Lilith: a novel

by Edward Trimnell

  That didn't change the fact that Jessica Knox was, in all likelihood, directly complicit in the deaths of at least three men. But she disagreed with her partner about strategies and tactics. Whatever had originally bound them together—probably some toxic mixture of sexual attraction and amoral greed—had frayed tonight. Under the right pressure, it might be broken completely.

  “I have another idea,” Alan said suddenly. “Something to try while you’re getting that SWAT team in place. Do you think you could spare me an officer?”

  Burns looked at him warily. “That might be possible,” he said. “But what do you have in mind?”

  “I’m going inside that building,” Alan said.

  Alan was about to elaborate, but he was interrupted. A shot rang out, and pandemonium ensued.

  46.

  The shot that had been fired from one of the upper-floor windows of the building did no discernible damage. No officers were hit; nor did the position of any police vehicle intersect with the bullet’s path.

  The street had been cleared of civilian traffic. The round most likely chipped pavement, or one of the brick facades on the opposite side of the thoroughfare.

  Spotlights probed the front windows of the abandoned building’s third and fourth floors. The lights revealed nothing about the source of the single discharge. The shot had apparently not been intended as the opening to a protracted gunfight. It had been fired randomly, probably in frustration.

  Everyone among the street-level police team had immediately taken cover. Of course, they had already positioned themselves with an awareness that two cornered criminals might attempt to take potshots from their hideout. Criminals had been known to do such things.

  Still, there was a new urgency now. Knox and Hall had escalated the stakes. They had drawn no blood, but they had committed their first hostile act against law enforcement.

  When Sergeant Burns fully understood what Alan had in mind, he made a brief pro forma protest.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Burns asked.

  “I’m sure,” Alan said—though the truth was he didn't know. Anything could happen once they got inside that building. The alternative, though, was equally unpalatable.

  “You know as well as I do that if SWAT has to handle this, it’s going to be messy. Like you said, we don't know how many people are in that building; and if the bulk of them are addicts, then we can’t count on them being too cooperative. That means collaterals—practically guaranteed. But I think I have some leverage with the female of the pair up there. And now they've fired a shot and given their location away.”

  “Yeah,” Burns said. “But their location can change, you know.”

  Alan nodded. He had already thought of this. They weren’t even completely sure of the fugitives’ location at the time the shot was fired. No muzzle flash had been seen, and the spotlights had detected nothing.

  The report, though, had seemed to come from a corner window on the fourth floor. So that was the assumption they were going to start with. It was all they had.

  Moreover, (assuming that their base assumption was correct) Knox and Hall probably wouldn't move far from that position, but the rooms on either side would be possibilities, in addition to the rooms across the hall.

  Officer Jensen, the young Cincinnati PD man who had volunteered to accompany Alan, was suiting up in a helmet and bulletproof attire from head to foot—basically what the SWAT team members would be wearing.

  Alan had agreed to wear a bulletproof vest only. If he showed up in full body armor, Knox would conclude that her only option was to go down fighting. Alan wanted her to reach a different conclusion—namely, that it was in her better interest to surrender and hope for a deal. To convince her of that, Alan would have to show her a human face.

  Dave stood off to the side while Alan talked with Sergeant Burns. Then Burns clapped Alan and Officer Jensen each on the shoulder and stepped back to his patrol car. He reiterated that he would maintain a radio link with Jensen throughout the operation. When Burns finally withdrew, Dave approached Alan.

  “I can’t let you go in there by yourself,” Dave repeated. They had had this conversation less than five minutes ago, and Alan had hoped that the matter had been resolved.

  “This was supposed to be my operation tonight.”

  Dave’s unspoken words were, and I screwed it up. He was still smarting from the earlier setback. Having done all of his police work from a desk up to this point in his career, Dave didn't understand that in the field, even the best cops sometimes found themselves at a disadvantage. It was exactly what one of the German generals had said—Moltke, Alan believed it had been: “No campaign plan ever survives first contact with the enemy.” That was true in war, and it was true in police work, as well.

  “First of all,” Alan replied, “I’m not going in there alone. I’m going in with Officer Jensen here.” Alan gestured at the Cincinnati PD man, who stood ready and just out of earshot.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Alan said. “I do. You want to go in there with me because you believe that you were responsible for what happened in that alleyway. But I’ll repeat this once more: Working out here in the field isn’t like working in the office, doing analyst work. We have to make snap decisions.”

  “So you’re saying I made the wrong one?”

  Alan shrugged. “I wasn't there, was I? What I know is that you were at close range with two armed suspects, who were clearly threatening you. I also know that you’re alive and unhurt right now, instead of on your way to the hospital or the morgue. And those two suspects are cornered in this building, all but captured. However, this ends, Knox and Hall aren’t walking out of that building except in handcuffs. They’ve got to know that—and Knox will especially know it. That’s why I want to go in and negotiate with her.”

  “So why not let me go in with you?” Dave asked. “After all, I have a rapport with her. I told you what she said to me—what she whispered in my ear.”

