BLUE MERCY

by ILLONA HAUS

  Valley.

  But the thought came too late. Even as she felt the burst of movement behind her and swung her elbow in a wide, defensive arch, Kay felt the prongs touch the back of her neck. No maneuver could have protected her against the stun gun. The surge ripped through her. Her muscles spasmed, and the blood roared in her ears.

  And as she went down, Kay had the overwhelming urge to apologize. To Spence and Valley. To her mother, her father. And to Finn.

  76

  BERNARD DIDN’T KNOW where he was going. On foot, he’d followed the Key Highway, zigzagging down side streets and alleyways until he staggered into the Locust Point rail yards. The suit Patsy had arranged for him through Grogan was ruined; the jacket was split at the shoulders and the pants were torn over his right knee.

  All his life he’d never known luck. But today …today Lady Luck had handed him the mother lode. Just taking a piss when he’d seen the open window. He hadn’t stopped to think. No, sir. Just move. Follow his nose. Nothing to lose. His fly was still unzipped when he’d hit the concrete of the side street and tried to roll, his shoulder cracking under his weight.

  He knew instantly that he’d dislocated it. It had happened before, as a kid, coming down wrong after a basket shot. Billy’s asshole dad had told him to buck up as he wrenched it back in for him. Bernard fixed the shoulder himself this time, in a side alley off Grant, wadding the jacket under his armpit and smashing his shoulder against the filthy brick wall.

  The pain was hot now, shooting down his arm and back. Three hours ago, he’d risked sneaking into a Rite Aid and lifted a bottle of Excedrin. Rattling another four into his palm now, Bernard swallowed them dry.

  He hadn’t been surprised to spot the patrol car parked outside his house. Another in the back alley behind Jerry’s.

  Four blocks west he found an unlocked storage shed in a narrow alley running north from Fort Avenue. Inside, he pulled two lawn chairs together, put his feet up, and listened to the rain on the aluminum roof.

  Where to go? Even if he had the money for a cab, he couldn’t go up to Patsy’s house. The police’d be there too. He wondered about her old man. Probably blamed Bernard for his daughter’s death. Goddamn Roach. After everything he’d done for him. Kid never had no respect. Bad enough the little prick had led him on about the dead women, but then to kill Patsy. That just wasn’t right. Then again, the kid never had been too right.

  It was because of Roach they’d had to move those couple times. Once when the neighbors’ cat wound up dead in the trash. And again when it was Johnny Newcomb’s dog. Bernard had known Billy’d done it. He’d threatened to toss the little bastard’s bug collection for getting him in shit. Always creeped him out having them around anyway. Big-ass tropical cockroaches, scuttling around in the old, cracked fish tanks the kid had salvaged.

  It was a few years later that Bernard had finally taken care of the lot. After finding one of the roaches in his Cheerios, he’d smacked it with a rolled-up Penthouse. Hit it a dozen times, then finally crushed the damn thing under his boot. Billy had come in, started wailing like a girl.

  Bernard had had it.

  He’d busted into the kid’s room, taken every last filthy tank, and smashed them into the street below. Roaches running in every goddamn direction. Kid never forgave him for that.

  In the musty silence of the storage shed, Bernard stretched. The lawn chair bowed under his weight.

  He’d been thinking about those fucking roaches ever since he’d heard Patsy was murdered.

  And then, suddenly, Bernard knew where he could go for the night.

  77

  “I’VE GOT JUDGE WATTS on call for this.” Vicki sounded tired over the phone. “He’s ready to sign when you get the paperwork here.”

  “I have it now.” Finn hunt-and-pecked his way across the keyboard and finally hit PRINT. “Pittsburgh’s on board in case Coombs has gone home. Just got off the phone with the DA.”

  The printer in the boardroom whirred to life.

  “Oh, and we got the results of the dump on Patricia Hagen’s line.” Finn pushed aside several reports and pulled out the phone company reports that had come through the fax only ten minutes ago. “One of the incoming calls the night of Hagen’s murder is from the Pittsburgh area code. Probably Coombs’s cell. I just have to check Kay’s notes to confirm.”

