Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash

by Polly Iyer

  Lucier nodded. They walked back to the house. Lucier scanned the living room and entry. If Diana could have left a clue she would have. He’d never wanted psychic abilities, knowing what Diana went through each time she drew on her powers, but he wished he had them tonight. Anything to get a bead on where she was.

  He put himself there twenty minutes before. The pizza boy arrives. Walt sees him through the peephole and opens the door. Craven barges in with the delivery kid. He shoots Walt and the kid and grabs Diana.

  He noticed Walt’s gun lying where his body had been. Lucier lifted the weapon with his pen and sniffed it.

  “Walt took a shot.”

  Beecher opened a plastic bag, and Lucier dropped the gun inside. Something struck him as out of place. Something he barely noticed when he came in. He stepped onto the walkway and followed the trail. Bending down, he ran his finger across a streak of blood, then followed drops onto the grass. He looked back to where the bodies had lain.

  “Notice anything unusual here, Sam?”

  “Craven’s hit.”

  “Yeah, Walt wouldn’t have taken a shot if he thought he’d hit Diana, so my guess is he hit Craven.”

  Cash and Rickett drove up at the same time.

  “Where’s Walt and Diana?” Rickett asked.

  Lucier explained what they found and what they surmised.

  Rickett’s face burned red. “If Walt dies, Craven’s mine.”

  “Stand in line,” Lucier said. “You can have what’s left of him after I finish.”

  Cash looked around. “Don’t want to ask this, but where’s Diana?”

  “With Craven,” Beecher said.

  “I’d say fuck right now,” Cash said, “’cept I don’t swear. But goddammit, fuck. Leave room for me in that line.”

  Lucier smiled. He knew how much Cash and Diana liked each other. “Make sure the crime scene techs take swabs of that blood, Willy, and get them typed. I’m betting it’s Craven’s.”

  “He knows we’re onto him,” Rickett said, “so he can’t go to the hospital.”

  “Craven’s the type who gets all his ducks in a row. Money, passport, clothes. That’s what I’d do.”

  “And no one is more organized than you,” Beecher said.

  “Except Jack. That’s what we had in common. We thought alike, always on the same page. He isn’t some confused psycho. He’s been on a mission, and he’s calculated this from the beginning, preparing for the time he had to flee.”

  Cash looked around at all of them. “So you know where’s he going, Lieutenant?”

  “Unless the wound is life threatening, I know what I’d be doing. I’d head for the border, and I’d have another car accessible.” Lucier rubbed his head. “Jesus, even as I’m saying that, I don’t believe we’re talking about the Jack Craven. What the hell turned him? What did we miss?”

  “Getting even with the guy who hurt his daughter,” Cash said. “And while he was at it, taking out the judge that let the drunk off. That’s what.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  David and a Wounded Goliath

  Diana’s insides were shaking. She had only known Craven as Lucier’s boss, a calm, authoritative man with a serious demeanor. She’d never seen his darker counterpart and doubted Lucier and his team had either. Even in the dusk of evening, his eyes burned with fury. Blood spread slowly over his suit jacket from the wound in his right shoulder, forcing him to drive with his left hand. Unfortunately, Walt hadn’t hit anything vital.

  Craven parked his gun between his legs, easily accessible to his dominant left hand. With a glance at her, he took hold of the steering wheel with his right hand to show her it wasn’t useless.

  That answered that. Maybe he’ll bleed out and die before he kills me.

  But he hadn’t killed her yet, which meant he needed her. How long did she have before he cashed her in? Ernie, the good cop, wouldn’t succumb to blackmail, and she hated that he might be put in that position.

  She contemplated going for the gun, but there was a console between them, and no matter that he had a bullet in him, she didn’t give herself much of a chance to grab the gun before he did. The doors were locked. Could she flip the latch and jump out before he grabbed her? Would she survive the fall at this speed?

