by D P Lyle
“Haven’t seen anything on that, but I didn’t specifically look. I can make a couple of calls and see what I can find out.”
“Don’t get yourself out on a limb over this.”
“You know me. I live out there.”
I thanked Drew for his help and said I’d let him know if I found out anything. He said he’d do the same. I hung up and then told T-Tommy and Claire what Drew had said.
T-Tommy shoved his fingers through his hair. “So Kurtz has been on this drug for several months. He goes bonkers and kills Mike and the others. So did the other three guys. And apparently there are nearly two dozen other Kurtzes out there.”
“That about sums it up,” I said.
T-Tommy stood. “Fuck the warrant. I think it’s time to pay Hublein another visit.”
CHAPTER 70
FRIDAY 7:28 P.M.
THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER HAROLD PEARCE HAD CALLED HUBLEIN at home, telling him that he and Wexlar needed to shred the files immediately, that the police knew where Brian was, and that his arrest was imminent. Hublein freaked. Perfect.
Now, he stood in the shadows of the institute’s parking garage and sucked down the remains of a bottle of water. Tossing the empty plastic aside, he strapped his Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife against his left calf and nestled his 9 mm Beretta against his back, beneath the waistband of his pants.
The gray sedan came down the ramp and turned into a parking space across from where Pearce stood. Dressed in black pants and T-shirt, chest and arm muscles straining against the shirt’s thin material, Brian stepped out and looked around.
Pearce eased from the shadows and stood beneath an overhead light. “Hello, Brian.”
Brian stopped, stared at him for a moment, and then walked toward him.
Pearce unzipped the leather pouch, slid the syringe out, and held it up. “Is this what you need?”
“I still want to know who you are.”
“The one who can supply this.” He spun the syringe between his thumb and forefinger. “The one who can deliver Walker. Hublein and Wexlar, too. After all, they’re the ones responsible. The rage that lives inside you. You know Hublein put it there.”
“What if I like the power it gives me?”
Pearce nodded. “Anger can be very powerful. Vital. Addictive. But what about when it spins out of control? What about when you lose control?”
“Maybe I like that, too.”
The man laughed softly. “I know you do. But you’ve been used. By Hublein and Wexlar. I can help you make it right.”
“The only person I see using me is you. Why do you care what I do? What’s your payoff?”
“Why does there have to be a payoff?”
“There always is.” Brian rotated his neck as if relieving a knot.
Pearce smiled. “True.”
“So? What do you want?”
“We agree that I’ve helped you. Right?” He didn’t wait for Brian to respond. “I’ve covered your back. The gun. The unlocked doors and opened windows. All the information and maps and … well … everything. I’ve made your work easy. Now I want you to take care of something for me. Something you’ll enjoy immensely.”
“What?”
“I want Hublein and Wexlar gone as badly as you do. Maybe more so.”
“Why?”
“That’s not important, but if you do this … take care of them … you’ll have an endless supply of this.” Again, he lifted the syringe toward the overhead light.
“How do I know I can trust you? I don’t even know you.”
“Because I’ve helped you. Can you say the same for Hublein? Didn’t he pull the plug on you?”
Brian’s jaw tightened. Pearce could almost feel the heat radiating from him.
“How do I know you can get the drug? Maybe that’s all you have.”
“I told you … I have connections.”
“What connections?”
“The same ones that allow me to know so much. To help you.” He held up the syringe. “Ready?”
Brian tugged down the elastic waistband of his pants and turned a hip toward Pearce. Pearce jabbed the needle deeply into the muscle and depressed the plunger.
Brian pulled up his pants and turned back to face him. He started to say something but acted as if the words were lodged in his throat. His pupils dilated, consuming the blue of his eyes. His chest heaved, sweat erupted on his face, and the muscles of his jaw contracted. He screamed and clutched his head. “What did you give me?”
Pearce backpedaled, too slow. Brian charged, slammed both palms into Pearce’s chest, propelling him to the floor. Pearce rolled to his feet only to be met by a fist to his jaw. Pearce reached for the 9 mm but as he cleared the weapon, Brian hammered his arm across Pearce’s forearm, dislodging the gun. It clanged against the concrete floor.
