by Greg Rucka
Because the job was over, now.
Madeline guided Selby’s chair to Felice, and waited while Veronica spoke softly to Dr. Romero, holding her hands as she had before the conference. Then Selby released them, wiped her eyes, and said to Madeline, “We should be going.”
Madeline nodded once and began pushing the chair toward the road.
Lynn Delfleur gave Felice a hug. There were tears in her eyes.
“Katie was a princess,” Lynn said. “Perfect.”
Felice kissed her cheek, then pulled away, turning to the consolations of another mourner. Lynn stood still for a moment, looking at each of us, then touched Dale’s arm before heading toward the road.
Fowler caught my eye, held his hands open in an empty gesture. Nothing. I nodded, and he moved to speak to one of the marshals. Most of the law enforcement types were heading to the cars. Already one of the sheriffs vehicles had pulled away.
Rubin asked, “How’re you feeling?”
“I don’t know.”
He worked a thin smile up, then sighed. “Me, too. It’s over, I guess, huh?”
“I guess.”
“It wasn’t our fault, was it? Katie?”
That seemed the most important question, suddenly, and I could say only what I had told him before. “We did everything we could, Rubin. It wasn’t our fault.”
“You don’t believe it, though. You haven’t forgiven yourself.”
The woman with the blazer and the flowers rose from the headstone she had been tending, and I watched her walk away, wondering. “Have you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “But I’m trying to.”
I focused on the grave again, heard Rubin move off a few steps.
When I brought my eyes back up, Bridgett had moved beside me and the mourners had withdrawn. Alison was taking Felice’s hand.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Alison said. “I wish I could say more.”
Felice accepted the sentiment with a little nod. “And you, Miss Wallace? You’re well?”
“I’m well.”
“I’m glad.” Felice was watching the casket now. “It’s always a difficult choice to make.”
Alison looked at me, at Bridgett, then withdrew a few steps near the evergreen, waiting. Only she was left now. Even the priest had withdrawn, leaving us, and a groundskeeper to clean up.
“Why don’t you guys take her back to the car,” I said to Natalie. “I’ll catch up.”
“I’m having a reception at my apartment,” Felice said. “Will you and Bridgett come?”
“We’ll come,” Bridgett told her.
They started toward the car, Rubin in front, Natalie in the primary position behind Felice, and Dale behind her. “Alison,” I said, “this is Bridgett. Bridgett, Alison.”
“That’s a nice outfit,” Alison said.
“Thank you,” Bridgett said. She patted my elbow. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
After Bridgett had left us, Alison asked, “How are you doing?”
“Reasonably well, I suppose.”
She looked over her shoulder at Bridgett. “She doesn’t seem your type.”
“I don’t know if she is,” I said. “I’m surprised you came, you said you weren’t going to attend.”
“I hadn’t planned to.” She put a hand out on the casket, feeling the metal. “But we got off the phone and I felt guilty, and then that FBI agent called about the guest list and asked if I was coming. I told him no, and he said that you really wanted me here.”
“Fowler said that?” I asked. Beyond the tree about fifty feet I saw Bridgett stop, turn back to watch us. Another forty yards or so down I could see Rubin leading the squad to the car.
“No, that wasn’t his name, it was Burgess, I think. Did you really want—”
Grant must have taken the file on Alison from Crowell’s office, I realized, and I was already stepping forward when I heard her suck quick air, saw the color leech from her face.
“Don’t take another step. Just turn around. Turn around or I’ll shoot.”
Bridgett had her hands on her hips, waiting, but I knew we were too far apart, that she couldn’t see my expression. My gun was at my hip, and even at my fastest I couldn’t index it and fire in time.
I turned and Grant was only six feet away across Katie’s grave, the same young face captured in the photograph, the same face I had seen in the crowd, looking just as much the groundskeeper now as when he had slipped the bomb under the car. He appeared almost serene, but that broke with the bum in his eyes. At his waist he held a service .45, pointed at my middle.
