STIRRED

by Blake Crouch J. A. Konrath

  But all she could think was, I’m sorry. For the things she’d failed to do or been too scared to try. For the people she’d mistreated, for the relationships her pride had destroyed, for the stone wall of a daughter she’d been to her parents over bullshit that didn’t matter, but mostly for the years she’d wasted waiting for someone to complete her when she should have been working on completing herself.

  The tears came freely now, and Luther’s dark eyes crinkled.

  “I wept not, so to stone within I grew,” he whispered.

  His voice ripped her away from all the stunning regret, and raw fear enveloped her. She began to scream, her eyes closed, her voice gliding out over the river, becoming lost in the gentle water.

  “They’re going to write about you tomorrow,” he said. “They’re going to make you famous.”

  She opened her eyes and saw him pointing that talon toward the glowing Chicago Sun-Times sign, looming above the both of them like a neon cloud.

  Then he turned the knife on her.

  And the cutting began.

  March 31, 9:15 A.M.

  “Nervous?”

  I glanced over at Phin, sitting next to me in the ER waiting room, and then back down at my gym shoes, my toe tapping so fast the Velcro straps were a blur.

  I hated these shoes. Velcro was a way of shouting to the world, “I give up! I don’t care about my appearance anymore!”

  But it was true. I’d traded a four-hundred-dollar pair of Yves Saint Laurent pumps for some thirty-five-dollar Keds because my feet were too swollen to fit into anything remotely sexy. Worse than that was the XL T-shirt stretched taut over my waist, pulled over the no-belly shorts, which were still so tight I had the first two buttons undone. My body had become a hideous travesty, courtesy of the alien living inside of me.

  An alien that was also trying to kill me, apparently not satisfied with mere physical ruination.

  “Why should I be nervous?” I said. It came out clipped and more high-pitched than I would have liked. The air-conditioning was lukewarm, and the smell of lemon bleach was giving me a headache. “I either got better or I didn’t. Either way, I still look like Humpty Dumpty.”

  “You look beautiful, Jack.” Phin reached over and took one of my sweaty hands.

  “I hate when you say that.”

  “You do. You’re glowing.”

  His blue eyes shone in a pure, wholesome, loving way that made me want to smack him in the mouth. I turned away, staring at the other unfortunates in the waiting room.

  ERs were the worst. An impromptu collection of people brought together by bad news and circumstance. Not that I preferred my ob-gyn’s office. Her waiting room was filled with women half my age who liked to chat. Invariably their first question was always, “How old are you?”

  Old enough to have known better than to get pregnant this late in life.

  Phin’s fingers caressed my hand and then sneakily rested on my wrist.

  I pulled away.

  “Just checking,” he said.

  “You don’t need to check again. That’s the reason we’re here, isn’t it?”

  When we took my blood pressure this morning, it had been 160/100—dangerously high. So now we were at the ER checking my urine for protein to see if the preeclampsia had gotten worse. If it had, both Phin and my doctor were going to insist on inducing. But I was still three weeks early. Much as I wanted this kid out of my body, I feared getting this kid out of my body even more.

  At forty-eight years old, I was still too young to be a mother. If I had three weeks left of being childless, I’d take them, even if all I was fit to do was eat fried pork rinds and watch soap operas with my feet propped up.

  “Phin, you got any pork rinds?”

  In preparation for my birth, Phin had begun carrying around a diaper bag, which, instead of diapers, he kept filled with various unhealthy snacks and several equally unhealthy firearms. It had gotten to the point where my shoulder holster didn’t fit anymore and my ankle holster was too far down for me to reach, so Phin stayed armed for the both of us.

  He fished around in the bag—a hideous accessory with Kermit the Frog on it—and came up with a bag of BBQ Fritos. Not as good as pork rinds, but they’d do in a pinch. I tore the bag open with my teeth and dug in.

  Phin slapped his jeans, dug out his cell. He squinted at the screen.

  “All clear,” he read. “How about Mezcal?”

  My business partner, Harry McGlade, was waiting outside the emergency room, standing guard. Many months ago, I’d run into a very bad man who’d promised he’d look me up again. Harry, Phin, and my old partner from the force, Herb Benedict, had taken that threat seriously, to the point of keeping a twenty-four-hour watch on me. As gallant as the gesture was, after more than half a year of tripping over them, I’d had enough of my trio of protectors. This was compounded by the fact that McGlade had taken it upon himself to name my forthcoming baby. Because I had the unfortunate moniker of Jack Daniels, McGlade figured the child should naturally be named after some kind of liquor.

