The Fifth Angel

by Tim Green

  CHAPTER 65

  McGrew sniffed in, detecting only the barest hint of moldy pine needles. He wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He was coming down with a cold. Most cops he knew despised the grind of a stakeout, but McGrew got along okay. He used the time to highlight the scenes of the past few days and chronicle the ones yet to come, composing cagey lines that would define his character for the audience in his mind. In this way, to himself, the existence of David McGrew always seemed bigger than life.

  One thing he could clearly imagine was the furtive shape of Jack Ruskin, sneaking out of the darkness into the starlight, making his way up to the front door of the cottage, McGrew waiting for the sound of a gunshot before he opened fire himself. That would be a perfect action scene, blood everywhere, the smell of powder, the feel of warm metal as McGrew jammed his pistol back into the holster underneath his arm.

  McGrew pulled his pistol out of its holster and aimed it through the dim light of the stars in the direction of the cottage. He found the back of Tupp’s head in his vision, sitting in his usual spot in front of the television, its light flickering endlessly. McGrew drew a bead on the television. That would be a funny thing, blasting the scumbag’s television out from under him. McGrew liked the idea that Ruskin might actually kill Tupp before being gunned down himself. That would be like a double play.

  McGrew replaced his gun and rose from his folding chair to stretch. He peered through the dark toward the thick trees at the back of the house where he knew Amanda sat. He lit up a cigarette and began to fret. Would Ruskin go for Tupp? McGrew felt like he had to, but the uncertainty made him feel he might explode. He drew long and hard on his cigarette, filling his lungs with the calming smoke.

  The rattling sound of gravel and tires had barely registered with McGrew before the dark shape of the Land Cruiser rocketed out from the driveway behind the blue-white glare of headlights. McGrew was momentarily frozen in disbelief. This wasn’t how he had imagined it. The SUV had already lurched to a halt in front of the cottage before McGrew began to move. He was running toward the SUV at the same time as he struggled to free his gun from underneath his arm.

  The night was torn apart by the explosion of the shotgun blasts and the shattering of glass. Orange tongues of flame flicked out of the SUV in rapid succession amid the pandemonium. As if in a dream or moving underwater, McGrew’s body moved slower than his brain. The sluggish heavy movement of his limbs enraged him. By the time he had his gun ready, the Land Cruiser had already shot forward and away. McGrew ripped off three quick shots, but his mind hadn’t calmed enough to focus on the target. He was throwing slugs into the vehicle at random, but he didn’t stop until the gun was empty.

  The SUV continued on as if nothing had happened, even though McGrew had heard the heavy thud of his bullets striking their mark. A quick glance told him the front room of the cottage had been obliterated. The television was dark. There was no sign of Tupp. McGrew raced in the direction of the road where his own car was hidden just off the driveway, his mind feverish with rage. He heard Amanda’s cry from behind him, but all he could do was wave her on without looking back and shout, “Come on!”

  McGrew burst through the brush with his cruiser and out onto the gravel drive, nearly striking Amanda. She had her gun out and he jammed on his brakes, sending up a shower of stones.

  “Get in!” he yelled.

  She whipped open the door and threw herself down on the front seat beside him.

  McGrew didn’t wait for the door to close before he smashed the accelerator to the floor. The police cruiser leapt forward and chewed up the drive. McGrew never slowed to look. He shot out onto the pavement and spun in the direction he’d seen the Land Cruiser’s taillights disappear. On the open road he quickly got well up over a hundred. The Land Cruiser was surprisingly not yet out of sight.

  “I may have hit him,” he said.

  Amanda looked at him hard and McGrew glanced briefly at himself in the mirror. He looked good. He realized Amanda was saying something to him.

  “What?” he asked over the roar of the engine and the excitement.

  “I said, ‘We need to call for help!’”

  McGrew shook his head. “We don’t need no help on this one. This one belongs to me.”

  Amanda’s mouth fell open. She started to say something, but then stopped.

  “He’s going into that park,” McGrew said. “There’s no way out. He’s trapped.”

  “If he runs you’re going to want a helicopter,” Amanda said. She was calm, but McGrew saw her brace herself as the car shot up over a rise and lifted off the ground.

  “It’ll take time for them to get here,” she said.

  McGrew shot her a begrudging glance. She was right. He had visions of pinning Ruskin down and shooting it out, but if he ran—and McGrew was vaguely aware of the trails that permeated the park—then a helicopter would be essential. He might even need dogs. The last thing he wanted was for Ruskin to get away. A helicopter would take maybe half an hour anyway. That would give McGrew the time he needed to either run Ruskin to ground, or help in the event that he escaped into the backwoods.

  McGrew picked up the handset of the police radio in his car and called in for the county helicopter as well as a couple of K-9 units. When he replaced the handset Amanda rewarded him with a nod of approval before they squealed around the turn that led into the nature center. There, parked right in front of the hexagonal building, was the Land Cruiser with its driver’s-side door wide open. There was no sign of Ruskin.

  McGrew screeched to a stop and jumped out, gun in hand. Amanda did the same. After scouring the shadows around the center, McGrew stopped, puffing in front of a large wooden relief map of the trails.