  Her gaze wandered outside. Where were they? They were on I-10, crossing Lake Pontchartrain. A reflective sign said Slidell. Was he heading into Mississippi? She watched the exits and took mental notes.

  Hoping her voice didn’t tremble, she said, “You shot two innocent men back there, Captain. Is that what your brand of justice is all about?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “No. You need me, and when I’ve outlived my usefulness, you’ll kill me, just like you killed all those people.”

  “They deserved what they got.”

  “Walt didn’t. Neither did the delivery boy. You’ve lost sight of your mission. Maybe you started out with good intentions, avenging those victims without a voice. But now you’re all about saving your ass, and anyone who gets in the way is no more important than the victims were to the men or women who committed their punishable sins.”

  Perspiration beaded on a face twisted with pain, and his right arm twitched.

  Bet he wants to send me through the window.

  “You’ve got a big mouth, Ms. Racine. I knew when you came on the scene you were trouble. Now shut up.”

  Not a chance. She wanted to keep him talking. She wanted answers. Why Keys? “Did Chenault kill Keys?”

  “Yes. Happy now?”

  “Why? Because of the picture of Soulé?”

  Craven didn’t answer. How far could she push him?

  “I know about Chenault, but how did you get the others to sign on to murder?”

  “What do you know about Chenault?”

  “He killed his father.”

  “Had him killed. There’s a difference.”

  “Tomato, tomahto. He contracted a murder. Did you blackmail him to join the group?”

  Craven laughed and clutched his wound at the same time.

  “Chenault? He was only too happy to jump aboard. Denny loved power over people, especially bad fathers. I always gave him those.”

  “And Hodge? What was in his dark secret closet?”

  “The rape of his sister by a pea-brained football player. The high school hero almost killed her. His family paid off Hodge’s family to keep silent, and they did, but Hodge beat the snot out of the boy enough that he couldn’t play college ball. There’s something in most cops’ pasts ― a friend, family member. Flaws in the law.”

  “And the rest?”

  “This and that. The ninety-three year old guy in the nursing home was Feldman’s wife’s stepfather. Michel grew up on the streets. He saw plenty, some by cops.” He started to say something, then stopped.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. Now just give me a minute’s peace. We’re almost there.”

  “Where?”

  “My little hideaway. No one knows about it, not even my wife. The provenance of ownership would be difficult to trace.” Craven glanced her way. “I’m rather clever with those things.”

  Which meant Lucier would never find her.

  He pulled into a long, gravel driveway next to a late model pickup. Though dark now, she could smell water and cypress, hear the flow of water. The silhouette of a house on stilts loomed in front of her. From what she could see, water surrounded the house on three sides, with no lights from other houses anywhere.

  He lifted the gun from between his thighs with a steady hand. “Stay right there.”

  He circled the hood with the gun aimed at her. She doubted this was the time to put up a fight or to escape into unfamiliar surroundings. Craven was desperate, and he’d already shown he’d lost any sense of right and wrong. Besides, she was no match for a man twice her size, even with an injured arm.

  He opened the car door.

  “Get out.”

  She did, p
urposely brushing into him. A pain shot through her head. She wobbled, almost collapsing when she saw the surprise and disbelief in Hodge’s eyes when Craven shot him. Then she felt the gun in her ribs nudging her along.

  “No tricks. Move. There’s a key in that fake rock to the right of the stairs. Get it and open the door.”

  Shaking off the painful moment, she got the key and climbed the stairs to the door. He struggled with the long flight but never complained. Inside, he flipped on the lights. “The bathroom’s down the hall. Go.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “There’s your smart mouth again. Go.”

  She went.

  The house was rustic and well appointed. She looked around. Craven had his gun aimed at her back. To her right, vertical blinds covered what she assumed was a sliding glass door. She could try to escape, but a bullet was faster than she was, and the door was probably locked. Craven would shoot her before she figured out how to open the latch, not to kill her, because he still needed her. When she served her purpose, he would.

  “There’s a first-aid kit in the closet. Get it.”

