Move to Strike

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘It’s my way of telling you that you have finally met your match, Jeffrey – that my head is off limits, no matter what you say.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ Logan countered. ‘I am afraid that you will never be off limits because you have no concept of how not to take things personally – just like Stephanie who . . .’

  ‘Stephanie was ten times the human being you will ever be.’

  ‘Stephanie was a whore,’ replied Logan, his right arm raising slightly, his pistol cocked and ready to explode. ‘I gave her everything and she did nothing but spit in my face.’

  ‘You beat her until she was dead, you asshole. You tortured her and her two children every minute of every Goddamned day, and even then they still had the courage to stand up to you. You are nothing but a bully, Logan, and your wife, your children, she was . . . they are . . .’

  And then David saw it – the tick above Jeffrey Logan’s left eye. The man was beginning to flounder, David’s ‘truths’ now hitting where it hurt.

  ‘You want to know how many I have killed?’ asked Logan, perhaps the only way he knew to recover. ‘I mean, you have put so much work into trying to destroy me, I feel it is only fair that I pay you your due before I put a bullet through your head.’

  ‘How many?’ asked David, needing to draw him out.

  ‘Six and a half,’ he said. ‘Counting the two homeless people and the small boy I picked off in the woods when I was barely a teenager myself. The little tike was on a hunting trip with his pappy who wrongly assumed it was he who accidentally popped his grandson and so . . . someone else took the credit for that.

  ‘And then there was my father who I nabbed by slicing his tyre from a good hundred yards away – and my father-in-law who provided the perfect target for my new Heckler & Koch. And there was Katherine – well, you already knew about her; and my mother who, in all fairness to me, David, given the effort I have put into her, should in the very least count as a half.’

  ‘You forgot to mention your wife,’ said David, the mist now swelling around them, the air slick and cool and wet.

  ‘See now,’ he shook his head. ‘That is the biggest irony of all, my friend, because in this case at least, you give me too much credit.’

  ‘You think you deserve admiration for murdering your wife?’

  ‘No – and that is my point exactly, because as much as I wanted to end her pathetic excuse for an existence . . . somebody beat me to it.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Sara, rising from the edge of the bed in the still missing Deirdre McCall’s room. ‘There has to be some way we can help.’

  ‘No, Sara,’ said Nora. ‘Joe was right. The best place for us right now is here in the safety of this room.’

  Despite Sara’s protests, a determined Joe had ordered Sara and Nora to retreat to Deirdre McCall’s hotel suite. Arthur had been designated the role of helping Amanda Carmichael coordinate with the inn staff to round up the guests and send them to their allocated rooms as well, while Joe and his fellow cops had secured as much of the nearby coastline as possible, which was no easy task considering the growing thickness of the fog.

  ‘God, it’s hot in here,’ Sara said, before walking to the bathroom to splash water on her face. ‘I need some air, Nora,’ she added, moving towards the balcony beyond.

  ‘All right, dear,’ said Nora, pushing back the door so that the two of them might move out onto the small patio.

  ‘He’s out there,’ said Sara, her hands forming fists around the white-painted balustrade, the mist so dense it was like looking out the window of an aeroplane passing through thick cloud. ‘He’s out there alone with that psychopath and there is nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘David’s a smart man, Sara. He will work this out.’

  ‘David is an idiot who thinks he can single-handedly save the world.’

  ‘Which is why you fell in love with him in the first place,’ Nora offered.

  Sara nodded, the tears now falling freely down her face. ‘I know, Nora. I know.’

  ‘Police!’ yelled Joe as he and his heavily armed team broke through Jeffrey Logan’s front door. Their guns were up and their bulletproof vests heavy, their weapons sweeping from side to side, scanning every inch of the cottage for movement.

  ‘Clear!’ yelled an officer who had moved quickly into the bedrooms.

  ‘Clear!’ called a second who had taken the bathroom on the right.

