AND A TIME TO DIE
Page 22
I kept waiting for Leon to say something, to break the pattern, to set the circle game back to zero. But he didn’t. Not a word, not a sound. I found myself willing him to speak.
“Nothing to say, Leon?”
Silence. Tiny eddies of sweet smelling soap.
“Cat got your tongue, Leon?”
The sound of a shoe breaking something underfoot cracked the silence like a pistol shot. I jumped.
“Only me, Mr. Doyle,” he chuckled. “And no, the cat does not have my tongue. As you shall see in time.”
I had him again, and turned to face him.
“How many have there been Leon? How many women tied to beds, how many throats slit? Only two between Driscoll and eight years ago? Hard to believe so few, Leon, a man of your artistry.” Keep him talking, play on his vanity.
“A few, Mr. Doyle, a few.” He’d moved again, and I followed the voice, placing him directly in front of me once more. “I remember them all. Ones you never heard of. There was Ann, flaxen haired Ann, and a Penny. Long red hair. Pretty girl. Oh, the names go on and on, Mr. Doyle. Bonnie and Juanita, Louise and Kirsten. You didn’t know Juanita, Mr. Doyle. Pretty little thing. Couldn’t of been more than seventeen. Big, liquid brown eyes, black hair all wrapped in ribbons and beads. So beautiful. I almost let her go, but then I thought, where will it end, you know? You start letting whores live, Mr. Doyle, then where are you?”
He moved as he talked, and I kept him in front of me, kept the voice centered.
“I remember them all, Mr. Doyle, remember the faces, remember the eyes when they see the razor. I can’t wait to see Kelley’s eyes when she sees the razor. What a delicious moment! And now, Mr. Doyle, I believe it is time for the cat to get my tongue.”
I strained for sound, for scent, but nothing came. A faint eddy of soap scent drifted lazily on the still, warm air, but not enough to place him in space.
Buster growled again, a growl I recognized as his warning growl. I tensed, straining to hear, straining to see. Buster growled again, deadly serious, no warning this time. Startling in its suddenness, my Walk-Mate vibrated against my spine. Leon was behind me! I threw up my arms and ducked my head at the same instant Leon crashed into my back. In a searing, simultaneous flash of time, I felt Buster crash into Leon, felt Leon’s hands come over my head, felt the garrote catch my upraised left hand before sliding off and catching my glasses, Leon’s aim spoiled by Buster’s leap. My Walk-Mate was vibrating like crazy. I felt my glasses pull off my face and instinctively reached for the snagged garrote with my left hand and just as instinctively reached for my shoulder holster with my gun hand. The whole thing could not have taken a half second. I felt the grips, cool and familiar, felt the Colt Python slide part way out of the holster, felt my finger pull the trigger. The bullet tore through the shoulder holster and the back of my jacket. I didn’t think about it, I reacted instinctively. Only after the bullet had left the barrel did I realize Buster was back there too. Time stood still. The gunshot explosion still filled the room, racketing off the walls in echoing waves, cordite stinging the eyes, drowning out the river mud and carpet. I heard a thud, heard something hit the floor, and my heart stopped. I didn’t know if it was Buster or Leon.
“Buster!”
In the acrid blackness I heard Buster, still snarling, still working on Leon. I swung around, the gun fully out of the holster now, trying to find Leon. I followed the snarling and found him, still alive, trying to get up. I grabbed his shirtfront and felt something wet and viscous.
I wanted to scream YOU SONOFABITCH! but found I couldn’t get mad, couldn’t get angry. For anger you need a face, something to hit, something to smash, and for me Leon was only a voice. I wanted to scream THIS IS FOR ED AND MAUREEN AND MAGGIE SWAIN AND ALL THE OTHERS, but no screams came. I wanted to inflict pain, to hear him scream in agony, to punish him for taking Kelley, for intending to tie her to a bed and slit her throat, but no rage came. Strangely calm, I put the Colt up against his chest, said, “Game’s over, Leon. A time to weep, and a time to die.”