Pearce struck Brian beneath the chin with the heel of his hand, snapping his head back, cracking his teeth together. Brian fell to his knees, clutching at Pearce, who spun away and slammed a foot into Brian’s ribs. He danced away, and then spun back, aiming his heel at Brian’s head. Brian partially deflected the kick, and it bounced off his right ear. He grasped Pearce’s ankle and with a maniacal scream pushed it toward the ceiling. Pearce toppled to the floor.
Brian was on him and crashed his fists into Pearce’s face. Right, left, right. Pearce blocked most of the blows and then snapped Brian’s head back with three quick strikes to his chin and a final one to his throat. Brian recoiled, clutching his throat, sucking in wheezing breaths.
Pearce grabbed a fistful of Brian’s hair, yanking him to the left as he rolled to his right and sprang free of Brian’s grasp. He clutched the handle of the commando knife, the carbon steel giving off a twanging sound as he yanked it from its scabbard.
Brian stood, his face a mask of rage. “I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m not the enemy.”
Brian charged, but Pearce sidestepped his attack and swiped the knife toward Brian’s midsection. Brian deflected the blow, grabbed Pearce’s forearm, and twisted it.
Pearce felt his arm resist, then snap, sending a shock of pain through him as he collapsed to the floor. Brian fell on him, fingers locked around Pearce’s throat. Pearce rained blows on his face, but Brian ignored them.
Brian now had the knife in his other hand. He drove the blade into Pearce’s chest, raised it, and thrust it into his abdomen, burrowing it deep. He grabbed Pearce by the hair and pulled his face close to his. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Nobody,” Pearce grunted.
“Don’t fuck with me. Who are you?”
Pearce felt the knife grind deeper into his gut. “Fuck you!” Brian withdrew the knife and shoved it to the hilt beneath Pearce’s ribs.
Pearce coughed, blood foaming from his mouth. Pain surged into his chest as Brian worked the knife deeper.
“You’re dead anyway,” Brian said. “Tell me why you’re here.”
Pearce’s breaths bubbled through the red foam that flowed from his mouth. Harold Pearce was dying, and he knew it. But he was a soldier. That’s what he was, all he was. He had carried out dozens of missions in which he could have lost his life. That risk was part of the job, and he accepted it as any good soldier would. He would not die without completing this mission. Sending Brian after Hublein would expose everything. Exactly as Smithson had contracted him to do.
Sir. Mission completed, sir.
“Hublein,” Pearce gurgled. “Wexlar … they’re the ones you want.” Pearce coughed, spraying blood over his chest. “They’re … upstairs … right now.” He coughed again, pain racking him. “Trying to … cover up … what they’ve done.”
Brian jumped to his feet. He screamed and kicked the knife that still protruded from Pearce’s abdomen. It skittered across the floor. Pearce groaned and sputtered, struggling to draw air into his lungs. Brian slammed his heel onto Pearce’s face and stormed through the nearby stairwell door.
Nine-one-one. Nine-one-one. Pearce menta
lly repeated the numbers. One last piece of the mission. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, struggled to see the dial pad, finally managing to punch in the number. He shivered as a damp coldness settled over him.
“Nine-one-one operator. What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“Hublein.” He coughed, pain raging through his chest. “Dr. Robert … Hublein’s office.”
“Could you speak up? I can barely hear you.”
Pearce mustered what strength he could. “Dr. Hublein’s … office … Send police.”
The lights dimmed, and Harold Pearce drifted into darkness.
CHAPTER 71
FRIDAY 7:38 P.M.
IN THE HEADLIGHTS, I SAW THE MAN STRETCHED OUT ON THE FLOOR of the parking garage. Blood splayed across the concrete. I jerked the Porsche into a parking slot and jumped out, telling Claire to stay put. T-Tommy swung in next to me.
I knelt beside the man. Forty or so, square jaw, short-cropped hair, solid build. The guy I had seen in the lab last night. And on the video today. I felt his neck, the pulse weak, his breathing a coarse rasp.