  The kitchen and living spaces were open, leaving no one anywhere to hide, so Joe lifted up two fingers, indicating he wanted the team to split, the first following Frank towards the door that led directly into the garage, while the second moved further into the house.

  Frank smashed the lock with his gun barrel before moving quickly into the dark rectangular space – lifting his right pointer finger and twirling it clockwise so that the three officers accompanying him would surround the car. Frank tried the front passenger side first, his weapon at the ready, before the other uniforms tried the other three doors – a quick search revealing nothing but a woman’s yellow cardigan and a matching floral umbrella.

  Team two followed Joe into the living room proper and towards the open back patio doors, the strong smell of salt hitting their faces as the wind whipped briskly around them.

  ‘We have Katherine’s car,’ said Frank, as he joined his boss near the terrace.

  Joe nodded. ‘Listen up, gentlemen, we need to pull this place apart. There is a gun cellar in here somewhere, and we won’t be leaving ’till we find it.’

  And then he and Frank moved out onto the deck.

  ‘It’s like pea soup out here,’ said Frank.

  But Joe was already lifting his hand, a gesture that started as a signal for Frank to stop, before transforming into a direction to turn his head to the right and look towards where he was pointing.

  ‘What’s that, Frank?’ asked Joe, squinting into the light.

  ‘What’s what?’ said Frank, the mist now moving in sheets.

  ‘That,’ said Joe, extending his arm a little further. ‘There, a few hundred yards down the beach. It looks like . . . ?’

  ‘Two men,’ said Frank, the images floating in and out of view like a TV screen with faulty reception. ‘Jesus, Chief.’

  ‘Molis!’ called Joe, now moving into action. ‘Officer Molis!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the rookie who was now mere feet behind him.

  Joe grabbed him by the shoulders, pivoting him around so that he might look in the direction of the people they thought they saw. And then he leaned in close as if willing the fog to move so that the sharpshooting Molis could see them too.

  ‘There!’ said Joe. ‘Just then, did you see them?’

  ‘I saw them,’ said Molis, already shouldering his rifle. ‘You want me to take out the TV guy?’

  ‘I want you to be a hundred per cent sure you don’t hit the wrong fucking target.’

  But Molis was already moving towards the glass, and lifting his rifle to fire.

  ‘You’re lying,’ said David, taking another step forward.

  ‘Well,’ said Logan, his pistol still pointing squarely at David. ‘I can understand why you would think that, given I have been known to spin a tale or two. But in this case, sadly, I speak nothing but the truth. I wanted to kill Stephanie but, as I have already explained, my two savvy offspring beat me to it.’

  ‘That’s a load of crap,’ said David. ‘Don’t you understand, Logan? This is it. You have just admitted to six murders so . . .’

  ‘Six and a half,’ corrected Logan.

  ‘It makes no difference,’ countered David, the sweat now beading on his forehead. ‘Whether or not you admit to killing your wife is irrelevant. You are going away for life, Logan. And no one will be happier about that than me.’

  But Logan would have none of it, the man simply smirked and extended his right arm that inch further, while shouldering his rifle with his left, and aiming it inland, beyond the thick, grey haze.

  ‘Do you
want to know how they did it?’ he asked, as if needing to see this through.

  ‘I want you to stop fantasising and put down your weapons before I blow your fucking brains out.’

  ‘See, there you go again, David. Your ability to allow your idealism to blind your view of reality is really quite extraordinary. It was all about choice, you see. My children weighed up the pros and cons and then decided on a course of action. Bad decision, as it turns out, but then I suppose they are paying for that now.’

  ‘You are wasting your breath, Logan,’ said David, shifting his feet. Despite himself, all this talk of the children was starting to get to him. He knew Logan was only playing mind games, but there was something about his assuredness that . . .

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Logan, interrupting his thoughts. ‘But I really would like to get back to the subject at hand. I was talking about choices, which is really quite appropriate given I am about to ask you to make one.’

  David shifted yet again.

  ‘Now, now, no need to jump the gun, David,’ he said. ‘No pun intended.’

