“He’s not coming back,” Ray said. “Don’t you get it? Billy would’ve called for backup. More cops are on the way.”
“Then let them come. It’s time to reveal the art of dying to the world, and you’ll be my pièce de résistance.” Luis set the clippers aside and slathered Ray’s head with shaving cream. He reached onto the cart and brandished a straight blade speckled with blood. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”
As Luis shaved Ray bald, his victims watched from their positions on the wall. Although they’d each experienced their own personal suffering, Ray was the center of attention now—the latest attraction in the Artist’s gallery of horror.
And while Ray had survived dozens of life-threatening situations in the past, he couldn’t recall ever being in a position so bleak. He was physically incapacitated, his captor planned to mutilate him and leave him for dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He’d told Luis the cavalry was coming, but what were the odds Billy had called for backup? Doing so would’ve sealed Ray’s fate at the department, since it would prove he’d continued to investigate while on suspension. Billy might’ve tried to protect him by coming alone.
Christ.
He thought about Jason, Allie, and Petey. They didn’t know it yet, but yesterday was probably the last time they’d ever see their daddy alive. He recalled their bittersweet goodbye on the porch and cursed himself for getting into this mess. He’d put his ego before common sense, and now they would all pay the price.
Luis set the razor down on a tray of gleaming surgical instruments. “It’s almost time for your transformation, Ray. Are you excited?”
“Let me off this gurney and I’ll show you.”
“Did I mention I’ll be cutting your nose off? I’m going to reshape it into a snout before sewing it back on.”
“I know you were abused, Luis. I know people did horrible things to you. But you don’t have to do this. It’s not your fault.”
“You’re right, Ray. I don’t have to do this. I want to do it.”
“Your father and uncle let this happen. They allowed Danny to abuse you. All the pain, all the failures in your life, it’s their fault, Luis. If anyone should be on this gurney, it’s them. Let me out of here and I’ll help you get revenge.”
“No,” Luis said, shaking his head. “You’re the little piggy, Ray. You’re the little piggy who’ll cry wee wee wee all the way home.” He picked up a scalpel and cut tiny circles into the air. “Do you know what I’ll use to make your piggy’s tail? I’ll give you a hint. It rhymes with Venus.”
Ray swallowed a lump in his throat and Luis tossed his head back and cackled. “That’s right, Ray. I’ll cut off your penis and twist it around a wire. And then I’ll attach it to the crack of your ass with surgical staples. But first I need to get my torch so I can cauterize your wounds. And I need to tell Uncle Jack that it’s time to slice the bacon.”
Luis snatched the gun off the cart and strode across the room, sidestepping the puddle of blood congealing around Billy’s head. He exited the bunker, closing and latching the door behind him.
After the echo of Luis’s departure faded into oblivion, Ray shifted his weight on the gurney, wrenching his body from side to side. But the restraints held fast.
“Get us out of here!” Larry cried, his rat’s head protruding from the wall.
“I’m working on it,” Ray said. He tried to wriggle the gurney in Suzie’s direction. If he could get it close enough, she might be able to use her toes to unfasten the Velcro straps.
“It’s no use,” the Minotaur said. “We’re all gonna die.”
Ray didn’t want to believe it, but the gurney refused to budge. Luis must have locked the wheels. Christ, they were running out of time! There had to be a way out of this. He had to think, damnit!
A rattling of chains drew his attention and he turned to where Suzie was fidgeting with her shackles, trying to pick the lock. Within seconds, she managed to free her left hand and the chains on that side went slack against the wall.
Ray could hardly believe his eyes.
“I can only get one,” she said. “The other one never opens.”
Ray studied the shackles from afar, his eyes focused on the gap between the metal and Suzie’s slender wrist. “Can you pull your hand through?”
“No.”
“What did you use to pick the lock?”
“A nail.”
“I need you to listen to me, Suzie. Can you do that?”
She nodded.
