“No, no problems,” Will replied.
“So,” Lionel said, “there’s a reward in it for me, is there?”
Watkins turned toward the little man and, in what seemed like slow motion, Will could see what was about to happen. There would be no gunshot; no telltale bullet hole in Lionel’s body; no suspicion of foul play; no police questioning neighbors and others such as Carol in the flower shop. Watkins was going to do this with his hands. In the end, there would only be a frail old man dead at the bottom of the stairs, his neck broken by the tragic fall.
Watkins had reached the bewildered Lionel and was raising his huge hands toward the man’s neck when Will moved. With one step he was at the counter, grasping the carving knife. Before Watkins could effectively react to the movement behind him, Will leapt at him, locking his palm under Watkins’s chin. On his tiptoes, powered by a massive adrenaline rush, Will yanked back with all his strength and pressed the blade of the knife firmly against the giant’s exposed throat.
“Move and I’ll kill you!” he snapped, tightening his grip even as he felt the enormous power of the man he was trying to hold in place. “I know exactly how to do this, Watkins. Believe me, I do. One slice. That’s all. It’s a terrible way to die.”
He added some pressure for emphasis and felt the killer wince as the blade broke skin.
“What in the heck are you doing?” Lionel cried.
Watkins’s body stiffened. For an eternal few seconds, Will could sense him sorting out the odds. Then the tension in his body lessened.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
“The gun. Ease it out of your pocket and drop it on the floor.”
Muttering threats and obscenities, Watkins did as he was ordered.
“You’re signing your girlfriend’s death warrant,” he said.
“Lionel, get out of here now,” Will ordered. “Don’t tell anyone; don’t go to the police. Just get out of here, get off the street, and don’t come back for two hours. Watkins, give him your wallet. . . . Now! . . . Lionel, take all the money in it. You’ve earned it. Now, get out. Quickly!”
The little man hesitated, then took the stack of bills from Watkins’s wallet, grabbed a jacket from the back of a chair, and hurried out of the apartment.
Watkins slowly, dramatically lifted his hand and checked his watch.
“You really fucked up, asshole,” he said, careful not to move any further against the knife. “I’m five minutes late. Your little honey’s probably dead already.”
“Call Gold,” Will said.
“No way.”
Will tightened his grip across Watkins’s chin, but this time the killer didn’t react at all.
“I said call in!”
“Drop the knife.”
At that instant, Watkins’s cell phone began ringing.
“Answer it.”
Watkins laughed derisively. Another ring.
“Five rings and the recording starts,” he managed.
Three.
Will stepped back and threw the carving knife to the floor.
Grinning, Watkins flipped on his phone.
“Sorry, Mr. Gold. We were getting the envelope and I lost track of the time. No, he’s right here. He had a little accident and banged his face, but he’ll be all right. . . . Yessir. I’ll bring him. We’ll be back soon. No problem. He’s been acting up some, but I know he’ll behave from now on.”
Watkins flipped the phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. Then, without warning, he swung from his hip, smashing Will flush in the face. Will heard his cheekbone snap an instant before the pain exploded from it. He was sputtering on a gush of blood down his nose and throat before he hit the floor.
CHAPTER 34
Discipline . . . Discipline . . . Don’t move . . . Not a flicker . . . Not a twitch . . . Breathe in . . . Hold it . . . Hold it . . . Breathe out . . . Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king . . . Discipline . . . Discipline . . .
For most of a year during college, Patty and one of her roommates had taken yoga classes together. They had both dropped out, partly because of the pressures of class work, but also because each had met a man.
What in the hell was his name? she wondered now. He was supposed to have been The One. Now she couldn’t even remember his name. Why hadn’t she stayed with yoga?
Breathe in . . . Hold it . . . Hold it . . . Breathe out . . . Slowly . . . Slowly . . . Don’t move . . . Don’t move . . .