  Then Logan turned away from him, ever so slightly, to place his left eye on the rifle’s circular viewfinder – his right arm still straight and steady, pointing directly at David’s head.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Do you see them?’

  And despite the situation, David could not help but look.

  ‘Wait,’ said Logan. ‘Wait, wait . . . There! See?’

  And that was when David realised what Logan was aiming at – and the contents of his stomach rose in his throat.

  ‘No!’ he yelled, his right foot lunging.

  ‘Hold it right there, David,’ said Logan. ‘One more step and I will kill them both. I must say it was very kind of them to present themselves as they have, like two lame ducks sitting stupidly on a levee. I am a reasonable man, David, and given I respect the fact that you have been my worthiest adversary to date, I am going to let you choose.’

  ‘Put the gun down.’

  ‘No,’ yelled Logan, any trace of feigned conciliation now gone. ‘You wanted to play this game, you fucking amateur, and now it is time to deal. Who will you save, David – your beloved secretary or your pregnant fucking whore – the latter being the choice I obviously prefer, given I am guaranteed a two for one.’

  It was as if time stood still, as every muscle in David’s body seemed to tense, as every inch of his being focused on the power he held in his now sweating right hand. Without even thinking, he squeezed the trigger, the sound of gunfire – bang, whoosh, bang, bang – echoing across the endless bleak expanse.

  And in the split second, just before he saw Jeffrey Logan’s head explode, he noticed the fire spew from the end of Logan’s rifle.

  David dropped his weapon. And then he began to run.

  PART THREE

  83

  The following morning

  ‘David . . . David . . . wake up.’

  He was drifting, stuck in that nowhere land between awake and asleep, where your conscious brain refuses to register your current location and situation. But then your senses kick in. Giving you little clues whether you wanted them or not – the soulless smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beep of a machine, the vague sensation of fluorescent lighting, the cool air-conditioning on your skin.

  ‘Lisa,’ he said at last, his eyelids separating to see his younger sister standing above him.

  ‘Hey, big bro,’ she said with a smile. She was wearing her Mass General nurses’ uniform, her plastic ID and stethoscope draped around her neck. ‘You need to go home and get some real sleep. There is nothing you can do here now. I will call you if there’s any change.’

  ‘Hey,’ said a new voice in the mix, and David turned to see his good friend Joe Mannix looking more than a little dishevelled at the hospital room door. ‘How is she doing?’ he asked, pointing at the sleeping figure in the bed.

  ‘She’s fine,’ replied Lisa. ‘We call it a false labour – in this case induced by stress,’ she added, poking David in the shoulder.

  ‘She hasn’t had a contraction for the last six hours so at this stage we simply let her rest – which is exactly what this idiot should be doing,’ she said, gesturing at her brother who was still slouched in the hospital room chair in front of her. ‘Make him go home, Joe, at least for a little while.’

  Joe nodded, moving into the room. ‘You heard your sister.’

  ‘I’ve been hearing her for thirty-six years, Joe,’ said David with a half smile. ‘It doesn’t mean I have to do what she says.’

  Lisa tousled David’s hair in mock frustration.

  ‘Seriously, David,’ said Joe then. ‘You really do need to take a load off.’

  ‘Not until I hear the latest,’ said David, now sitting up in his chair.

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Lisa. ‘But if you’re not gone by the time I get back, I’ll hunt you both down.’

  And with that, Lisa was gone.

  Jeffrey Logan was dead. He was in fact shot three times by three bullets from three different guns a split second apart – the actual bullet which slammed into his head first, was yet to be determined.

  Nora Kelly was fine, the bullet from Logan’s rifle merely grazing her left cheek. It was Nora’s quick action that had saved Sara’s life – given it was she who had spotted the spark of gunfire on the beach and pulled her surrogate daughter to safety.

