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

by J. A. Konrath

  “I’ve decided I’m going to take the car,” Rhett said when Eric had finished bragging about his heroics.

  “That’s great! This has been my best day ever!”

  That’s when Scarlett put the barrel of her Glock 26 against Eric’s temple.

  “He’s stealing the car, dumbass. And now you’re going to tell us what really happened, without all the bullshit.”

  With some prodding, Eric gave a truer account of his encounter, and Scarlett had to smile at the part where Fleming made him take off his pants and dance for her. That woman had lost a great deal, but she still had a sense of humor. Good for her.

  “Do the police have any idea where she went?”

  “They know exactly where she went. She’s in Baltimore.”

  Rhett and Scarlett exchanged a glance.

  “How do you know that?” Rhett asked.

  “The van had an anti-theft system installed. It can be tracked by GPS. The Massachusetts police are trying to coordinate with Baltimore PD to return it, but there’s paperwork involved in recovering a vehicle that crossed state lines.”

  “Does this car have that GP thingy?” Rhett said, his down-home crap annoying Scarlett all over again.

  “No. I swear it doesn’t.”

  Scarlett took down the name of the anti-theft company. Then she told Eric to get out of the car.

  “Pants and underwear off. You know the drill.”

  Eric reluctantly followed orders, looking sufficiently humiliated. “Do we really have to do this?”

  “Yes. Now dance for me,” Scarlett demanded.

  He hopped from foot to foot, shaking his arms to some unknown beat, but Scarlett didn’t find it especially amusing. In fact, it was rather sad. So sad that she shot Eric four times in the stomach, and once in the neck to silence his screams.

  “I kinda liked his dancing,” Rhett said.

  “I like his bleeding better. How long to Baltimore?”

  “We need to go to the other car, grab our stuff, wipe it down. Maybe eight hours.”

  Scarlett made a face. “We’re switching cars?”

  “Baby, didn’t you hear the salesman? Three hundred horsepower. I love this ride.”

  “Can you manage to drive without humming?”

  “Hell yes.”

  Rhett managed to keep his promise for almost an hour, then lapsed into humming again. Rather than point it out and start an argument, Scarlett closed her eyes and imagined making Rhett dance naked for her while she shot him. It wasn’t sexual in the least, but it did give her something to focus on until she fell asleep and didn’t have to hear him anymore.

  Chandler

  “Make friends with your enemies,” The Instructor said, “and make sure your friends don’t become enemies.”

  I awoke to a bright light glaring from the window and the hiss of the motel shower.

  For a second, I didn’t know where I was, then it came back to me. Arriving in Chicago late. Checking into the hotel in the suburbs. Resolving to stay awake, my gun tucked under my pillow to ensure…

  I jolted into a sitting position and tossed my pillow to the side.

  No shotgun.

  She’d taken it from me. She’d—

  “Looking for this?”

  Hammett stood buck naked in the bathroom doorway, a towel wrapping her hair and my shotgun dangling from her finger.

  “You stole my gun?”

  “I didn’t want you shooting yourself in the head while snoring.”

  I sprang out of bed and crossed the room, then snatched the weapon from her hand. “I don’t snore.”

  “Sure you don’t. There must be a backfiring motorcycle under the bed. You know, sleep apnea can often be the sign of a more serious disorder. Like congestive heart failure.”

  “My heart is fine.”

  “Even after Lund dumped you?”

  I considered shooting her, then set the gun down. Wouldn’t be fair to the maid to have to clean up the mess.

  “Hurry up in the shower. It’s already getting late, and I want breakfast before we meet these little friends of yours.”

  I squeezed past her and shut the bathroom door behind me.

  So much for my being on guard. I’d slept all night, didn’t even remember dreaming. I was lucky I wasn’t dead.

  Although I wasn’t sure I felt that lucky anymore.

  The shower felt good, but I made it quick. After watching Hammett eat enough food to feed a normal woman for a week, I forced myself to down a couple of eggs from the hotel breakfast buffet, and then we headed downtown to Chicago’s north side.