At least an hour had passed since Will was sent off with the man named Watkins—probably closer to two. Boyd Halliday and Marshall Gold had departed just a few minutes after that for an important session with their lawyer and hadn’t returned. Before they left, they had said enough for her to know that tomorrow at ten there was a meeting scheduled at which the Excelsius takeover of several companies would be completed. The new conglomerate, still to be called Excelsius Health, with Halliday as CEO, would instantly be among the largest health-care providers in the east, if not in the country. Power and money. The managed-care killings, believed by almost everyone to be about revenge and retribution, had never been about anything except power and money. Now, unless she or Will could do something, the body count of those sacrificed on that altar was about to rise.
Patty had begun experiencing momentary glimmers of consciousness for a while before she was taken from the ICU, but it wasn’t until she was being transferred from her bed to the stretcher that she had started to come around on all levels. By the time she was secured inside the ambulance, the conversations around her were increasingly penetrating the darkness that had enveloped her mind. In snatches, she heard about her brain surgery and her persistent coma. Some sort of a diversion—maybe a fire—had been set off in the hospital solely for the purpose of getting her out of there. She had no idea where she was being taken, or why, but what she did hear told her that the best she could do was to remain still—absolutely still.
As the ambulance ride wore on, beneath the patches that covered her eyes, she opened and closed her lids. Then, carefully, concealed by the sheet that was draped over her, she tested her arms and legs. From what she could tell, everything was working. But she also knew of the phantom pains of amputees and the phantom movements of paralyzed limbs in stroke and spinal-cord victims.
Breathe in . . . Hold it . . . Hold it . . . Breathe out . . .
Since Will and the others had gone, she had been alone with the torturer Krause—the man Gold had referred to as the good doctor. He was seated toward the door, maybe ten or fifteen feet from where she lay. Several times he had come over and stood beside her, breathing heavily and, she sensed, touching himself. First it was just a few seconds at a time, then a minute, then even more.
Good, she thought, stoking her anger, the more you get turned on, the better. Creep.
As the visits to her stretcher became longer, they also became more frequent. It was as if Krause was battling his own instincts—and losing. Each time Patty tried, through the man’s breathing and the sound of his movement, to create a mental picture of him and to focus in on his position and posture. She felt certain from his footfall and at what height she placed his mouth that he was slightly built and not very tall. Finally, perhaps unable to control himself any longer, the good doctor pulled her sheet down below her breasts and stood by her shoulder, staring down at her. She was wearing some sort of hospital pajamas, or perhaps a set of surgical scrubs, but still she felt naked, exposed, and vulnerable.
“How beautiful you are. . . . How beautiful.”
His breath reeked of cigarettes and garlic. His voice was raspy and rather high-pitched. She honed in on the image of a very thin, wiry man, maybe five-six or -seven, and for no objective reason whatsoever, decided that he fancied himself an intellectual and a poet.
Krause replaced the sheet, and Patty silently sighed relief. He had stopped short of uncovering her hands and the loose IV tubing that rested beneath them. The clear plastic tube was the only accessible weapon she had, b
ut applied quickly and with the proper leverage, she felt it might be enough. The green polystyrene oxygen tubing was a bit thicker, with perhaps less give, but it would be impossible to get at without lifting her arms and risking the loss of the small advantage surprise was going to give her.
Strangulation, from the front and back, was a maneuver they had studied at the academy, mostly so that they could learn how to defend themselves against it. She had never paid that much attention to technique when she was the attacker. Now she wished she had. It frightened her that any move she made would have to be done with the patches covering her eyes, but she sensed, right or wrong, that this unpleasant little man was physically weaker than Gold or Watkins, or even Halliday. If she was going to defeat any one of them, he was the best bet, and if he gave her the chance, she was going to take it.
She had barely completed the thought when he was back. Again the sheet went down. This time, after muttering how beautiful she was, he bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips, at the same time setting his hand on her breast. It was all she could do to keep from cringing. Instead, her resolve grew. Krause was testing now, perhaps seeing how much he could get away with without waking her up, perhaps fearful of being caught by Gold or Halliday should he linger too long. However, excitement and his perverse nature clearly had a grip on him.