  “The water,” McGrew said.

  “A boat?” Amanda said.

  McGrew nodded then went to his car. Amanda followed him and watched as he pulled a flashlight and his handheld radio out of the front seat. Without saying anything to her, he set off back toward the marsh.

  “Wait,” Amanda said. “We should wait for backup. This is insane. McGrew!”

  “You wait,” he said without bothering to turn his head.

  “McGrew! I’m not just walking into something!” she yelled desperately. “You’re crazy! We’ll have the helicopter in a few minutes. You don’t know what’s out there, he might be just waiting. He’ll see your light! McGrew!”

  McGrew stopped and turned back toward Amanda. He lit his face the way children do on Halloween, the flashlight shining up from beneath his chin.

  “It’s good to know you care,” he said, smiling crookedly. Then he flicked off the light and disappeared down the path.

  CHAPTER 66

  Jack ran through the darkness, stumbling and falling not once but five times before he reached his own car, bruised and gasping for breath from his scramble through the woods. Underneath the mask his face was wet with sweat. The loud chirp of his car alarm and the flash of lights disrupting the stillness of the woods nearly choked him with panic. He dashed across the field beneath the power lines and winced as he was forced to actually arm and disarm the car again in order to find it in the dark tangle of foliage.

  He laid the shotgun on the ground and methodically began to go through the routine he’d rehearsed in his mind over and over again, popping the trunk, stripping off his sweat suit, and stuffing it into a plastic garbage bag. He tied off the bag, put it back into the trunk, and then slid into his down jacket from earlier in the day. The trail of fibers was something he had considered from a prosecutor’s point of view. He knew the mistakes other killers had made, and he knew that with care and planning he could avoid them. Once the bag of clothes and the gun were gone, nothing could connect him to the Land Cruiser and the crime of shooting up Tupp’s cottage. But Jack still had one more change of clothes to make before the night was through. He removed a box of shells from the trunk and reloaded the shotgun.

  He laid the gun on the passenger’s seat, got into
the Saab, took off jolting down the gravelly access road and then raced back down the rural highway in the direction of the cottage. He didn’t know how much time he would have, or even if his ruse had worked. It was possible either McGrew or Amanda had stayed behind with Tupp.

  If he saw anyone or anything, he would just take off. Jack was betting against it. It was also possible that reinforcements or an ambulance had already arrived, but he was betting against that as well. This far away from a large town, the chances were that even if they had called right away, any kind of help was a good half hour away. That gave Jack fifteen minutes. He pressed harder on the gas.

  On the way back to Tupp’s cottage he saw no other cars. His heart began to sprint as he pulled down into the driveway for the second time. He drove right up to the cottage and put the car in park with the engine running. The front room was still dark, although there was a light on somewhere in back, either the kitchen or the bedroom, that cast a malicious yellow glow. Jack opened the front door.

  “Eugene!” he yelled. “Eugene. It’s all right, you can come out.”

  Jack froze. Besides his own ragged breathing, and the hammering of his heart, he heard nothing. Tiptoeing, with the shotgun gripped tightly in both hands and leveled off in front of him, he stepped into the main room amid the broken glass. Jack knelt down and grimly examined the dark swatch of blood on the threadbare carpet. A tear in the stuffing of the reclining chair in which Tupp had sat told the rest of the story. Tupp was hit.

  Following the crimson trail, Jack stepped carefully into the kitchen. The light came from above the range, an old yellow bulb. A jagged stripe of blood crossed right through the middle of the gray linoleum floor. One of two metal kitchen chairs had been overturned and lay across his path. Two bloody handprints and numerous marks like broad crimson brushstrokes marred the front of the old white refrigerator where Tupp had obviously tried to pick himself up off the floor. From the slippery stains and the even wider swatch that led to the next room, Jack presumed Tupp had failed.

  Careful not to slip and fall in the bloody trail, Jack continued softly across the kitchen, his flat rubber shoes as silent as a cat. He put one hand on the knob of the bedroom door. The other grasped the pistol grip of the shotgun slung from his shoulder.

  “Eugene!” he yelled. “It’s all right. I’m a police officer. Everything’s okay. He’s gone. You’re safe, Eugene. It’s over.”

  Jack thought he heard a pitiful moan and a soft stirring from within. A red warning light flashed briefly in his mind. Did Tupp have a weapon of his own? But Jack knew he didn’t have time to wait. Gun or no gun, he had to act. The police or an ambulance would soon be there. He threw open the door and tightened his grip on the shotgun, squinting into the darkness. Only the dull column of yellow light from the kitchen illuminated the room.

  As his eyes adjusted, Jack could make out the crumpled form of Tupp propped up against the wall beside the tangle of covers that had been his bed. Blood gurgled audibly in his lungs and he clutched at the bleeding hole in his chest. The slug had punched clean through. The pitiful whimpering that escaped Eugene Tupp was laced with fear and suffering.

  Jack was disappointed and surprised that the thought of Tupp’s last twenty minutes of exquisite pain, huddled in agony on a dirty kitchen floor, brought him no satisfaction. Under the staggering sense of horror at the sight of what he’d done, his finger strayed from its trigger. He thought of Janet. He should be elated by every ounce of Tupp’s suffering, but he wasn’t. His stomach churned instead. His unpleasant reverie was broken by another sound.

