Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  She was out the door by midnight. She signalled one of the cabbies waiting near the emergency entrance and offered the driver to double his fee if he took her to an all-night clothing store.

  “I know a place near the suburbs, that OK for you, kiddo?”

  Kiddo? Did the taxi driver not notice her tablecloth of a skirt? “As long as you guarantee it will be open when we get there,” she agreed even if the ride took her further away from the creep’s hideout.

  The store was open all right, and it had everything, food, clothes, arcades, even a bar. The clothes were more into erotic, sex-plaything getup than her usual attires, though. She settled on a pair of leather pants that still allowed movements. She kept the sweater, replaced Machine-man’s boots by a pair of low-heel boots, a little long on the legs (as in up to the knees) but comfortable enough. Besides, she wasn’t expecting to sprint in the damn contraptions. They had rubber soles, perfect for a climb to a second-storey window. She exchanged the cap for a black bandana wide enough to cover her bandage. Luckily, she had packed not only gear in her bag but also hard cash, a ton of it for the sex kitten boots and trashy pants were ridiculously expensive.

  Another taxi later, she arrived at Ingrid’s place by two-thirty. The driver had punctuated the ride with an impressive number of suggestive remarks. Not that she blamed the weasel, she did look particularly, hum, cheap. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but with her face this pale, her eyes too wide, her lips red from her nervous biting, the puss-in-boots, and second-skin pants, she looked quite the gothic hooker.

  Ingrid’s spare car key was taped to her white luxury toy of a car’s left rear corner, between the fender and the frame. One needed delicate fingers to fish it out. Ingrid had long, delicate fingers and so did she. The key was out in no time. Damn, she should have bought bondage equipment at the store. Double damn, she didn’t have a truck, rope or mover blankets as she had initially planned. Hum. Time to regroup. She had the scarf from the hospital and, most importantly, the gear. For the rest, well, she was good at improvising, wasn’t she?

  By three o’clock, she was in front of the shop. She drove up and down the street once with her lights out, parked two buildings down and studied the area. Lights shone from the front second-floor window farthest from the carport, the colour and intensity flickering. A television.

  Afraid she would lose her nerves if she gave herself time to get scared, she didn’t observe for long. That too should have told her something. The dumbest of ideas. She waited barely long enough to make sure the ground floor was empty. No lights anywhere except from that one window.

  She fiddled with the gear. The commando pants she had been wearing yesterday had plenty of pockets contrary to those damn leggings that only had two very tight back pockets. She wrestled the cuffs in, but none of the other gear fitted. Too bad. She should have bought a belt at the sex shop. She put the stun gun in the front of her pants; it was the only weapon she planned on using anyway, and the gun in the small of her back as Christopher did with his backup piece sometimes. He had suggested once or twice she did the same as if she ever carried a gun in her everyday life. There you go, Big guy. Too bad you can’t see me. You’ll get a kick out of it when I tell you, once you’ve cooled down, of course.

  The pepper spray and the rest of the ammunition stayed in her bag. Lights off, she drove up to the carport. Ingrid’s vehicle lacked height-wise compared to the truck Patricia had planned to climb on. With a hard push, though, she should make it up on the port roof. And hopefully, the pussy boots wouldn’t leave any marks on Ingrid’s precious white possession; the woman hated going to the carwash.

  Showtime.

  Case Closed by MacLaren

  Chris spent most of the day with Internal. His last fucking day on the case. The last week had been harassing, but not a glitch had come up during the investigation. Central was collaborating for once − his payback for the murder shit − so he had not expected any.

  They bought it all. How could they not? Internal already had a thick file on the creep. The sonofabitch had died while pointing his gun at Patricia. He was shot in an aborted attempt to kill her when she had gone to reason with him.

  “Why did she go in the middle of the night?” Internal had questioned.

  “She had spent the previous day drugged up at the hospital, a post-traumatic shock the doc called I think; the concussion and painkillers impaired her judgement.”

  “So you’re saying she didn’t know what she was doing?”

