Lethal Confessions

by V. K. Sykes

  A handful of minutes later, Luke turned off the highway into Buckhead Ridge. He made two quick turns, then cut his lights and crawled down the residential street where the tracker indicated Garneau had stopped. He peered into the distance and determined that it had to be the small house straight ahead. The one at the bend in the road—a bungalow separated from its neighbor on the east side by an empty lot. The L-shaped road had only two dim streetlights. Neither one was close to that house, and Luke muttered a silent thanks.

  Darkness suited him just fine.

  He called Cramer and gave him the exact coordinates.

  “God dammit, Beckett,” his friend spluttered. “Don’t you go making one fucking move—”

  Luke hung up. He’d be lucky if Cramer didn’t slap his ass in jail when this was all over.

  He couldn’t spot Garneau’s car, but the target bungalow had an attached garage. The bastard must have pulled his car inside. Luke grabbed his nine-millimeter off the seat, got out, and rushed across a rain-slick lawn into the cover of the first house on the other side of the street. He moved quickly and silently across the neighboring yards, his eyes glued to a light that shone dimly in the target house.

  Would Garneau be on the lookout? Or would he be confident he’d shaken any pursuit that might have been out there?

  Luke stopped before traversing the empty lot. Even though it was totally dark, when he crossed that lot he’d be without a scrap of cover. If Garneau was watching, he’d probably be dead and so would Robitaille.

  No choice. Approaching from the other side would require a retracement of his steps, then a long loop back and around. A rear approach was impossible. A canal ran behind the house, effectively cutting off that means of access. He pressed the SIG Sauer against his thigh and scrambled across the lot, his head low. The footing was slick, a muddy combination of sand and dirt.

  He swiped the rain from his eyes as he reached the side of the garage and listened. Nothing except the pelting of the rain on rooftops.

  Sliding along the garage wall, he scanned the rear yard and back door. A concrete patio full of cracks was all that separated him and the door. When he saw no movement, he hit the ground and crawled his way forward along the rough, wet surface until he reached the door. Easing himself to his feet, he kept his head down and strained to hear.

  Nothing.

  On his left, a crude cover had been hammered into place over what must have been a bedroom window. A layer of Styrofoam had been sandwiched between two thin sheets of plywood. Ugly, but utilitarian. If that was what passed for soundproofing, that could definitely be his kill room.

  Where he had Robitaille.

  Luke’s body vibrated with rage, but he took a deep breath and tried to push his emotions aside. Easing back to his right, he raised his head enough to look through a window. The curtains were closed, but not all the way.

  Kitchen cupboards. So, kitchen to the right of the door, probably bedroom to the left. Hallway in between. The living room, with its big window facing the street, was obviously in front of the kitchen. Likely another bedroom in front on the other side of the hall, with the bathroom beside it.

  He fixed the probable layout in his mind and swung his eyes left again. Garneau and Robitaille would be in the room with the insulation barrier. The killer might already be playing his sick games in there, but that was something Luke couldn’t allow himself to think about. Robitaille would still be all right. She had to still be all right.

  Luke didn’t like the odds one damn bit, but they were going to get worse if he didn’t get moving. He had to trust that Robitaille was alive, and doing everything she could to fight back.

  Time to roll .

  73

  * * *

  Sunday, August 8

  1:50 a.m.

  Naked. And cold. So cold.

  Working hard to mask her fear, Amy tried to quell her shivering as she stood in front of Garneau and glared at him. He had always stripped his victims, even though he didn’t rape them. The bastard knew how vulnerable a naked woman felt, and how that vulnerability ramped up her fear.

  She searched his murky eyes for lust but found none. In fact, he stared straight back at her face, mostly ignoring her naked body.

  Now would be a good time, Beckett.

  Plan B had called for her to seize the first realistic opportunity to attack Garneau once M.L. and Cooper were safe. But he’d given her no opportunity at Pahokee, or since. Now, she prayed for the deafening crack of the flashbang Beckett had in his arsenal. If she hadn’t been able to overpower or escape from Garneau, Beckett’s job was to be a one-man assault squad, distracting the killer long enough for Amy to take him down.

