I tried to envision the bedroom. I’d seen my clothes in there. But had Brotsky’s been in there, too? On the bed? On the floor?
The bathroom! I’d stepped over his stained underwear in the bathroom.
Though my pulse was still pumping like a thrash metal song, the adrenaline in my system had faded enough for the pain to become debilitating. With one hand on the counter-top, I hopped once toward the kitchen entryway. The exquisite agony that shot through me literally pushed tears right out of my eyes.
How many more hops to the bathroom? Fifteen? Twenty? Then twenty back?
Crawling, or scooting, would hurt less, but take longer. Any second, Brotsky might make an appearance. Speed was paramount.
I scooped up a wooden spoon from one of the open drawers, jammed the handle in my mouth, and ground my molars on it as I hopped for the door.
Keeping quiet wasn’t a concern anymore. Whimpers soon became cries. Cries became deep moans. Then moans turned into full-wattage screams. Halfway into the hall, my entire world had been reduced to the incessant throb in my tortured leg and my raw throat, which ached like my vocal chords were bleeding.
When I reached the bathroom, throwing my hand on the doorframe, I almost wept in relief.
But my relief was short-lived.
Victor Brotsky was standing next to the bathroom sink, zipping up his pants.
Present day
2010, August 10
Dalton stares back at Jack with mild surprise. He knows he gave her leg a solid hit, and that the bone snapped. Not too many people could remain cool in the grip of such pain.
He puts the phone to his ear and speaks to Phin, Jack’s boyfriend.
“What is it you’d like to do?”
There is silence.
“While you’re deciding, I’d be happy to break her other leg.”
“We’ll pay,” Phin says. “Just don’t hurt her anymore.”
Dalton’s mouth twitches in a slight smile. “Get something to write with. I’m going to give you a routing number. Then you’ll have ten minutes to transfer the money into my account.”
“Phin! Don’t give him—!”
Dalton gives Jack a swift kick in her shattered shin, prompting a scream.
“Shh,” Dalton tells her. “It’s rude to interrupt.”
“Stop hurting her, you son of a bitch!”
“Here’s the number.” Dalton rattles off the digits and hangs up. “Luckily, your friends have more sense than you do, Jack. They’re going to pay.”
Jack says nothing. Dalton can’t tell if she’s upset or relieved. Either way, he doesn’t care.
Dalton is tired. He flew into North America through Canada, under a fake name, and has been working nonstop since his arrival. That Brotsky somehow was able to get in touch was a big surprise. But the crazy Russian had been a standup guy in jail, not naming names, keeping his mouth shut. When he inherited that money, Dalton’s former employer had contacted him on Brotsky’s behalf, keeping a generous finder’s fee.
At first, Dalton hadn’t wanted to take this job. He was getting old. But after three years of retirement, he was grateful for a change of scenery and the chance to stretch his old muscles.
Besides, the opportunity to torture the legendary Jack Daniels to death was something he really couldn’t pass up. Two very distinguished careers were coming to an end with this single moment.
After he’d given Jack his murder notebook, via his sister Janice, the U.S. had gone Mr. K crazy. There had been two different TV movies, a Hollywood feature staring James Woods, half a dozen books, and a gangsta rapper had a #3 Billboard hit called “Do the Dalton.” It had been great fun, and Dalton wouldn’t mind seeing a resurgence in his popularity when Jack’s broken body was discovered and the video of her agonizing death showed up on YouTube.
And her death would be agonizing. Right after the wire transfer went through, Dalton was going to break the rest of Jack’s limbs, just for starters.
It is a serendipitous turn of events that her friends and lover are watching. Now they’ll get to witness Jack’s suffering, while also being out a hundred thousand dollars. It’s so delightfully horrible that James Woods will be drooling to do the sequel.
Yes, this is certainly worth coming out of retirement for.
