by Ben Sanders
She drew her feet to one side so she could reach the tape around her ankles, spent a minute picking at the end. Finally she got a half-inch tab unstuck, and then the rest of it was easy: six whole loops, the skin beneath bright red and tacky with the residue.
She stood shakily, still breathing through her mouth. Dexter was inert. She opened the hallway door, and the dog was the first thing to greet her, yapping at her like some kind of demented rat as she headed for the kitchen.
Her first thought was to call 911, but the kitchen offered her a better option: the phone on the wall, and the U.S. marshal’s business card on the granite counter. Like it was meant to be, her exit route right there waiting.
She took the phone off its charger and stood at the counter as she dialled the marshal’s cell. Windows straight ahead of her, the blinds half-closed, showing darkness in the yard beyond.
When he answered, she said, ‘Mr. Cohen.’ Raspy from all her mouth breathing. ‘It’s Marie Rhodes. You were at my house this afternoon.’ Trying to sound level and in control. The dog was in the hallway door now, hunkered low as it barked, still giving it everything.
He said, ‘Yes, ma’am. I remember.’ That nice Texas voice of his.
Marie said, ‘I’m at a house in Bay Ridge, I was kidnapped, but I’m OK now.’
It was absurd saying that, but the marshal seemed to be up with the play. He said, ‘You at Dexter Vine’s place, by any chance?’
She said, ‘That’s right,’ but paused, seeing an outside light come on beyond the blinds, two black shapes moving across the lawn.
The marshal said, ‘Marie? You still there?’
‘There are people in the backyard.’
‘How many people?’
‘Two. I just saw them.’
‘OK. Is the phone cordless?’
‘Uh-huh, yeah—’
‘Good. Keep talking to me, and I want you to move to the front of the house. I’m just outside, coming for you right now.’
‘All right. I’m going to the front door.’
‘Great. Just keep talking to me. I’m very close.’
Down the hallway, at the entry now. She could hear her breath, loud and crackly as it replayed through the phone. She slid the dead bolt, turned the lock on the handle, felt winter air as she pulled open the door.
And Dexter grabbed her, an iron forearm across her throat that made her scream and drop the phone. She clawed behind her as he dragged her back along the hallway toward the kitchen, a crash of breaking glass as they reached the threshold. She heard Dexter suck a ragged breath, and then he spun her toward the noise, his gun arm outstretched across her shoulder. She closed her eyes as he fired, four quick shots in deafening succession. She felt the recoil, dull punches as the pistol jerked, and then someone screamed as Dexter fired a fifth time. It brought a moment’s silence, and then another crash.
She opened her eyes and saw someone fleeing, a black shape in the yard. He still had her by the throat, swinging her back and forth as he turned to take in the damage, and she could feel the blood from his head running through her hair. The blinds were in tatters, glass across the kitchen floor, a man in black lying face down by the counter. Her ears were ringing from the shocking noise, and probably just shock in general. The dog had joined the mayhem too, barking at the guy by the counter but not loud enough to cover the noise of the front door being kicked open.
She felt Dexter’s gun against her temple, the muzzle still warm, and then they were turning to face the entry, the marshal Lucas Cohen standing there with the door behind him swinging closed off its own bounce.
He had a black pistol raised two-handed, head on an angle as he took aim, feet slightly turned so his hip was leading. She thought he’d tell Dexter to drop it, let the woman go, but he just said, ‘Dexter Vine?’ Like he’d been looking for him, not wanting to shoot the wrong man.
Dexter said, ‘Who do you fucking think?’ His breath hot on her neck.
It would’ve been a good line for the marshal to nail him, put one through his eye as Dexter peeped out to snarl. But there didn’t seem to be a clear line for him yet, Dexter keeping tight behind her with his head out of sight.
Cohen said, ‘You ever hear about this sort of thing paying off? Like, someone taking hostages, starting fresh somewhere tropical?’
Not seeming fazed about it. He had a quiet way of talking, and she hadn’t seen him move yet, his lips hardly opening when he spoke. She was up on her toes, struggling to get air, Dexter’s arm rigid on her throat. With her head tilted back it must have seemed to the marshal like she was looking down on him, knowing she’d have to jump.