  “Do women ever?” Chris answered back, cringing internally. “With the drugs, she probably didn’t even know the time of day.”

  The two Internal cops were assholes. Closer to sixty than forty, they were just wasting time before retirement. They were easily convinced. Chris only hoped Patricia never got her hands on the transcript of that conversation. I, for one, believe you knew precisely what the fuck you were doing, Angel.

  She had declined to talk to the two men; in fact, had flat-out refused to speak to anybody, about any of it. Since this was about him, not her, Central let it go. Besides, the damn woman had a good lawyer, the best in town. For the nth time, Chris wondered where she had found the man. Wondered and yet, for once, he appreciated Lawyer-man working his magic. Hence, everyone left her alone. Yah, right. As if anyone could have convinced him to leave her alone.

  Three weeks later, she remained shaky. An entirely normal reaction, he thought, yet wished she would talk to him. He hadn’t heard her laugh once since that night. After today, he was taking a vacation. So what if they’d gone on a thoroughly enjoyable beach trip after the murder fiasco only a few months back, he had years of missed vacation time to make up for.

  He didn’t consider the fucking cruise where they had met as a vacation. Hunting an alleged killer was no holiday; that trip had been his first time tailing her. The damn woman had rocked his world for the start, and he had not stopped following her ever since, had he? He saw a pattern here for sure. Shrink assholes might make something out of that, some dysfunctional liaison shit, but the hell with them, he liked their relationship immensely. The only thing lacking was a fucking library.

  Perhaps if they went on a cruise, just the two of them? She’d have nowhere to run on a cruise ship. Or the beach, like the last time? Nowhere to run naked. He would get her all to himself. Mine. I’m a selfish bastard when it comes to you, Love of mine. Hell, he would even send her to Italy if it made her well again. Send her to the Italian food, Italian wine, Italian sun, to the fucking Italian men if they got her laughing again.

  She was waiting with a small smile when he got to her place that night, but green sparkled in her eyes, too much emerald, and the smile did not quite reach the green-blues. She was beautiful with the green, but it tore at his soul. He was willing to do anything to make her feel better. Anyfuckingthing, Angel. He hadn’t told her yet about the naked beach or the cruise. Why not a nude cruise, he could have part of a cruise ship isolated, couldn’t he?

  “All done for the day, Big guy?”

  “Yup.”

  Although she didn’t ask about Internal, she looked him over carefully. Had someone from the office called her? Or perhaps she had just guessed. The faintest hint of a smile reached her eyes. Fuck, she was stunning. Only the shadow of a bruise showed on her face. The bandages were off, the shaved area on her head hidden by all the curling waves. The doctor had done such a clean job that the spot was hardly visible even when she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. I do think that ER doctor too liked your hair, Princess.

  More importantly, she had gone back to her long walks already, alone, without a limp, at least in front of him. The hotel staff confirmed her pace barely faltered. Physically, her body had healed. As for the rest of her, he couldn’t tell for sure even with the strolls. She was tough, that he knew, but the creep had come too fucking close to her. And his death hadn’t brought back Lemieux, had it? She needed time to mourn. Not too long, he hoped for her sake. Take as much time as you need, Angelface.
I’m staying right here.

  Before he left the team in LeRoy’s care for the next week, his guy had insisted on a man-to-man talk. Fucking asshole.

  “Come on, Chris. We’ve known each other too long. I know how much you care about her.”

  “She’s going to be fine, and so am I.”

  “Bullshit. Look, I’m not playing shrink here, and forget you’re my boss for a minute. As your friend, I just want to know how you’re feeling. Are you OK?”

  He thought about it. “Of course, I’m OK. I can survive anything.” Part of his mental strength came from that knowledge. He believed in himself, always had. His core. He could survive anything except Patricia getting killed because of him. She nearly had. “I left her alone, Le.”

  “You posted guards at the hospital. What more could you have done?”