  “All right then. Anytime you’re ready.”

  “We’re ready.”

  “Good. Meet me at my office.”

  Finn hung up and grabbed the affidavit out of the printer. In the side office, he rifled through the paperwork and phone messages across Kay’s desk, searching for anything that might have Coombs’s number on it. He knew she’d called him at least once for the key to Eales’s house.

  He rummaged in her desk drawers until he found her police notebook, and when he removed it, he uncovered a five-by-seven photo. It was a shot of him, two weeks ago, at the burned-out Dutton warehouse, squatting over the shadowed remains of Valerie Regester. Kay must have pulled it from the rest of the crime-scene photos, kept it for herself. Finn liked the implication and left the picture.

  Flipping through the pages of careful notes in her police notebook, Finn found Coombs’s numbers. His cell was a match.

  “Hey, Finnerty.” Stan Kimble from the night shift stood in the doorway. “Jane Gallagher’s asking for you. Line three.”

  “Tell her to talk to the spokesperson,” Finn said, picking up the phone and punching an open line. “I’m busy.”

  He jabbed at the number pad, dialing Kay. He’d expected her back by now, and she needed to be part of this. She deserved to have her signature on the paperwork.

  Sitting at her desk, Finn listened to the hollow rings stretch across the line, and an irrational fear settled over him. That fear made sense when it wasn’t Kay who answered her cell then.

  78

  KAY FELT THE LISTING of the car first. Smelled fine leather and aftershave. The dashlights glowed pale green, and over the radio Tony Bennett sang Louis Armstrong with k. d. lang. She thought of Jonesy humming along in the cutting room, thought of Valley on the slab. And then she remembered the voltage surging through her body in the parking garage.

  Kay swallowed the instant panic. Assess, Delaney. Look for the out. Through half-lidded eyes, she saw his fine hands wrapped around the wood-grain steering wheel, saw the stun gun. Then she spotted the hypodermic in his lap. Fear coiled deep in her bowels.

  Don’t panic.

  Her hands were numb, tied behind her. But she felt no bonds on her ankles.

  Keep calm. Don’t let him know you’re conscious.

  Moving only her eyes, she looked across the narrow space at Billy Coombs. Streetlamps blurred past, their light making the fierce angles of his clean-shaven face appear to melt in between sweeps of the wipers. She eyed the syringe again, the needle exposed. Don’t let him stick you, Delaney. Whatever you do. He sticks you, and it’s fucking over.

  She’d kick the shit out of him before then. Think. Like any abduction, the longer you wait, the less chance there is of escape. He would have to get her out of the car. She could run then. But how far would she get? She’d have to take him out first. Somehow.

  “I know you’re awake.” His calm voice startled her. “I bet your head’s killing you. It’s the depletion of blood sugar you’re feeling. Six hundred thousand volts will do that to you. Converts the blood sugar into lactic acid. Fucks with the muscles. You probably know that from the Academy though, huh?”

  The dash clock read nine twenty. They’d been driving what, ten, fifteen minutes? They couldn’t have come far. She tried to spot a landmark, a building, anything to give her bearing. But it was just another back street. Row houses and cluttered stoops, trash cans and chain-link.

  Three more minutes and the big car stopped. Coombs threw it into reverse. Turning in the seat to look out the back, his hand brushed her hair. Kay saw his thin smile.

  When he killed the engine, she could make out a c
oncrete overhang. Were they under a bridge? Another garage? She tried to crane her head, her body still quivering from the voltage. She heard his seat belt retract, then the squeal of leather as he turned in his seat to face her.

  Where was the syringe? Keep your eye on the needle, Delaney. Where’s the fucking needle?

  “You’re making a big mistake,” she said, and hated how weak her voice sounded.

  “I don’t think so.” Another smile.

  And then, somewhere in the shadows below the dash, she felt his hand. Hot and damp through the thin fabric of her suit pants. Don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction. His hand moved up, caressing her thigh. Would he rape her? He hadn’t with the others. He inched even higher.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  And then Kay saw the hypodermic.

