by Tami Hoag
“Can’t stay in one place too long.”
“Why is that?”
His face darkened as he looked down at the knife he’d used to cut the sausage…
“It’s just best to move on.”
He couldn’t take her with him. She would slow him down and draw people’s attention to him. He would see only one practical and expedient solution to the situation.
Carey opened her eyes a crack. She could see the knife he had stolen from her home, lying on the makeshift table maybe six feet away.
She could feel the shape of her cell phone in her pants pocket.
Karl moved away from her, easing her head down on one of the pillows. He spoke to her in the softest of whispers, as if he believed her subconscious could hear him.
“Now, I have to step outside to relieve myself, angel. I’m sorry, but I’m having to make sure you don’t try to leave me.”
Carey lay very still as he moved to her feet. He slipped a plastic cable tie around one ankle and then the other, looping the second through the first, hobbling her. Then used more cable ties to attach the hobble to a concrete block. She probably wouldn’t be able to stand up, let alone run.
She listened to him move around the little room; then she couldn’t hear him anymore. She counted to twenty, afraid if she opened her eyes sooner he would be standing in the doorway, watching her; but he was gone.
Shaking like a palsy victim, Carey sat up, fished the phone out of her pocket, and pressed the button to turn it on. She held it against her breast to muffle the little tune it played as it came to life, and she watched the screen anxiously as it told her it was searching for a signal.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered. She was shaking so badly, she was afraid she would drop the thing.
One bar lit up on the signal indicator, then two. The battery icon in the lower right-hand corner showed only a sliver of power left.
“Come on, come on…”
A third signal bar lit, and the brand name of the phone service appeared across the top of the screen. She had a connection.
Carey punched Kovac’s number, listened to his phone ring on the end of the call.
“Come on, Sam…”
58
“THERE’S A CABIN on one of the small lakes off Minnetonka,” Elwood said. “It’s owned by a Walter Dempsey. I found a reference to a Walter Dempsey in Stan’s personnel file from a few years back.”
“Did you call the local cops?” Kovac asked.
“They’re sending three units to lock the place down, and take Dempsey into custody if he’s there.”
“You and Tinks go out there. See what’s what. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he went back there for a breather after he finished his craft project on Kenny Scott.”
“If he’s not there, we pull back,” Elwood said, “keep the local coppers on surveillance. They can move in and grab him when he shows.”
“He’s probably got an arsenal in the cabin,” Kovac said.
“I already warned them.” Elwood nodded toward the door to the interview room. “How’s that going?”
Kovac scowled. “These people make me want to go take a hot shower. Bunch of fucking pervs.”
“Literally,” Elwood said.
“And Tippen recognized this asshole?”
“Makes you wonder.”
“I don’t want to wonder,” Kovac said with disgust. “Jesus Christ. Remind me never to sit in a chair after he gets up from it.”
“He’s a student of the cinema,” Elwood said seriously. “X-rated films are, like it or not, a subgenre, and protected by the First Amendment rights to freedom of expression.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the founding fathers were thinking ofDebbie Does Dallas when they wrote that,” Kovac said dryly. “Tell him he’ll go blind watching that shit.”
The cell phone clipped to his belt rang. He snapped the holder free and looked at the screen.
“Oh, my God,” he breathed as his heart began to pound.
Carey.
59
“COME ON, SAM…Come on, Sam…” she breathed against the body of the phone, her eyes riveted to the opening that had once been a doorway into the room.
“Carey? Jesus God, are you all right?”
“No,” she murmured, terrified to raise her voice.
“Carey, can you speak up? I can barely hear you.”
“No. I can’t. He’s going to come back soon.”
“Who? Who took you?”
“Karl Dahl.”
There was an uncharacteristic beat of silence before he asked, “Where are you?”
“In an old munitions building. It’s a ruin. It’s burned. And I can smell a refinery of some kind. I can’t see it, but I can smell it. Hurry, Sam, please.”
“I’ll be there ASAP. You hang on. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
Something made a sound in another part of the building.
Carey turned the phone off, dropped it, snatched it up, fumbled with it, stuck it back into her pocket.
She glanced again at the door.
Don’t watch the door. Get the knife.
Unable to get up because of the ligatures, she maneuvered onto her knees and scooted closer to the box/table.
Arm outstretched, leaning, even her fingers trying to elongate themselves, and still she couldn’t quite reach it.
She tried a second time, leaning even further.
An inch short, maybe two.
She tried to move the concrete block but couldn’t. Another sound of movement or scuffle came. Carey couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The place was probably teeming with rats and mice, and who knew what else. Karl had already been gone longer than she had expected.
One last time she focused on the knife, leaned forward, stretched, stretched until her hand was trembling. She glanced again toward the door.
Don’t watch the door. Get the knife!
It was still just beyond her reach.
She pulled back six inches, regaining her balance, took a deep breath, and lunged.
She hit the end of her tether at the same time the heel of her hand hit the box.