Not knowing whether he was watching her or not, Patty had not yet dared to move enough to wrap the IV tubing around her hands. If she tried and he was looking at her, it was all over. Still, she felt she was running out of time. She had to sense the opportunity and make her move.
“You’re so beautiful,” he was whispering again, increasing the pressure on her breast. “Just so beautiful.”
His vocabulary was woefully limited, Patty noted, distracting herself from being touched by him. If he was a poet, he was a very bad one.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Krause lifted his hand from her breast and again drew the sheet up. She listened to his heavy breathing and envisioned him standing there, a hand down his pants, fondling himself. Then she heard the scuffing of his shoes as he turned away from her to return to his chair. For a few precious seconds, his back would be to her. He was too stimulated to keep away for long. When he returned, she had to be ready. It had to be now.
Keeping her movements minimal, she located the IV tubing, gripped it, and using quick, minute circles, wound it around each hand. The polystyrene garrote she had created, nearly two feet long, rested across the tops of her thighs. Now she had to pray that Krause’s lecherous ambitions remained above her waist. Across the room, from near the door, she could hear him breathing, clearing his throat, and shifting in his chair. She tried envisioning his movements as she rehearsed her own in her mind.
Many times since joining the force she had asked herself whether she was capable of shooting to kill in order to protect herself or others. Always, the answer had been yes, but in the scenarios she created, firing her weapon to kill had always been reflex and instinctive. This time, the kill would be premeditated, deliberate, and at close range, and once she was committed, there could be no hesitation, no turning back. She tested the strength in her arms by pressing them tightly against her sides while clenching and unclenching her fists. Then she continued her deep breathing, allowing images of Gold’s victims and their families to flow through her thoughts and keep her still.
Several minutes passed. Krause’s breathing seemed more rapid now. Was he masturbating? He began humming to himself—a bizarre, tuneless incantation that Patty found quite chilling.
Come on! . . . Come on!
Finally, he stood up and returned to her.
“Oh, baby, you are so beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful and all mine.”
He lowered the sheet to her waist and pulled her top up above her breasts. She sensed him devouring her with his eyes. Then she felt the heat of his breath as once again he bent down and set his lips on hers. In seconds he would put his hand on her breasts again. Getting the tubing past his arm and around his neck would be much more difficult. It had to be now—right now!
She drew her hands up clear of the sheet. Then, just as Krause was reacting to the maneuver, she swept the tubing around his neck and pulled his face down against her breastbone, tightening the loop with all her strength. As she had envisioned, holding him tightly against her reduced what he could do with his arms. He flailed at her face but was unable to land a blow with any real force behind it. The patches were torn from her eyes, sending a painful blast of light through her widely dilated pupils. One random swing hit directly on the incision and bone flap on the side of her skull. She cried out, but intensified her grip even more. The tubing felt as if it was going to tear through her palms, but she battled the pain and pulled even harder. It strengthened her to realize Krause hadn’t uttered a sound. His airway was completely occluded, as were his carotid arteries.
Harder . . . Harder . . . Don’t let up no matter what. . . . Don’t let up.
The blinding light was rapidly giving way to movement and color. She could see his jet-black hair, then one blurry ear, then her own hand, blanched and bloodless with the effort of killing him. Krause struggled to straighten up, but instead lurched to one side and fell onto his back on the floor. Patty was pulled off the stretcher and landed heavily on top of him. The tension in her grip held. Instantly, what little leverage he had vanished. His arms went limp and flopped to the wooden floor.
Patty was looking directly into the torturer’s bulging, bloodshot eyes when he died. She heard, then smelled, then felt his bladder and bowels give way. The tension in his body ceased. His jaw went slack, and a trickle of blood emerged from the corner of his mouth. Still, she maintained her grip on the tubing, holding fast until she could no longer bear the throbbing in her hands and arms.