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 17
Seeing Victor Brotsky, standing in the bathroom within arm’s reach, flipped a switch in me. I knew it was a turning point. Whatever I did next would shape the rest of my life.
If I ran, I was also running away from this career. And it would have made perfect sense to run. I’d witnessed more horror in the last hour than most had in their entire lives. I could picture life with Alan, being a housewife, having children, never having to deal with crime or murder or psychos ever again.
That scenario certainly had a lot of appeal.
But there was another side to that coin. Instead of running, I could attack. If I did that, I saw the life I always wanted, living it as the woman I wanted to be. A Homicide cop. A police lieutenant. Someone that others would respect. Admire. Look up to.
Either way, I was probably going to die.
But it mattered to me whether I died running, or died fighting.
Brotsky and I stared at each other. It was probably for no more than a second, but it seemed much longer. Long enough for me to make a decision. Long enough for me to decide what I wanted out of life.
There was a SNAP.
The spoon in my teeth. I’d bitten the wood handle in half.
Then I launched myself at the son of a bitch.
Brotsky’s eyes went wide. He raised up his hands in a defensive position as I hopped forward, stabbing at him with the steak knife, hearing a snarl that I recognized was my voice. I cut his forearm, his shoulder, and then buried the blade halfway into his flabby chest.
He slapped me, catching me on the chin, and I went sprawling out into the hallway. My back hit the wall so hard I saw stars. But I managed to keep my balance and keep hold of the knife.
Brotsky stared at me.
The craziness was still there, in his eyes, but so was something else.
Fear. He was afraid of me.
“Come on, you chicken shit!” I screamed at him, waving the knife in front of me, the serrated blade dripping with his blood.
Victor Brotsky dug his hand into his pocket.
He pulled out his keys.
Then he ran past me, heading for the front door.
Five seconds later, he had it open.
Five seconds after that, he was on his knees, hands behind his head, as three cops covered him and three more ran inside, guns out, bathed in blinking red and blue lights from the half dozen squad cars parked on the street, the lawn, and on Victor Brotsky’s violet garden.
Present day
2010, August 10
“You’re going to torture me, even if you get the money,” I told John Dalton.
He stared at me, saying nothing. Though my leg hurt so badly I feared I was going to go crazy, I managed to bark out a laugh.
“You’re pathetic, John. You think you’re so special. Emotionless. An iceman. You kill only because you’re good at it. Because it pays well. But I see through your lies. I know your real secret.”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed quiet.
“What was that bullshit you told me, years ago? About the two types of killers. The one who got off on evil acts, and the other who had no passion for it. No emotion. You were trying to tell me that was you. The cold, emotionless one. What an epic denial.” I leaned forward, stretching against my bonds. “But you’re not emotionless at all, are you, John? You love this shit. I can picture you, in your mansion on the beach, watching your movies, reading your books, getting all hot and bothered and jerking off to the sick things you’ve done to people.”
This time, he actually flinched. The cold, hard mask of his face began to fall away.
“Oh, wait a minute. It wasn’t just
the books, was it? Your kink is photography. That’s your porn, isn’t it, John? I bet you’ve got a whole stash of photos, of all the sick shit you did to people. Is that the only way you can feel like a man? By hurting the helpless?”
Dalton folded his arms across his chest and began to chew on his lower lip. “I did it for the money.”
“You did it because it gets you off. You know I’m right. You can’t wait to use that speculum on me, can you? I bet you got really turned on when you bought that. Tell me something, Mr. K. How many of your victims did you rape?”
“I…I didn’t rape any of them.”
“You don’t sound convinced, John. I’m betting you did rape them. You were careful. Used protection. Knew the only way you’d ever get laid is if you had someone tied up, at your mercy. Or maybe you were so afraid of leaving evidence that you just masturbated into your handkerchief while they were in agony.” I watched his face, saw I’d hit home with that last one. “Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? You weren’t even man enough to fuck them. You’re too pathetic for that.”