“Hey, buddy.” I squeezed his shoulder. No response. I pulled my iPhone from my jacket pocket and punched 911. An operator answered, I identified myself, and requested an ambulance, giving her the address.
“We just got a call from there,” the woman said. “The police and medics are on the way.”
“What?”
“I think the line to the caller is still open.” I heard her ask someone named Martha if she still had the call online. Then back to me, “Yeah, we still got it. It’s a cell phone.”
I looked around, saw a phone wedged beneath the guy. I pulled it free and spoke into it. Martha was on the line. “Okay, we’re here on scene. What’s the ETA of the ambulance?”
“Should be any second now. They’ve been rolling for four minutes.”
I could hear the faint sound of sirens, closing in. I punched the END button on both phones, stuffed mine in my pocket, and dropped the other one beside the man.
I ripped the man’s bloody shirt off, wadded it into a ball, and pressed it against his abdomen. “I’m sorry, but I have to slow the bleeding.” The man grimaced, breathing in gasps.
T-Tommy’s cell rang. He answered and listened for a minute, and then snapped it closed. “That was Abe. The killer’s phone just called nine-one-one. From around here.”
I nodded toward the cell on the floor. “That’s it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
T-Tommy pointed to the floor. “What the hell is that?”
“Looks like the syringe I saw last night,” I said. “And this is the guy I saw in the lab.” I bent close to the man. “What’s your name?”
“Pearce.” He barely got it out. Blood foamed from his mouth, and he coughed, wincing. “Work here.”
“What happened?”
“Kurtz … Brian … Kurtz.”
“Where is he?”
“Up … stairs … Hublein … kill Hublein.”
I looked toward the stairwell entrance, now seeing the blood drops leading that way, and more blood smeared on the door. Two patrol cars and an ambulance rushed down the ramp and squealed to a stop.
CHAPTER 72
FRIDAY 7:43 P.M.
AS BRIAN ENTERED THE OUTER OFFICE, VOICES AND AN INTERMITTENT machinery sound spilled through the door from Hublein’s office. He pulled his gun—no silencer, no need here since no one was around. He stopped near the doorway and listened.
“You sure we have everything copied onto discs?” he heard Hublein ask.
“Absolutely,” Wexlar said. “So does Spellman.”
“Then let’s get this finished and get the hell out of here.”
Brian stepped into the door. They didn’t even notice, too busy destroying evidence. Evidence of what they had done to him. Hublein stood by his desk, near three stacks of paper. He handed several pages at a time to Wexlar, who fed them into a shredder.
“Wonder what’s keeping Pearce,” Hublein said. “He should be here by now.”
“He won’t be coming,” Brian said.
Hublein and Wexlar whirled around, their eyes widening in shock.
“Brian … what are you doing here?” Hublein stammered.
“Surprised to see me?”
“No … uh …”
“Pearce fucked up. He’s dead.” His pulse hammered in his temples.
Hublein recoiled. “How? Why?”
“I got lucky, he didn’t.” Brian raised the gun, directing the muzzle at Hublein’s chest. “And neither did you.”
“Brian … I …”
“Shut up,” he screamed.
Wexlar stepped toward him. “Listen, Brian—”
The gun exploded three times with deafening roars, which reverberated endlessly in the room. The first bullet struck Wexlar in the middle of the chest. The second penetrated the dying man just inches left of the first. The third cut into his face as he toppled onto the shredder, knocking it to the floor.
“Any other comments?” He stared at Hublein through the blue fog that hung between them.
Hublein raised his hands for protection. “Brian … I’m—”
Three more shots in quick succession, each bullet striking Hublein in the chest. His massive frame absorbed the first two, but with the third he staggered backward and toppled onto the desk. A brass desk lamp crashed to the floor, and papers cascaded onto Wexlar’s lifeless form.
I pushed open the fifth-floor stairwell door, noticing a smear of blood on the handle. This time I remembered to bring my .357. I tugged it from my jacket pocket and moved down the poorly lit hallway where Claire and I had tiptoed last night. I crossed through the reception foyer and continued down the opposite hall toward Hublein’s office. The door stood open, light falling through it on the floor. The odor of burned gunpowder hung in the air. Nothing else on earth smells like that.