  That was the plan, but she was down to her last hope.

  Of course, the flashbang would be a whole lot more effective if Garneau was in the same room as the flash and the bang. That was why she’d wanted to get him out of the bedroom. But he hadn’t fallen for her bathroom gambit.

  He made a circling motion with his left hand. “Turn around.”

  Reluctantly, she obeyed. He must be going to give her another shot of thiopental. She didn’t think he’d risk trying to tie her to the bedposts when she was fully conscious. She didn’t see how he could manage it and still keep his gun trained on her. The second he put the gun down or even dropped his aim, she’d be on him.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. He’d shoot her up with the sedative, then tie her up and wait for her to regain consciousness. Then, he’d start.

  She gave a little bounce on her toes and flexed her fingers. Good plan, but you’d better be ready, asshole.

  Garneau opened a drawer, then closed it again. Had he already prepared a syringe? If so, he’d have it in her neck in the next ten seconds.

  But first he’d have to switch hands. She was sure he’d used his right hand to inject her before, holding the gun against her back with his left. He’d do the same thing this time.

  She hoped. She prayed. She’d wait for the sound, and then she’d attack.

  * * *

  Luke was supposed to go in with a stun grenade, ready to open fire. That was the tentative plan if the killer still had Amy.

  Given what he was going to face, that plan had no chance of working.

  Because Garneau had holed up with her in a sound-suppressing room, the blinding burst of light from the flashbang wouldn’t even get through to him. The noise blast would probably shock him, but would it be enough to give Robitaille a chance to overpower him?

  Doubtful.

  Luke had been taught that the best battle plans never survive first contact with the enemy. A soldier has to be able to improvise. Come up with a response, sometimes in mere seconds or even fractions of a second.

  Improvise, and save Robitaille’s life.

  Luke set the nine-millimeter and the grenade on the ground. He still had his little ankle gun and his K-Bar knife.

  As he ran what he had to do through his mind again, he remembered one more thing. He had to make sure he called the killer Garneau. Joey Garneau. Joey. He kept saying the name in his head until he was sure it was locked in.

  Then he sucked in a huge breath and hammered on the door.

  * * *

  “Joey! Joey Garneau! It’s Luke Beckett. I need to talk to you!”

  Amy’s heartbeat skyrocketed as she heard the faint sounds through the door. Beckett, what the hell are you doing?

  “Fuck!” Garneau roared. “What the hell have you done, bitch?”

  She wheeled to face him but said nothing.

  “Damn it!” he snarled. “Now I might have to kill Luke, too. You fucking, fucking bitch!”

  His fist shot out and smashed into Amy’s cheek, snapping her head sideways. She wobbled, but gritted her teeth and stayed upright. She had to remain standing, ready to help Beckett with whatever the hell he’d planned.

  “You’ve just bought yourself the worst death you can even imagine,” Garneau screamed. “Worse than your worst nightmare.” />
  “Garneau!” Beckett shouted again. “Joey, talk to me, man!”

  “Don’t fucking move,” Garneau told her. He poked his head out the door of the bedroom. “Get out of here, Luke,” he shouted down the hall. “Please don’t make me kill you.”

  Amy desperately wanted to lunge at him, but she knew Garneau would be too agile. Too quick. She had no chance as long as he had the gun. Not unless she could get close again.

  “Joey, I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me. Man-to-man. You know I’m not going to bullshit you.”

  Amy could hear Beckett clearly now, and she reacted with a strange mix of hope and terror as she watched Garneau intently.

  Garneau pinched his eyes shut, but only for a second. “The bitch should never have gotten you involved, Luke. They always fuck you up. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “We’ll talk about that, Joey. But first you need to let me in. Then we’ll talk, because you and me, we’re alike. Baseball’s in our blood. And it’s a brotherhood, right? We take of each other, and we trust each other.”

  Luke’s voice was steady and deep. And apparently convincing, since Garneau seemed to be starting to waver. The killer shook his head, back and forth, taking nervous breaths.