The box scooted away.
Her fingertips caught the handle of the knife, scratched it toward her. It fell from the box.
She snatched at it again.
Scraped it toward her.
Grabbed the handle of the knife.
Carey lay there for a handful of seconds, breathing hard, then pushed herself backward and struggled to get back onto her knees. She had the knife.
Her black shirt was brown with dirt. Her face was probably no better. She did her best to brush herself off, then took the throw that had covered her and wiped her face.
A sound like metal hitting metal startled her. Had it come from inside? Outside?
Either way, she was already on borrowed time.
Pulling the throw up around herself, she lay back down on her side, hiding the knife beneath her leg.
Another sound. A crunch. Another, another. Footsteps. Karl.
Come on, Sam…
Carey closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t come to wake her, hoping that he hadn’t decided it was time to make love to his angel.
She didn’t want to pull the knife. There was a much greater chance that he would get the knife away from her and kill her with it than there was of her killing him. And she would have to kill him-not wound him-if she was to have any hope of getting away.
The footsteps drew closer.
Come on, Sam… Come on, Sam…
60
KOVAC RAN DOWN the hall to the war room, catching hold of the door frame to stop himself. Everyone in the room turned toward him, their expressions going sober at the sight of him.
“An old, burned-out munitions plant or dump near a refinery,” he called out.
Tippen grabbed his coat off the back of a chair. “I know it. Let’s go.”
They ran out the door of the building and down the stone steps
. Colors and sounds of the media people on the stairs and sidewalk registered only dimly in Kovac’s mind. A blur. White noise.
He had parked his car in the loading zone, along with Dawes’s car and Liska’s car and the cars of the entire task force. But he didn’t go for his car. He ran up to a uniform sitting back against the hood of a squad car, watching the show.
“Gimme your keys.”
The officer straightened. “What the hell…?”
“Gimme your goddamn keys!” Kovac shouted.
“Detectives, Homicide,” Tippen said, showing his badge. “Give him the fucking keys!”
Kovac yanked the keys out of the guy’s hand, rounded the hood, climbed in the car. He gunned the engine, threw the shift into reverse as soon as Tippen’s ass hit the other seat. Cars blasted their horns as Kovac shot the squad car backward into their paths. He shifted into drive and peeled out, leaving rubber smoking on the pavement.
He hadn’t driven a squad car in years, but he still knew where the switches were for lights and sirens.
“Where are we going?” he shouted at Tippen.
“Thirty-five W south. I’ll give directions as we go.”
The speedometer swung to ninety as they came off the ramp onto the freeway. Tippen buckled in and braced himself.
“What the fuck is this traffic?” Kovac demanded as he tried to weave through without losing too much speed.
Ahead, all he could see across the lanes of traffic were taillights. Cars were trying to pull out of his way but had nowhere to go. He hit the brakes and held the wheel against a skid, and the car rocked to a halt.
“Vikings-Packers game,” Tippen said.
Kovac looked at him, wild eyed. “Don’t tell me this is a pack of fucking Cheeseheads going back to Wisconsin!”
He didn’t expect an answer or want one.
Tippen got on the sound system, and his voice blasted out of the speaker mounted on the car.
“Move aside! This is a police emergency! Move aside!”
Drivers all around were staring at them like deer in headlights.
Kovac grabbed the handset and shouted,“Get the fuck out of the way!!”
Cars gave an inch here, a foot there, as he tried to wedge the squad car to the right, going for the shoulder. A sickening crunch sounded as he clipped the front end of an SUV, then the rear end of another.
When he hit the shoulder, he floored the accelerator, and the big car lunged forward, flying past the traffic at a frightening speed.
“Exit here!” Tippen shouted pointing. “Cut across. We’ll get on Fifty-five!”
Kovac touched the brakes, once, twice, took the exit too fast, just missed two cars at the bottom.
By the grace of God he wouldn’t kill anybody.
And he wouldn’t be too late.
61
CAREY LAY AS still as she possibly could as she listened to Karl moving around the room.
Come on, Sam…
He said nothing, maybe out of courtesy so she could sleep, as crazy as that sounded. He wanted her to get her rest.
The sounds of movement stopped. Near her. She could feel him watching her. She held her breath and kept her fingertips on the grip of the knife.
He touched her left hand, which lay on top of the blanket. It took everything in her not to jerk it away.
“You can wake up now, Judge.”
The voice was not Karl’s. It was lower, a gravelly monotone with an odd, slow cadence.
Carey opened her eyes and looked up, her heart stopping as she saw the craggy, homely face dark with beard stubble, the rubbery-looking too-red lips.
Stan Dempsey.
“Your good friend Karl Dahl isn’t coming back in.”
“He’s not my friend,” Carey said.
“Not anymore. You can’t help him anymore.”
“I never wanted to help him in the first place.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? You’re supposed to hand out justice. The guilty have to pay. Actions have consequences.”
Carey knew better than to argue or try to explain.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“I have special plans for him,” Dempsey said cryptically.