Cohen said, ‘It’s going to be all right, Marie.’
Dexter said, ‘Yeah, if you get the fuck out of the way.’
The marshal waited a moment, ignoring the dog as it ran to him and started barking, darting back and forth through a short arc.
Dexter said, ‘Daisy, downstairs.’ Not wanting to ditch his stupid pet. Affection showing through at the eleventh hour.
Cohen said, ‘Dexter? I had a boy draw on me once. He wouldn’t back off either, so I shot him in the head.’ He paused, like wanting to make sure it sunk in, and said, ‘And right now we’re circling that same black hole.’ He’d seemed kind of breezy at times when he came by the house, but there was no trace of that now.
Dexter said, ‘All of us, or just you?’
The marshal said, ‘You point that thing at me, right hand to God, it’ll be the last thing you do in this world.’
He still hadn’t raised his voice, and he still hadn’t moved either, staring blankly down the gun with a focus that was almost scary. The stairs to the garage were beside him on his right, and he’d have to back up to go down, but she knew he wasn’t giving any ground.
The phone on the floor rang, and Cohen waited for it to finish before he said, ‘I guess your debt collectors came early.’ Meaning the guy on the kitchen floor. ‘Thought they were going to wait till midnight, but they obviously didn’t trust you. Shouldkeep that in mind—might not be worth doing business with them, they going to renege on deadlines.’ No doubt trying to shake Dexter’s focus, make him move his head far enough for a shot, but Dexter hadn’t budged.
The dog was getting braver now, though, still in a total froth, but leaping forward to nip the marshal’s cuff.
Cohen said, ‘Daisy’s getting near her last warning.’
Dexter said, ‘Fuck you. Daisy, downstairs, go on.’
Cohen said, ‘Say you get past me, make it to the car, what happens after that?’
Dexter didn’t answer, so Cohen went on, said, ‘This can go two ways. You put the gun down, and everyone leaves happy, or you don’t, and you leave under a sheet.’
‘Or I could shoot the bitch.’
Cohen said, ‘You could do that. But it won’t stop you from dying. Which I think is the number one thing in your head right now.’
Dexter laughed. ‘That’s the attitude I like. What if she’s not dead? You fire and finish her off.’
The phone rang again, and it seemed to make the dog even ballsier: it was holding Cohen’s cuff now, giving it a shake before backing off again.
Cohen still hadn’t looked at it, but he said, ‘Can you shut the dog up? We’ll have Noise Control out at this rate.’
‘Daisy, downstairs, go on.’
‘Should give her the keys, let her get it started for you.’
Dexter snarled something Marie didn’t catch.
The phone finally quit, and the dog came in again, leapt at Cohen’s waist and then backed off.
The marshal said, ‘Already on our last warning,’ and for the first time he moved, pivoted to his right, and dropped his gun sights to Daisy, Marie seeing tendons in his hand as he began to squeeze the trigger.
She realised right then what he was doing, and she knew it would all come down to timing. He was already whipping back around, lifting his aim again even as Dexter shouted, ‘No,’ and she felt him lift the pistol
from her temple. But Cohen’s shift in stance meant Dexter had to look to find his target, and the marshal’s new position meant a diagonal perspective, so Dexter’s small glance implied a large piece of head to aim at. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth on a scream as she heard the marshal fire. She was falling then, Dexter’s weight pulling her backward, and his gun went off as they hit the ground. The dog was the first one to her, doing its usual thing, and then Cohen was standing over her, crouching to take her hand as he said, ‘Marie, you should’ve told me what was happening.’
THIRTY-SIX
Ludo
He went back to the kitchen and placed the gun on the counter and scraped open the cutlery drawer, taking his time with it, drawing out the squeal. He figured if you were blindfolded and tied to a chair, it’d make the fear neurons fire up. You’d hear death warnings in everything. The guy didn’t react, though, sat there with his head hanging forward, blood leaking off his brow.
