Shaken [JD 07]

by J. A. Konrath

  I reached for the cheap dinette set against the wall, picking up one of the kitchen chairs. It was rolled aluminum and flimsy pressboard, insubstantial, but I threw it with all that I had.

  Brotsky batted it harmlessly away, like he was swatting a bothersome mosquito. I followed up with the other, matching chair, and then upended the brown, Formica table, using it as a shield.

  “You are a fighter,” Brotsky said. He grinned, exposing a cavern of yellow, crooked teeth. “I like. This is a fun job for me. Kill whores. Get paid. Now I get to kill pretty girlie cop. They pay me extra for you.”

  While I’d never fought for my life before, I had been in plenty of fights. I was a black belt, tae kwon do, and had been practicing the martial art since I was a girl. Squaring off against someone wasn’t foreign to me—in fact, my forte was sparring. Even against a larger opponent, I was used to confrontation, and it didn’t paralyze me.

  Rather than try to control the fear, I used it, letting it fuel my muscles. When Brotsky stepped onto the tarp, I rushed him, leaping over Shell, lifting the table and ramming it into the knife. Brotsky hadn’t been ready for the attack, and he stumbled backward, falling onto his backside. I rode the table over him, like a surfboard, the slashing blade missing me as I landed on my knees in the kitchen doorway.

  I ran in a direction I hadn’t gone before, hoping to find a weapon or an exit. Hurrying over the carpeted floor, I passed a bathroom—glass blocks on the window—and found a bedroom. I slammed the door behind me, pressing the cheap push-button lock, jumping onto Brotsky’s unmade bed, and pulling back the drapes.

  Another barred window.

  Quickly looking around, I reached for the table lamp, which was made of brass and looked heavy. Next to the bed was one of those huge cellular radio phones, a Motorola DynaTAC. I reached for it, then, on the floor, I spotted something better.

  My purse, on top of a pile of my clothes.

  I reached for it, hoping my gun was still inside, dumping the contents onto the bed, grabbing my Beretta and jacking a round into the chamber just as the door burst inward.

  I fired, missing as Brotsky threw himself at me. In a millisecond I adjusted my aim, squeezing the trigger a second time.

  Nothing happened. My semi-automatic had jammed. Then Brotsky was on top of me, swatting the gun away, his naked flesh pressing me down against the bed, his hands grabbing my wrist as his foul lips pressed hot against my ear.

  “Now, sooka,” he cooed, “we have some fun.”

  Present day

  2010, August 10

  Phineas Troutt was no stranger to being hit.

  When he was diagnosed with cancer—cancer that doctors told him would be fatal—he decided to drop out of life. Instead of the rat race, he chose to live in the moment, on the fringe of society, taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. This began with robbing drug dealers and gangbangers, for the sole purpose of getting some quick cash to buy drugs and booze and whores to make him forget about the immediate physical pain, and the emotional pain, of a biological death sentence.

  He’d done things, many things, he wasn’t proud of, even though the people he hurt, for the most part, had it coming.

  Brotsky had it coming. And if Phin had to endure a broken nose and a few cracked ribs in order to show Brotsky that evil didn’t pay, he was willing to take his lumps.

  But he hadn’t expected Brotsky to be so strong. Or so savage.

  The older man—he had to be in his sixties—was apparently releasing all the pent-up rage that had built up during his years of incarceration. He tackled Phin, driving him to the floor, pinning him down. Phin took a shot in the kidneys, then was smothered by Brotsky’s flabby, sweaty neck, which smelled like powdered eggs.

  Phin tried to heave the larger man off of him, but Brotsky was too big, too strong. Phin reached up, trying to scratch his eyes, but Brotsky craned his head back.

  So Phin went for his nose. Making is index finger stiff, he jammed it into one of Victor Brotsky’s flaring nostrils, up past the second knuckle, trying to drive it all the way to the bastard’s brain.

  Brotsky recoiled, pulling away, giving Phin the opportunity to slide out from under him.