Dalton shook his head. His left eye had begun to tic.
“I know you, John. This was never just a job to you. This is your kink. Your sick fetish. You’re not some cool as ice hit man. You’re a pervert. A sexual deviant. A sadist. No different than any of the other trash who came before you. No different than Brotsky. You wear expensive suits. Drive a Caddy. Get paid to live out your pathetic little fantasies. But you’re just a regular, by-the-book psychopath. Textbook DSM-IV. What was the trigger, Johnny Boy? Were you one of those little freaks who liked breaking their pet hamster’s legs? Setting fires? I bet you wet the bed until you were fifteen.”
Dalton blushed and turned away. I saw blood in the water, and went for it.
“What happened to you, John? Did Daddy get drunk and smack you around? Did Father O’Malley get a little too grabby when you were in Sunday school? Or was it your sister, Janice? Did she do bad things to Little Johnny when the lights went out?”
Then he was on me, hands at my throat, shaking my whole body. Gone was the calculated veneer, the façade he’d spent his whole life trying to portray. Instead, he was just another drooling, raging sexual predator. A dime a dozen. Pathetic. I’d dealt with so many of them it was almost passé to be killed by one.
I began to see spots, and darkness crept into my peripheral vision. But I wasn’t afraid. In fact, in a way, I’d won. My plan had worked. Instead of my death being dragged out for hours, he was going to kill me immediately. In just a few words, I’d picked apart his psyche and reduced him to the animal he really was.
I could die now.
Die knowing Phin and Harry and Herb would avenge me.
Die with the knowledge of having lived the life I wanted to live.
Die the way I chose to, with dignity and bravery and victory.
The door to the storage locker burst open, and a tall, pale man with long, black hair rushed up to Dalton and pressed a stun gun into his neck.
Mr. K’s eyes bugged out, and he collapsed into a pile. My rescuer jolted him again, making him dance and twitch.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Dalton convulsed, spitting foam, his body contorting and twisting into odd positions. Eventually his eyes rolled up into his head, and he was still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The pale man looked at me. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and blue work pants. His gaze was relaxed, but focused. Like I was being studied.
“You’re Lieutenant Jack Daniels of the Chicago Police Department, responsible for catching more serial killers than any other law enforcement officer in history.”
I coughed. Blinked. Nodded.
“Do you know who I am, Jack?”
I didn’t. And then I did. I remembered the case. The crimes. The photograph the Wal-Mart security camera had captured of him seven years ago during his killing spree across North Carolina—the only photograph in any law enforcement database of this monster.
“You’re Luther Kite,” I said.
He leaned in, close enough to kiss. I forced myself not to flinch, meeting his stare while also knowing the situation hadn’t changed. I’d simply swapped one maniac for another. But there was something different about this one. All my life, I’d wondered about true evil. I didn’t wonder anymore, because I was staring into its black, soulless eyes.
“I’ve been watching you for a long time, Jack.”
Luther’s breath was sour. His skin smelled like Windex.
“Why have you been watching me, Luther?”
“Because I find you—” Luther stuck out a tongue the color of rotten liver, and licked my cheek “—interesting.”
I tried not to gag and said, “What is it you want from me, Luther?”
“You’re hurt.” He glanced down at the floor, bent over, lifted something Dalton had dropped. The pregnancy test. “Hurt, and…with child. How far along are you?”
“A month,” I said. A moment ago, I thought I’d conquered my fear. But it was coming back, with bells on.
“A month,” Luther said, nodding. “It must be indescribably beautiful to have a life growing inside you.”
“It is,” I said. I managed to keep my voice even, but I could feel the tears coming.
Luther reached out, touching my thigh. His hand lingered, ice cold, then trailed upward. When he reached my belly, he rested his palm there and stared into my eyes.
“I couldn’t let this man kill you, Jack. He isn’t worthy. Didn’t even notice I was watching him. Such an amateur. Do you know him?”