Ludo found a steak knife in the drawer and tapped the flat of it against the counter. Then he stepped over to the chair and tipped the guy’s head back and eased the point of the blade through the tape across his mouth, in between his lips. He went in a couple inches and then sawed across another inch and removed the blade.
The guy leaned sideways against the cable with his head hanging out past his shoulder, like being sick off a speedboat. He spat blood through the slit in the tape and came slowly upright, holding his chin high this time, maybe giving up on acting stupefied. He said, ‘Do you think you could let me go?’
Sounding conversational somehow, even with the tape giving him a stupid little cartoon voice, high and constricted. Ludo put the knife on the table.
‘What happened to the Mr. Brain-dead thing?’
‘I’m feeling better. Thanks.’ The tape warped his speech—‘better’ was ‘bebber’.
Ludo said, ‘Well, you enjoy it.’
The guy said something else, but it was gibberish.
Ludo said, ‘Hang on, you’re talking shit,’ and cut him a bigger mouth hole.
He pulled the blade out and Marshall said, ‘Was it you who cut off Dom Page’s fingers?’
Ludo stood in front of him, leaning on the edge of the table with his legs crossed and his hands resting either side of him. He said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about that now.’
The guy’s head tipped to one side. Ludo didn’t know if he was thinking things over, or just running out of strength. The guy said, ‘So what do I worry about? Who we waiting for?’
‘I don’t know. The person with the money.’
Through his bloodstained wrappings the guy said, ‘“Person” is gender-neutral. Which makes me think we’re waiting on a lady. And if it’s a lady, it’s Chloe Asaro.’
‘I wouldn’t know. She sounded all right, though.’
The guy said, ‘So you keep me alive so she can do the honors. But if I was her, I’d kill me, and then kill you, so I don’t have to pay anyone.’
Ludo saw the logic of it. Murders are just numbers when you’re in the right mind-set. He said, ‘Might be tempting. But then how did I get you all neatly trussed up, unless I’m a badass? So I think if I’s her, I wouldn’t take any chances.’
The guy didn’t answer.
Ludo said, ‘Client sent me to talk to Dom Page first, thought he might know how to find you. Said he didn’t, but you can’t actually be certain until you’ve gone through ten fingers, you know? But then the New Mexico tip came along, went looking for you down there. Should’ve just stayed home, waited for you to show up.’
The guy’s head came upright again and he said, ‘If you let me go, we can work something out.’
He didn’t sound desperate, but maybe he was just exhausted.
Ludo said, ‘You’re not getting out of the chair. I’m sorry to tell you.’
The guy rocked his head gently, seeming to think it through. He said, ‘Maybe you should finish it now. Risk gets bigger, longer I’m sitting here.’
Ludo said, ‘I’ll take the risk.’
The phone rang.
Ludo walked down the hallway to the front room and answered it.
The lady said, ‘I’m not getting an answer from Dexter.’ Worried she was being bullshitted.
Ludo said, ‘You don’t have to go to Dexter’s. You’re coming here.’
There was a long pause, like she was cutting odds, not liking the uncertainty. She said, ‘Is he breathing?’
Ludo said, ‘Through some duct tape, yeah.’
She said, ‘I want him alive when I get there.’
Marshall
He knew he had to take whatever chance he got. The ringing phone was like a call to action. If someone was going to die, he wanted a say in the matter.
He hooked his legs back next to the rear supports so he was straddling the chair, and then pulled his feet tiptoe, either side of his torso. His quads burned and shook as he tensed and tried to lift himself, breath whistling through the tape, his head throbbing like on the brink of rupture.
He rose a wobbly inch and felt the chair come with him. His legs failed, and he dropped with a bang.
In the front room he heard Ludo say, ‘Through some duct tape, yeah.’
A pause, and then a light plastic clack as he hung up the phone.
Do it or you’re dead—
He pulled his ankles in hard against the rear chair legs like spurring a horse, and then, panting and wobbling, spitting blood through the tape, he pushed upward off his toes. At the same time as he heard Ludo in the hall, he felt his back slide free of the chair, and by some autoscopic fluke he saw himself from the hallway door: this wretched bleeding creature bound by silver tape, rising oddly from its tethers.
