by Brent Pilkey
She sagged in his grip then suddenly was falling. She hit the ground and rolled to her hands and knees, coughing painfully between harsh, wheezing breaths. She raised her head to see Taylor striding from the parking lot. She tried to call out to him, to tell him it was all right, but a wave of dizzying blackness washed over her.
She never felt the pavement as it slapped her in the face.
Business had been steadily picking up since rush hour ended and now that full darkness — or as dark as it ever got in a city — was upon the streets, the drivers were practically queuing to proposition Jenny.
Am I the only hooker working tonight? she asked herself, sauntering over to the most recent hopeful client. Please, don’t let it be another weirdo. I’ll give anything to be asked for straight sex. Toe sucking, golden showers, spanking — both giving and receiving — had all paraded by her tonight. One john actually wanted her to take a dump on his chest while he masturbated.
It must be a full moon.
The car idling at the north curb of Gerrard was small and dark in colour — black or navy blue; it was hard to tell under the streetlights — fitting the description of the suspect’s vehicle that the girl in St. Mike’s had given them.
Relax, Jenny. How many thousands of small, dark cars are there in the city?
But when she leaned down to chat with the john, her heart rate jumped. He was young, mid-twenties, tops, with a crop of short black hair. While he wasn’t exactly what Jenny would consider muscular, he had a thickness to his upper body. Jenny knew everyone’s perception of body types was as broad as the range of sex acts she’d been propositioned with over the last few days. A suspect with an “average build” could turn out to be a toothpick or the Pillsbury Doughboy. Yeah, this guy could be considered muscular, especially if he was whaling the hell out of you.
Jenny squatted and brushed her hair back, alerting her backup that she had a potential suspect.
She hit him up with her opening line and come-fuck-me smile. “You looking for some company, honey?”
“Only if you think you can handle it, sugar lips.”
Sugar lips? What a sweet talker.
The john leaned across the seat, resting his elbow on the centre console. He kept his left hand hooked casually over the steering wheel and Jenny noticed he hadn’t taken the car out of gear.
And the john wasn’t finished sweeping Jenny off her feet. “You’ve got a fucking amazing ass, you know that?” He grinned, a charming, ear-wide smile. The smile was no doubt meant to be open and friendly but it fell short of his eyes. He watched Jenny intently. Hungrily. Jenny was uncomfortably reminded of Red Riding Hood’s big bad wolf and what that wolf’s awfully big teeth were for.
But being hungry or horny didn’t make him their man. “You like my ass, huh?”
“You bet. I’ve had my eye on you for a while.” He leered a smile at her. “Now why don’t you get your sweet ass in the car.”
Jenny smiled. “Sorry, hon, but business first. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”
The man’s face turned mean. “You don’t tell me what to do,” he hissed at her. “Now, get your ass in the car or you’ll get what’s coming to you. Just like those other bitches.”
Jenny signalled with a hand run through her hair again. This one needs to be checked out. Now.
“What did you want to do with my ass, honey?” she asked, burning time and keeping the john’s attention on her while her team moved up.
The john’s eyes darted over Jenny’s shoulder and his brow furrowed in puzzlement. He looked at Jenny then past her again and this time his eyes widened in shock.
And that’s when Jenny knew things were about to go bad.
As the sun set and darkness claimed the face of the church, Jack had crept from the vestibule like some vampiric creature stealing forth from a crypt. Crouching on the top step, he easily kept Jenny in view. And he wasn’t the only one watching her. Car after car stopped, the drivers obviously interested in hiring her services. The majority of the wannabe johns drove off alone — horny and frustrated, Jack figured — never knowing how lucky they were.
Jenny occasionally signalled for a takedown but not often. The aim tonight was the Basher, as Kris called him, and not the run of the mill johns, but every once in a while some john just wouldn’t take no for an answer. That’s when Tank and Kris introduced themselves and took the poor slob into the parking lot for processing.
