by Edward Kay
She glared at Verraday.
“Robson was a coward. That’s why he ran away from what he did to your family when you were a kid. He couldn’t face up to what he had done. He was the worst kind of killer. Weak. Gutless. Disgusting. When I made him hold that gun in his own hand and turn it on himself while I pulled the trigger and blew his brains out, I had the biggest rush of my life. And I haven’t lost a moment’s sleep over it. He deserved everything he got and more. Don’t you agree? I would have shot him in the spine and let him spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, if I’d been able to figure out a way to keep him from ever saying who did it to him. Can you even imagine someone wanting so badly to make you happy that they killed for you? Because that’s what I did, James. I killed for you. I would have done anything for you. Anything. But instead, you had to ruin it by kissing that cop. Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw that?”
“You were watching me tonight?”
“Of course I was watching you. I’ve been watching you for weeks. I even broke into your house a few times to find out how to make you happy. I went through your files so I’d know what you liked. I found the photos of that girl—I think she’s an ex? So I bought lingerie like that to wear for you. Then, to test it, to make sure I was right and that I wouldn’t disappoint you, I left those flyers on your doorstep. I came back later and saw that the only flyer you kept was the one for the burlesque show.”
Verraday’s head was swimming. He couldn’t believe that anyone had been in his space and he hadn’t noticed. That she had repeatedly violated his inner sanctum and he hadn’t noticed. So much for his powers of observation.
“I went to so much effort to please you. Because I loved you. But you tore my fucking heart out. You were the only one I invited into my world. The only one. And you betrayed me. We could have been such a force. Taken down so many assholes together.”
Verraday tried to buy time. Maybe if he could just calm her down, he might get a chance to disarm her.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” he said. “Now that I realize it was you.”
“Of course it’s too late. I offered myself to you on a platter, and you rejected me. I had to sit there in the dark like an idiot tonight watching you kiss that woman, holding her body against yours. Throwing yourself at her. You hurt me to the core. And now you’re going to die. Slowly.”
“Please don’t do this,” said Verraday weakly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“And yet you did. But don’t worry. Even though you hurt me, I won’t make you feel that much pain. I put Ativan in your brandy. A lot of it. I know you always have brandy before bed. And I know that you have a prescription for Ativan. You should be more careful what you put in your recycle bin. The police department could use something like that to discredit you. I saw them going through your bin once, you know, while I was watching you. Fortunately, I’d already taken out your empty prescription bottle so there was nothing much for them to see. They’re morons. But what do you expect from a cop? I mean, who could possibly be interested in fucking a cop except for some pathetic piece of shit.”
Verraday saw the hunting knife coming at him. He tried to move but his legs felt leaden. The blade sank deep into the long muscle of his thigh, and he screamed. He tried to grab her wrist, but the Ativan had made him slow, and she leapt out of the way.
“What you said in class, about Wall Street psychopaths? You’re wrong, you know. Those hedge fund managers might be psychopaths, but the rush they experience is just a substitute for what I can do. I know because I fucked a few of them. For seven hundred dollars a pop. And you know what? They’re so sublimated it’s pathetic. Look at Donald Trump. What a needy asshole. He’s begging to be respected, so he builds these fucking monuments to himself all over the place because he can’t face up to what he really wants to have: power over life and death. So because of his programming, he finds a substitute instead. I, on the other hand, already have what I want: the ability to totally dominate another human being. I don’t need all that money to make me feel powerful. I am powerful.”
“No you’re not,” said Verraday. “You’re dead inside. That’s why you need to do things like this.”
“Well, it’s irrelevant for you, because you’re about to become dead inside and outside. You’re going to bleed out very slowly. And there’s enough Ativan in your system that you won’t be able to do one thing about it.”
She put the hunting knife aside and pulled out a long stiletto. Verraday’s hope sank at the sight of it.
“I’ve always been curious to see how many of these punctures it would take to kill a human. I’ve used this on dogs and cats. Once even on a raccoon that was foolish enough to walk into a trap at my parents’ house. I was going to use it on that rat I left on your doorstep, but this doesn’t leave much of a mark, and I didn’t want you to miss any details.”
He raised his arm to block the stiletto and felt a wave of agonizing pain as it punched through the palm of his hand and emerged out the back between his tendons. He grabbed at her with his other arm, but she was quick and leapt backward out of the way.
“You know, I could just plunge this into your liver or your heart. That would kill you pretty much instantly. But what would be the fun in that?”
He winced as the stiletto sank into his abdomen. He felt the warmth of the blood rolling down his side under his shirt and blackness closing in around him.
* * *
He came to with the terrifying sensation that he was drowning. There was water in his nose and throat, and he couldn’t breathe through his mouth. Verraday tried to move his lips but realized that Jensen had sealed his mouth with gaffer tape while he’d been unconscious. He coughed desperately trying to dislodge the water in his nose.
“Don’t worry,” came Jensen’s voice from behind him. “I won’t let you drown. Yet. I’m going to keep you alive a little longer.”
