Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels)

by J. A. Konrath

  Something was wrong. Something was—

  She looked up the moment she heard the faint ping, felt the wire give way, as if its support had been an illusion.

  Then gravity took her.

  Weightless.

  Falling.

  Both aware and in complete disbelief. Accepting it and denying it. No time to consider anything other than her trained reaction.

  Fleming had practiced falling while at Hydra, and her body knew what to do. Ankles together. Absorb impact with the legs. Protect the head and spine. Relax.

  But even as she folded herself into the proper position, she knew she was too high up.

  The ground came suddenly, unexpected even as it was obvious.

  A shock unlike any she’d ever felt.

  Unimaginable force.

  Then the pain swallowed her whole.

  Through her feet, up her legs, jolting through her spine. She felt her knees bend, trying to diffuse the sudden jolt like a spring bending, bending…

  She crumpled to the cobblestone, toppling forward into a shoulder roll, arms wrapped around her head.

  Unbearable agony.

  Pain screamed through her legs and up her spine. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move.

  How long she lay there, Fleming couldn’t tell. Each minute was an hour. She thought she might have screamed but couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure of anything, only her suffering. Sweat broke out over her skin. Chills claimed her body, hot and cold.

  She tried to clear her mind. To focus on survival, even though what she wanted more than anything was to pass out. Squinting in the darkness, she stared down at her legs, but what she saw didn’t make sense. They were bent in so many wrong directions it didn’t seem real. As if they had no bones left at all.

  She heaved, vomited, and tore her eyes away from the abomination she had become.

  On the street, a car whipped by, its windows open, techno dance music pouring into the night.

  The street. If she could get out of this damn alley, reach the street, she could get help.

  The Instructor’s words poured through her mind. “You’re a ghost. You don’t exist. If you are compromised, you’re on your own.”

  If she caught the attention of a passerby, or the police, she would be taken to a hospital. From there, it wouldn’t take long for them to question why she’d been rappelling down the side of a hotel in the middle of Milan. And when they found the ambassador, she’d be imprisoned, questioned. Ultimately denied by the country she loved.

  Bad as the pain was now, things could always get worse.

  Fleming stretched her hands out in front of her, gripping the cobblestone’s edges with her fingertips then pulling, dragging her body across the rough stone, her legs trailing behind her like dead earthworms on fishhooks. Fleming felt like she was going to be sick again, and for a moment she clung to the ground as if it was vertical and she was in danger of slipping off. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her breath came fast and hard, a gasp in, then a forceful blow through her mouth, trying to push out the pain.

  But there was no relief.

  Fleming closed her eyes, picturing herself lying there on the ground, as if she were standing over her own body.

  I’m hallucinating.

  It’s the pain, she answered herself.

  I just want to pass out.

  You can’t pass out.

  It hurts so bad.

  If you pass out, you’ll die.

  Maybe I want to die. I’ll never walk again.

  There’s more to life than walking.

  Walking. Running. Dancing. Fucking. Never again. Any of it.

  Don’t quit now. You’re stronger than this.

  She stretched her hands out again, the wire tangling around her. Dragging herself a few more feet, she felt a whimper building in her chest.

  Reach. Pull.

  Darkness narrowed, only a circle of light from the streetlight overhead.

  I’m not strong enough.

  Yes, you are.

  Reach. Pull.

  A high-pitched scream warbled in the air. Not from her. Something else. A siren.

  I can’t make it.

  Yes, you can.

  Reach. Pull.

  She smelled sweat and garbage and roses and blood.

  I want to die.

  You’ve got the rest of your life to die.

  Reach. Pull.

  Lights flashed around her, red and urgent. The darkness narrowed and the dizziness engulfed her. Her head bobbed, then dropped to the ground.

  Fleming reached her limit.

  She couldn’t pull. She couldn’t help herself.

  I’m done.

  I tried.

  Yes, you did.