  “Text him back,” I said. “Tell McGlade I’d rather name my kid Helga or Fanny than anything alcohol-related.”

  “I kinda like Mezcal,” Phin said.

  “You also liked Peppermint Schnapps.”

  “Pepper is a cool name for a little girl.”

  “Sure it is. Why don’t we just buy her a little stripper pole for her crib?”

  Phin smiled. He had two days’ growth of beard and wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Last year he’d been bald from chemo, and even though he was in remission, he’d kept the look and had taken to shaving his head. All he needed was a gold hoop in his ear and he would have resembled a sexier version of Mr. Clean.

  “This drink-name idea is growing on me,” he said. “I can see myself as the proud papa, pushing along a baby carriage filled with little Stoli.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  The image of Phin with a stroller popped into my head. But rather than picture him in a park or at a shopping mall, my mind’s eye saw him pushing our baby into a bank, pulling a gun out of her diaper, and robbing the place. Phin was ten years my junior, and I’d first met him in a professional capacity, back when I used to be a cop. I’d arrested him. Though I believed he’d stayed on the right side of the law since knocking me up, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure of it.

  The nurse called my name, and I heaved myself out of the uncomfortable plastic chair and waddled my way into one of the exam rooms, where I was ordered to disrobe. Phin had to help me with my shoes. I stripped down to my sports bra—uncomfortably tight—and an enormous pair of granny panties that were the single most unflattering piece of clothing ever designed. But I’d lost all of my dignity shortly after the second trimester, so I didn’t mind Phin seeing me like this. I plopped myself onto the exam table and lay there like a beached whale waiting to be rolled back into the sea.

  A good-looking doctor came in through the curtain, holding a chart. “Mrs. Daniels?”

  “Miss,” I said. I almost corrected him with Lieutenant, but that had been a long time ago.

  “I’m Dr. Aguier. I’ve got the urinalysis results. Your protein level is at three hundred and sixty milligrams, and your creatinine clearance is dangerously high.”

  Phin’s face tightened. “That’s worse than before.”

  “Any headaches or blurred vision?” the doctor asked.

  I squinted at Dr. Aguier, pretending not to see him. “Who said that?”

  “She’s been having headaches,” Phin tattled. “And tingling in her hands and feet.”

  “Any pain in the upper abdomen?”

  “Even worse than the pain…” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I think I have something growing inside of me.”

  “Jack, can you please be serious?” Phin had taken on a stern, almost parental tone. But I couldn’t be serious. If I were serious, I wouldn’t be able to hide how scared I truly felt.

  “You’re at thirty-
seven weeks,” the doctor said, glancing at the chart. “Has your primary care physician talked with you about inducing?”

  “Yes,” Phin and I answered in unison. But I added, “I won’t do it.”

  “Eclampsia is a life-threatening condition for both you and your baby. Have you had any seizures?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Phin said.

  I turned to him. “When?”

  “Last night, while you were sleeping. You began to shake really bad.”

  “It could have been another nightmare.”

  “I’ve seen enough of your nightmares. This was something else. Your whole body locked, and you were…” He trailed off.

  “I was what?”

  “Your mouth was foaming, Jack. Scared the shit out of me. Lasted about twenty seconds. You slept right through it. One second longer and I would have called nine-one-one.”

  Jesus.

  Phin tugged out his phone again, glancing at the screen.

  He began to walk away.

  “Hey!” I called after him. “What is it?”

  Phin stopped, and I saw a look on his face that was unfamiliar—fear. Not much scared Phin.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “It’s from Herb. He’s at a crime scene near the river.”

  I knew where this was going, but I asked anyway.

  “Luther?”

  Phin nodded once. “He’s back.”

  March 31, 9:30 A.M.

  So much to do.

  So very little time to do it.

  But Luther is pleased.

  After months—strike that—years of preparation, this is all coming together as smooth as smooth could be.

  He stares at his iPhone.

  So tempting to call.

  To leave another clue. Another breadcrumb.

  Getting her number had been child’s play. One of the many times he visited her house to watch her, he helped himself to her mail and copied down her cell phone number from a bill. Luther was pleased to discover Jack also had a monthly charge for a portable WiFi hotspot. It was such a smart idea, carrying the Internet around with you, that Luther bought one for himself.

  His fingers hover above the keys, poised to text, but then he thinks better of it.

  Later, Jack.

  No point in rushing anything.

  Gratification is so much better when delayed.

  A tapping on the driver’s-side window pulls Luther’s attention away from his iPhone.

  A traffic cop is twirling his finger, motioning for Luther to lower the window.

  Luther’s breath catches in his chest.