She moved into his line of vision now, staying far enough away that she knew he wouldn’t be able to grab her in a sudden lunge, even if he were able to rally the strength. She was holding a pitcher of water.
“You were disappointing as a lover, but you’re quite amusing as a playmate. I like to think of this pitcher as half full, not half empty.”
She laughed sardonically and dumped the water onto his face. He felt it going into his nose and down his windpipe. He began to choke and started to black out again.
“Ah-ah-ah, Professor. Come back. I’m not finished with you . . . yet.”
He felt her straining to turn him over on his side. She thumped him on the back and the water dribbled out his nose. He gasped for breath. He felt her finger on his jugular vein and wondered if she was now about to administer the coup de grace.
“I can see why our security agencies waterboard people,” said Jensen. “Your pulse is nearly one hundred and sixty beats per minute! You’re exhibiting a full-on panic reaction. But don’t worry. You won’t drown. I need to keep you alive just a little bit longer. Now where were we? Oh yes.”
He felt the cold steel of the stiletto tip against his belly.
“If I’ve calculated correctly, and if you hold very, very still, this will miss all your major organs. Here goes!”
He screamed as she once again plunged the stiletto into his abdomen.
Verraday felt the world slipping away again, but then, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard faint but frantic knocking from downstairs and the persistent ringing of his doorbell.
Jensen put her finger to her lips.
“Shhhh! Be a good boy and don’t make any noise.”
He attempted a grunt anyway.
“You’re not listening to me,” she hissed at him.
Jensen balled her gloved hand into a fist and swung it down hard. He felt an explosion as the cartilage of his nose cracked and the blood immediately began running out of his nostrils. At the same moment, just as he was about to drift off into darkness, he felt the floor vibrate heavily under him. Despite the excruci
ating pain and the sensation of his skull being on fire, he knew the tremor was too heavy to be anything that originated from within him. It was help on the way. He rallied himself to stay awake. He heard the crash of his front door erupting in splinters, the clatter of broken window glass spraying across his foyer. Then he heard Maclean’s voice.
“James! Where are you?”
He was choking now on the blood running from his nose into his throat.
Jensen leaned in toward him, an angry, caustic expression on her face. She whispered, affecting an imitation of Maclean’s voice.
“‘James’? You’re on a first-name basis with that bitch now, are you? You cheating bastard.”
She kicked him hard in the ribs. Despite the air being stomped out of him, Verraday managed a tortured grunt.
“He’s upstairs,” Maclean shouted.
Jensen backed away from Verraday’s face, to his feet. She reached into her gym bag and drew out a throwing knife.
Maclean hurtled up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Verraday tried to shout a warning to her but all he could get out was a faint gurgle. Jensen raised her right hand, holding the serrated blade of the knife between her thumb and index finger as she chambered it, preparing for the throw. Verraday’s legs and arms felt like concrete. He watched in horror and frustration, time slowing to a crawl as, in his peripheral vision, he saw Maclean’s face emerging from the gloom, Glock service pistol raised in front of her.
In the shadows, Jensen grinned and took careful aim. Verraday summoned the last of his strength and despite the grogginess and waves of pain surging through him, kicked with his one good leg at Jensen. He caught her hard on the shin, heard her groan with pain, felt his kick throwing her balance off an instant before the knife left her hand. He watched it tumble end over end toward Maclean as she emerged onto the landing.
Maclean saw it at the last moment, the realization so sudden that her face didn’t even have a chance to register surprise. Jensen’s aim had been thrown off just enough that when Maclean dropped down to the left, the knife whizzed past her cheek, missing her by a hand’s width. The uniformed officer directly behind Maclean never saw the knife coming, and he didn’t have time to react. The blade caught him in the throat, less than three inches above the top of his bulletproof vest. Verraday saw the look of surprise on the officer’s face, then his hand going up, almost in disbelief, feeling where the knife had penetrated. It was Bosko. Or so he thought. He wasn’t certain if he was hallucinating now from shock and blood loss.
Jensen ducked through the doorway of the study. Maclean was still recovering her balance but managed to fire off a quick volley from the Glock. The light in the hallway was dim, and though Verraday was partially blinded by the muzzle flash, he saw wood splinters fly as Maclean’s shots tore through the door that Jensen was slamming shut and locking behind her. He heard Jensen moan, then from within his study, the sound of a window shattering. Maclean sprang at the door, breaking it open on the first kick. He saw Maclean enter his study, pistol at the ready. She returned to the hall a moment later and pulled out her handheld radio.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Constance Maclean. I need EMS and backup. I’ve got an officer down with a knife wound, a wounded civilian in the home, plus a wounded suspect outside on the front walkway.”
From where he was lying, Verraday could see that Bosko was losing blood rapidly through the gash in his throat. Maclean leaned down to Verraday, pausing just long enough to pull the duct tape back from his mouth.
“Where did she cut you?”
“In the shoulder, hand, abdomen, and leg. No major arteries or organs though, I don’t think. She was trying to take her time.”