I squeezed the trigger and felt him bounce. I couldn’t see where I hit him, and I didn’t know for sure he didn’t have a gun on him and was reaching for it, so I shot him once more. I found his wrist and felt for a pulse. I couldn’t find one, but still wasn’t sure. I’d hate to think I hadn’t finished him off, and he was still alive and capable of mischief. I hate mischief-makers. I found his head and put the business end of the gun barrel between his eyes. “Wish I had a spider,” I said, and pulled the trigger.
Pretty much satisfied, I put the Colt back in the holster and grabbed Buster and hugged him. If he hadn’t taken on Leon I’m not sure how it would’ve turned out. I checked him out and he seemed perfectly fine. He licked my face and I roughed his ears. Comrades. Better than that. Partners. Brothers.
“Let’s go find Kelley,” I said.
I turned off my Walk-Mate and let Buster lead me. He wagged his tail, beating against my leg. I reached out and felt a rusty doorframe. She was here. I said, “Kelley?” so softly I could hardly hear myself. I cleared my throat and said it louder. Now that it was all over with Leon, my heart was beginning to pound, fearful of what I might find.
I stepped into the room, Buster right behind me. I said “Kelley?” again, and heard a sound, something like Uh, uh, uh, muffled but insistent. She was alive! I thanked God and fumbled around till I found the bed, the dirty, blood soaked bed where we found Delavaria. She moved when I touched her. I found her face and tore off the tape.
“Thank you, Matthew,” she said weakly. “Dear God, thank you.”
I got her arms free and started on the ankles. “Tough knots,” I said, and she whispered, “Not as tough as you.”
We put our arms around each other and kissed and cried. I think I was trembling as much as she was, probably more, I was so relieved she was still here. We untangled, finally, and I called 911, told them to get some bluesuiters here. Then I called Frank.
“Be there in fifteen minutes, partner,” he said.
“If he’d won, he wouldn’t have gotten away,” I said. “Frank would’ve gotten him.”
She gave me a kiss and said, “If he’d won, we wouldn’t have cared.”
Kelley found my glasses and we started out.
“You sure made a mess of him,” she said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have called Frank. Maybe we should’ve just left him lying there till he decomposes and rots away.”
“Be a good place for him,” I said. “He liked itsy-bitsy spiders, and in a day or two he’d of been crawling with them.”
We went outside and stood on the loading dock, waiting for the bluesuiters. I had been pretty specific about what they’d find, and was not surprised to hear cars screech to a halt.
Footsteps crunched the old gravel drive, and I said, “Whadda we have, babe?”
“Two bluesuiters, coming fast.”
One apparently went inside while the other asked us questions. The one inside came out, told us to stay where we were, he was going to the car to call Homicide, and I told him I’d already called Frank Kopf, he was on his way. He left for the car anyway, and about ten not very exciting minutes later I heard some cars pull up and heard more hurrying footsteps on the gravel.
“My goodness,” Kelley said, “they must’ve emptied out the Roundhouse. There’s six of them, counting Frank.”
I heard them come up the concrete steps and Frank said, “Good work, partner. Danny’s here, too.”
Dan Acker said, “Good work, Doyle. Talk to you in a minute, soon’s I get a look at the bastard.”
I heard them go into the warehouse and a few minutes later Frank came back out and said, “Jesus, Doyle, you musta killed the bastard three times. I hope you left enough blood in him for a DNA test.”
I told Frank we’d fill them in later, right now we just wanted to get out of there. One of the uniformed cops said he’d take us back downtown, but I said no, we had to go home, I needed to erase some messages, and we
left with him.
Walking up the weed grown old gravel driveway, Kelley said, “You know, I just love the smell of mud flats.”
AND A TIME TO DIE
AND A TIME TO DIE
WALTER ERICKSON
Copyright © 2010 by Walter Erickson
ISBN 1456346954
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, andany resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America
For my wife, my children and my grandchildren, and especially for my niece Christine, for her invaluable assistance and advice.