  If this cop sees what he has in the back of the van…

  Luther rolls down the window, forcing his features to relax.

  “Yes, Officer?”

  “You can’t park here, buddy, unless you want a hundred-dollar ticket. It’s a loading zone.”

  Luther’s finger eases up on the trigger of the Glock he holds down between the door and the seat. “No problem, I’ll move.”

  The officer leans in closer. “Mind if I ask you a question, buddy?”

  Luther’s finger again tightens on the trigger. “Sure.”

  “How much did this Mercedes Sprinter set you back, man? It’s one sweet van.”

  “About seventy-five grand.”

  The cop edges in even closer, trying to peer into the darkness of the cargo area behind Luther.

  “A friend of mine has one of these. Totally pimped out the back. Turned it into a little love mobile, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Luther allows himself a small smile. He’s pimped this van out as well, but not for love.

  “Yeah, I’ve made some modifications.”

  For an excruciating second, he thinks the officer is going to ask for a tour.

  “But it’s a real expensive vehicle,” Luther adds with a hint of condescension in his voice. “I’m not sure a civil servant could afford a ride like this.”

  The cop’s face hardens.

  “Move it along.”

  “Have a nice day, Officer.”

  As Luther shifts into drive, he sees the professor enter the building.

  Goddamn it, now he’s going to have to pay for parking.

  March 31, 9:30 A.M.

  Against the tag-team protests of the doctor and my boyfriend, I dressed and got the hell out of there. Phin wasn’t pleased. He refused to let me use his phone so I could call Herb and also refused to give up the diaper bag, which had my cell in it. I stormed outside, a cool, needling drizzle forcing me to squint, but then Phin made an even bigger mistake: he grabbed my wrist to hold me back.

  “Jack, I can’t let you go. You need to—”

  I twisted my arm, breaking his hold, and then clamped onto his wrist and used momentum and leverage to put him in an armlock. He dropped to his knees, not because he was begging forgiveness, but because if he didn’t, his elbow would hyperextend.

  Or maybe it was for forgiveness. Angry as I was, we both knew I wouldn’t hurt him.

  “You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Phin. And you don’t try to physically restrain me. Ever. Are we clear?”

  Phin stared up at me, his expression resembling a dog who’d been kicked. “In your condition—”

  “Luther is probably the most dangerous psychopath I’ve ever met, and I’ve met more than my fair share. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life peering over my shoulder, waiting for him to make his move.”

  “Let Herb handle it. He’s good.”

  “I’m better.”

  “I couldn’t take it if anything happened to you, Jack.” He reached up, put his palm on my belly. “To either of you.”

  I felt his child kick in response.

  I released Phin’s wrist and headed toward the red Tesla Roadster 2.5 parked in a handicapped spot. The car was Harry McGlade’s latest toy, fully electric and capable of zero to sixty in under four seconds. McGlade was sitting in the driver’s seat, fiddling with his cell phone. I tapped on his window, startling him. He rolled it down and a frown creased his unshaven face, so much grayer now than when we’d been partners in Vice more than twenty years ago. Fate didn’t like me much, and somehow I once again wound up as his partner, this time in the private sector. Working five hours a day with Harry McGlade now made me nostalgic for working eighteen-hour days in Homicide without Harry McGlade.

  “You look angry,” McGlade said. “Did the doctor tell you that you really aren’t pregnant, just morbidly obese?”

  “Is this how you watch my back? Playing games?”

  “It’s TowerMadness. The aliens are trying to take all of my sheep.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  He held it away from me. “You’re going to break it.”

  “I’m not going to break it.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve got those crazy preggo eyes. Like you’re in a hormone rage.”

  “Give me your fucking phone or I’m going to rip your face off.”

  He gave me the phone. I called Herb.

  “You’re not coming down here,” Herb said.

  “If one more man in my life tries to tell me what I can and can’t do, I’m going to scream.”

  “She’s in a hormone rage!” McGlade yelled at the phone. “Run for the border! Save yourself!”

  I didn’t hear Herb’s reply, because McGlade was being a loud idiot.

  I walked away from the Tesla, trying to get out of loud idiot range.

  “And she stole my phone!” McGlade yelled again.

  “Can you say that again, Herb?”

  “The Kinzie Street railroad bridge. It’s a bad one, Jack.”

  “How do you know it’s Luther Kite?”

  Silence.

  “Herb? You there?”

  “He…uh…Luther left something. Something with your name on it. You really don’t need to come here. I’ll drop by your place when I’m finished.”

  “See you in ten.”

 
I pressed the end call button.

  A vehicle pulled up alongside me—Phin in his new Ford Bronco.