  Phin got onto his knees just as Brotsky rose to his feet. Roaring, snorting a clot of blood from his nose, Brotsky charged again. Phin timed the punch perfectly, catching Brotsky under the chin as he barreled toward him. The uppercut staggered the inmate, but didn’t drop him. Phin followed up with a solid jab between the man’s legs, but Brotsky twisted at the last moment, Phin’s hand bouncing off his meaty thigh.

  Phin dropped a shoulder and rolled left. Momentum carried him to the cot. He reached for it, pulling himself up on the frame, which was bolted to the floor, and turned around to face Brotsky.

  So far, Phin’s attempt to coerce the killer into a confession wasn’t going too well.

  “This cop,” Brotsky said, wiping the back of his hairy paw against his bloody nose, “she is your girlfriend, yes?”

  Jack was more than a girlfriend to Phin. In the sinkhole of chaos his life had become, Jack had been a constant, bright light. She was his friend, but also his ideal. To Phin, Jacqueline Daniels represented all that was good about humanity. Simply having her in his world was enough to kick Phin out of his dark depression and bring him back to the world of the living. She’d not only saved his life. She had also saved his soul.

  “I love her,” Phin said. This surprised him, because as close as he and Jack had been, he’d never said these words to her.

  Now, facing the man who was responsible for abducting her, Phin realized he should have said them sooner. On one hand, he hadn’t wanted to burden Jack with the responsibility of yet another man in her life. She’d had it rough lately, both personally and professionally. Phin didn’t want to scare her away.

  But he should have told her just the same. Jack didn’t scare easily. And the mantra of their relationship—taking things one day at a time—had been exploded by the revelation that she was pregnant.

  Not much scared Phin. But the thought that he’d never have a chance to tell the mother of his child how much he loved her was easily the most terrifying thing he’d ever endured.

  “Did your woman tell you what Victor Brotsky did to her?” The prisoner grinned, blood running into his mouth and staining his crooked teeth red. “I hurt the sooka. I hurt her. Real good.”

  Acting on anger, Phin threw himself at Brotsky. The larger man had anticipated the move, and his fist shot out, connecting with the side of Phin’s head. Phin staggered to the side, his vision blurring, and then he dropped to his knees.

  “And now,” Victor Brotsky said, “I am going to hurt you. Real good.”

  Twenty-one years ago

  1989, August 17

  Brotsky on top of me, sweating, grunting, crushing me with his obscene weight, was the most disgusting, horrifying feeling I’d ever experienced. It was even worse than him chasing me with the knife.

  I felt his teeth on my neck, biting, harder than any lover would, his fat knees pushing against mine, forcing my legs apart.

  Every instinct, every nerve in my body, screamed FIGHT HIM!

  But I didn’t.

  Rapists liked the fighting back. Control and violence were part of the turn-on. Before joining Vice, I’d talked to a dozen streetwalkers in preparation for my undercover work. They had an almost universal response when johns got too violent.

  Get the control back.

  Obviously, I couldn’t get control by fighting someone bigger and stronger. So I did it by confusing him.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, fighting the urge to vomit, I made myself meet his clumsy kiss, pressing my lips to his. At the same time, I worked my free hand between our nude bodies, grasping him between the legs like I wanted him.

  Brotsky’s reaction was instantaneous, doing the same thing any man did when you grabbed his dumb-stick. He sighed, going lax. Then he kissed me back, his hand slipping around my waist, a guttural moan escaping
his throat.

  That’s when I squeezed his balls with every intention of pulling them off.

  Brotsky’s groan became a high-pitched wail, and he wrapped his hand around my neck, cutting off my air, but in our little game, two balls beat one throat, and he let go and tried to roll off me, chopping at my wrists.

  I released him, rolling off the other side of the bed, grabbing my dress as I hit the floor, beelining into the bathroom and slamming and locking the door behind me. I tugged the Versace over my head, feeling less vulnerable now that I was no longer naked, but my emotional state was a wreck. I was near hysterical, feeling like laughing and crying at the same time, amazed to have him off me, sick at what had happened so far, terrified at what was still going on.