Jack checked the time. Not quite eleven. Prime time for the Basher; all of the attacks had occurred between ten and three in the morning.
Watching Jenny play the hooker provided him with time to think. Too much time. Did Karen want him to call or not? Jenny seemed to think he should just swallow his pride and call, ask Karen to come home. But it wasn’t his pride that kept him from dialling her number; he couldn’t get the notion that she might be better off without him out of his head. It was mired there like a car sunk up to its axle in mud.
I don’t want her to leave me. He knew he wasn’t bullshitting himself because the mere thought of life without Karen ripped a cold hole in his guts.
Then call her, you idiot.
But what . . . he began in his head then whispered, wondering if it would sound silly spoken aloud. “But what if she is better off without me? Maybe she’s right, maybe she does deserve more than me.”
She’s the only one who can —
Jenny was on Gerrard, squatting by a small dark four-door, when she ran her fingers through her hair.
Jack shifted back into the deeper shadows and brought his mitre up. “Did you guys see that? Jenny just signalled a possible.”
“Got it,” Tank came back. They were using a tactical band on the radios so as not to have to contend with the division’s usual air traffic. “We’ll head around the church and come on him from the rear.”
“Got it.” Jack lowered the mitre into his lap and waited, never letting his eyes stray from his partner or the car. He couldn’t see anything of the john — I guess it’d be too much to ask for him to turn on the interior light — so he stayed intent on Jenny, in case she —
“She just signalled again,” Jack snapped into the radio. “We gotta take him down.”
Jack didn’t wait for Tank’s reply. He stood up and stuffed the mitre into his back pocket while reaching under his shirt for his Glock. One hand through the hair meant, Hey, we should grab this guy’s info. A second hair fluff said, Holy shit, this could be the guy. And if it was their guy, a man who had already put five people in the hospital, then they weren’t taking any chances.
Jack leapt down the short flight of stairs and angled for the front of the car. His task was to convince the driver it would be bad for his health if he tried to drive off. He was halfway to the car when Jenny lunged, or was pulled, into the car and Jack realized things had gone bad in a fucking big way.
The Basher — it had to be their man, it had to be — bolted upright, his hand flashing for the gearshift. Jenny knew it was dangerous, knew it was monumentally stupid, would be the first one to give shit to any copper considering it. She did it anyway. She lunged through the open window, clutching the john’s hair with one hand and his shirt with the other. Keeping her knees braced on the outside of the car door, she yanked as hard as she could.
“Police!” she screamed. “You’re under arrest, asshole!”
“Get off me, you fucking cop bitch!” The john swung his fist backhanded but it was a clumsy, awkward blow and he did little more than cuff Jenny upside the head.
She bore down and heaved with all she had and something twanged painfully in her abdomen. But it wasn’t enough. The john’s hand slapped the gearshift down and the car lurched forward.
Jenny realized she was in a horrible situation that could only get worse. She could either pull herself completely into the car, unarmed, or let go and throw herself from the car,
hoping to avoid falling under the wheels or slamming into a light pole or something else equally unyielding.
She let go of the john’s shirt and was reaching for his face when she heard Jack roar, “Police! Stop the car or die!”
The car jerked to a halt, tossing Jenny against the window frame. Grunting in pain, she sank both hands into the john’s hair, wrenching his head sideways. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jack standing in front of the car, his gun trained lethally on the john.
“Put the car in park,” she ordered. “Do it now.”
“You fucking bitch,” he snarled. “I’m gonna —”
“What you’re going to do,” Kris said as she leaned in the open driver’s window and nuzzled her Glock against the john’s temple, “is put the car in park like she said, turn the engine off and put your fucking hands up. Or I’ll splatter your brains all over the inside of your shitty little car.”
Jenny sat on a park bench in Allan Gardens, just a stone’s throw from the church. She rubbed her hands together, happy that they had finally stopped shaking.