  I parked next to a well-maintained park and walked with Hammett to our destination a block east. It was a nice neighborhood, lots of boutiques and overpriced cafés, and an overabundance of women who had small dogs in their handbags. Who started that trend, and why?

  “Chihuahua, six o’clock,” Hammett said. “In a Gucci purse. I want one.”

  “Kirk is too big to fit in that bag.”

  “The purse is nice. But I’m talking about the dog.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He’s adorable. Look at him.”

  I did. The dog looked like someone had squeezed a rat in a French press until its eyes bulged out.

  “Adorable,” I said.

  “I’m killing that woman and taking her dog.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Hammett began to cross the street, toward the Chihuahua. I grabbed her arm and was immediately forced to counter a judo throw, my fists wrapped in her shirt, one leg between hers, struggling for balance as she held my shoulders.

  “This isn’t the time,” I said.

  “For the dog? Or for me to break your neck and leave you dead in the street?”

  “Either. You’ve got some serious anger-management issues.”

  “Fuck you, Goody Two-shoes. I’ll end you here and now.”

  “Case in point. Can we get through just one hour without you threatening to kill me? Can you handle that?”

  Her face didn’t change expression, but she released me. “Fine. Later then.”

  I blew out a breath. “You are such an asshole.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “And you act like an eight-year-old.”

  “I’m rubber, you’re glue. That bounces off me and sticks to you.”

  I quit before she began whining “I know you are but what am I.”

  We crossed the street after the Gucci woman safely passed, and walked up to the security door I’d visited a few days ago. One the wall next to it was a brass placard: MCGLADE INVESTIGATIONS. I remembered what Jack Daniels had warned me the last time I was here, and decided it was worth repeating.

  “If he says something rude, you have to promise not to kill him.”

  “I don’t kill people because they’re rude, Chandler. I’m not a fucking psycho.”

  Actually she was a fucking psycho and killed people for no reason at all, but I let that go. “Promise me.”

  Hammett blew out a breath and rolled her eyes. “I promise, Mom.”

  I pressed the buzzer, and Harry’s voice came through the speaker: a high-pitched, poor attempt to imitate a woman. He sounded like Mickey Mouse on meth.

  “McGlade Investigations, may I help you?”

  “Harry, it’s Chandler.”

  “I’m not Harry. I’m Mr. McGlade’s secretary. Do you have an appointment? He’s very busy.”

  “If you don’t let me in, I’m keeping all the equipment you lent me.”

  “I see we just had a cancellation, and a slot in Mr. McGlade’s schedule opened up. You may come in.”

  The door buzzed. I led Hammett up to the second floor, and we walked up to a door that had a large magnifying-glass logo on it.

  “Is this guy for real?” Hammett asked.

  “It gets better. Don’t kill him.”

  We entered and found McGlade behind the very large desk in his lobby. He was in his late forties, scruffy and dirty lookin
g despite the expensive suit, and had a sort of voyeuristic stare, like you were in a porn movie he was watching. While I couldn’t say I actually liked the man, he had helped me out and I owed him, both favors and money.

  The favors were what bothered me.

  He dramatically rubbed his eyes, then blinked in an exaggerated manner. “Did I die and go to Doublemint heaven?”

  “This is Hammett,” I said.

  “Weren’t you in a wheelchair before?”

  “That’s Fleming,” I said.

  “Fleming is crippled,” Hammett said. “I have full use of my appendages.”

  “So I see. Can you raise up one leg and lick the back of your calf?”

  Hammett simply stared at him.

  “What if I gave you five bucks?” he asked.

  “We need your help,” I said, eyeing my sister and gauging her homicidal impulse level.

  “Last I recall, you owed me a date.”

  “That will have to wait.”

  “I’m not a man who likes to wait. And I can’t help but notice you aren’t carrying a large duffel bag full of the equipment I loaned you.”