“Okay, hold tight,” said Maclean. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
She was already sprinting toward Bosko. She knelt beside the downed officer and applied compression to the wound in his throat. It was bad. Bosko had bled so much it had soaked through the carpet and was beginning to pool on top of it. Bosko’s eyes were closed now, his face expressionless. Probably unconscious from loss of blood, thought Verraday.
“Stay with me, stay with me,” he heard Maclean say. “Help is on the way. You’re gonna make it. You’re both gonna make it.”
Verraday felt a tingling sensation that started in his feet and quickly spread through the rest of his body. It was pleasant. It was, he realized, the sensation of the blood coursing through him. He wasn’t sure if it meant he was living or dying. He felt fear now, not just pain. His heart began to race. He felt it miss a beat, recover its rhythm, then miss another beat. He didn’t know if he was drifting into life or death. He pushed that thought away, focused on his breath, drew it in, counting the numbers off slowly. He heard distant sirens then felt his consciousness slipping away. The darkness began to envelop him. He released his breath one last time, closed his eyes, felt the tingling warmth. Whatever was happening, he’d resigned himself to it. He let go and allowed himself to be carried away into the void.
CHAPTER 34
Verraday gradually, reluctantly became aware of a bright light, so bright that even with his eyelids clamped shut, it seemed to penetrate directly into his optical nerves. He tried to raise his hands to block it, but found that he couldn’t move them. He tried to turn his head away but discovered that he couldn’t do that either. In fact, his body seemed to have taken leave of his consciousness. Maybe this is what people meant by “going into the light,” he thought.
The light grew in intensity as he gained consciousness, which, through his tightly closed lids, created the effect that he was staring into an orangey-red color field. He tried to speak but his tongue was thick and heavy. He felt like his throat was lined with sandpaper. So he groaned his annoyance instead.
“He always this happy to be alive?” a male voice asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks now,” replied a female voice archly. He recognized it and began to smile. Despite the blinding light, he struggled to open his eyes so he could see the face that went with that voice. When at last he had managed a squint, he saw Maclean and a doctor in a white medical coat silhouetted against a bright afternoon sky in an airy hospital room.
“This is Dr. Wellesley,” said Maclean. “He’s the surgeon who saved your life.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Verraday. “Figures, the one sunny day we’ve had since September, and I slept through most of it.”
“You slept through two sunny days, actually,” said Wellesley. “I put you under heavy sedation. You’ve managed to accumulate quite a collection of holes, Professor. You were leaking pretty badly when your friend here brought you in.”
“Strange, I don’t remember that part,” said Verraday.
“The good news is you’ll recover completely. The girl who did this to you was highly selective about where she placed the perforations.”
“Some guys have all the luck.”
“Indeed they do, Professor Verraday. And you’re one of them. Another inch in any direction on those abdominal wounds, and you’d be somewhere nice and dark. Forever. Now if you’ll excuse me, Professor, I’ve got to take care of some genuinely sick people. So I’ll leave you to Detective Maclean. Later.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” said Verraday as Wellesley headed out the doorway.
Verraday turned as much as he could to look at Maclean. “You okay?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m fine, thanks to you.”
“And I dodged God knows what, thanks to you. So I guess you got my text?”
Maclean smiled. “Yeah. I decided losing a few z’s wouldn’t make that much of a difference at the press conference. Thought maybe all those love hormones you’re always talking about would make up for the lack of sleep.”
“How did you know something was wrong?”
“You didn’t answer when I rang your doorbell or when I knocked. I thought you’d gone to bed but then I saw the light from the gas fireplace. That seemed strange. I called and you
didn’t answer your cell or your landline either. So I took a stroll down the side of your house. Saw that the phone line had been cut. So I called for backup and decided to go in.”
“What about the patrolman who got hit with the knife? Was I hallucinating from blood loss by then, or was that really Bosko?”
“It was Bosko. He was doing a stakeout at the liquor store a few blocks from your place when I called for help. He was there in under a minute.”
“He was bleeding pretty badly. Did he make it?”
“It was really close. He flatlined in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, then once more in the ER. But he’s still with us—so far at least. In critical but stable condition in the ICU. They think he’ll pull through.”
“Did he know it was me that you were going in for?”
“Yeah. I thought he deserved to know. He told me the two of you had a run-in the night before. Said you accused him of being a stalker.”
“Yeah, he stopped me in the parking lot of the liquor store. We had some words.”
“I know. He told me about it as we were going in. He said if you really did have some nut job stalker in there with you, maybe we should just leave you two alone together to sort it out because you’re such a pain in the ass.”
Verraday smiled weakly. “Yeah, that would have been convenient for him.”
“He was kidding. He agreed with me that there was no time to wait for more backup. He was the one who broke down your front door.”
“Well, tell him I have an eight-hundred-dollar deductible. That ought to give him some consolation.”
“I’ll mention it when he comes around.”
“You can mention something else too. Tell him I’m dropping the lawsuit against him.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. How can I sue someone who took a knife in the throat trying to save my life? But I’m making it conditional on him taking an anger management course.”