  I bit back the encroaching nervous breakdown and threw open the medicine cabinet, looking for a razor or scissors or anything sharp, listening to Brotsky howl in the bedroom, the howls getting louder as he came after me. There was nothing usable, so I spun around, searching for something. I saw towels, on a cheap rack. Brotsky’s underwear and shoes, discarded on the floor. A basket in the corner, with a scrub brush and a roll of toilet paper.

  I turned my attention to the toilet, grabbing the heavy porcelain lid on top of the tank, swinging it around just as Brotsky came barreling through the door.

  The lid connected with his forehead, cracking in half, the impact hurting my fingers. Brotsky backpedaled, his arms pinwheeling as he fell onto his butt. I ran right at him, jumping over him as he fell.

  Somehow, a nanosecond later, I wound up face-first on the carpet, bright stars blinding my vision from the impact.

  Brotsky had grabbed my ankle. And he still had it.

  I kicked out with my free leg, trying to drive my heel into some sensitive part of his body. But all I kept hitting was fat and flesh, my blows thudding off harmlessly. Then Brotsky turned, pinning my ankle, his weight forcing it into an unnatural position.

  The SNAP! was loud enough for both of us to hear.

  The pain was the worst thing I’d ever experienced.

  Present day

  2010, August 10

  “Remember how it feels to break a bone, Jack?”

  I blinked, my vision of John Dalton blurry. He was older, tanner, but the dead eyes and expressionless face were the same.

  I swallowed. My wrists still burned, and my jaw ached. The ball gag was gone, but wearing it for so long had made my mouth tender.

  “Is this you being the hero in the movie of your life, John?”

  My voice sounded strange, echoey. A side effect of the drugs, I guessed.

  “Ah, yes. I remember that conversation. That was my way of saying we’re all very good at justifying our actions. But as for heroes…I’m afraid there are none. You’re a perfect example of that. Dedicating your life to catching despicable villains. Giving up everything for your endless pursuit of evil. And where has all of that gotten you? Dying in agony.”

  Dalton moved closer, until we were almost cheek to cheek. “You’re not a hero, Jack. You’re an unhappy ending. A Greek tragedy. An object lesson for those who try to lead a selfless life.”

  “You going to get on with this, Dalton?” I said through my clenched teeth. “Or are you going to talk me to death?”

  Dalton took a step back, raising the sledgehammer.

  “The leg first, I think,” he said. “Which one did Victor Brotsky break? It was the right one, wasn’t it?”

  There was no way I could brace myself for it. So I didn’t even try.

  When the hammer connected with my tibia, cracking the bone, the pain was so bad that darkness overtook me.

  Twenty-one years ago

  1989, August 17

  I’d heard the cliché sharp pain many times in my life, but that’s exactly what it was when Brotsky snapped my leg—like someone was stabbing a skewer into my bone.

  I jackknifed around, swiping at his eyes with my fingernails, getting him to let go of me. Then I crawled like crazy for the bedroom. Each time my knee hit the floor, the skewer dug deeper. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a whirlpool, and my head got so light I could literally feel the blood draining from it. I went straight for the bed, pulling myself underneath the dust ruffle, waiting for Brotsky to come storming in.

  But he didn’t come storming in.

  “I’ll find you, tee karova! Victor Brotsky will find you!” But his voice was further away than the bathroom. It sounded like he was coming from the kitchen.

  Maybe, between the crack in the head and the scrape across the eyes, he hadn’t seen where I’d gone.

  Taking advantage of this, I peeked through the dust ruffle on my left side, looking for my gun.

  Not there. I tried the right.

  Also not there. But I did remember something that was there. Brotsky’s gigantic cellular phone.

  I inched closer to the side, gasping at the pain when my leg was jostled. The gasp filled my mouth with a giant dust bunny, sticking in the back of my throat. I slapped my hand over my mouth so I didn’t cough.

  “Where are you, sooka?”

  Brotsky was closer now. Maybe in the hallway. My lungs spasmed, but I wouldn’t let the air out.

  “Did you go back downstairs, to play with Brotsky’s collection?”