T-Tommy and I took positions at either side, and I peeked around the jamb into Hublein’s assistant’s office. It was brightly lit but empty. We crossed to the open door that led into Hublein’s private office, and again I peered around the jamb.
“Jesus.”
Hublein’s blood-soaked body reclined across his desk. The body of a smaller man lay stretched over a pile of papers and file folders. I checked them, both dead. As I stood and turned, I saw Kurtz in the doorway behind T-Tommy, gun leveled.
“Get down!”
Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The gun jerked. An explosive flare. A cloud of smoke. T-Tommy dropped to the floor. The bullet whizzed past my head and hit the wall behind me with a dull thud. The gun jerked again. This time the noise seemed louder and things moved faster. I fired twice, but Kurtz had disappeared. One bullet splintered the doorjamb. I had no idea where the other one went.
T-Tommy got up, a hand clamped over one ear, blood between his fingers. “Son of a bitch shot me.” He pulled his hand away. “Let’s go.”
We moved through the outer office and into the hall, just in time to see Kurtz moving away fast, down the hallway, toward the foyer. He turned and fired, the bullet striking the ceiling above us. He pulled the trigger again. Click. He threw the gun at us, turned, and disappeared across the foyer.
CHAPTER 73
FRIDAY 7:51 P.M.
AS I APPROACHED THE STAIRWELL DOOR AT THE END OF THE HALL, I heard Kurtz’s footsteps, headed down. I pushed open the door and listened. Nothing. No footsteps. We moved down the stairs to the next landing, “4th floor” stenciled on the door.
#x201C;I’ll take this one,” I said. “You get three.”
I slipped through the door, and pressed my back against the wall, the .357 directed down the dark hallway that ran the length of the building. Faint light from the streetlamps along Saint Clair filtered through windows along the right side, revealing several doors along the opposite wall.
“Brian?” My voice echoed in the empty corridor, followed by silence, leaving only my own coarse br
eathing and the pulsing of blood in my ears. “Brian? I don’t want to hurt you. I know what’s been going on. It’s not your fault.”
Was that true? For days all I could think about was planting this guy, keeping my promise to Mike, taking the sick son of a bitch out.
But Kurtz really was sick. He wasn’t merely another sociopath with a head full of snakes, a head that couldn’t be tweaked. Kurtz had been tampered with. Kurtz could be fixed.
Or could he?
After Mike, the Kushners, the McCurdys, after all he had done, could Kurtz ever come back? Could his brain be rewired? Did that really matter? Did he deserve that chance?
“A ton of cops are going to be up here in a couple of minutes. You can’t get away. Just give up, and we can sort this out.”
Nothing. I moved along the hall to the first door and twisted the handle. Locked. The second door opened to a dark room. I flipped the wall switch and banks of overhead fluorescents flickered to life, revealing an office with a desk and bookcases, but little else. I killed the lights, waited for my eyes to readjust, and then continued down the hall.
“Brian, please listen to—”
The blow struck the back of my head, spinning me sideways. The .357 thudded to the floor. A second blow caught my jaw. I staggered, but managed to remain upright, and raised my fists as he came at me. I snapped a right hand against the side of his head. It did nothing to slow the assault. A fist slammed into my gut, sending a paralytic shock everywhere. Multicolored balls of light danced before my eyes.
Jesus. This kid is strong.
I hit him with three shots to the face. He didn’t seem to notice. My knuckles burned. I caught another heavy blow high on the left side of my head. I seemed to move in slow motion, arms heavy, legs heavier, unable to fend off the blows that followed. Right cheek, left temple, right eye, point of my chin, and then I found myself down on my hands and knees, gasping for air.
He leaped on me and in a single motion lassoed something around my neck, pulling it tight. I clawed at the ligature. It was thick and leathery. A belt. I couldn’t wedge a single finger beneath it. My lungs fought for air, convulsing against the constriction.