In for the Kill

by John Lutz

  Riley charged all the way into the room, the skinny guy right behind him, almost pressed to his back. He heard the guy cry, "Lauri!"

  She was alive, at least, Riley saw, as he stooped beside the girl. Her eyes were wide and staring at him. As gently as possible, he peeled the duct tape from across her mouth. She drew in a deep breath through her mouth, worked her lips, licked them. Then she said something odd.

  "Wormy?"

  Riley pulled the small pocket knife he carried from his pocket and began cutting the tape that was binding her arms. The blade was dull from cutting cardboard and envelope flaps, and he had to saw with it frantically. It was slow going, but he was getting there.

  "Call my dad!" the girl said, looking pitifully up at him. "Please! He's in the duct."

  He frowned at her. "Duck?"

  "Duct!"

  Riley stared at her. "Your dad's in a duct?"

  "Not my dad! Call my dad!" She spat out a phone number.

  Riley wasn't listening. He was concentrating on cutting away the tape without damaging flesh, making sure the girl was all right. She was young like the skinny weirdo, probably not even twenty. Talking like she was on drugs.

  "My dad's Detective Frank Quinn," she said

  Riley stopped cutting. "Give me that phone number again."

  She did, then glanced beyond the ridiculous fringed epaulet on Riley's shoulder and saw Wormy wriggling his way up through the bathroom ceiling vent.

  Neeson stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor and looked up and down the long, carpeted hall.

  No sign of Riley.

  The elevator door closed behind him with a soft rushing sound.

  Neeson turned left, toward room 724. The hall was softly lighted by fancy-frosted glass sconces every ten feet or so. His shoes made no sound on the plush carpet as he walked swiftly and observed the even room numbers, making sure he was going in the right direction, unconsciously counting cadence.

  Seven-sixteen.

  Seven-eighteen.

  Seven--

  He saw that one of the doors ahead was open and he walked even faster, no longer observing numbers.

  Now was the time.

  Sherman somehow knew that all his celestial luck was with him in this single moment. When he felt like this, he'd never failed.

  Careful to make as little noise as possible, he eased his body forward, lowering his head through the vent opening into the bathroom of Mom's suite.

  Take your time...

  He stuck his left arm through the vent, letting it dangle, and touched, barely touched, the white plastic shower curtain, simply to acclimate himself, to begin the process of becoming one with his surroundings so he could move with the necessary sureness and stealth.

  The only sounds he could allow himself to make now would be his bare hands contacting the tile floor when he eased his way headfirst through the vent opening and the balance of his weight shifted, and then the soft thud of his stocking feet landing on the tiles. He had to manage to keep his balance. That would be the only real challenge.

  It would be almost done then.

  He'd move silently, through the partly open door to the bedroom, avoiding touching it so as not to risk even a hinge squeaking and alerting Mom.

  Then the knife.

  The knife.

  70

  Neeson entered room 726 cautiously, his gun drawn, and saw Riley kneeling alongside the bed. Then he saw the girl taped to the overturned chair.

  Riley was pecking out a number on the phone, which was on the floor. He glanced over at the girl and said, "You're gonna be okay, sweetheart. You're safe now."

  The girl, who looked familiar to Neeson, stared at him with wide eyes and said, "Duck."

  "What?"

  "Duct," Riley said. "She's Quinn's kid. Says whoever did this to her is in the ductwork."

  It took Neeson about three seconds to process this.

  He holstered his gun as he crossed the room

  "Give me the phone."

  Sherman emerged halfway from the ductwork, his upper body dangling from the vent opening.

  Things had to happen fast now. Quietly, but fast.

  He inched his body forward, and was about to lower himself into the bathroom, when he felt his right pants leg snag on something.

  What the hell?

  Cautiously he moved the leg, maintaining his precarious balance. He needed to free the material of his pants leg from the nail or screw or whatever it had caught on.

  Wha--?

  Something was trying to clasp his ankle now. Ouch! Sharp! Fingernails? Teeth?