  Deirdre McCall had been arrested, so far the greatest injustice of it all. But Amanda Carmichael, after a long discussion with David and Joe late last night, had agreed that the District Attorney’s Office would not push for jail time. She would in fact suggest that the elderly heroine had acted to prevent the likelihood of ‘further serious casualties’, and Carmichael planned to have her released as soon as was legally possible so that she might meet her two grandchildren.

  ‘McCall was behind that cabana the entire time, Joe, just biding her time, waiting for an opportunity to shoot.’

  ‘I guess she has waited a lifetime to deal with her son, David, so in the scheme of things . . .’

  Deirdre McCall may have waited years to deal with her evil offspring, thought David then, but in the end she had undertaken the most selfless act any human being could carry out. She had killed the person she had given life to, so that others could live.

  ‘So you think it was her bullet that hit Logan first?’ asked David.

  ‘Pretty sure. The Cape Cod ME said it appeared as if the initial impact came from about fifteen yards to the victim’s left, which lines up with the cabana. So it appears to have been McCall’s first, Molis’ second, and your bullet . . .’

  ‘And here I was thinking it was me who saved the day,’ said David.

  ‘Not a chance,’ smiled Joe.

  ‘That McCall is something else,’ said David after a pause. ‘One minute she is in a hospital in Vegas, the next she is seeking out her son’s gun cellar so she can put an end to his killing.’

  Joe nodded. ‘First she locates the house, and then she finds the cellar – which was not easy, by the way, considering it took our guys a good twenty minutes to see the tiniest of cracks between the floorboards. And then she pulls up the trap door, climbs down those stairs and chooses a weapon before loading it and . . .’

  ‘That’s a mother’s determination for you,’ said David, his eyes drifting across to Sara.

  Joe nodded once again.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Joe after a time, perhaps reading the fresh look of recognition on David’s face.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ replied David. ‘We started off believing a son had killed his mother – and ended up with a mother killing her son.’

  ‘That’s some kind of justice,’ said Joe.

  ‘I guess so.’

  Joe went on to explain that Malcolm Tyler’s body had been exhumed late yesterday afternoon and that ME Gus Svenson would be undertaking the autopsy today. He also said that Las Vegas Detective Michael Lopez had called as soon as he heard the news
– promising that David’s statement regarding Logan’s admissions had resulted in a fresh warrant for Damien Chi’s arrest.

  ‘The man killed seven people, David,’ said Joe after a pause, and David felt his brow furrow. ‘And sadly, part of me wishes the bastard was still alive so that we could drag him through the courts and put his famous ass in jail forever.’

  But David was shaking his head. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I got no problem with the way things went down, Joe.’

  ‘Fair enough, my friend. Fair enough.’

  David rose to his feet. ‘I need to see the children,’ he said.

  ‘You need to get some rest.’

  ‘There will be time for that later.’

  ‘No, David,’ said Joe, smiling as he pointed at Sara. ‘Given the three months of sleepless nights you two have ahead of you, my guess is your time has run out.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ smiled David.

  ‘It is,’ replied Joe.

  David moved towards his friend to take his hand and pull him into an embrace, the two men saying nothing, knowing nothing needed to be said.

  ‘You ever steal my gun again, I’ll kill you,’ said Joe at last.

  ‘It was a one-off, Joe,’ said David. ‘Next time, I’ll ask.’

  It had come to him at midnight, not long after he had hung up from his good friend Tony Bishop. David had told no one of Logan’s determination to blame his children for Stephanie’s death, but the conversation remained with him, like a splinter in his side.

  ‘Tony,’ he had said, after he had given him a rundown on the day’s events and Tony had spent the next five minutes asking a million questions as to David and Sara’s welfare. ‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Ask away,’ his friend had replied.

  ‘The last time we saw Stephanie – back in February, at that St Valentine’s Day ball – how did you think she looked?’

  ‘I didn’t see her at the ball, remember?’ he had said. ‘Missed her altogether which, to be honest, DC, I will never forgive myself for.’ His friend had taken a breath.

  ‘But I saw her in that video and Jesus, man, she looked terrible.’