  “I’ve consider that,” Alan said. “And my judgment is that you’ve been through enough already tonight, given that this is your first operation in the field. Do you want to deny that you’re still rattled by what happened earlier?”

  Without being prompted to do so, Dave looked downward at his empty hands. They were shaking.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “And when you’re rattled, you make mistakes. That’s true for me, true for you—true for anyone. I’m not saying you made a mistake earlier, mind you—I’m saying that if you went into that building with me now, the likelihood of you making a mistake would be high. Got it?”

  Dave sighed. “Okay. Got it.”

  “All right. You wait down here with the Cincinnati officers. I’m going into that building now with Officer Jensen. And hopefully we’ll be back down shortly with Knox and Hall in handcuffs, and all without firing a shot.”

  47.

  Alan and Officer Jensen went in the back door of the abandoned building, so as to delay detection by Knox and Hall, who were hopefully still hunkered down in that front room on the fourth floor. Like the door in the front, this rear one had been long since removed from its hinges. The rear entrance was a gaping, empty black maw.

  But not empty for long. As soon as Alan and Jensen entered, they found themselves in a downstairs hall area, where they immediately discovered that they had company. There were five or six people seated on the floor, leaning against the walls on both sides of the hallway. They were a mixture of both genders and several races. Their ages were a mix, too; but they all had that worn-out look of longtime addicts.

  Alan briefly shined his flashlight on the group, just to make sure that Knox and Hall were not among them. He doubted that Knox and Hall would be down here—that would make no sense; but he had to be sure.

  “Just sit tight,” he told the group in a low voice. “And we’ll be on our way. Nothing here to get excited about.”

  There were a fe
w half-hearted, profane responses. Alan now saw that they were sitting amid piles of makeshift bedding: piles of discarded rags and old clothing, plus garbage bags that had been salvaged, torn open, and flattened.

  “Come on.” Alan motioned to Jensen. One of the building’s main staircases was directly adjacent to them. “These nice citizens just want to be left alone.”

  They made their way up the staircase, traversing multiple landings. It was pitch black in the stairwell. The beams of the flashlights that both Alan and Jensen carried swept across plenty of trash and debris, but no more people. This would be an uncomfortable place for any of the junkies to roost.

  They exited the stairwell on the fourth floor. With weapons in one hand and flashlights in the other, they made their way down to the corner room. They had made some effort to be silent; but two men with flashlights could not move down a darkened hallway without giving notice of their arrival.

  Alan figured that Hall and Knox were making their decisions right now. If he had assessed the two fugitives correctly, Hall would suggest that they go down fighting, and Knox would counsel surrender.

  If he and Jensen could tip the balance of that debate in Knox’s favor, then this might end quickly and bloodlessly. And Lilith would be in custody. Alan no longer entertained any real doubt that Hall and Knox were Lilith.

  When they arrived at the room from which one of the pair—probably Hall—had fired onto the street, they found a closed door.

  48.

  “Shut the frigging door!” Travis barked.

  They were both now aware that a police presence had entered the building. That was impossible to miss. Although the police had done their best to be furtive and silent, the telltale signs had been there: The police had spent the better part of an hour huddling. Travis had peeked through the window and caught a glimpse of one man wearing body armor—the kind that SWAT teams and soldiers in Iraq wear.

  “Shut the door now!” Travis shouted again. Jessica whirled around toward the open doorway. There was no barrier between them and the blank, dark space of the hall.

  They had already been poised literally on the edge of life or death. And now, it seemed, their tormenters had jacked up the stakes a notch higher.

  Jessica saw that this room did indeed have an intact door. She ran over to the wall and tugged the doorknob; the door swung toward her on rusty hinges. She slammed it shut.

  “Lock it!” Travis ordered.

  “How—” Her first thought was that given the age of the building, the door could only be locked with a key—and probably an old barrel key that had long since been melted down into scrap. But they were in luck (relatively speaking, of course): The door locked from the inside of the room with a simple button lock. Jessica pushed the button and heard it click.

  They could now hear the sounds of the men exiting the stairwell into the main fourth floor hallway. It was a matter of minutes and seconds now.

  Jessica looked at the ancient door with its simple lock and then looked at Travis. They seemed to share the same thought—though Jessica doubted that Travis had an inkling of what else she was thinking.

  “Baby, that door ain’t never going to hold, is it?”

  “No.”

  There were footsteps at the far end of the hallway, approaching fast. They would have to turn a couple of corners. And they might make a wrong turn or two. But their arrival was inevitable. The end was inevitable.

  “So I guess it ends here and now, baby,” Travis said. “But if these men want to take us prisoner, they’re going to have to pay for us in blood. You stand behind me, Jess, and shoot as many of ‘em as you can. I’ll go down before you do.”

  Jessica couldn't believe what she was hearing. To Travis, this was apparently some sort of a game.

  This was her last chance. It was now or never.

  She raised her gun and leveled it at Travis.

  “Travis, drop that gun. Drop it right now.”

  Even though Jessica had already threatened Travis in a similar manner earlier this evening, he seemed unable to comprehend what was taking place.