  Amy almost choked in disbelief when he gave in. “Okay, Luke,” Garneau said. “But if this is a trick, I swear I’ll make you watch everything, and I’ll kill her real slow.” He waved his gun at her. “Go let him in.”

  He stepped out into the hall, making sure she couldn’t get near him as she passed. Her heart thudded against her chest wall as she shuffled by him. It was only three or four steps down the hall to the door. What should she do? If she let Beckett in, they’d both die.

  She leaned against the door. It was cold but she barely registered that. “Beckett, this is stupid! Please, just get out of here.”

  He needed to back off. Cramer and SWAT had to be close, and she’d rather take her chances in an all-out assault than put Beckett in an impossible situation.

  “No chance,” he barked. “Joey and I are going to to talk.”

  “Let him in, goddamn it,” Garneau snarled.

  Cursing, Amy opened the door.

  Beckett’s eyes popped open wide as he took in her naked form. Then a cold rage filled his gaze. “Are you all right?” he growled.

  She gave a quick nod, backing away. She wanted to rush into his arms and feel his strength and warmth, even if only for a second. But she steeled herself. The less Garneau thought they cared about each other, the better.

  “Living room,” Garneau barked. He kept his gun on them as she led Beckett through the kitchen to the room at the front of the house. Garneau followed and then edged over to the front windows. He pulled open the drapes enough to see out, and smiled. “There’s no SWAT team. Just you, Luke, trying to be the hero.”

  Beckett moved to the middle of the room and, with a flick of a finger, gestured to Amy to stay away from him. Fortunately, Garneau’s attention remained fixed on Beckett, letting her edge slowly to the side.

  “You’re a great man, Luke, and you know how much I admire you,” Garneau said, shaking his head. “But you can’t save this bitch. She has to die for what she’s done. She’s fucking over a lot of guys, Luke. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I get it, man. Trust me. But, hey, the guy she really fucked up was you, right, Joey?” His voice had suddenly cold and hard. Mocking, even. “Yeah, that little naked woman over there blew a great big ol’ hole right through your dumbass plans.”

  Amy stomach plunged to the floor. What the hell was Beckett doing?

  Garneau’s mouth dropped open as he frowned, obviously unable to believe what had just happened. “Ah, Jesus, Luke.” His gun hand was suddenly a little unsteady. “It’s not like the little bitch did it by herself,” he said petulantly.

  Beckett chuckled. “Sure, she did, Joey. It was all her. I know because I was there. One little woman stopped you cold. No wonder you’re so pissed off. Fuck, man, talk about embarrassing.”

  Suddenly, Amy got what Beckett was doing, and every vestige of remaining warmth drained from her body. Oh, God. Please give me the strength to do it. And don’t let Beckett die. Please don’t let him die.

  Garneau shook his head furiously. “No. You’re wrong. I beat them all and I’ll beat her, too. She’s not going to win. I’m going to start over, Luke. I have to, because my mission’s not done. You’ll see.”

  “Uh, uh, Joey.” Beckett wagged his finger at the obviously shaken killer. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me or Robitaille here today, because you’re mission has gone to shit, buddy. You’re done. Toast, man. Toast.”

  “Shut up, Luke! Why are you doing this? Why are you lying?” Red-faced, Garneau almost looked like he might burst into tears.

  Beckett took a step closer, looming over him. “Only five kills, Joey. Big fucking deal. Just think of all those guys you’ll never get to help. They’re screwed now because you let this half-pint woman beat you.”

  “No! There’ll be another mission. She didn’t stop me. Nobody can stop me.”

  “Bullshit. The way I see it, Joey, those guys need you.” Beckett’s voice turned harder and even more disapproving. “But you’ve really let them down.”

  Garneau’s face went livid. “God damn it, shut up!” He raised his gun hand, leveling it at Beckett’s chest. Amy took one step toward Garneau, guessing that he was so fixated on Beckett that he wouldn’t notice. And she was right.