And in his left hand he held the small black plastic box Rich had made from radio components. The antenna was tiny, but more than enough to do the job. His thumb rested on the toggle switch.
“I’m going to finish this,” Grant told me. “If you move, if you try to warn anyone, I’ll shoot.” He craned his neck to look past us, and I imagined the squad slowly making their way to the car. Maybe twenty yards left before Grant flipped the switch.
Alison swayed in my periphery, her right hand going to the casket for support.
“You’re doing this for no reason, Paul,” I told Grant. “Melanie never had an abortion—”
“She went to the clinic,” he said.
“For a checkup, for a Pap smear. You killed her and she was innocent.”
“Don’t lie to me. Crowell lied to me. Barry lied to me. Now you’re trying to lie to me,” Grant said. He craned his neck again and I took the chance to move my hand to my belt, nearer my weapon, hoping Bridgett would see the movement, wonder why Alison and I were so suddenly enthralled by a rubbernecking groundskeeper.
Grant looked back at me. “I won’t be used. I’m going to finish this.” He saw my hand and cocked the pistol. I stopped moving. “You think I’m joking?” Grant asked. “You fire and they’ll know exactly what’s up.” Perspiration had soaked onto the bill of his baseball cap. He exhaled sharply, then trained the gun on Alison, canting the barrel at an angle to put the bullet through her head. “You willing to sacrifice her? After all, she murdered your baby, too. Or don’t you see it like that? This is all about choice, right? So you make a choice.”
I pictured Felice walking with Natalie almost on top of her. Maybe ten yards from the car, maybe thirty feet. I wondered what the blast radius was. Alison was breathing rapidly, short breaths, close to hyperventilating, her eyes fixed on the gun. That was why Grant got her here, I realized. To hold her life in one hand, Felice’s in the other. And the longer I took to decide, the less my decision would matter.
He tilted his head to look again and I made my choice, swung my left arm out and shoved Alison down hard as I sprang forward. Grant fired almost immediately on my movement, but I was across the grave, scrabbling at the dirt and grabbing at his arm and I couldn’t tell if he had missed or not, if I had killed Alison or not. I got one hand on his gun, pushing it down, and was fumbling for the transmitter in his left hand when I heard the blast, felt the air shudder with the concussion.
Then Grant was on top of me, and we were falling into the grave, my head bumping against dirt all six feet down. He landed on me, flat, pushing my air out, still struggling to regain control of the gun. I punched him quick and hard twice in the face, tearing my knuckles on his mouth with the second blow, and he pulled back, but wouldn’t let go of the gun. His left hand came down and I twisted, caught a piece of the blow on my jaw.
“Wrong choice,” he was screaming at me, over and over.
I got a hand up and threw the edge of it at his throat and he turned his head, presenting neck instead. It was enough, and he went back against the opposite wall of the grave, releasing the gun. I felt for the handle of the .45, swinging it between us as he started for me again, when three shots punched Grant in the chest.
He slumped back, his legs digging furrows in the loose earth of the grave. His eyes opened wide with the shock and then pain, and his mouth moved once more, but only rattling air escaped.<
br />
I pulled myself to my feet, turned, and found Bridgett’s left hand reaching into the grave for me, the Sig still in her right. She helped me up, and I saw Alison standing with her back against the tree, very much alive. Grant’s bullet had tom bark three inches from her head.
Then I was running across the grass, Bridgett at my heels, pounding toward the circle of marshals and deputies and the blazing car. Fowler caught me outside the ring, tried to push me out, saying my name. I elbowed past him, past Selby in her chair and Madeline frozen at her side.
I saw the body then, Natalie standing over it, went down on my knees on the clean grass.
She didn’t look at me.
In my mind I could see what had happened, see it so clear and clean that I thought I could feel the wound.
Grant fired his gun, and the squad, knowing only that the shot had come from behind them, not able to take the time and find the shooter, did an immediate takedown. Natalie knocked out Romero’s knees with her own, pressing the doctor flat and then following with her own body. Dale had done the same, drawing as he fell, turning to find his shot.