  He should never have hesitated. The metallic click of a gun safety was as unmistakable as a child’s scream and even as he felt for the trigger of his own gun, Jack felt himself wincing involuntarily, anticipating the impact of a bullet.

  CHAPTER 67

  The closer Amanda got to the cottage, the more she reprimanded herself for racing off with McGrew. She was so distressed that she didn’t even tell him she was going back. It had been instinctive to take off after the fleeing Land Cruiser, but irresponsible. Neither had given any thought to the human being they’d used as bait. Amanda wondered if it had been the heat of the moment or a subconscious categorization of Tupp as something less than human. Probably it was both.

  When she emerged through the trees and saw the Saab, she understood immediately what had happened, how Ruskin had lured them away. She should have known. Not only had each of the murders he’d committed been devoid of evidence, but the fate of his victims had never been left to chance. Not one of the bodies had suffered less than eight shots—each of which by itself would have scored a kill. It didn’t make sense that he would now have done a sloppy kind of drive-by shooting. It was too uncertain a tactic for a victim who to Jack Ruskin must be infinitely more important than all the rest.

  She slid to a stop on the grass beside the Saab and jumped out of McGrew’s cruiser. She slipped her gun from its holster and caught a deep breath. The last time she had drawn her gun she had been able to do nothing more than watch as her partner was murdered. It was only years of training that pushed her on through the front door of the cottage. She heard nothing, but she could feel Jack Ruskin’s presence. She saw the blood trail that led to the dimly lit kitchen.

  She stepped carefully, quietly, ready at any moment for Ruskin to jump out from the next room with his gun blazing.

  “Eugene!”

  Amanda nearly shrieked. She recognized Ruskin’s voice.

  “Eugene. It’s all right. I’m a police officer. Everything’s okay. He’s gone. You’re safe, Eugene. It’s over.”

  Amanda tried to control the slight tremble that seemed to be spreading from the barrel of her gun, down her hands, and through her body all the way to her knees. Her mouth had gone dry, and the stale smell of the hot dogs that Tupp had cooked on a frying pan for his dinner seemed suddenly overpowering. She rounded the corner. At the other end of the kitchen was the black masked figure of Ruskin. His shotgun was aimed into the bedroom. Amanda took a deep silent breath. At the same time, she settled her weight over her feet, took aim, and clicked off her gun’s safety.

  “Stop!” she heard herself yell.

  CHAPTER 68

  Jack whipped his head around and the sight astounded him.

  It was her. That strand of red hair had fallen across one eye, but the other held him fixed in an immovable gaze.

  “Put the gun down, Mr. Ruskin,” she said slowly and quietly, a real professional. “Just stay calm and put the gun down.”

  A wave of hopelessness washed over Jack. He staggered, but instantly regained his feet and adjusted the shotgun’s barrel, leveling it carefully at Tupp.

  “It doesn’t have to end like this,” Amanda said, stepping slowly toward him. Her voice was beginning now to quaver.

  Jack felt a sound escape him from deep inside.

  “Do you know what he did?” Jack said, his voice breaking off in a high-pitched squeak. His eyes welled up with tears that spilled over their brims only to be soaked up by the woolen mask.

  “Do you know what he did to her?” he cried out in pain.

  Amanda nodded that she did know. She shut her lips tight and her chin rumpled.

  “Then you know,” Jack said through his teeth. His face twisted. Rage bloomed in his brain like a bloody cloud. “Why . . . I . . . am going to do . . . this!”

  Jack turned his attention from the agent back to Tupp and pulled the trigger. The blast from the gun was deafening in the small space and filled it with the pungent aroma of gunpowder. The hollowpoint lead slug hit Tupp in the face, rocking him back, erupting in a fountain of purple gore. His feet began to kick wildly against the floor as if he could somehow struggle free from the certain grip of death.

  Jack turned his head and looked into Amanda’s face from behind his mask. Her mouth hung open in disbelief. Her hands trembled more visibly now than before, the gun barrel wagging.

  Jack spun slowly around, the smoking gun still heavy i
n his hand, and reached for the back door.

  “Stop . . . I’ll shoot,” she said, but her voice sounded plaintive and lacked conviction.

  Jack looked at her wearily.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I understand.”

  Without waiting for her response, Jack opened the door with complete indifference and stepped easily out into the night. The stars glowed brightly from above in the cold clear air. His breath, issuing from the mouth hole in his mask, filled the stillness around him in great gray puffs. In the distance the sound of a helicopter droned. Inside the cottage a cell phone went off. After his first few steps Jack began to jog. He rounded the corner of the cottage and saw the police cruiser with its door open, beside his Saab. His car was still running and Jack got in quickly.

  CHAPTER 69

  At dark he came out. Mosquitoes bumped off his face as he rode through the woods. A nice trail for children to walk to school.

  He liked watching them from the woods. He was growing comfortable with the neighborhood. The people were nice. They smiled and waved. He smiled back, keeping his mouth closed. He was saving his real smile.