  Something about to clamp down on him in an alligator grasp?

  Jesus!

  He panicked, kicking both legs furiously, not caring now if he was making noise. He only knew he had to get out of the duct, away from whatever had him. He felt the soles of his stocking feet brushing something. His left foot made solid contact and he pushed with it while continuing to kick as hard as possible with his right. There was no pressure on his ankle now, but his pants cuff, worked out from where it had been tucked beneath the band of his sock, was being tugged. He could feel the tautness of the material.

  He kicked even harder, bruising his heels and bending back a toe.

  Free!

  Suddenly free!

  He'd managed to yank his leg away from whatever had it.

  But with freedom came a sudden shift of weight, and he fell to the bathroom floor too abruptly to get his hands properly positioned for a soft landing.

  He landed with a thud and a clatter on the hard tile floor, rolled painfully onto his left shoulder, and lay sprawled with one leg up on the commode. The leg must have dragged across the vanity top, too, because several cosmetic bottles were on the floor, even a small tube of toothpaste.

  Knife won't work. She'll be awake! Cops on the way. Not the knife now.

  He was glad he'd taken precautions. Immediately scrambling to his feet, he reached for his gun.

  Not there!

  The gun was no longer tucked in his belt.

  Damn it!

  There were sounds outside the door, which in his fall he must have kicked all the way closed. Someone running! Voices!

  He glanced around desperately.

  There was the gun. On the floor, half concealed by the skirt of the shower curtain.

  He dived for it.

  Allsworth flung open the door and ran into Mynra Kraft's bedroom without knocking, gun drawn.

  Only Myrna.

  The expression on her face, where she was looking...

  Without hesitating, he made for the bathroom door. He remained aware of the startled figure in the bed, sitting bolt upright and staring, and held up his free hand palm-out in a signal for her to stay put.

  Noise, like glass or plastic clattering, coming from the bathroom!

  Allsworth clenched his jaw hard enough to break a tooth, gripped his nine-millimeter with both hands, and kicked the door open.

  Quinn and Pearl were the first to approach the door to room 620. Neeson was sprinting down the hall toward them. Quinn was aware of the uniform who'd been posted on the landing converging from the other direction, a heavyset man laboring, not moving as fast as Neeson.

  Behind Neeson was someone else.

  Jeb Jones. Quinn had forgotten he was in the hotel.

  Quinn didn't knock. He kicked open the door to suite 620 in the same manner Allsworth had used to enter the bathroom.

  The anteroom was empty. A People magazine lay on the floor beside an armchair near a floor lamp with a crooked shade.

  Quinn knew the suite's layout. He charged toward the bedroom, feeling Pearl's presence close behind.

  Myrna was sitting up in bed, still in shock from being jolted from sleep. Quinn saw the shotgun she'd requested leaning against the wall near the bed.

  Her body didn't move but her dark eyes slid toward where light was spilling from the bathroom.

  Two shots roared echoing from the bathroom, brighteni
ng the light.

  When the bathroom door had sprung back, Allsworth kicked it again, all the way open, and saw the man sprawled on the tile floor near the tub and shower curtain. White T-shirt, dark pants with one leg tucked into a black sock, something in his hand!

  Gun!

  Allsworth knew he was in for it and let out a roar. Sometimes a sudden loud noise stopped them. Made them hesitate just enough.

  Sometimes.

  Sherman was waiting and ready. He was surprised by how fast the cop got there, but his gun was held high, in both hands, and the cop was slightly off balance from kicking open the door. It would be instantaneous, but Sherman knew he had the instant.

  The gun in the cop's hands couldn't drop fast enough to sight in on Sherman. And Sherman wasn't at all distracted by the noise. Now noise of any kind was no longer a factor.

  He squeezed off two shots even before the cop's gun was at shoulder level, their combined roar drowning out that of the cop before he dropped lifeless to the floor.

  The damaged door was wide open now, the doorway framing Mom sitting upright in shock in bed.