  Kick him, Delaney. Move! What the fuck are you waiting for? But even if her body could cooperate, he was too fast. She caught the flash of the needle, then heard her own pathetic cry as the tip drove through fabric and into her thigh.

  Ketamine. Had to be. It burned going in, the heat spreading through her leg and settling in her hips even as she tried to wrestle herself free from it. Jonesy’s words ran through her thoughts: fast-acting …blocks nerve paths … paralysis … unconsciousness. How long had he said it took? Minutes? Or only seconds?

  Coombs opened the driver’s-side door. The dome light glared for a moment. She saw his shadow pass in front of the car’s hood, and when he swung open her door, she almost spilled out onto the concrete.

  Run! But the world spun. She was floating. She would drift away if he let go of her. Her legs felt rubbery as he guided her up a short ramp to a door. He propped her against the wall, one hand pinning her, the other working a key.

  Where the hell were they? She couldn’t focus.

  When he shoved her through the door, he said something, but she couldn’t decipher his words. There was a buzzing in her ears, like a swarm of hornets. He flipped some switches, and lights blinded her. Her throat constricted.

  Then he was dragging her, shuffling as he supported her weight. The hornets droned louder, and her lungs felt heavy. She knew this place, but didn’t. And when he lowered her, she recognized the smell. What was it?

  She slumped to the floor, the tiles cold against her cheek. She watched his black Reebok sneakers as he crossed the room several times. In and out of her line of vision. What the fuck was he doing? And then Kay heard water running. Crashing into a tub or a basin, drowning out the hornets in her head.

  When he returned, his shirt was off, his skin pale. Trails of light and movement swirled around him, as if a dozen Billy Coombses were coming at her. Keep your eyes open. Focus.

  She tried to scream, but nothing came out. She wanted to throw up.

  His hands wormed beneath her shoulders, grasping her under her arms. The room did a somersault, and she swallowed bile. He was dragging her, grunting and cursing as he did. Then he was tugging at her clothes.

  The crash of water amplified, then she felt it—warm and swirling. For a moment she thought he’d stripped her completely, then felt her blouse plaster to her ribs.

  When she tried to focus, reality seemed to shift. Light and color changed. She thought of Patricia Hagen. So this was what it was like? The embrace of the water, the lull of her own heartbeat in her head, her muscles slackening as the drug flooded her veins.

  Her body was numb now. There was only warmth as the water rose around her. Kay wondered if she’d even feel it when he cut her. An easy death. Quiet. Almost peaceful in a way, as the drug annulled any instinct for survival.

  And then Kay saw the knife. Small, fitting into his palm. The honed blade trailed reflected light through the air. Dancing before her face.

  He lowered it and she saw his smile. Saw his lips move, but the words were lost. There was only the roar of water. And her heart.

  She felt him pull at her blouse, and the smooth sweep of the knife as he cut the material away.

  When she blinked, she saw Valley. Spencer. Their bodies. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Maybe this was her death and she should accept it. Accept that fate had, at last, delivered her justice.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Were they Coombs’s words or her own? When she opened her eyes he was a blur over her, one moment his eyes in focus, the next his mouth. Everything shifting.

  “Don’t you go down so easy.” She read the words off his lips. He wanted a fight. Wanted to see her struggle.

  She wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

  Close your eyes, Delaney. But she couldn’t. Like a voyeur at her own death, she was drawn to the violence of it. When Coombs brought the knife to her neck, she sensed the blade caress her throat but didn’t feel its slice. Then she recognized the heat of her own blood leaking out, staining the water.

  “… should have shot you when I had the chance,” Coombs said. “You were so far gone. Probably don’t even remember me being there, do you?”

  Close your eyes. Accept.

  “That night on Bernie’s lawn, you grabbed on to his leg like a fucking pit bull. So where’s your spit and fire now, huh? Give me some of that fight.”

  He shoved her, and her innards jostled deep inside her.

  “I should have shot you. Your own gun too. I should have pulled the trigger just like I did on your partner. Do you know what he said before he died? Do you?”