“I need you to cut your wrist. Just deep enough to draw blood. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve got to be quick.”
She moved her hand over the opposite wrist and made a sweeping motion beneath the iron cuff, exposing a thin ribbon of crimson.
“That’s it,” Ray said.
She worked her wrist against the edge of the metal, causing rivulets of blood to run down her forearm.
A thumping emanated from beyond the bunker.
A door slamming? Someone coming?
“Hurry!” Ray said.
“It’s working!” Suzie said.
The shackle slipped off her wrist and banged against the wall, rattling the chains like the ghost of Jacob Marley. She stared at her bloody hand for a moment, as if marveling at her newfound freedom, before hopping off the platform and rushing toward the gurney.
Another sound emanated from beyond the walls of the bunker. Unmistakable this time. The thud of footfalls, and someone whistling an upbeat tune.
Suzie unfastened the gurney’s restraints and Ray jumped to his feet and hugged her, forgetting for a moment that they were naked. “Go back to the wall,” he whispered. “Pretend you’re still locked up.”
She shook her head, her eyes brimming with terror.
“You’ve got to trust me.”
At first, he didn’t think she would listen, but then she whirled around and darted back to the wall, climbing onto the pedestal and slipping her arms behind the chains.
Ray grabbed the croquet mallet and scrambled to the door, positioning himself in the corner, where he’d be shielded by its opening arc. He pressed his back against the wall and waited.
The sound of whistling continued as someone fumbled with the locks and metal clanged against metal. A bolt slid back and the door creaked open.
Luis stepped inside carrying a blowtorch and a jar of pink paint. He drew to a halt two paces into the bunker and gaped at the empty gurney. “What the—”
Ray kicked the door shut and swung the mallet, striking Luis in the face and sending him stumbling forward. The paint jar flew out of his hand and struck the ground, a puddle of pink oozing onto the concrete as Luis sank to his knees with the torch.
Ray wound up to hit Luis again, but the first blow had knocked him out cold. Ray tossed the mallet aside and grabbed Luis by the foot, dragging him across the room. He scooped Luis into his arms and laid him flat on the gurney, fastening the restraints before he could regain consciousness.
The gun Flaherty had murdered Billy with protruded from the waistband of Luis’s jeans. Ray snatched the gun and grabbed his own pants, which were balled up on the floor near the wall. He pulled them on and turned toward Suzie.
“I’m going after Flaherty. Free the others and wait here. If I’m not back in ten minutes, take my car and drive to the nearest police station.” He fished Jacob’s car keys from his pocket and handed them to her before rushing out of the bunker.
He emerged into a shadowy hallway devoid of windows. It had a subterranean feel, concrete all around, and sloped upward to a door leading into the basement. He passed through the door and navigated around a maze of obstacles—riding mower, patio furniture, golf clubs, and low hanging pipes—before exiting into another hallway inside the first floor living area. Tiptoeing barefoot across the hardwood, Ray conducted a room-to-room sweep of the bathroom, guestroom, and bonus room, all of which were un
usually clean for a bachelor pad.
Still no sign of Flaherty.
Ray doubled back down the hall and crept upstairs with his finger resting against the trigger guard of Luis’s gun. When he reached the top of the landing, he peered into the living room where he’d questioned Luis earlier. The room was empty. Even the beer bottles had been cleared away. The only evidence of their meeting was a half-dried ring of condensation gleaming on the coffee table.
He padded farther into the room and glanced into the kitchen, but Flaherty wasn’t in there either. He must’ve hightailed it out of town. So, why did Ray have the feeling he wasn’t alone? Just his nerves… or something more?
He peered out the window overlooking the front yard. A state police cruiser had just pulled into the driveway and he could see Garrison’s shiny brown head through the windshield. Which meant Billy had called him on his way over. But Billy was dead now, his body sprawled on the floor of the bunker, the back of his head blown apart. And it was all Ray’s fault. How had he let things spiral so far out of control?