  Gun in one hand, knife in the other, Sherman vaulted the fallen cop who had half a face and ran toward her.

  Quinn and Pearl paused when they saw the fleeting figure burst from the bathroom. They knew it wasn't Allsworth.

  Still, they'd been caught by surprise and they stood paralyzed.

  Sherman almost made it to the foot of the bed.

  Pearl fired first, and kept firing. Beside her, Quinn opened up with his ancient police special revolver, feeling it buck like something alive in his hands.

  Sherman took two sideways, wobbly steps and stopped as if in confusion. His gun slipped from his grasp. His legs trembled, and he dropped to a kneeling position.

  Pearl lowered her gun. She felt weak and thought she might drop like Sherman. The Butcher.

  She swallowed the coppery residue of fear beneath her tongue and found her resolve.

  Work to do.

  Damn it! Work to do!

  The bedroom was suddenly full of noise and motion, Neeson, Jeb, the uniform from the landing.

  They diverted attention only for a second.

  Neeson was pointing. "He's up!"

  And Sherman was up, moving like a zombie, propelled by sheer will, knife raised, lurching toward Myrna, who seemed too shocked, or mesmerized, to move.

  Quinn knew they'd never be able to react in time. Sherman would reach her, stab her, and probably kill her.

  Even as he thought this, there was a deafening roar and Sherman spun away, spraying blood across the room.

  He lay motionless and silent in the reverberation of the shotgun's thunder, blown almost in half by the massive force of the gun at such close range.

  Jeb, racing toward his mother the moment he'd entered the room, had reached the shotgun in time to save her life.

  Everyone stood motionless, more in awe and exhaustion than shock. The handcuffs Pearl was about to clamp on Sherman still dangled from her hand.

  After the incredible flurry of motion and noise, the only sound now was the regular hissing of heavy breathing.

  Until a thud, clatter, and yelp of horror from the bathroom.

  Gun at the ready, Quinn moved to the door and peered inside.

  Wormy.

  71

  Myrna lay curled into a ball near the headboard, where she'd waited for almost certain death. She looked small there, and vulnerable.

  Harmless.

  She smoothed her hair back from her eyes, then climbed out of bed and stood with her arms crossed tightly across her body, squeezing herself as if for reassurance that she still existed. But she no longer appeared to be in shock. Her deep-set dark eyes were moving about slowly, taking everything in, assessing. When they met Quinn's gaze she averted them and stared at her son Jeb, who was standing over his dead brother, obviously distraught by what he'd done. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  Tension had suddenly drained from the room, leaving the acrid stench of cordite, the reverberations of gunfire, and a heavy sadness. The air seemed weighted and stilled by death.

  Jeb wasn't quite sobbing, but Quinn thought the convulsive breakdown might come at any second. And who could blame Jeb? He'd just saved his mother's life by killing his brother. The two brothers might not have met before tonight, but they were of the same blood. Quinn knew from other homicides what a devastating effect that could have. It wasn't like killing an unconnected stranger, which was enough of a horror in itself.

  He moved toward Jeb. "You did the right thing," he said softly, but Jeb seemed not to hear.

  Instead he looked over at his mother, still standing hugging herself.

  He racked another round into the shotgun, brought the barrel up, and swung it around to point at Myrna.

  She saw it and knew it was too late and knew what was coming. She stood taller, dropping her arms and staring defiantly at her son.

  Quinn's gun had barely cleared his shoulder holster. Around him he sensed the sudden uncoordinated motion of the others redrawing or raising their weapons.

  The shotgun fired first, filling the room again with thunder, and Myrna flew back against the wall, bouncing in the corner as she went down.

  Quinn wasn't looking at her. He'd been concentrating on Jeb beyond his gun sight, like the others in the room, praying he could get off enough shots in time to stop him. Watching Jeb do the same awkward dance his brother Sherman had done as the bullets tore into him.

  When he was down, Pearl reached him first. She kicked the shotgun away, under the bed, so hard it felt as if she'd broken a toe.