  She opened the closet door and saw the big red cross. She took it out and turned toward him with the kit in her hand. He looked terrible. Good.

  “You’re going to remove the bullet from my arm.”

  “I’m what?”

  “You heard me. Go into the kitchen and boil some water.”

  “I’m not operating on you. Besides, you can’t trust me. I’ll stab you first chance I get.”

  “Doubt you could actually do that, but if you try, you’ll be dead. I promise.”

  “Get one of your crooked cops to do the surgery. I get sick from the sight of blood.”

  “No more cops left. Now, kitchen. Boil the water, and get all the clean towels from the drawer next to the sink. I’m losing my patience.”

  She’d do it, and she’d stab him in the eye. That’s what self-defense classes said to do: go for the attacker’s eyes. If he wanted to trust her, that was his problem. She filled a pot with water, turned on the stove, and set out clean towels on a rectangular wooden table.

  “If you have any brilliant ideas like throwing hot water at me, don’t. I will shoot you.”

  While aiming the gun with his left hand, he carefully shimmied out of the right side of his suit jacket, now covered with blood. He shifted the gun to his damaged hand and repeated the process. Diana couldn’t believe the strength of the man. Not even a grimace. He’d shoot her before she could throw the pot. Either that or she’d spill it all over herself.

  “Is the water boiling?”

  “Not yet. You know the old saying, ‘A watched pot never boils.’”

  “Never heard it. Now, when the water boils, open the kit and drop the scalpel and the big pair of tweezers into the water, along with the bottom part of the tongs. When they’ve boiled for a few minutes, put the pot on a towel on the table.”

  She did everything he told her to do.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  Again, she followed instructions.

  With his bad hand holding the gun, he took handcuffs out of his back pocket with his good hand and tossed her the cuffs. “Good thing you’re so tiny. Cuff your ankles together.”

  “What? No, I won’t.”

  Craven put the barrel of the gun right in front of her nose. “Do what I say or I’ll blow your pretty face all over this kitchen.”

  “Then who will take out your bullet?”

  “Do. It.”

  She felt like a fool. Craven had a bullet in him, and she couldn’t get away from him? If she cuffed her ankles together and stabbed him in the eye, she couldn’t run. She’d missed her chance earlier, but she damn well wouldn’t lose another.

  She took the cuffs, sneered at him for show, and bent down as if she was going to fasten her ankles. He watched over the table. When she got under the table, she came up with all the force she could muster, and flipped the table right on his wounded shoulder. The pot of boiling water slid down onto his back. He screamed, let go of the gun, and fell backward onto his right side with a string of curse words she hadn’t heard since the act of a profane comedian in Vegas.

  Still slightly off balance, Diana swung the cuffs at his head, striking his brow, and dove for the now-loose gun.

  “Damn you, woman.”

  With her heart beating like mad, she latched onto the gun and waved the barrel at him. “Stay there, on the floor.”

  Sweat and water and blood covered Craven’s shirt. “Don’t be foolish. You won’t shoot. You haven’t got the guts.”

  “Really? Don’t you remember my first run-in with a sociopath? Where’s your phone? Give it to me.”

  “Why, so you can call your boyfriend?”

  “Where is your phone?”

  “Find it.”

  She got up, keeping the gun trained on Craven, and rummaged through his bloody coat. No phone. No car keys. “Empty your pants pockets.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Empty them.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Craven’s smugness made her mad, and she pulled the trigger, aiming near but not directly at him. The kick sent her back, and Craven made his move. His quickness surprised her, considering he was bleeding, burnt, and pissed. She recovered quickly and pulled the trigger again. This time the bullet slammed into his left side, and Craven went down.

  “Dammit, Craven. What’d you do that for?”

  Clutching his new wound, blood seeping through his fingers, he said, “You shot me. You fucking shot me.”

  “I told you I would. Now where’s the damn phone?” He still didn’t answer. “I can stay here all night. You, on the other hand, need a doctor or you’ll bleed out. What’ll it be?”

