Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Sarah shook her head, her eyebrows creased harshly down, teeth gritting and grinding. “NO! No it can’t be.”

  The cats were raging now, their combined voices raised in a primeval wail that shook the glass in the windows and doors.

  “Oh, but it is,” said Sammy. “It absolutely is. The only person responsible for what happened to John Doe — is John Doe.” He smiled weakly. “As for the why…well we may never know for certain, although I do have a theory, based on the evidence of course. My theory is that it had something to do with unrequited love; the broken heart I spoke of, a subject that up until recently I had no experiential knowledge. But now that I do — now that I know the incredible pain associated with that emotion — I feel somewhat qualified to espouse the theory. Only an event associated with so powerful an experience as a broken heart could push a person to such horrible ends. Also the fact that JD started with cutting off his manhood instead of his hand or head, makes it probable that he was trying to make a statement. Personally I think cutting out his heart would have been more appropriate, but judging from his choice of tools and his lack of precision, it seems unlikely that he possessed the surgical skills necessary for such an operation. And so… if he can’t cut out his heart… he severs the next best thing…symbolically.”

  He pursed his lips. “Sad, very very sad.” He looked back up at her. “On the bright side, there isn’t a homicidal mutilator out roaming the streets as we feared. And,” he pointed at Sarah with a shaking finger, “the lost evidence, the evidence you’ve been obsessing over, really has no bearing on the case at all.”

  The cats roared — like mighty lions — showing their fangs and claws and spitting and hissing — they stalked about as if in search of prey — thrashing about — their tails flailing, muscles bunched and cording into knotted balls of barely contained explosive kinetic energy.

  “So you see,” finished an exhausted Sammy, his quivering raised finger falling back to his chest, “the cat eating the evidence is virtually meaningless. You can let it go now. You can let it all go.”

  Only he was wrong. The cats proved his wrongness. They were packed into the room, overflowing into the halls — two and three high in some places. They were on the walls, on the machines and couches and chairs and countertops. Some hung from lights and sconces and others from the very ceiling itself. And they all hissed her name and one other word — mission!

  Her mission remained still before her, and only by completing it could she hope to ever be free of the cats.

  77

  Dominic Elkins

  * * *

  Good Dog

  * * *

  Dominic sat in the passenger front seat of the patrol car next to Rex. The massively muscular K9 officer fiddled with the AM/FM radio.

  “Ever listen to this station in the morning? There’s two guys and a chick and are they funny!”

  Dominic shook his head as his cell phone vibrated; Sarah. He listened to her then looked over at Rex. “Sarah says she has some paper work to help fill out for the Sarge and Detective Rothstein. She said it’s going to take a while, so we should go check on Timmy and then head home. Said she’d get with me when she’s done.”

  “Cool with me,” said Rex. “It’s just over a couple of blocks and now that the sun’s up it’s gonna get warm real fast.” He snapped on his safety belt and put the car in drive. It took a little longer than usual due to the morning traffic, which had to be rerouted around Colorado Boulevard; still shut down because of the fire at Gatling Gams.

  The parking lot stood empty except for the single car; Bull’s Eye didn’t open till ten.

  Dominic noticed something wrong from about fifty yards out. Something about the windshield didn’t look right. Cracks webbed from the inside, bulging out, milky brown colored, splintery veins and star shaped swellings intermingled with circular whirls that clouded the plastic coated safety glass obscuring what lay inside.

  “Uh oh,” said Rex, his face turning suddenly grey.

  “Uh oh what?” asked Dominic.

  “I’ve seen that before, only never so bad.”

  And Dominic remembered his first night with the K9 team and how the skinny Russian had kicked at the glass as the monster dog inside savaged him.

  “Uh oh,” said Dominic, his stomach feeling light and heavy at the same time.

  Rex screeched to a stop a few feet from the car. The side windows were dotted and smeared with dull brown matter. Both men exited slowly, walking with trepidation around to the bait car.

  “Whoever it is he better not have hurt my dog.”

  Only the big man didn’t look worried about his dog at all. Timmy wasn’t the one they needed to worry about.