  Kay swallowed. Fighting the drug. Battling the assault of colors and light, the urge to vomit.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. The son of a bitch cried. Blubbering in his own blood. Chickenshit cop couldn’t even face his own death.”

  She wanted to say something, but couldn’t remember how to form the words. She wanted to struggle but knew her body would only disappoint her. Her auditory bandwidth narrowed, and the blood slowed in her veins. She listened to the air fill her lungs.

  “But you will,” she heard him say as he unzipped his chinos. “You’ll look death right in the eye, won’t you?” His words whispered in her ear, his steely breath washing over her. And as reality dissolved, Kay wondered if she’d at last find peace.

  79

  FINN CAME DOWN HARD on the accelerator. The Lumina surged up the base of the JFX, the tires thudding over the joints of the Gay Street viaduct, hurtling north.

  It was the attendant at the city garage just down from Headquarters who had answered Kay’s cell phone. The kid had found it ringing under Kay’s 4Runner and described for Finn the dark-colored sedan that had left the structure shortly after he remembered seeing Kay come in.

  Less than a block from fucking Police Headquarters.

  Finn had ordered a patrol to check on Kay’s apartment, then warned the units covering Eales’s house and Hagen’s and put out an APB on Coombs’s maroon Park Avenue. Then Finn had been mobile, powered by hundred-proof adrenaline.

  As the Lumina blasted past the State Pen, the speedometer’s needle inched to seventy-five. Finn grappled under the seat for the cherry and threw it on the dash. He didn’t know where else to go. He radioed the Northern, ordered more units to 311 Keystone, and demanded they patch through the stationed uniforms to him. Backup would arrive before he did, but if Kay was in that house … His mind flashed on the images of Beggs’s and Hagen’s drained, nude bodies, and his foot came down harder on the gas.

  The radio blurted, and a Northern District officer came on.

  “I’m on my way but I want you and your partner to go in,” Finn instructed the uniform. “Front and back. I need that house secured.”

  “We’re moving in.”

  “And keep this channel open. Take me with you.”

  Finn cranked the police radio’s volume: car doors slammed, then silence, and finally banging. He focused on traffic, but in his mind he was hammering on the door of 311 with them.

  The radio hissed. The banging grew louder. Then: “No answer, Detective, and there’s no lights on inside.”

  “Take the door,” he s
aid into the radio.

  But even as he listened across the airwaves to the battering on 311’s door, Finn knew there was only a slim chance that Coombs would risk returning to the rental house.

  Where the hell do you have her, you dirtbag?

  Baltimore was Coombs’s hunting ground. Kay had said it was because he knew the streets. Because it was where he felt safe. In control.

  Where he felt safe. As safe as he’d probably felt in his dead mother’s embrace.

  The Lumina’s wheels almost locked when Finn’s foot punched the brake. The vehicle squealed onto the North Avenue off-ramp.

  “I know where you feel safe, you son of a bitch.” And as he careened into southbound traffic, Finn prayed his hunch was right.

  80

  KAY HAD NEVER KNOWN such absolute calm.

  There was nothing familiar about this place, yet there was comfort here. Time converged into a fourth dimension where past, present, and future were the same. The images came at her in waves. Bernard’s lawn. Spencer’s blood. Harris the cat. Hagen’s nude body in the leaves. Finn’s face when he came inside her.

  And then there was Valley. The girl sat on the bare mattress in her apartment, boxes and secondhand furniture surrounding her. She laughed at something, the shyness and mistrust gone.

  “This is your future,” Kay had told the girl. “You can’t change your past, but the future …you can make something of it.”

  Valley stood, settled a hand against Kay’s cheek, and she felt its warmth. Then Valley dissolved.

  Kay turned, looking for the girl, but the room was gone as well. She was someplace else. No ground, no walls, no horizon. Just a churning gray. Then Spencer. There was a light behind him, and she squinted against it. He wore one of his brown, off-the-rack sport coats. The kind that always made cops look like cops—the cuffs frayed, and a patch worn bare above his right hip from years of covering the butt of his nine. His tie was lopsided.