Ludo was running now, Marshall standing helpless in his path, blindfolded and his hands trapped behind him. He swept his right foot in a tight arc and caught the table leg with his instep, hooked it juddering across the linoleum to the door, and as Ludo entered the kitchen he tripped and came sprawling. Marshall had already turned, backing for the countertop, but as Ludo fell, Marshall stepped forward and swung blindly with a massive kick, hit something solid and heard Ludo retch and gasp. Marshall tracked the sound, kicked a second time and smashed his nose, kicked a third time—
And Ludo caught it.
He felt that huge hand around his ankle, Ludo yanking him off balance. He twisted and went down hard on his side, rolled, and came up on one knee. He tried to jerk free, and then felt the burn as the knife went into his leg.
Marshall gasped and panted through the tape, surged up off the other leg and stumbled the final blind stretch. Bound hands flailing as he turned and fell against the edge of the counter. Ludo was still clinging, and Marshall kicked out with his injured leg, felt the knife pull free at the same time his hands closed around the gun on the countertop.
The barrel—
The cylinder—
He got his hands on the grips, his finger on the trigger, and he was turning as Ludo grabbed his knee, white heat in his thigh as the knife went in, white heat again as Ludo stabbed him in the back, and when he felt the hand on his wrist he knew he had to squeeze—
They both fell with the bang.
Marshall hit the ground with his shoulder, the knife still in his back, and Ludo landed on top of him.
He could feel blood everywhere: on his back, on the floor beneath his face. No knowing whose was whose. Ludo twitched and tried to crawl away. The woman upstairs called something, and Ludo answered, his whisper so faint Marshall didn’t catch the words. He figured if he had to die, at least he took his killer with him. Maybe they both thought that.
It was pitch-black behind the tape. He listened for sirens as he drifted off, wanting some small hope to take away with him, but there was nothing. No comfort, no synaptic flash of life. He went out slowly, and it was dark the whole way.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Perry
Earlier in the motel, he’d dreamed up tough things to say, great-sounding stuff about ho
w Dexter’s a dead man, that he’d made a wrong turn but wouldn’t live to regret it. Now that he was in the moment, though, he couldn’t see the point in talking off some script. He just wanted her back. He just wanted Marie.
Coming down Eighty-sixth in the cab, he saw cop cars and an ambulance outside Dexter’s, the police units parked at messy angles, like they’d pulled up in a hurry. His first thought was that maybe the bastard had caught a bullet, but then he remembered that Marie was the only one with him, and he couldn’t imagine her clipping the old boy. So a cop might have shot him, but he went cold as the other options all hit at once: Marie dead, Marie bleeding out, Marie at death’s door.
The cabdriver slowed, maybe sensing his passenger getting antsy. He said, ‘This you up here?’
The driver’s eyes were on the mirror, which meant that as the man in black stepped out in front of them and raised a gun, Perry noticed first. The cabdriver saw the shock in his face, glanced back at the road, and said, ‘Shit,’ as he slammed the brakes.
They were too close, and he should have just hit the gas and mown the guy down, but now they were skidding, the front suspension crushing flat just as the first shot came through the windshield.
The driver caught it in the throat, but his foot stayed on the brake. The cab howled to a stop as the man in black lurched toward the car. He was limping, clutching one leg, blood running through his fingers. Perry opened his door, a scream in his lungs, dragged along by the hope that it wasn’t too late to run, that this was a horror you could wake from. She was so close he could see her. He was nearly there.
But the bloodied figure was right before him, and he knew these were the visions that came to you at the end, the moments last breaths were made of, and he didn’t even hear the second round.
Cohen
When he heard the shots, he was still inside, going over the scene with detectives from NYPD. By the time he made it to the kerb the cab was pulling away up Eighty-sixth, and there were two bodies on the ground in the middle of the road. Someone was screaming too, frantic wails of ‘Perry,’ and he realised it was Marie. She was in the back of the ambulance parked across Dexter’s driveway.