  Beckett snorted his disdain. “You don’t like the truth, do you, Joey? Because the truth’s going to eat you up from the inside. Eat away at you every last miserable day you’ve got on this earth until they strap you down and shoot you full of your own poison. Because you know you’ve always been a fuck-up. You’re careless and stupid and weak.” He sneered. “Joey Garneau, what a pathetic loser you turned out to be.”

  A blast of gas exploded from the gun muzzle, and then a deafening roar. Amy flung herself across the space that separated her from Garneau. She drove the point of her shoulder into Garneau’s ribcage, feeling bones and tendons give under her driving impact. He slammed down onto the hardwood floor with her on top, but he didn’t drop the gun.

  Her left shoulder screamed at her but she barely noticed the stab of pain. Before Garneau had a chance to recover from the jarring impact, Amy had already chopped down hard on his wrist. The gun flew behind him, clattering across the floor and bouncing off a baseboard.

  Grunting, Garneau tried to scramble out from under her, but Amy drove her knee up into his groin. A wild, avenging fury suffused every cell of her body. “I’ll kill you with my fucking teeth!” she screamed as she pinned him. “I’ll rip your goddamn neck open!”

  He roared and flailed at her, landing a glancing blow to her left shoulder. Amy shuddered as sharp pain lanced through her but she didn’t loosen her grip. With an animal-like yell, she hammered a short strike to his larynx.

  His eyes wide and desperate, Garneau clutched at his throat and gasped for breath. Amy seized the opportunity, throwing herself off him and scrambling up to get the gun. Garneau struggled to get up and made it to his knees before Amy reached out to grasp the barrel and pivoted. Believing she had no time to shift the gun around and pull the trigger, she lunged sideways and smashed the butt into the back of Garneau’s head just as he threw himself at her thighs to try to tackle her. Amy wobbled but stayed upright as his weight rocked her, and then he slid down her legs onto the floor.

  Out cold.

  She stumbled over him to Beckett and fell to her knees. “You wore the vest, didn’t you, Beckett? You had to wear the goddamn vest!”

  Her heart skipped a beat as she pushed aside his rain jacket, saw no blood, and felt the ballistic armor vest underneath his loose shirt. Thank you, Jesus. She put two fingers against Beckett’s neck and found a strong pulse. Relief flowed through her, making her muscles quiver all over again. She had to struggle not to burst into tears.

  He’
d be okay. The vest had stopped the slug. She gingerly ran her fingers over the back of his head. Beckett was out, but he was okay.

  Amy took some deep breaths, clenching her teeth against the searing pain in her shoulder. Naked, drenched in sweat and exhausted, she used her good arm to push herself to her feet then picked the gun back up and started to search for Garneau’s jacket. Remembering that he’d dropped it when he directed her to the bedroom, she found it on the floor not far from the bedroom door. She reached into the left pocket and pulled out another of his abundant plastic ties.

  Getting Garneau immobilized was priority one. She ran back to him and didn’t bother to feel for a pulse. She was sure he wasn’t dead but didn’t give much of a damn if he was. Instead, she rolled him over and, using only her right hand, yanked his arms behind his back. Grimacing through the pain, she managed with much effort to wrap the tie around his wrists and pull it tight.

  After a quick glance at Beckett, she headed back to the bedroom for her clothes. She was able to pull her pants on with one arm, but the tee shirt was too much. So, she slipped one arm into her jacket and pulled it around herself. By the time she made it back to the living room, Beckett was groaning.

  Amy went down on her knees and cradled his head in her arms. “Beckett,” she murmured, “you are one stupid bastard but, calice, I love you.”

  * * *

  A few seconds later, Luke groaned again and opened his eyes. As he stared at Amy, his dark eyes started to clear. Finally, she could stop holding her breath.

  “Are you okay?” he rasped.

  “Hell, I’m fine, Beckett, although I can’t say the same for you.”

  His gaze jerked past her. “Garneau?”

  “Out cold and cuffed.”

  “That’s my girl.” He tried to sit up, but she tightened her arms, holding him still.