Outside the window, he detected a blur of movement near the house. Flaherty ducked behind a massive oak on the front lawn, holding a gun fitted with a silencer and preparing to ambush Garrison.
Ray whirled toward the door and froze as an older woman approached the landing from the hall. She pulled the trigger before he even registered the gun in her hand. The bullet grazed his shoulder and sent him stumbling into the recliner, his own gun clattering to the floor.
“You better not have hurt Brendan,” she growled, adjusting her aim to his chest. Her gun was fitted with a silencer. Just like Flaherty’s.
As Ray lifted his hands in surrender, he realized that he was staring at Doc Death’s icy receptionist, Mrs. Granderling. “Christ,” he said, “you’re Angie Taritello.”
“No shit. What have you done to Brendan?”
Ray shifted his gaze to the stairway behind her. “He’s right over there.”
Mrs. Granderling started to turn, but then thought better of it.
Ray seized on the momentary distraction and dove to the ground, somersaulting toward her as she fired an errant shot into the floorboards. He launched himself at her before she could adjust, tackling her at the waist like a linebacker leveling a quarterback. Except instead of landing on soft grass, they tumbled down the stairs with Ray riding on top.
When they crashed into the door at the bottom of the landing, Mrs. Granderling lay moaning, her body bent askew. Ray rolled off her and snatched her gun from the floor. As he sprang to his feet, the bullet wound in his shoulder radiated a shockwave of pain, but he gritted his teeth against it and charged outside.
“Garrison, look out!”
The sudden outburst threw off Flaherty’s aim, and instead of a kill shot, the bullet struck Garrison’s Kevlar vest.
Flaherty whirled toward Ray, but it was too late.
Ray had already pulled the trigger.
A blooming rose of crimson soaked Flaherty’s shirt, his eyes wide with shock. The gun slipped from his hand and tumbled into the grass. He clutched his abdomen, blood seeping between his fingers. “I need an ambulance,” he croaked.
Ray descended the porch stairs, keeping his gun trained on Flaherty. “You don’t deserve an ambulance. And since we both used silencers, I doubt anyone called 911.”
Flaherty’s face was ashen. “I’ll tell you who killed your father.”
“You don’t know who killed him. Billy told you the story, didn’t he?”
Flaherty didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes.
Garrison staggered across the front walk and fished Flaherty’s gun from the grass. “Where’s Billy?” he asked, holding a hand to his chest and wincing.
Ray swallowed a lump in his throat. “Billy didn’t make it.”
Garrison closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “Shit.”
“You can’t do this,” Flaherty said, panic creeping into his voice. “It’s against the law.” He leaned against the oak and slid down the trunk until he was sitting in the grass.
“The law?” Ray said. “That’s pretty ironic, coming from you. The world’s better off without you, Flaherty. If you die, there’s no trial, no chance of some dirtbag lawyer getting you off on a technicality. And the city gets what a friend of mine once called swift justice. I didn’t appreciate what that meant before, but I do now.”
Flaherty’s lips pursed as if he was about to respond, but a wracking cough seized him and a dark rivulet of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.
A warble of sirens rose in the distance, but it was too late for Flaherty. He slumped forward and pitched face-first into the grass.
Ray glanced down at the wound on his shoulder.
Garrison said, “Looks like you’re the one who needs that ambulance. I guess a neighbor called after all.”
The door creaked behind them and Ray whirled around, expecting to see Mrs. Granderling wielding the gun he’d dropped in the living room. Instead, it was Suzie Coleman staggering down the steps, her naked body covered in a glistening sheen of blood. She wore a strange expression, and when her lips parted, Ray saw that even her teeth were stained red.
Ray rushed toward her. “Suzie! Are you okay?”
She stared past him, her eyes vacant. “He won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
“The Artist?”
“I cut it off,” she said, and cackled. “And then I fed it to him. And cut him. And watched him die.”
Ray felt his knees go weak. “Get her a blanket.”