“How did you find this place?”
“Simple police work: I followed the car,” he said.
“You were watching my house.”
“Have been off and on for some time now. I haven’t had much else to do with myself this past year,” he said. “I know a lot about your life, Judge Moore. Where you live, what your schedule is, where your little girl goes to school.
“I know who comes and goes from your house, and what cars they drive. When that car came past me this morning, I knew that wasn’t your nanny driving.”
“Did you know it was Dahl?” Carey asked.
“We’ve talked enough now. Get up,” he said, pulling on her arm. “Judge Moore, you’re under arrest for crimes against humanity. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
62
“I DON’T THINK I can stand up,” Carey said. “I’m tied to some kind of weight.”
Dempsey huffed his impatience, snatched at the gold chenille throw that covered her feet, and tossed the end farther up her legs. He kept the gun in his right hand, and with his left he pulled a hunting knife with a wide, vicious-looking serrated blade from a leather sleeve on his belt. With two flicks of his wrist the cable ties were history. He holstered the knife.
“Now, get up.”
The throw crumpled around Carey as she sat up. But with the fingers of her right hand, she managed to hold on to a piece of it to cover the knife.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked as she pushed herself up to her knees.
“You’ll have a trial. I’ll pronounce sentence and determine your punishment. Same as I did with that lawyer.”
He sounded perfectly sane as he said it. He had decided that this was his job, and he was going to do it, and that was that.
“Kenny Scott?”
“Yeah, him. He got exactly what he deserved. So will you.”
Carey had no idea what he might have done to Karl Dahl’s attorney, but she didn’t ask. She would find out soon enough, if Stan Dempsey had his way.
“You’re a cop,” she said. “You’re a good cop. You’ve worked your whole life to protect and serve. How can you do this?”
He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe she didn’t know. “Because somebody has to.”
Come on, Sam…
“But you’re breaking the law,” Carey said. “How can you do that and talk about justice?”
“I don’t see it that way,” Dempsey said, the gun still trained on her in an almost casual way.
“You’ll go to prison, Detective,” she said, hoping in vain that using his rank might jar something in his conscience.
“No, I won’t.”
Carey weighed the idea of telling him Kovac was on his way. But she didn’t think the information would change his course of action, except that he might feel compelled to kill her sooner rather than later.
“How long have you been a cop?” she asked. “Twenty years? More? None of it will mean anything if you do this. This is how you’ll be remembered, how you’ll be judged.”
His wide mouth curled in a sneer. “You don’t know anything. You sit up on the bench in your robes,” he said with disdain. “It’s just a big game with the lawyers, and you’re a referee. The victims don’t mean anything to you people.”
“That’s not true.”
“Look how you treated Marlene Haas. She was a decent woman just trying to raise a family. Do you want to know the kind of hell Karl Dahl put her through?”
“I know what he did.”
“Yet you give that son of a bitch every break you can. Maybe you can’t know what it is to be a victim until you are one. Get up.”
Carey couldn’t wait for rescue any longer. When she rose to her feet, Dempsey would m
ake her drop the throw. Either she would have to drop the knife with it, or he would take it away from her.
“Get up,” he said again, angrier.
A rumbling sound rolled over the building. Dempsey turned his head and looked up. Quickly, Carey worked her fingertips down the handle of the knife to the blade, drawing it up under the too-long sleeve of her black shirt inch by inch. She rose as Dempsey turned back to her.
“Storm coming in,” he said, as if she would care.
He motioned her out of the room with the barrel of the gun.
Debris bit into the soles of her bare feet. Carey tried not to make a sound. It would probably make him angrier that she could complain about stepping on rocks and broken glass when Marlene Haas had been forced to endure unimaginable torture.
Stan Dempsey would have no sympathy for her. Justice, sure and swift, was what he had in mind. And Carey feared it would be a terrible brand of justice.
She would have to act soon. If she could do it as they came out of the building…
To even have a thought in her head of pushing a knife into another human being was appalling to her. She’d spent her career fighting against violence. In her entire life, she had never committed a violent act against another human being, or any other form of life, for that matter.
She didn’t know if she could do it. What she held in her hand wasn’t a piece of plastic that would do little damage. It was a boning knife as sharp as a razor. She tried to imagine what it was going to feel like to push the tip of it through someone’s skin, through muscle, into organs. The idea made her feel sick. She was trembling to her very core.
Come on, Sam…
She had no way of knowing how near or far away help might be. If Stan Dempsey put her in a vehicle and started driving…
Carey had prosecuted and presided over enough cases of rape and murder to know that once a woman got into a car with a man bent on violence, she as good as sentenced herself to death.
As they neared the doorway where she and Karl had entered the building, she could see that the brilliant sun that had blinded her when Dahl had opened the trunk hours earlier was gone. Heavy gray clouds had rolled in, their bellies sagging low overhead, giving the light an eerie cast as it struggled to penetrate them.