Just leftover adrenalin, Jack says, and I guess he should know.
As if thinking his name had summoned him, Jack sat down beside her. “You okay?” He placed a hand on her shoulder, lightly at first, tentatively even, as if he was unsure about touching her. The feel of his hand on her was comforting and when she didn’t pull away, the hand became an arm and she leaned into his solidness, all the while telling herself they were partners and this was allowable.
“I’m good,” she reassured him. “I was fine until I started thinking about what could have happened, how he could have scraped me off against another car or something.” She sat up and Jack pulled his arm back, rather reluctantly she liked to think. “Guess it was pretty stupid, jumping into the car like that.” She laughed, embarrassed.
“We all do stupid things and trust me, you’ve got a long way to go before catching up to me. What matters is that you didn’t get hurt and fuckhead over there is heading to the station.”
Jenny looked over at the parking lot beside the church. Tank was loading their suspect — soon to be accused — into the back of a marked car for transportation to the station.
“Is he the one?”
It was Jack’s turn to laugh. “You won’t believe this. You remember the guy Connor and I grabbed the other night doing the tranny in the stairwell?”
Jenny looked at Jack in astonishment. “It’s the same guy?”
“Yup,” Jack said, nodding to show he wasn’t joking. “One and the same.”
“But he isn’t . . . ?” Jenny shook her head.
Jack frowned. “Unfortunately, no. The night I got him, he picked up his hooker after the Basher grabbed his. Even so, Mason and Taft talked with him just to make sure.”
“But what about all that shit he was saying?”
Jack shook his head. “Who knows. He’s a fucking idiot.”
“Fuck,” Jenny swore. “Some asshole playing at being a serial criminal.”
“Never underestimate the stupidity of the general public,” Jack quoted. “Something Sy used to say,” he explained when Jenny looked quizzically at him.
“Very stupid — and the idiot almost died because of his stupidity.” She sat up and twisted, cracking her back. “What’s the plan now?”
“Lunch,” Jack told her with a smile. “Fuckhead’s gone to the station where Mason has plans to chat with him again just to double-check he has nothing to do with the attacks.” Jack chuckled. “I imagine after Mason’s finished with him, we’ll never see that idiot back down here. Tank and Kris are grabbing something to eat then heading in to do the paperwork. They suggest we do the same.”
“Sounds good. I’m glad we brought two cars tonight; Tank always wants to eat pizza.” She stood up slowly, grimacing at the throb of pain in her right hip.
“Yeah. Any idea — what’s wrong?”
“When the idiot hit the brakes, I slid into the window frame. Guess I whacked my hip harder than I thought.” She unzipped her jeans to bare her right hip. “See?” Even with the park’s poor lighting, the bruise was a colourful ink blot on her tanned skin.
Jack peered at the exposed flesh intently. “Nice tan lines,” he commented.
“You’re supposed to be looking at the bruise, buddy,” she said, a mocking seriousness to her words. “Not trying to figure out how small my bikini is.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah, right.” He sighed unhappily as she did her pants up. “You have a seat and I’ll get the car.”
“No argument here.” She sank carefully back onto the bench.
Taylor stood within the blackness beneath the spreading branches of the old tree. His face was hatred chiselled in stone. Right out in the open, the slut was showing the man what he could have — what was his for the taking — if he desired it.
That fucking slut. Taylor clenched his teeth in rage, his body quivering in response. All women were useless sluts, parading their weakness for all to see. If not for that weakness, his sister would be alive today and his father wouldn’t have —
“No!” Taylor snarled quietly and thumped his fist painfully against the tree’s unyielding trunk. He would not go there. “You’re dead, old man,” he whispered, chanted protectively in the dark. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me anymore.”
The man was gone and the slut was sitting down. Alone. Alone and his for the taking. Taylor stepped from the shadows.
