“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.
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.
I ponder the likelihood of someone hearing the gunshots and calling 911, and realize the chances aren’t good. The shooters are using suppressors, and the trees do a decent job of stopping the echoes.
Latham is still bound, still bleeding. I need to get to him, but between us is a vast open space, all of it viewable by the snipers. I counted at least two shooters, but I’m guessing that all three are here. I have no clue why. Are they pissed off I didn’t die in Ravenswood?
Harry picks an apple slice off of his shirt and pops it into his mouth. “I never got to thank you for inviting me over. We should do this more often.”
“Alex forced me, Harry. I tried to warn you.”
“No biggie. Who needs balls anyway? They make your pants fit funny.”
“It’s bad?” I ask.
Harry pulls out his waistband and peeks inside.
“I don’t think they’re supposed to swell up this big.”
“You need to see a doctor.”
“I need to see Mr. Ripley.”
“Mr. Ripley?”
“The Believe It or Not guy. I should make a plaster mold for his museum.”
I toss him the frozen peas. He stuffs them down his pants.
“COLD!” Harry yells. “SO COLD!”
I stare at him, hopping from foot to foot, and then I look at the freezer door of the stainless steel refrigerator. It’s pockmarked with bullet holes, each in the center of a huge dent. Strange. Full-metal jacketed slugs should have punched right through without denting it. I crawl up to Harry to get a closer look.
“So what shitstorm did I wander into?” McGlade asks. He drains the beer, tosses the bottle at Alex’s head, misses, then reaches for another.
“Three snipers. They kill sex offenders. Call themselves TUHC.”
Harry belches and says, “The Urban Hunting Club.”
I appraise him. “You’ve heard of them?”
“No. But there’s a producer of DVD adult entertainment called TUBC. The Urban Booty Club. Lots of college girls taking off their tops and eating Popsicles, stuff like that. The first DVD is only nine ninety-nine, but that’s how they sucker you in, because they send you two new DVDs every month for twenty-nine ninety-nine each. And they’re only forty-five minutes long, which is a real rip-off.” Harry scratches his nose. “So I’ve heard.”
The Urban Hunting Club sounds right. That’s something a group of disgruntled blue-collar Grabowskis would call themselves.
“They killed three rapists to night, then gunned down ten cops,” I say. “Looks like they followed me home.”
“You think?”
I open the fridge, can’t find where the bullets have gone through on the inside. The door seems to have stopped them. I shake it, and hear some slugs rattling inside. I use a spoon to pry back the plastic molding, and a gray bullet drops out. It resembles a mushroom. The snipers have switched from jacketed rounds to soft points. A soft point has more stopping power, expanding on impact, but not the penetrating power of a full-metal jacket slug, which didn’t deform as much.
“You know, Jackie…” Harry stares down at me, “the top of your head is really sexy.”
“This is the only time you’ll ever see it, McGlade.”
He takes out his cell phone and snaps a picture.
“Hot,” Harry says. “I especially dig the gray roots coming in. I like a woman with de cades of experience.”
I ignore him, something I’m particularly good at. “We need to turn off the lights. We’ve got two in the kitchen, three in the living room, the hallway, the bedroom, and the garage. Then, when it’s dark, I can grab the gun bag in the bedroom, pop outside, and sneak up on these bastards.”
“You can kill all the lights at once,” Harry says. “Got a circuit breaker?”
“End of the hallway, in the laundry room.”
“I’ll wait here.” Harry shakes his prosthetic for effect.
“Actually, Harry, I’m thinking we use this refrigerator for cover.”
“You want to push this heavy thing all the way across a carpeted hallway? Good luck.”
“We’re going to push it.”
“And give the psycho kitty another chance to use Acorn Andy as a scratch post? No thanks.”
I reach into the refrigerator, take out the squirt gun we keep in there for when Mr. Friskers disagrees with guests.
“Just spray him if he gets close.”
“Like this?”
Harry squirts me in the face. Big surprise there. Then he sprays me in the chest a few times, squinting to see through the material. I take the gun away from him.
“Grow up, Harry.” I yell over my shoulder, “Mom! Latham! We’re going to shut off the electricity!” I face Harry again. “Let’s do this.”
Harry grins, then adjusts his peas. “All right, but I’m warning you — if it’s really heavy, I’m going to make you check me later on for a hernia.”
“I can’t wait,” I deadpan. Then I unplug the fridge and we begin to push.
9:21 P.M.
PESSOLANO
PAUL PESSOLANO PEERS THROUGH the yellow lenses of his aviator sunglasses, trying to find his backpack in the darkness. He can’t see shit. Pessolano feels around in the grass where he’s sitting, and locates one of the straps. He pulls the bag closer, lifts up his glasses so he can see inside, and removes a magazine filled with five Lapua .338 Mags. He pops the old magazine out of the TPG-1 and clicks the new one in place. Then he gives it a slap, like he’s seen in a thousand war movies.
Even though he told the others differently, Pessolano was never in the armed forces. The closest he ever got to the sands of Kuwait was Miami Beach. Six months ago he worked in a chain video store in Tampa. Then his elderly mother died. He quit his job, sold her house, and used the money to buy some top-of-the-line sniper rifles and surveillance equipment. His plan was to become a mercenary. Or a hit man. Or a wandering gun for hire, like George Peppard on The A-Team.
Work wasn’t easy to find. He tried reading the police blotter and calling up the parents of juveniles involved in illegal activities, asking if they wanted to hire him to make their lives easier. He n
ever got any takers, and after cops showed up at his apartment (he hid inside and didn’t let them in) he fled the state.
Swanson’s ad in Soldier of Fortune, asking for “civic-minded mercs who wanted to make things right,” is the first freelance job Pessolano has actually been on. It doesn’t pay anything, but that’s okay. This is all about getting some experience. Once he turns this corner, he’s sure he’ll find other jobs. Because Pessolano is now, officially, a killer.
It was easy, killing the pervert. Pessolano had been worried about it, afraid he wouldn’t have the guts to pull the trigger when the clock struck five. But he pulled that trigger. And he shot that pervert in the back of the head. Baptized by fire, a culmination of the greatest few weeks of his life.
All the preparation, all the practice up to this point, didn’t seem real. Pessolano felt like he was living someone else’s life. He liked the feeling, but didn’t fully believe it. But he believes it now. He’s not a pretender. He’s the real deal. And he’s got the dead body to prove it, and good friends to share it with. Though Swanson seems a little soft, and Munchel a little crazy, they are his friends. That’s why he doesn’t mind them using his guns and equipment.
And now the thing Pessolano wants to do most is impress his friends. He knows they look up to him. If he can kill all five of the targets by himself, they’ll revere him even more. That’s why he’s using the better bullets. The Lapuas, which can shoot through a brick wall. These are the last of the full-metal jacket rounds. He gave Swanson and Munchel cheaper bullets — soft points. They work fine, but they aren’t as deadly as the Lapuas.
He pulls back the bolt. The brass flies out. He chambers a round and spends a minute tracking down the ejected cartridge and pocketing it. Then he presses his cheek against the pad and sights his target: the hallway. He can see all the way down to the laundry room. If he switches position, he can see into the bedroom where the two women were fighting over the black bag.
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