  Can I pass out now?

  Yes?

  Can I die now?

  And then she was being lifted, men’s hands on her, and Fleming saw the ambulance and realized she wasn’t going to die, no matter how much she wanted to…

  Fleming

  “Acting is one of the most useful weapons in your arsenal,” The Instructor said. “While violence can produce results, a little acting will get the job done and leave no one the wiser…until it’s too late for them to stop you.”

  Chandler and Hammett dropped Fleming off at a car dealership in Waltham, Massachusetts. It was the nearest dealer boasting a used Honda Odyssey minivan equipped with hand controls and a chair lift. While Fleming could capably drive unmodified vehicles, she needed a lift van for her part of the plan. Hand controls would also allow her to keep one hand on her gun, something not without its advantages.

  The problem was that a custom van, even a used one, cost a lot of money. More than they’d gotten from the crack house. So Fleming had to improvise.

  She had her computer and a few other essentials in the duffel bag they’d gotten in Wisconsin, hanging on the back of her chair. She wore her leg braces, and her crutches were tucked into the chair alongside her.

  As she watched her sisters drive away, Fleming felt a knot of uncertainty tighten in her stomach. A lot had to go right for them to get out of this mess, not the least of which was those two not killing each other before they reached Chicago.

  But she had her own concerns. Even though Fleming faced a much shorter drive than Chandler and Hammett—only seven and a half hours compared to their sixteen and a half—she had a lot to do and not much time to do it. Fleming needed to get this vehicle as quickly and cleanly as possible.

  Finklestad’s Automotive Sales was approaching closing time, and as she wheeled her chair across the brilliantly lit parking lot and to the showroom door, she could hear a vacuum running inside. Completing the awkward task of opening the door and maneuvering the chair inside, she was struck at how vacant the place was. No salesmen were on the floor. No sound but the cleaning crew.

  “Hello? Can someone sell me a car?”

  Like magic, a skinny man in a baggy suit raced from one of the back offices. When he saw her, he stopped and a droopy-eyed look of pure pity rounded his eyes.

  “Hello there,” he said. “What do we have here? What can I do for you tonight, young lady? Do you need some help?”

  Fleming was used to people talking to her as if she was hard of hearing or had the mind of a six-month-old child, their eyes flicking nervously back and forth between the top of her head and the wheelchair. But being accustomed to it didn’t mean she didn’t get a strong urge to slap those people every time.

  She took a deep breath of Zen. “I’m interested in a minivan with hand controls.”

  “Of course you are,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m Eric.”

  “Eric Finklestad?”

  “No, Mr. Finklestad spends most of his time at his Boston location. He has eight dealerships around here.”

  “Good to know.” At least she didn’t have to feel guilty for targeting a small, struggling business.

  Eric the salesman thrust out his hand, his face twitching as
if he’d had too much caffeine. “And you are?”

  Fleming shook. His palm was clammy and his grip disinterested at best. “Tammy Schaefer,” Fleming said, providing the name of the SUV’s owner. “I saw you had the van in your online listings.”

  “May I get you something to drink? Coffee? Soda?”

  “I’d like to test-drive the van.”

  He nodded, but didn’t move. “Are we waiting for your caretaker?”

  “My caretaker? Do I look like a funeral home? I’m thinking you mean my caregiver.”

  “Yes. Your caregiver. You need a license to test-drive.”

  “The only caregiver I have is my seeing-eye dog. He makes sure I don’t walk into traffic. He has a license, but I don’t think he’s allowed to drive.”

  “I…uh…”

  “I have a driver’s license and a certificate of insurance.” Fleming pulled the woman’s wallet out of the duffel bag and removed both. The photo resembled her more since she’d dyed her hair, but it wasn’t close to passing the scrutiny of the average bouncer at a college bar. “The picture isn’t very good.”

  He took them and to her relief only gave the photo a cursory glance.