  Rex reached out a hand and opened the driver’s side door. It opened slowly, like something from a horror movie — and what lay inside looked even more like a horror movie.

  Timmy sat in the back, tongue lolling from his big smiling lips, a thick, ropy band of scarlet saliva stretching to the red drenched seat.

  Dominic saw a lot in the two wars he fought — but this — this was something else.

  “You okay, boy?” said the giant officer, only his voice sounded very small and weak.

  Timmy wagged his tail and jumped over what lay between the two front seats and onto the asphalt of the parking lot. He gave his head and body an enormous shake, spraying the two men and both cars with evidence.

  Reflexively Rex gave the dog a pat on the head. His hand came away wet. He looked at Dominic. Dominic looked back. Neither spoke for several seconds.

  “Should — should we check him?” asked Dominic. “For vitals?”

  Rex gulped loudly. “Think we need too?”

  “No, not really, but should I anyway?”

  “Yeah,” said Rex, his voice still very small. “Just to be sure.”

  Dominic leaned in, careful not to touch the inside of the door — or the steering wheel — or the ceiling — or the seat — or the dash. It took a few seconds for him to determine a place to check for a pulse and another few to figure out how to get to it.

  “From behind him Rex asked, “Call for rescue?”

  Dominic shook his head. “The coroner.” He turned, about to make his exit when he noticed something about the man’s clothes. “Hey — hey I know this guy.” He backed out of the car, mumbling, “No way — no way.” He started laughing. Just a chuckle at first, but then it grew — and grew — until he doubled over, shaking and staggering about, still pointing at the remains in the car.

  Rex looked at him like he was crazy or at least hysterical. “Hey, Rook, take it easy there. It’s okay, calm down now.”

  That made Dominic laugh even harder. He couldn’t get his breath, let alone talk. He laughed so hard he cried.

  Rex really looked concerned. “Come on kid, get hold of yourself. It’s gonna be okay, come on.”

  “No — no,” said Dominic, fighting a losing battle for control. “You don’t understand. He’s — he’s…” but at the stunned scared look on the giant cop’s face he broke up again, laughing and sputtering and unable to complete a sentence.

  Timmy sprang to life, charging at Dominic, his teeth snapping inches from his face. Rex barely caught him in time.

  Dominic instantly sobered, backing up, hands raised. He pointed at the car. “No, you don’t get it. That’s the guy — him — in the car — the killer — the assassin — the one who cut Sergeant Creed and got away — the guy who blew up GGs.”

  Both men looked at the car, then at each other. They both grinned at the same time.

  Rex spoke first. “Only he didn’t get away after all.”

  “No…he didn’t.”

  They both looked at the dog.

  “Good boy!” said Rex. “Oh yes you are such a good boy! Yes you are!”

  Dominic stood there with a stupid grin on his face in whole-hearted agreement.

  The horrible, dripping apparition with the dinosaur head and demon eyes standing before them was, at t
his moment, the best dog in the whole wide world.

  78

  Sarah Hampton

  * * *

  Mission’s End

  * * *

  Sarah stood at the foot of his bed, just as she had every day since being released from the asylum. This would be the last time. Cats swarmed around her, the smell of their urine and feces and dander unbearable. Fluffs of hair drifted about in the undercurrents of vented air. Hairballs were hacked up in long, thick, chunks that smeared and stained the cold tiles of the hospital floor. They hated her — they loved her — they needed her! She was their queen — their slave — their prey! And they would have her! She would live with them — be with them — forever and ever.

  She failed the mission, let the cat escape. She had not killed John Doe’s attacker and he would stay like this — in this coma — this pretense at life — until the day he died; just as she would exist forever in the hell of the asylum — alone — afraid — helpless. She’d tried, tried so hard, but in the end it had all been for nothing. She knew that now; saw it as plainly as could be. She never had a chance. There never was an attacker to find. Sammy was right; it had been John Doe all along.

  A cat hissed at her feet. She would have kicked it, but felt too numb, and besides, what good would it do? Sarah belonged to them now; now and forever more.