  I heard his feet creaking on the basement steps. Now was the time to act. Inch by painful inch, I dragged myself out from under the bed, pulling my broken leg behind me.

  Above me, on the nightstand, was the Motorola DynaTAC. The pain was becoming so bad I was going to either scream or pass out, and I didn’t see any way I’d be able to sit up and grab the phone. So, from a prone position, I reached for it, stretching my hand up, brushing it with the tips of my fingers.

  The stairs creaked again, getting louder. Brotsky was coming back up.

  I strained, grunting with effort, pinching the base of the phone between my thumb and forefinger.

  Brotsky’s footsteps, in the hallway.

  Finally getting a firm grip, I pulled the phone from the nightstand. It was heavy, about two pounds, eighteen inches long with the antenna. I shoved it under the bed, then pushed myself backward, trying to get under the dust ruffle before Brotsky came back.

  Holding my breath, I listened for the killer.

  I didn’t hear anything. Not a single sound.

  Turning my attention to the phone, I pressed one of the buttons. The keypad lit up, bright green.

  Still no noises from Brotsky.

  I tapped a number, the beep so loud it made me flinch. The red LED screen displayed a digital number 9. Sure Brotsky must have heard it, I tapped 1 and 1 again, waiting for the operator to pick up, hoping they didn’t put me on hold.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  Then they put me on hold.

  I could feel my leg throb with my heartbeat. I had no idea how serious the break was, but there was no way I’d be able to get out of there without assistance. If they didn’t pick up soon…

  “Nine one one, what is the nature of your emergency?”

  The connection wasn’t the best, and the operator’s words fluctuated in volume. “This is Officer Jacqueline Streng,” I whispered. “I’m in a house with a killer. There are eleven dead, possibly more. His name is Victor Brotsky.”

  “Where are you located, Officer?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t you pinpoint the call?”

  “We can’t. Are you using a land line at the location?”

  I forced myself not to yell. “Goddamn it, just look up his goddamn address.”

  “I’m looking it up, Officer. But I don’t have any Chicago addresses for Victor Protsy.”

  Goddamn bad reception. “His name isn’t Protsy. It’s—”

  Then the mattress and box spring were lifted off the frame and tossed aside, and Brotsky was reaching down for me, a sharpened broom handle clenched in his meaty fist.

  Present day

  2010, August 10

  On his k
nees, Phin looked up at the bear of a man eagerly approaching. Lust sparkled in Brotsky’s bulging eyes, and his clenched fists were the size of hams and ready to serve up more damage. Dizzy from Brotsky’s last punch, weak from the chemotherapy, Phin realized he wasn’t only going to lose the fight, but he’d probably be killed as well.

  Sorry, Jack. You deserved so much better.

  Then Victor Brotsky halted in mid-step, his whole body vibrating. His mouth opened, and he dropped like a redwood tree, his spine ramrod stiff, the two thin, silver wires sticking out of his chest trailing a small puff of smoke. Phin heard a crackling discharge of electricity, then followed the wires and turned to see—

  —Harry McGlade, standing in the doorway, holding a taser gun.

  “I bribed the warden ten grand to watch you get your ass kicked,” Harry said, “and now just blew another K on the guard’s taser. Find out where Jack is.”

  Phin didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto Brotsky, sweeping away the electrodes, pinching the man’s chubby neck.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “Da?”

  He squeezed harder, seeking Brotsky’s trachea through the flab. “Where is she!”

  “Meester K has her. He…is going to kill her.”

  Phin slapped the confused Brotsky across the face. The killer smelled of stale sweat and ozone, and his eyes weren’t focused. “Where does he have her, Victor?”

  Brotsky stared up at Phin, his expression almost childlike in its honesty. “I don’t know. The man I hired, he did not tell me.”

  If Phin had had a gun, or a knife, he would have killed the fat bastard right then and there. Because he believed Brotsky was telling the truth. Jack was about to die, and there was no way to save her.

  He focused more pressure on Brotsky’s neck, his forearms straining, his fingers cramping. Putting all of his fear and anger into it. Thinking that if Jack were going to die, this piece of shit would precede her.