Jenny was gingerly massaging her hip, hoping to ease some of the stiffness from it, when the man approached her. He moved so quietly she didn’t know he was beside her until a dim shadow fell across her. She looked up at him, trying to see a face, but he was silhouetted by the weak light behind him. A skittering unease crept down her spine and she slowly stood up.
“I’m not working right now, honey,” she said as she casually shifted to her right.
The man turned with her, bringing half his face into the light and Jenny knew she was in trouble.
His lean face was heavy in the brow and jaw, giving him an animalistic look that mirrored exactly what she saw in the eye that wasn’t hidden in shadow. In her heels, Jenny was a few inches taller than him but she figured even flat-footed she would top his height by an inch or two. He may have been short but Jenny figured even Jack would think twice before scrapping with him; his arms were thick with corded muscle and his black golf shirt hugged a powerful chest and shoulders.
Although he had yet to speak, the man radiated violence, lethal anger, and Jenny knew who she was facing. In her jeans and tied-off shirt, bereft of her weapons and armour, she had never felt so naked.
“Let’s go,” he snarled.
Stall for time, Jenny. Jack will be back any minute and we’ll take this guy down together.
Ignoring her pounding heart, she tossed her hair and smiled. “Okay, hon, but we don’t go anywhere until we settle on a price.”
His hand shot out, a striking snake, clamping onto her throat. Jenny’s hand flew to the man’s wrist as his fingers and thumb dug in beneath her jaw. He forced her head back and with one arm raised her onto her toes. Jenny gagged, barely able to draw a breath. She had to free herself or she’d pass out.
She swung her left arm over his outstretched arm and twisted her body simultaneously, hoping, praying, to break his grip. She might as well have tried to push over one of the park’s trees. All she accomplished was adding to his anger.
“Useless bitch.” The words were barely more than a growl. His fist lashed out and pain, sharp, excruciating, exploded in Jenny’s right eye. An idle, dazed thought — at least he hit me in the eye that’s already bruised — wandered across her mind as she reeled from the devastating punch. If not for the hand on her throat, she would have fallen.
But Jenny had been hit before and she was not about to give up, especially not to this fucker. S
he flailed weakly, harmlessly, at the man’s tree trunk of an arm until her hands were close to his face, then jabbed for his eyes with both hands.
“Bitch!” he bellowed. Jenny felt her nails scour flesh, but he had twisted his head away, saving his eyes.
“Bitch,” he repeated.
Jenny watched through darkening vision as he drew his arm back. She barely saw the punch that knocked her into a depthless hole.
Jack gunned the plainclothes car over the curb and into the park. The wheels gripped for traction, spitting chunks of sod and dirt. The headlights illuminated a horrific scene: Jenny hanging limply in some asshole’s grip, his arm cocked back to pummel Jack’s unconscious partner. Jack howled his rage, a wordless roar blending with the shriek of the engine.
The Basher — it was him, of course it was him — whirled to face the onrushing car, his face a snarling mix of frustrated anger and surprise. As the car slewed to a stop, he tossed Jenny aside and sprinted away. Jenny hit the park bench then slid bonelessly to the ground, discarded and broken.
“No!” Jack screamed as he leapt from the car.
The Basher was disappearing into the gardens and every muscle, every fibre, in Jack’s body burned to give chase. He dropped to the ground next to his partner. The Basher could have another hundred women; Jenny was all that mattered to Jack. To his terrified eyes, she looked lifeless sprawled among the dead grass and cigarette butts —
Sy on the ground, his blood hot and thick on Jack’s hands, staining the asphalt red
— but as he pressed his fingers to her throat, she moaned and her left eye fluttered open. Her right was already swollen shut.
“Get . . . him,” she croaked. “Get . . . that bastard.”
Even as she spoke, Jack was reaching for his mitre. When his hand slapped his empty back pocket, he remembered it was sitting on the seat in the car.
“Be right back,” he said gently then sprinted to the car. He flung open the door and snatched up the portable radio. “Major Crime 51 with a priority!”