  “Cops don’t know shit about what she can do, but I do. I left her there, and she got hurt. My fault.” Yes, he had left her in the hospital with a cop standing watch, but even if she was alone and drugged, the policeman had never stood a chance. The jerk never noticed she had escaped.

  “You know I’m crazy about that babe, but fuck, Chris, it’s partly her fault she got hurt. She had no business−”

  “Fuck, Le! We both know that’s never stopped her before. It’s my fault. And hers too, yes, but mostly mine.” Absolutely his. “She played me, and, like a chump, I left her in the care of a clueless dick.”

  “She didn’t play you; you had her clothes, money and phone.”

  “I had fucking shit! She had weapons stashed in a backpack Frankke brought her! Fucking Frankke! I should have searched that bag.”

  “You know tailing her’s already out there on the stalker chart, right? You start searching her stuff, she’ll think you don’t trust her or something.”

  He did trust her, with his life, his heart, his sanity, but maybe not with her life. “Look, Le, I’m not beating myself up. What’s done’s done. I’m just planning for next time.”

  “Maybe she’ll decide she wants to be a librarian next.”

  “No fucking way.”

  On the drive back from the precinct, he replayed the night’s events in his mind for the thousandth time. Learning and planning. In his mind, he saw MacCarmick standing watch in front of the hospital, catching her leave and following her.

  First to the sex shop. “I thought you were in for a special surprise, Chris. To think I almost left!”

  Thank fuck, MacCarmick hadn’t pulled back but followed her instead to Ingrid.

  “The babe often crashed there when she’s avoiding you. Maybe the sex shop trip had been too much; maybe she wanted some pointers from the old broad. How the fuck should I have known?”

  MacCarmick was tailing her still when she had taken Ingrid’s car.

  “At that moment, I was still convinced my long-time pal MacLaren was about to get very lucky. She fooled me! I, MacCarmick, the ever cynical and suspicious fucking asshole, I never suspected what she was about to do.”

  Her plan was so fucking unexpected, so far out, so crazy, so dangerous, who could have known? No one, or perhaps him? Had she not said earlier that day that she was happy the cops didn’t have a clue? She had not been talking strictly about the diner murders then.

  MacCarmick had called almost too late, as he followed her en route to nowhere in one of the town’s worse neighbourhoods. When his bud had described her path over the phone, as she, then MacCarmick had driven by that sleazy strip club, Chris had known he was a step behind once again. Two steps. Too many fucking steps behind.

  MacCarmick nearly lost her after that. “Her driving’s a bit erratic, man. You sure she didn’t get high at the hospital?”

  MacCarmick had caught up with her at the car shop. “Wait, there she is,” MacCarmick’s tensed voice called over his earpiece. Chris was already in his car by that time, in only his pants, barefoot to the floor. “Fuck, she just climbed into the second-floor window of some car shop.”

  “Go after her, don’t leave her alone,” he had yelled, urging MacCarmick for play-by-play description. Thankfuckinggod, MacCarmick was her tail that night. MacCarmick, who wasn’t a cop and hadn’t run in with guns drawn yelling, “Cops!”

  “Front. Steel door. Lock.” A grunt, then MacCarmick’s voice whispered, “And secured.”

  “Back. Steel door. Secured,” came seconds later

  Chris had found both front and back doors jammed with the front, a rod, the back, a pipe jammed between the handle and the ground. The only way out now was through the second-floor windows; steel bars protected the ground-floor windows.

  “Ground floor is dark. Looks empty.”

  Chris had arrived in time to see a surprisingly limber Mac take Patricia’s way, up on the car, up on the carport, up through the window. Chris had taken the same route to find his friend waiting for him in the window room. A bedroom from the look of it, and not very tidy.

  The bedroom door was closed. Television played on the other side loudly enough to almost cover the sounds of conversation. Two voices, both male.

  Mac had stopped him from wrenching the door open when a single gunshot, the sound of a slap and a loud crash had come in rapid succession. His buddy had locked eyes with him, probably kept him from getting killed, and maybe kept her from getting caught in the middle.