  I hid my wince. “I can pay for that. And we’re going to need more equipment.”

  “That stuff was worth over twenty grand.”

  I dug some cash out of my bag and dropped it on the desk. “That should cover it. With interest. We need guns.”

  “The price just went up. After all, I could have my license revoked if I sold weapons to the woman who killed the president.”

  Shit. The Instructor must have released the video. Before I could answer, Hammett had done a handspring over the desk and had straddled herself across McGlade’s lap, a knife at his throat.

  “I promised my sister I wouldn’t kill you,” she said. “But I could cut your ears off.”

  Harry’s eyes went wide. “I…am…I…am…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “…so turned on right now.”

  Hammett wiggled, changing position, then laughed. “Yeah, you are. Not bad for an older guy.”

  “Your grumpy sister owes me a date, but I think I like you more.”

  Hammett threw her hair back and grinned. “Everyone does. She’s a pain in the ass.”

  “So maybe we can go out later? Before the authorities catch you and execute you?”

  “Why put off until later what we can do right now?”

  Hammett hiked up her dress, her other hand working McGlade’s zipper. “Is your fly Velcro?” she said, grinning.

  “Yeah. I also had some Velcro underwear, but they got ripped off.”

  I decided this was something I didn’t need to see, and wandered off down the hallway, into an office. Unfortunately, I could still hear them.

  “Wait, let me…” Harry said.

  “Hey! Wrong entrance, buddy!”

  “Sorry…oh…oh, there it is…oh God!”

  “That’s it. Like that. Good.”

  “That’s…that’s…how can you do that?”

  “Unngh. Practice. Now reach up and grab nipples.”

  “Oh, that feels incredible!”

  “My nipples, jackass. Not your own.”

  “I can…let me…”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s my hand. Fake hand. Lost my limb.”

  “It’s…it’s vibrating! Holy shit!”

  “I’ve got a higher speed. Wait.”

  “OH MY GOD!”

  “You can keep the knife at my throat. It’s OK.”

  “Unngh…unngh! Oh, Harry!”

  “Call me Spartacus!”

  I found a TV and switched on CNN. Sure enough, there was me on a cell phone, punching in the code that killed the president. As if things weren’t already bad enough.

  Hammett began to moan. So did McGlade. I turned up the volume but still heard them. After the longest minute of my life, Harry finally yelled, “Fire in the hole!” so loud that people heard it in Indiana. Hammett cried out a few seconds later, though it sounded more like whimpering. I wondered if I’d ever whimpered during sex, but couldn’t imagine it, especially with Harry McGlade.

  I walked back to them, not sure what to expect. Maybe the same shame and embarrassment I was feeling. Instead, Hammett was smoothing out her dress, and McGlade was halfway through a can of Red Bull. When he finished, he crushed it in his robotic hand like it was a paper cup.

  “So, guns, is it?” he asked, all business. “I may be able to help you. What do you need, and when?”

  Hammett looked like her regular homicidal self again, except for a red flush on her neck and cheeks, and hair that looked like she’d spent an hour sailing during a monsoon.

  I pulled the weapons list from my bag. There was a buzzing sound, and I realized his fake hand was still vibrating.

  “Right away,” I said. “As you know, we’re in a bit of trouble.”

  “A damn shame. If it were up to me, you’d get a medal. The president was a dick. And the new guy is even worse. You should take him out, too.”

  “I’ve got a list as well,” Hammett said.

  “You do?” I asked. I hadn’t known she’d made one, too.

  Hammett gave it to Harry, who raised an eyebrow as he read it. “Damn. You are a wicked little thing, aren’t you? What are you going to do with that?”

  He pointed at the paper. Hammett looked at me, then leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  “I was married once,” McGlade said. “You remind me of her. She’s currently in a prison for the criminally insane.”

  “She sounds fun,” Hammett said.

  “I’ll need to make a few calls. But I think I can get all this by the end of the day. Except for that special thing you want. That’ll take some time.”