Garrison ran to the cruiser and retrieved a blanket from the trunk. He draped it around Suzie’s shoulders and sat her down in the grass. Ray sank to the ground beside her, no longer able to support his own weight.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have left you.”
Christ, what had she done?
She hugged her knees and rocked herself, repeating the same words over and over. “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
As if willing herself to believe it.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The city honored Billy with a hero’s funeral for his role in taking down Flaherty and the Artist, complete with flag bearers, bagpipes, and hundreds of officers attending from states as far away as California. If surveillance video existed of Billy pocketing drug money, Flaherty’s attorney failed to produce it.
Although it was customary for the mayor to speak at high profile funerals for officers killed in the line of duty, Mayor Tom Flaherty was in jail (along with Mrs. Granderling), so the governor stepped in to take his place. Billy’s ex-wife was also in attendance, standing before the flag-draped casket with her arms around Tyler, who cried throughout the ceremony.
It was heart-wrenching to watch, but Ray wouldn’t allow himself to look away. Doc Stevenson kept assuring him that Billy’s death wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t the one who’d pulled the trigger, but it was his own recklessness that had put Billy on the receiving end of Flaherty’s gun.
Captain Barnes had lifted Ray’s suspension and welcomed him back onto the force with a promotion to sergeant detective. But Ray didn’t feel like he deserved the job, let alone the accolades or the media blitz. And as much as Billy sometimes got on his nerves, he realized that he loved him like a brother.
After his discharge from the hospital, Michelle had allowed him to come home. While he knew that things may never be the same again, at least they were together as a family. And he would spend the rest of his life making it up to her—not because he felt guilty, but because he loved her and she deserved better.
The kids were surprised to see his newly shorn scalp and made no secret about how much they hated it. Petey had taken one look at him and said, “Da-da, why you look like Humpty Dumpty?”
Four days had passed since Billy’s death, but Ray had barely slept a wink. Whenever he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the slow-motion memory of Billy’s head blowing apart. And during those rare moments when sleep did overtake
him, he’d inevitably jolt awake drenched in sweat as the blood-soaked image of Suzie Coleman faded from his consciousness and her words echoed through his mind.
I’m okay. I’m okay…
But he didn’t see how that was possible.
Not even with the best therapy money could buy.
Only Sal Giabatti had emerged from the chaos for the better. With the mayor in jail and Flaherty’s gang without leadership, he would soon control the city’s entire underworld and become richer than he’d ever imagined. Maybe the dapper old mobster had outsmarted them all. Maybe he’d even played them from the beginning. Either way, he was right about one thing.
It had turned into one hell of a bloody summer.
Author’s Note
If you enjoyed The Art of Dying, please consider rating it on Amazon or Goodreads. And if you’re interested in another thrilling read, turn the page for a preview of The Righteous and the Wicked, a suspense thriller with elements of sci-fi, urban fantasy, and police procedural.
And as always, thanks for reading! I appreciate your support and welcome your comments and questions, so please don’t hesitate to reach out to me at [email protected].
THE RIGHTEOUS AND THE WICKED
The dying man staggered into the restaurant with such a clamor that Jacob Hanley dropped his menu and knocked over his drink. A stream of ice water surged toward his lap and Jacob jumped to his feet in time to see the old man lurch into the dining area.
Wild tufts of ivory hair crowned the man’s scalp, his skin pale gray and liver-spotted. His features were so gaunt that Jacob imagined an invisible force might soon collapse his eyes, nose, and lips into the hollows of his skull.
The man stumbled toward Jacob, his arms pinwheeling for balance. He would’ve hit the floor face-first had Jacob not caught him around the waist and eased him into an empty chair. Jacob held one hand against the man’s chest to keep him from falling.
The old man gasped for breath, his vibrant blue eyes locked on Jacob. “Beware the Order,” he whispered. “The plane of the Symbios. The Great Elder… he will destroy—”
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