Rubin, in the lead, had spun and drawn, and when the car exploded, he’d taken the force of the blast in his back.
Felice had rolled him face up to work on him, Rubin’s life flowing out from beneath his tom body. There was too much trauma and now her hands were stained with blood that clung to the grass, shining in the sunlight.
I looked at my friend. His eyes were open and his mouth, and my first thought was that I would never hear his voice again. He still had his gun in his hand, fingers darkened with old ink frozen around the butt. Cut grass clung to his face. A single blade had stuck to his right cornea, a sliver of green cutting the brown into two mismatched halves.
Patrol cars were sliding onto the lawn, their doors swinging wide even before they stopped. Deputies ran in all directions, some reaching for fire extinguishers to fight the dying flames of the car. Alison still stood beside the grave where Grant had fallen, staring at me, still not moving, and some of the cops were making their way toward her now, too. The air tasted of charred upholstery, gasoline, and soot, and black smoke from the burning rubber spilled to the sky.
“Evac Pogo,” I said.
I was afraid she would make me repeat the order, but Natalie nodded slowly once, her eyes still on Rubin. She holstered her weapon and stepped around to Felice, reaching a hand for Dr. Romero’s shoulder. Dale moved after her, offering assistance, and I saw he was crying, silently. They helped the doctor stand, and she was staring at me even as each of them took an arm. Fowler guided them to a car, holding the door open and then slamming it shut once they were all inside. Felice never took her eyes off me, sharing our new bond.
When the car was out of sight, I sat down on the grass next to Rubin and waited for the rest.
About the Author
Born in San Francisco, GREG RUCKA was raised on the Monterey Peninsula. He is the author of several novels, including three about bodyguard Atticus Kodiak, and of numerous comic books, including the Eisner Award-winning Whiteout: Melt. He resides in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Jennifer, and their son, Elliot.
If you enjoyed Greg Rucka’s first Atticus Kodiak novel, KEEPER, you won’t want to miss the second novel from this talented young writer. Look for FINDER at your favorite bookstore.
And in the meantime, turn the page for an exciting preview of FINDER.
FINDER
by
Greg
Rucka
An Atticus Kodiak Novel
She was lost.
I only saw her because I was doing my job, just looking for trouble, and I must have missed him when he came in, because I didn’t see him enter. He was a white male in his early thirties, neat in his clothes and precise in his movement, and he clearly wasn’t with the scene, the way he lurked in the comers of the club floor. The Strap had been built in an abandoned warehouse, the walls painted pit-black and the lights positioned to make shadows rather than eliminate them. For people who were serious about the scene, The Strap wasn’t a club of choice, and if they showed at all, it wasn’t until after midnight, when the wannabes had gone to greener pastures or to bed.
Bouncing is a people-watching job, a process of regard and/or discard. You look for potential trouble; you isolate potential trouble; then you wait, because you can’t react until you’re certain what you’ve got really will be trouble.
I was waiting, watching him as he looked for her, as he weaved around the tops and bottoms playing their passion scenes. It was after two now, and the serious players had arrived, a detachment of leather- and PVC-clad types who took their playing very seriously indeed. Now and again, over the industrial thud of the music, the slap of a whip hitting skin, or a moan, or a laugh, would make it to my ears.
Trouble stopped to watch a chubby woman in her fifties get bound onto a St. Andrew’s Cross, black rubber straps twisted around her wrists and ankles, making her skin fold and roll over the restraints. His hands stayed in his coat pockets, and I saw that he was sweating in the party lights.
Maybe cruising.
His manner was wrong, though, and when the woman’s top offered him his cat-o’-ninetails, Trouble fixed him with a level stare that was heavy with threat. The top shrugged a quick apology, then went back to work. Trouble cracked a smile, so fast it was almost a facial tic, then turned and headed for the bar.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
Hard case, I thought.