  “How much?” Hammett asked.

  “For you, my little Tootsie Roll, I’ll loan it all to you if you promise to return it. For Chandler, who doesn’t know how to return stuff, we’re looking at another fifteen K.”

  I didn’t have that much left, and wondered if we’d have to knock over another crack house.

  “She’s good for it,” Hammett said.

  “Still, I’d prefer payment up front.”

  “Maybe I’ll trade you something for it,” Hammett said, swiveling his chair around to face her.

  “I’m not sixteen anymore. I need a little more refractory time. Are you into spanking?”

  “Giving or receiving?”

  “Both.”

  Hammett rolled her hips and offered a fake pout. “Well, I have been a very naughty girl.”

  McGlade reached into his desk drawer and pulled out—of all things—a Ping-Pong paddle.

  “I’ll be in the car,” I said, heading for the door. By the time I made it to the stairs, I could hear the steady thwack! thwack! accompanied by high-pitched yelps that could have been either Harry or Hammett. When I’d warned my sister not to kill him, I hadn’t thought it would be via fucking him to death. If that was her intention, I hoped we’d get our weapons first.

  I waited on a bench in the park, my thoughts drifting from the pair of deviants I’d left to Lund. I didn’t want to think about him. Not only because I had feelings for the guy and he’d crushed me, but because of what he represented.

  Normalcy.

  I’d never had a normal life. Perhaps because my destiny had been decided for me, and I’d never had the opportunity to choose anything normal. But if I got out of this alive…

  I spent ten minutes people-watching. Spotted the obligatory young couple with the baby stroller. Two people my age, walking hand in hand. An old man and an old woman shuffled over, sat down, and gave each other a chaste public kiss.

  “How long have you two been married?” I asked.

  “Thirty-six years,” said the man.

  “Forty-one,” said the woman.

  I smiled. “Which one is it?”

  “Both.” The man grinned and winked. “Our spouses are back at the retirement home. We’re out for a little afterno
on delight.”

  Hmm. OK. Maybe normalcy was overrated.

  The elderly couple left, off to commit geriatric infidelity, and Hammett eventually came out of McGlade’s building. She looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen her.

  “That guy’s a real piece of work,” she said.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. He gave me his number. Like, for what? I’m supposed to call him next time I’m free?”

  “Maybe it’s love.”

  “He’ll have our stuff by tomorrow. Did you know he married a serial killer?”

  “I only met Harry a few days ago.”

  “I only met him a few minutes ago. He’s a real piece of work. Where to next?”

  “We need to talk to someone else. You can’t kill her, either.”

  “Who?”

  “Cop. Her name is Jack Daniels.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do we need her for?”

  I told her. Hammett frowned. “Think she’ll go for it?”

  “All we can do is ask.”

  “If she says no, do we slap her around?”

  I’d tussled with Jack before, and the woman was formidable. I would have enjoyed watching Hammett get punched a few times.

  “No. If she won’t play ball, we think of something else.”

  Which was a tall order. If Jack didn’t help us, we were likely dead.

  Heath

  “There are many ways to get what you want,” said The Instructor. “Killing is only one of them. But if it’s the best option, don’t hesitate to take it.”

  Despite the business he was in, Heath didn’t enjoy killing people. Sure, there were a few dispatches that were rewarding—corrupt politicians and business leaders who profited off the backs of others were some of his favorites—but while the other members of Hydra Deux seemed to enjoy killing anyone for any reason, Heath liked it best when justice was dealt and innocents spared.

  Unfortunately, when innocents refused to cooperate, sometimes there was no other way.

  “You ever think about taking some time off?” Heath asked Manuel Diaz in fluid Spanish. It was the language of his youth. Many of his thoughts were still in Spanish, but every time he spoke it for any length of time, he felt a heaviness press down on his chest and a void open up in his belly.

  He downed a few gulps of Modelo Especial.