“He’s Mr. K.”
Luther’s black eyes sparkled, and he took his horrible hand away from me. “The Mr. K?”
I nodded. Luther disappeared, walking behind me. A moment later, the Catherine Wheel was being lowered to the ground, and I was on my back. Luther crawled over, kneeling between my legs. Again, he brought his face within kissing distance. But instead of licking me again, he sniffed me. My nose. My lips. My neck. Every time he moved in, my skin shrank away from him.
Then he was down by my feet, unbuckling my ankle restraints.
“It’s a bad break,” he said. “But this should help.”
I felt a pinch on my thigh, like a bee sting.
A moment later, the world became a warm, loving blanket. Pain free and fuzzy and euphoric.
I watched Luther put the syringe back into his pocket. Then he freed the strap around my waist, around my wrists. I threw a punch at him, but my swing was so slow, so weak. He easily dodged it, and then he had my wrists in his hands and I heard a ZZZZZZZ sound. I looked down, saw a plastic zip tie securing my wrists.
“Don’t try to run away,” Luther said. “You’ll make your leg worse.”
He gave my broken bone a pat, which caused a bolt of agony to shoot through me and quickly vanish. I looked down, saw my foot bent in an odd direction. It looked really painful. I felt bad for whoever had such a terrible injury.
Luther dragged me by my armpits over to the concrete block. I sat there, watching, as he pulled Mr. K onto the Catherine Wheel and began buckling him on. Then he frisked him.
“What did you give me?” I asked, feeling so light I was worried I’d float away.
“Heroin. Good, isn’t it?”
It was good. But it was also scary. I needed to get away from there. I tried to get up, but my leg bent a funny way and I fell over.
“You really need to sit still, Jack,” Luther said. He was standing above me, holding Mr. K’s sledgehammer.
Then there was screaming. A lot of screaming. Begging and screaming and more screaming until I had to put my hands over my ears, but I couldn’t because someone had tied them up.
“Would you like a turn?” Luther asked, holding out the hammer for me.
I saw Mr. K, upside down on the Catherine Wheel. He was in bad shape. His legs and arms didn’t even look like legs and arms anymore. Lut
her gave the wheel a spin, and the screaming went on and on.
“No,” I said, shrinking away. I didn’t like any of this. I just wanted to go home.
“He hurt you. This is your chance to hurt him back.” Luther pressed the sledgehammer handle into my bound hands. I swung at Luther, but again I was too slow, missing by a mile. Luther shook his head, taking the hammer away.
“Your loss.”
Then he went to Mr. K again. He was doing something to him with a knife.
Oh God.
The Guinea Worm.
Luther managed to get it going, and set them both so they turned by themselves. He had to stand right next to Mr. K and keep waving smelling salts in front of him, because Dalton kept passing out.
After a long time, the smelling salts stopped working.
Luther sat down next to me, throwing the ammonia vial across the floor.
“For a legend, he was a real disappointment,” Luther said. Then he turned to me. “I hope you don’t turn out to be a disappointment, Jack.”
Then I was on my back, Luther over me, pressing his lips to my forehead.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he whispered. “Soon.”
He pushed something into my hand. Dalton’s phone. A moment later, he was gone.
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 19
I didn’t get the credit for Brotsky’s collar. That went to the six cops who burst into his house. Even though I’d cuffed Brotsky, I hadn’t actually placed him under arrest, or read him his rights.
Brotsky offered up a full confession, and he gleefully blabbed about all of the atrocities he had committed. But he kept a few key facts to himself. Though he claimed that he had been hired by the Outfit, he never mentioned anyone by name. According to him, he slaughtered one of their high-class escorts, and they sent a hit man to his house. But rather than kill him, the hit man hired him to keep eliminating escorts, but to make sure they were the competition, not the ones owned by the Mafia. When pressed if this hit man was the elusive figure known as Mr. K, Brotsky just smiled.
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