academy Award, because somehow I say, “Yes, Harry McGlade. I want to have sex with you.”
Come on, you big dummy. You know there has to be something wrong.
“Pardon my skepticism, Jackie, but that didn’t sound right to me.”
Thatta boy, McGlade. Reason it out.
“Can you ask again?” Harry continues. “But using dirty words?”
Unbelievable.
“Just come over,” I say.
“You mean make like Ward Cleaver and discipline the Beaver?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“Say it.”
Even if he saves my life, I’m still going to kill him.
“Come over, Harry, and discipline the Beaver.”
“Are you drunk, Jackie? Is liquor impairing your judgment? Because I’m fine with that.”
“I’m not drunk, Harry. I just need you here.”
“I knew it. I knew those years of insults and dirty looks masked your true feelings. And I want you to know, the feeling is mutual. In fact, back when we rode together, and you got out of the car first, I’d sometimes lean over and sniff your seat.”
Alex has to put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Just make sure you bring protection,” I say.
A gun, asshole. Bring a gun.
“Message received. Leave the front door unlocked. If I get there and you’re already passed out, I’m hopping on anyway.”
He disconnects. Does he know I’m in trouble? Is he playing along? Or does he really think he’s going to get laid?
“Nice work, Jack. Now let’s try another one. That intense guy with the killer abs. Phineas Troutt. I owe him too.”
I stare at Alex. Her scarred face offers no reprieve. No pity. She’s a monster.
But she’s a monster who wants something from me, which gives me just a tiny bit of leeway. If I got in touch with Phin, all I’ll have left to offer Alex is my pain and suffering. Best to stall that for as long as I can.
“Where’s Latham?” I try to sound scared, which doesn’t require any acting.
“Ahh, yes. Where is loverboy? I noticed he wore a ring. You too. When is the wedding, Jack?” She bats her eyes, but the scarred one simply twitches. “Can I be your maid of honor?”
“Where is he?”
Alex makes a show of looking at her watch.
“He’s in the garage. How much air do you think is in one of those kitchen garbage bags? Think there’s twenty minutes’ worth?”
I bolt, running across the kitchen, heading for the door to the garage. My hands are behind my back, so I have to spin around to turn the knob. Alex doesn’t run after me. She stays in the kitchen, hands on her hips, looking vaguely amused.
I manage to pull open the door, and find Latham in the middle of the garage, lying on the floor next to a giant stack of boxes. A white plastic garbage bag is over his head, duct tape wrapped around his neck.
He’s completely still.
I run to him, drop to my knees, scooting around and grabbing the bag along with some of his hair. I dig my fingers in and pull. The plastic stretches, tears.
“Latham! Latham, please answer me!”
I feel him move.
“Jack?”
Thank God. I keep tugging, removing as much of the bag as I can, my fingers encircling his face. His cheeks are wet, with sweat or tears or both.
I shed a few tears too.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, over and over.
“She put a hole in the bag. A little one. Didn’t want me to die yet.”
He talks in a monotone, emotionless. Probably in shock.
“I gave him a choice.” Alex stands in the doorway. “Fuck me, or die. He told me he’d do it if I put a bag over my head. Personally, I think it looks pretty good on him.”
My fear vanishes, replaced by a hate so intense I can taste it. I get to my knees, then to my feet, and charge at her. Alex doesn’t flinch. When I get close enough she sidesteps my attempted body tackle and trips me. Unable to break my fall, I land on my face, my lips kissing the dirty concrete floor, the wind rushing from my lungs.
“You want to play, Jack? We’ve got time to pl
ay.” Alex puts her hands behind her back. “I’ll even play fair. You’re Little Miss Tae Kwon Do, right? Let’s see if you can take me.”
I’m so pumped up with anger and adrenaline that I get up before my breath comes back. I take a feeble gasp, shake away the stars, and run at her.
Alex kicks me in the stomach, so hard that it knocks my shoes off. I fall onto my ass, the handcuffs digging in and twisting my wrists, prompting a scream. I use the pain, continuing to stretch at the cuffs, pulling them up under my butt and over my feet.
My hands are now in front of me.
It won’t help much fighting against Alex. She’s stronger than the last time I’d sparred with her. But maybe if I could get to my bedroom, to my other gun—
I run for it, run like I have a freight train coming after me. Make it to the kitchen, to the front room, to the hallway. Then I stumble and eat carpeting.
“Is that how you got your black belt, Jack? By running away like a scared little bitch?”
I roll over, glare up at Alex. She grabs my handcuff chain and jerks me up to her level. Her strength is amazing.
“Pumped a little iron in lockup?” I say between breaths.
Half of her face smiles.
“A little.”
Then she whips me forward, headfirst into the wall.
Everything goes from very bright to very dark.
8:18 P.M.
SWANSON
JAMES MUNCHEL WALKS into the suburban sports bar with a big yellow grin on his face and a hail conquering hero swagger. He actually lifts up his hand for a high five when he reaches their table.
Greg Swanson can barely hold in his rage. His jaw is clenched, and his shoulders feel like a giant knot.
“Sit down, you idiot,” Swanson orders.
Munchel darkens, lowering his upraised palm. But he complies. They’re at a table in the back, and the place is crowded enough that no one is paying any attention to them. Like all sports bars, this one boasts an impressive number of TVs. The one nearest them is tuned to CNN, at Swanson’s request, and it’s still reporting live from Munchel’s massacre scene.
“What the fuck were you doing?” Swanson asks.
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