  Jeb could see only white ceiling at first, and then watched the dark forms advance toward him. They still seemed afraid and were keeping their weapons aimed at him. He would have tried to reassure them only he didn't have enough strength. What he'd had to do was done.

  He was thinking about the swamp of the past, how you could never escape it entirely. It was always with you, awake or asleep, tooth and claw. And eventually...

  A voice from far away: "She's dead. Shotgun from that range, there's not much left."

  The big cop, Quinn, was bending over him, blocking the light, saying something.

  "Why'd you do it? Why kill your mother?"

  The big man's voice was unexpectedly gentle, puzzled. Jeb felt compelled to answer, and he knew there wasn't much time.

  "When Mom and I lived in Louisiana," he said in a hoarse whisper, "we were dirt poor. Lived by the swamp. We took in boarders."

  "What?" Quinn asked, kneeling to get closer, still puzzled.

  Instead of answering, Jeb started to close his eyes. They didn't make it all the way.

  "He's gone," Pearl said.

  "Holy Mary!" one of the cops said. "Shot his own mother."

  Quinn looked down into Jeb's half-closed eyes, as if there might be an explanation there. But nothing was there, no one behind the eyes.

  Quinn sighed and straightened up. He could hear sirens outside, one of them nearby that abruptly ended its shrill singsong yodel below in the street. They'd be on their way up soon. More uniforms, plainclothes cops, a crime scene unit, paramedics, the medical examiner, all to shape the wild violence and death that had occurred here into something categorized, comprehensible, and not nearly so horrifying--on the surface. Cop world.

  "What did he tell you?" Pearl asked.

  "I don't know. Something about being poor in Louisiana and taking in boarders."

  "Boarders?"

  "I have no idea what he meant. Maybe he didn't, either. He was shutting down."

  "Long time ago," Pearl said. "I guess it doesn't matter now."

  Quinn looked down and saw blood on the toe of his shoe, from when he'd knelt over Jeb.

  "Guess not," he said.

  72

  It was late the next afternoon when they found themselves driving back to the office in Quinn's Lincoln. The sun was still hot, and traffic was beginning to build, but Quinn knew the
rhythm of movement and alternate routes in the maze that was his city, so they were making good time.

  There was still plenty of work to do. It would take them a few days to clear everything out and officially close the file. And of course they'd have to handle the media, though they could put that off for a while, maybe avoid some of it altogether. Just maybe. The media had tumbled to where the office was and would be lying in wait for them there.

  "What next?" Quinn asked.

  "Goddamned paparazzi," Pearl said.

  "I mean after all of that?"

  Fedderman, in the backseat, said, "I'm going back to Florida. Maybe take up fishing again."

  "What about golf?"

  "Screw golf."

  Quinn avoided a pothole and smiled. "I hope it works out this time."

  "If it doesn't, there's always hunting."

  "You've already done that," Pearl said.

  Quinn glanced over at her. "You, Pearl?"

  "I don't golf or fish." When no one commented, she said, "I think I can get my job back at the bank."

  She thought Quinn might try talking her out of it, maybe even hoped he'd try, but he remained silent, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Mister Mt. Rushmore. She understood his silence and it made her angry.

  He doesn't think he needs to talk me out of it. Doesn't think I can do it. That I can live a quiet life and stay away. The bastard doesn't understand.

  "What about you, Quinn?" Fedderman asked from the backseat.

  "Me? I'm a retired cop."

  But Quinn knew better. His retirement wouldn't last. And neither would Pearl's job as a bank guard. And Fedderman would be more than relieved to give up fishing.

  Pretenders, all of them.

  That evening at his hotel, Fedderman told the desk clerk he wanted an early wake-up call and would be checking out in the morning.

  While that was happening, Quinn was seated in his leather armchair with his feet propped up on a matching ottoman. He was smoking a Cuban cigar and feeling pretty good.

  When Pearl finally got back to her apartment that evening, she downed half a bottle of Pellegrino, then removed her shoes and padded in her stocking feet to the phone.