  Travis did not drop his gun, nor did he raise it to counter her threat. A look of supreme disappointment crossed his face.

  “Jessie—what the hell are you doing?”

  “Just drop your gun. Toss it away.”

  For a brief instant, she thought that he was going to attempt to shoot her instead. But he sighed and tossed his gun off to the side, onto the floor.

  Then, without asking her permission, he sat down. The floor in the front of the room was covered with sawdust and what looked like the splinters of old crates. But what difference did that make now? Staying clean was the least of their concerns.

  “I didn't say you could sit down,” Jessica said. She felt her gun trembling in her hand. It had been one thing to make a vague, implied threat with the weapon back there in the alley. But to do it like this, for real, with the police just down the hall…well, this was something different.

  “What’s the harm?” Travis countered. “If I’m your prisoner, then why can’t I have a seat? He swept his arm in the direction of the closed door. “After all, we’re both going to be prisoners of the cops in a few minutes’ time.”

  Jessica nodded absently. There was nothing to be gained, really, by making an issue of his sitting. His gun was on the floor, but in order to reach it, he would have to lean over and lunge for it. And there would be plenty of time to shoot him if he tried that.

  She had to keep her eyes on Travis. However, she thought she heard the men down the hall turn into the leg of the hallway that would ultimately lead them to this room.

  “What are you thinking, Jessie? Huh? Will you tell me that?”

  He looked up at her, that smug smirk on his face. Suddenly she was so angry at him—for mucking everything up, for bringing them both to this.

  So why shouldn't he know?

  “What I’m thinking, Travis, is that you’re going to be in a lot more trouble than me. Because, you see, while I may have helped you, I had no idea what you were really doing. Then when I tried to stop, you threatened me; you told me that you’d kill me if I didn't keep going on dates with those men.”

  He required a few seconds to process this. Then he said, “Oh, really, baby, is that the way you’re goin’ to play this?”

  The remark was meaningless, more or less. And while she was trying to decipher it, her guard dropped for a second, and Travis’s hand darted forward. He didn't reach for his gun, as she might have expected. Instead, he swept up a handful of the sawdust and splinters on the floor, and flung them in her face.

  In a second’s time, the already dark room went completely black, and she felt an unbearable stinging in her eyes. She dropped her pistol and started frantically rubbing her eyes. It took her a few seconds—at least five or ten.

  When she opened her eyes, Travis was standing there before her, his pistol recovered. He had leveled the gun at her. His beautiful, familiar face was a mystery to her now, filled as it was with what appeared to be implacable anger. Could she blame him, really, for what he was about to do? She had not only defied him, she had revealed her plan to betray him.

  “Travis, please don’t,” she said. The footsteps in the hallway were now just outside the door.

  “Open up, police!” a male voice shouted. “Miss Knox—are you in there? I need you to open up that door for me.”

  Travis glanced in the direction of the voice.

  “Damn,” he said. “They’re calling you by name. Looks like they got you pegged as the weak link of this team.”

  Jessica braced herself for the shot that she knew would come now. Why shouldn't Travis kill her? He had nothing to lose, after all. What was one more murder, from his perspective, after all they had done?

  But instead Travis dropped his own pistol. He tossed it away, to roughly the place it had been barely a minute ago.

  “I thought I could shoot you, baby,” he said. “And I’ll tell you the trut
h: For a second there, I actually wanted to.”

  “Miss Knox! Open the door now!”

  There was a loud thud, and the floorboards vibrated beneath their feet as one of the cops kicked the door.

  Travis went on: “But then I realized that I couldn't. I guess the truth of the matter is that, even after what you did right now—what you did earlier, in the alley with that cop—I guess I do have a soft spot for you, Jessie. I just can’t do it—shoot you, I mean.”

  He punctuated these words with a short laugh. “So I guess we’re going to jail, babe. I’ve been to jail before. It ain’t great, but it ain’t the worst place in the world, either.”

  There was another loud crash as the cops kicked the door again. Also, the sound of wood splintering on the doorframe.

  “Maybe we’ll be famous,” Travis mused. “Like Bonnie and Clyde, huh? But make no mistake about one thing—we are going down together. I got feelings for you, Jessie, enough to keep me from killing you, but not enough to make me take the fall for you.”

  Jessica said nothing in response. She knew that she had only a few seconds to process what Travis was saying. Then her margin for making any sort of decision would be gone.

  When the police questioned them, Travis might actually turn out to be the more cooperative of the two. He wouldn't escape blame himself, of course; but he would be more than capable of spreading out the blame between them.

  She might protest; she might give them a contradictory story. But in the end it would be her word against Travis’s, wouldn't it? The police wouldn't be surprised by the inconsistencies in their two accounts. Didn't captured criminals try to blame each other all the time?

  And to make matters worse, Travis would be telling the truth—or a closer version to the truth than what she would give.

  She understood, instantly, what she had to do.

  Without acknowledging what Travis had said, she bent down and plucked up the pistol at her feet. She did it so quickly that Travis had no chance to react, not even to say anything in protest.