I followed him with my eyes, then let him go for a minute to watch two new entrants. As the newcomers came onto the floor a woman cut loose with a pathetic wail, loud enough to clear the music, and the younger of the two stopped and stared in her direction. Both men were dark brown, with skin that looked tar black where the calculated shadows hit them. The younger looked like a shorter, slighter version of the older, right down to their crewcuts. Both were dressed for watching, not for playing, and the younger couldn’t have been much over twenty-one, just legal enough to get inside. His companion was older, in his forties. He shook his head at the younger man’s reaction, said something I couldn’t hear, and as they began moving off again, I looked back to the bar.
Trouble had ordered a soda from Jacob, the bartender. The Strap was a licensed club, and since there was nudity on the premises, it couldn’t serve alcohol. Trouble paid with a wallet he pulled from inside his jacket, and when he put it back, the hem of his coat swung clear enough for me to see a plastic clip hooked over his left front pants pocket. The clip was blacked, the kind used to secure a pager, or perhaps a knife.
So maybe he’s a dealer, I thought. Waiting to meet someone, ready to make a deal.
Or he really is trouble.
He sipped his soda, licked his lips, began scanning again with the same hard look. A man and a woman crawled past me on all fours, each wearing a dog collar, followed by a dominatrix clad in red PVC. She held their leashes in one hand, a riding crop in the other, and gave me a smile.
“Aren’t they lovely?” she asked.
“Paper trained?”
“Soon,” she said.
Trouble had turned, looking down at the other end of the bar, and I followed his gaze, and that’s when I saw Erika.
She wore a black leather miniskirt, tom fishnet stockings, and shiny black boots with Fuck-Me heels. Her top was black lace, also tom, showing skin beneath. Her hair was long, a gold like unfinished oak. The club lights made it darker and almost hid the stiff leather collar she wore, almost obscured the glint from the D ring mounted at the collar’s center.
She was brutally beautiful.
She was just like her mother.
She was only fifteen.
Trouble and I watched her light a cigarette, tap ash into her plastic soda cup while watching the scenes play around her. She looked carefully bored, meeting gazes easily as she found them, no change in her expression.
The pitch and yaw in my stomach settled, and I took a breath, wondered if it
really was Erika, wondered what the hell I was supposed to do now.
Trouble finished his soda and moved, settling beside her, his lips parting in an opening line. She didn’t react and didn’t look away, and he spoke again, resting his left arm on the bar, his right in his lap.
Erika cocked her head at him, then turned away on her stool, tossing her hair so it slapped him in the face.
He responded by grabbing her with his left hand, taking hold of her shoulder and spinning her back to face him, and that’s when I started moving.
Erika tried to shrug his hand off, but he didn’t let go, and I was close enough now to hear her saying, “Fucking fuck off, asshole.”
“We’re going,” he told her.
Jacob had turned behind the bar, figuring maybe to break them up, but Trouble’s right went to his pocket, and it wasn’t a pager he’d been carrying, but a knife. He thumbed the blade out and it left a trail of silver in the light, like water streaming in a horizontal arc, and he casually swiped at the bartender’s eyes. Jacob snapped his head back, both hands coming up for defense. Trouble kept the point on him over the countertop, his other hand still on Erika, and I arrived to hear him saying, “Don’t be a hero.” He had an accent, British and broad.
His back was to me, but Erika saw me coming, her mouth falling open with surprise and recognition as I brought my left forearm down on Trouble’s wrist, pinning it to the bar. The surprise of the blow made him lose the blade, and it skidded over the edge, landing in a sink full of ice. It was a nice-looking knife, with a chiseled tanto point, the blade about three and a half inches long, and Jacob went for it immediately as Trouble started swearing. I felt him shift to move, and I snapped my right elbow back as he was bringing his free hand around for my head. I hit first, catching him in the face, and I came off his pinned arm, turning, to see him staggering back. He had released Erika, and had one hand to his nose.
She said my name.
“Erika,” I said, still looking at Trouble. If he had reacted with any pain or surprise, I’d missed it, because now his hand was down and he was smiling at me. He looked at Erika for an instant, then back to me, and I t6ok the opportunity to check his stance.