  But he also didn’t move to get the van. “So we’re not waiting? Maybe for a parent or husband?”

  If he asked again, Fleming was committed to choking him—possibly to death—and finding some way to locate the van keys herself.

  “It’s only me,” she said, pouring on the syrup. “The accident killed my husband and parents, and left me without the use of my legs. A worthless cripple, barely able to take care of herself. Thank goodness the insurance check made me rich, because I’d never be able to function without it.”

  His eyes lit up at the word rich. “You poor, poor dear.”

  “Can we please hurry with the test-drive? I’d hate for you to be in the car while I soiled my diaper, and I’m due to at any moment because I also lost my rectum in the accident.”

  “That’s…that’s terrible.”

  “It’s not all bad. Thanks to the good Lord’s mercy, I still have control over my bladder. Mostly. Though when I pee, it’s more than half blood.”

  “I’ll pop in and get the keys, and we’ll be on our way. Are you sure…that…?”

  “That I can drive? Yes. You know how when people go blind they develop a better sense of hearing? Well, my upper body has grown twice as strong since I lost use of my legs. See?”

  Once again Fleming offered her hand, and when Eric took it she squeezed hard, grinding his knuckles together. Eric yelped, and tried to pull his hand back.

  “I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked, knowing she was.

  “I…um…yes, you’re very strong.”

  “Then go get the keys and let’s test-drive this bitch.”

  She released him, and he went off with the license and insurance in a half walk, half jog. A moment later he emerged from a back hallway jangling a key in his hand.

  “Here we go. I made a copy of your ID and insurance.” He handed them back to her. “Now let’s find you a set of wheels. Er, other wheels. A spare set.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  Eric fetched the van at lightning speed, bringing it to a stop in front of her. After demonstrating the lift installed inside the rear side door by loading her and her chair into the vehicle, he climbed into the passenger seat. As soon as Fleming lifted herself from chair to seat with her arms, he handed her the keys.

  Even before she started the van, she knew it was perfect. The steering wheel had an accelerator ring that stuck out around the horn. Pressing it was like hitting the gas pedal. The hand brake was to the right of the wheel, under the turn signal. Chalking up her anger to hanging around Hammett too much, Fleming gave Eric a genuine smile this time and pulled out onto the street.

  “So, this van is loaded. Leather interior. Heated seats. CD player. Auto locks and windows. Steering wheel tilt. Anti-theft devices.”

  “Really?” Fleming asked. “What kind of monster would steal a wheelchair van?”

  “You wouldn’t believe the depths some people go to.”

  “I bet.”

  Fleming drove around the city, testing the van’s controls and drivability, looking for a good spot to take her next step. The area was quite developed, houses, businesses, and schools flanking every street.

  “I want to see how it handles on highways.”

  Eric checked his cell phone. “Uh, look at the time, will you? It’s getting kind of late.”

  “I really want to buy this van tonight. Is the late hour a problem?”

  “Um…”

  “My rectum is holding out OK. I have the rubber prosthesis holding everything in, like a cork.”

  “That’s…um…nice. But we’re closing very soon.”

  “I’m prepared to pay cash.”

  “OK, no problem. A few more minutes won’t hurt.”

  Fleming kept driving. Spotting a sign, she took an off-ramp near Compton.

  “Walden Pond! I’ve always wanted to see Walden Pond.”

  Fleming took one turn, then another. But even the roads around Walden Pond were more populated with houses and highways than she liked, a fact that seemed utterly wrong. Finally she found a stretch of nothing but dark forest.

  “Would you mind if we stopped? Just one second?”

  Eric glanced at his cell phone again, starting to look a little desperate. “Why?”

  “I’ll be quick,” she said, pulling off the road. “I want to say that I walked in Thoreau’s woods.” Fleming quoted her favorite Walden line. “‘However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.’”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I know. Thoreau was kind of weird. But he had some smart ideas.”