  Laughers had come next through the door. Male laughs, only fucking male. His friend had cracked open the door silently and peeked in for two seconds. Signalled with his hands body

  “Two men,” his forefinger and middle fingers said. He faced forward, then turned back. “One facing the door; the other with his back to it,” his posture meant. He made a gun with his hand. “One with a weapon in hand cop-type.” Then he shook his two hands. “The other is hand free.” He patted his sides, then his lower back. “Both have shoulder holsters. One weapon visible in the back guy’s back.” Finally, his lips mouthed the words silently, “Broken bookcase. No signs of Patricia.” The silent description took less than ten seconds.

  The two of them versus the two of us, Chris had thought. Good odds, almost easy if not for Patricia. She could have been anywhere in the place. They hadn’t heard her, but she couldn’t have gone out. Either she was hiding someplace or− Chris couldn’t think of an or. Didn’t want to think of one; he had made it over too fast. He would not allow an or!

  He had taken a deep breath and steadied himself. His turn to take a look and study each man’s exact height, built, stance and position.

  He glanced through the crack and stood frozen for a nanosecond before wrenching the door open and jumping in, shooting.

  As if he had anticipated his reaction, MacCarmick had gone in right behind him to cover him, but by that time, the show was over.

  Chris had taken both men by surprise. He had shot the one with the gun first, the one with the pants down, and then the other, the one watching, before running to her side.

  She had been lying on the floor, hidden by the couch, with only her hand sticking out at the farthest end amongst the debris of the bookcase. Panic had washed over him at the sight of her delicate hand covered in blood.

  His hands still tingled from the feel of her as he had kneeled by her side, brushing her hair away from her face, touching her head, her face, her body, roaming over her lithe frame looking for wounds.

  When she had come to and recognised him, seen his hands red with her blood, she had lost it. She had grabbed him and screamed and cried. It had taken him a long time to reassure her. The fucking bastard had not seriously injured her, bloodied her, yes, but not severely wounded, not physically at least.

  His After

  The damn woman had freaked because she thought the creep had hurt him. MacCarmick had taken over the scene and phoned LeRoy. LeRoy had called Frankke. Frankke had driven over with Hamilton. Ham had relieved MacCarmick. His buddy had disappeared after removing the rod and pipe. Shortly after, Frankke had left at the wheel of Ingrid’s car.

  Only then, had he, Ham a
nd LeRoy summoned, Steve. And Steve had called the locals. At some point between LeRoy’s arrival and MacCarmick’s discreet departure, they had called for an ambulance. Patricia was on her way out of the place when Steve had joined the party.

  He had planned on the next steps with his men. LeRoy rode back with Patricia to the hospital while he and Ham stayed behind to meet the locals with Steve. And Internal.

  His story was pretty straight-forward.

  “We’ve located a guy wanted for questioning on the Lemieux and stripper murders,” he had told Internal. His girlfriend, his team, hence his job to do the lying. “A female collaborator had identified the suspect. They had had a previous brush in, and she was afraid the man was going to press charges. Some shit at a the stripper club, Steve over there has that case. Plus, she was attacked two nights ago while closing a cold case for my team. From what I understand, she intended to confront the jerk. Stoned from the medication, she decided the middle of the night was as good a time as any. Women, right?” Internal had nodded, noncommittal. “We let her near the guy. Gave her a few minutes head start to see if her showing up was enough to convince the guy to turn himself in.”

  “She was bait,” Internal had underlined.

  “Sort of.” As if he would ever agree to her being used as a lure. Over my dead body, Angel.

  “Got the paperwork?” Internal didn’t give a shit about anyone getting hurt as long as the proper release forms had been signed.

  “What do you take me for? A fucking rookie?” You ain’t going to catch me this time either, assholes. Why hadn’t those jerks hassle the dirty cops instead of poking their noses in after the fact? We, and that we include her did your fucking jobs for you.

  “Sorry, Chief MacLaren. Please, go on.”