Ignoring as best she could the shell bursts going off in her skull and the stench of violent death, she rolled off Krause’s corpse and lay on the floor nearby, gasping for air. Finally, she propped herself up unsteadily on one elbow and took her first careful look at the man she had just killed. If she was feeling any remorse at that moment, any at all, she certainly couldn’t identify it as such. Krause had a narrow, rodentlike face, with burned-out acne and irregular, cigarette-stained teeth. His blood-red eyes still bulged almost out of their sockets.
“Beautiful,” Patty muttered. “Just beautiful.”
With difficulty she grasped the frame of the stretcher and hauled herself upright. Her legs held her there, but not without some conscious effort. Across the room was the chair from which Krause had so vigilantly guarded her—high-backed with a caned seat and no arms. There was a copy of Penthouse on the floor beside it, along with a glass half-filled with what looked like Coke. Draped across the back of the chair was a black sports coat, and hanging over the coat, nearly invisible in its black shoulder holster, was a gun. Suddenly energized, she hurried over. It was a Colt .38 Special—reliable, but with a bit less stopping power than she would have liked. Still, in her hand and at close quarters, it was certainly enough.
Expertly, Patty flipped the cylinder open and assured herself that the six chambers were full. Then, hefting the revolver in her hand, she managed a thin, bitter smile. The odds on their making it out of this mess had just shortened considerably.
Patty checked the windows and satisfied herself that without tools, there was no way out of the room except the door. Through the dense overcast, the gray afternoon light was fading. Four-thirty, she guessed, maybe five. Boyd Halliday would probably be gone by now, hurrying home to join his wife at the dinner party they were throwing for their new business associates. She had heard stories of managed-care CEOs with villas in Majorca and stables of rare antique cars. What sort of place did Halliday live in, she wondered. Would any amount of money, any amount of power, ever be enough for him? She scanned the buildings and grounds outside, trying without success to get some sense of where the farm might be located.
With Will unaccounted for an
d no definite idea of the firepower beyond the door, she decided that her best chance was to stay in the room and wait. The odor emanating from the body on the floor was testing that decision, but she knew that she held the advantage so long as the first person to arrive could be induced to move through the doorway and into the room—especially if that person was Marshall Gold.
The aromatic Dr. Krause was quite literally dead weight. She gave thought to somehow pulling him up onto the stretcher, covering him with a sheet, and then flattening herself against the wall behind the door. Quickly, though, she passed on the notion of hauling him up that far as a physical impossibility. Instead, staying tensed for the slightest noise outside the door, she rolled the body on its side and left it where it was. Next, she brought the chair over, and laid it on its side, adjusting Krause into a sitting position against it. Using the oxygen, IV, and catheter drainage tubing, and Krause’s belt, she lashed the body to the chair. Surprised and utterly grateful that the chair legs didn’t shatter, she hoisted her creation upright with surprising ease and dragged it to a spot about ten feet in from the door, facing the stretcher.
With the good doctor’s sports jacket draped over the back of the chair, the illusion was nearly complete, and quite good if she did say so. It became even better when she added the finishing touch of the small table that stood near the ratty mattress she assumed was Will’s bed. Setting Krause’s arm at a jaunty angle on the top, she wrapped his fingers around the half-finished glass of Coke. The position also helped brace the body against toppling over prematurely.
“Voilà!” she whispered proudly. “C’est si bon.”
The lure, calculated to draw her first visitor at least several steps into the room, was in place. There was little she could do with the stretcher other than to put the thin pillow under the sheet, but by the time anyone got that far, hopefully she would be in charge.
The door to the room opened inward. Patty checked Krause one last time, then positioned herself against the wall so that it would swing toward then past her. The extra half second might make a difference. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Inside her head there seemed to be a serious synergy between her concussion and the massive pounding of her heart created by her battle with Krause. She was feeling vague and sluggish one moment, sharp and focused the next.
The Society Page 36