  Eric let out a very unsalesmanlike grunt. Fleming half-expected him to point out her inability to actually walk in the woods, but either the late hour or the promise of a cash sale inspired the man to hold his tongue.

  “Can you help me? I just want to rest one foot on the ground for a moment.”

  “Fine. But then can we go back and write up the sale?”

  She nodded. “After I’m done here, you can do anything you like.”

  He dutifully climbed out, and as he was circling the van, Fleming reached into the back where her chair rested on the lift, the duffel still draped on the handle.

  When he opened the door and offered his hand to assist her, she almost felt bad about greeting him with the business side of a shotgun.

  “Hands up. Back away from the van.”

  Eric stared, his mouth open. “What the—”

  “Just do it, Eric.”

  His face radiated more petulance than fear. “But you’re handicapped! Handicapped people don’t steal!”

  “I’m in an affirmative action program. It gives criminal opportunities to the disabled. Throw me your cell phone.”

  He didn’t move.

  Fleming pumped the weapon, the sound making Eric jump back a foot. She’d removed the loaded shell earlier because nothing got people’s attention quite like the cha-chink of a shotgun shuck.

  “Sweet Jesus!”

  “Down on your knees.” Fleming had an idea. “No, wait. First take off your pants and underwear. Then get down on your knees.”

  Eric turned even whiter. “Please don’t shoot me in the rectum. I don’t want a rubber cork prosthesis.”

  “I’m not going to do that. I just need something to wear after you change my diaper.”

  “Oh…no…oh God…”

  “That’s nothing. Next I’m going to take your legs. There’s a doctor downstate who will transplant them onto mine. Yours aren’t too hairy, are they?”

  “My legs! You can’t!”

  Wow, this guy was stupid.

  “I’m just doing this to delay you, Eric. Keep you from knocking on the doors of one of the houses we passed and begging for help. Now take ’em off.”

 
Eric pulled off his slacks, and then his boxers, standing naked, his shirttails hanging limp against white skin while one hand attempted to retain his pride.

  “Now dance for me,” Fleming said.

  “What?”

  “Dance to make me feel like a whole woman.”

  Eric moved his feet, shaking his bony hips in some offbeat, white-boy rhythm. When Fleming felt she’d sufficiently humiliated him, she blew him a kiss, set down the gun, shifted the van into gear, and got the hell out of there, leaving Eric slack-jawed in her rearview mirror. She probably should have killed him. It would be safer. But as idiotic as the man was, she had no taste for ending him.

  Finding an area remote enough to strand Eric had forced her to drive farther than she’d planned. It took even longer to wind her way back to Waltham and the interstate, dumping Eric’s pants and cell phone on the way, less the cash from his wallet. Eventually the scenery started looking familiar. She found her way to I-90 West, then I-85, and made her way south, watching for police the whole way.

  Chandler

  “You’re only as good as the company you keep,” The Instructor said. “But sometimes you need to be bad.”

  We’d driven the stolen SUV in uneasy silence for almost two hundred miles before Hammett finally spoke.

  “So, what’s your number?”

  “My number?”

  She put her bare feet up on the dashboard and wiggled her toes. Her nails were painted red. “When I was a teenager, your number was the number of guys you slept with. After Hydra, it was the number of guys you killed.”

  Nice.

  “I don’t want to talk to you, Hammett.”

  “About your numbers?”

  “About anything.”

  “Because you know my number is higher on both counts.”

  The previous silence hadn’t been pleasant, my head swarming with negative thoughts, but this conversation didn’t seem like an improvement.

  “I’m sure yours are higher, Hammett. And I don’t want to hear—”

  “One hundred and sixty, and two hundred and eleven.”

  “I told you I—” I did a double take. “What?”

  “One hundred and sixty,” Hammett repeated. “And two hundred and eleven.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that. Both numbers were so high I had trouble believing them. But Hammett seemed nonchalant, and neither her voice nor her body language indicated she was lying.