  He reached into his pants pocket with his bloody hand and pulled out his phone. “Come and get it.”

  “Oh, no. Slide the phone to me.”

  He thought for a long minute, then pushed the phone in her direction.

  Diana nudged it farther back with her foot so he couldn’t get to her, bent down, and picked up the sticky-with-blood cell. He didn’t look like he could make the move anyway. She punched in Lucier’s number.

  “Ernie?” She heard a long exhale.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. The captain isn’t. He needs an ambulance.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. I saw signs to Slidell, but I didn’t see an address.” She turned to Craven. “Where are we? What’s the address?” Craven didn’t answer. He’d passed out. She told Lucier.

  “Don’t go near him, Diana. Hear me? It’s an old trick. He’ll grab you and you’ll be dead.”

  “He’s bleeding.”

  “Let him bleed. He didn’t worry about Walt when he shot him.”

  “How is he?”

  “I don’t know. Now, where are you?”

  “Captain,” she said. “Wake up. Tell me where we are.” She waited, staying back. “He isn’t answering, Ernie. I don’t dare go outside to see if I can find an address. We’re at a house on a river or channel, and I’m pretty sure we’re surrounded by water. I didn’t see any other houses around.”

  “That might help. Hold on.”

  She heard him talking to someone. “Keep the phone on. Rickett is getting someone to track you now. Stay where you are. Don’t move, and keep away from Craven. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.” She backed up but kept the gun steady even though her insides were trembling. She hated to admit it, but she could really use a scotch right now. No. Keep your wits, Diana. You’ve got the gun. Craven moved, released a short moan, and opened his eyes.

  “Where are we, Captain? You need an ambulance. Tell me the address.”

  Craven snorted. “I might as well die here as in prison. You know what they do to cops in prison, Diana? Ugly.”

  “Using my first name won’t make our relationship any better, Jack. You didn’t care about all those p
eople you killed.”

  “They should have been in prison, and they weren’t.” He sucked in a jagged breath. “I’m sorry about your friend and the pizza kid. I didn’t expect the guy to pull a gun. I acted instinctively.” His lip twisted. “The reflexes of a cop.”

  When he started to get up, Diana said, “Don’t move. Just don’t.”

  “I can’t do anything. In fact I can’t get up, so don’t worry.”

  “Why’d you kill all those people? And don’t say they deserved to die. Sometimes life isn’t fair; we all know that.”

  “Do you have children, Ms. Racine? No, of course not. How could you understand the love a father has for his child? MaryAnn was the most beautiful, smartest four-year old you’d ever want to meet. I loved her to the moon and back.”

  His words stuttered, breathing shallow.

  Diana didn’t think she hit anything vital. She hoped not anyway.

  Craven continued. “She loved me the same way. What we had was magical. That ended nineteen years ago when a drunk driving with a revoked license slammed into my wife’s car, and MaryAnn went flying out of her car seat.”

  Tears trickled down Craven’s cheeks. Diana felt his anguish. Nineteen years hadn’t erased the picture of his injured daughter, nor had the years erased his rage.

  “She’s twenty-three now, still beautiful, but with the mind of a two-year-old child. The driver got off because he was rich and bribed the judge. How would you feel if that happened to you? If you saw this piece of shit walk while your daughter had to be tended to for the rest of her life? How? I’ll tell you how. You’d want to make the bastard pay, and the judge along with him.”

  The worst part of Craven’s story was Diana would have felt the same way. But that’s when it would have stopped. “And then you sought out other guilty parties and exacted revenge. Who made you God to render those judgments?”

  “Me. I made them. Others agreed.”

  “Your accomplices? And you killed them to save yourself. Not so noble after all, are you?”

  Craven coughed. A pool of blood covered the floor. “I wasn’t finished, and I’m still not. You don’t even have to leave New Orleans and vicinity to find lowlifes who’ve killed by wantonly disregarding the lives of others.”