  She looked up at John Doe and saw him staring at her. She would have been surprised, but she was beyond that; beyond surprise or shock or even caring. As if from very far away she could sense herself lapsing into the dull cathartic lassitude of insanity. Her jaw became slack, her eyes droopy and lackluster; seeing but not feeling, taking in images but not responding.

  John Doe had awoken from his long sleep, like a fairytale princess brought back to life. The mystery solved; the spell broken, and still it didn’t matter. Because Sarah had failed in her mission, just as she had failed in her life. She’d come close; at least there was that. She’d found and felt the reality of love, but in the end it wasn’t for her. She didn’t deserve it. Failures don’t deserve happiness.

  John Doe stared at her, his eyes big and bright and wet with tears. Once, not long ago, she would have cried with him, but as with caring and surprise, she was beyond tears.

  He tried to speak, so much like that morning when she’d found him there in that horrible place that now lay in burnt ruins, but his vocal cords had been destroyed and no sound came out. He formed words with his lips, pushed air from his lungs, strained to speak, to be heard. Tears ran freely down his cheeks as he smiled at her, still pushing the words toward her with a desperate need for her to understand, but understanding was as useless as caring or loving.

  She let her mind go, giving herself over to the sounds and smells and textures of the cats. She drifted, like the tufts and puffs of hair, farther and farther down a long spiraling tunnel, feeling her spirit or soul or whatever it was that was really her, slip and slide away, speeding ever faster toward a blackness that swelled so complete and totally without light that even the thought of it, even the concept froze her at the core of her being. A sensation of utter emptiness rushed up at her with terrifying speed and finality, reaching at her with greedy fingers that sucked at her essence with the power and lust of gravity itself. Her breath froze in her lungs; her heart shriveled and hardened to diamond density in her chest. She felt love die within her and somewhere deep deep down and far below she heard herself cry for all she had lost and would never see or feel again. And in that deep dark place she wept a final time. She wept for her dead father, for her dead doggy, for her career that she had tried so hard to be good at, for Chuck Creed and Sammy Rothstein and Quinn Taylor and Larry Sipes and all her brothers and friends on the force. But most of all she wept for Dominic and for the life and love that could never be.

  The cats came. Running and jumping and tearing and biting. They flung themselves at her, diving from overhead and leaping from down below. They covered her like a blanket of clawing, slashing, ripping teeth and nails. And then she saw them; the men — the doctors and nurses and orderlies; with their ice baths and straightjackets and narcotics and electricity — coming for her — and the cats grinned — grinned and laughed and mocked as they hissed and smothered her with their rancid fur and maggot infested bodies. She felt herself suffocating, the myriad crush of bodies pushing inexorably in on her from every direction. She tried to cry out, to reach for Dominic and the light, but she had no limbs, no eyes, no voice. She had traded places with John Doe and lay trapped forever in the mindscape of insanity. No hope, no help, only the infinite dark and cold and emptiness.

  He mouthed the words again and this time, from wherever she was, she flashed back to that morning when everything had started, the nose splint riding between her eyes and the blood and plaster and the fear and the dead man smiling at her while he tried to speak, forming grizzly bloody spit bubbles that popped at each attempt.

  She had thought he was trying to say “help me,” but suddenly she understood that that wasn’t it at all. As she stared, dumbstruck, her consciousness barely there in the room, she understood the truth — all of it — and she understood exactly what she had to do.

  John Doe wasn’t saying ‘help me’ he was saying ‘kill me’.

  Sarah did not believe in mercy killing. She considered the idea weak and beneath her. Looking down at John Doe as he wept and begged before her did nothing to change her mind. He had caused all of this. Him. Everything she had endured; the cats and the asylum and the torture, all of it his fault.

  But the knowledge didn’t help — the cats remained.

  No, Officer Sarah Hampton did not believe in mercy killing — but she did believe in justice. She looked up at the beeping E.K.G. machine with its spiking green line. Her hand moved up to his mouthing lips.

  When she left the room the line no longer spiked; the machine did not beep. There remained only an annoying endless tone that followed the flat line on the screen.

  And — there were no more cats.

  79

  Cinnamon Twist

  * * *

  Decision

  * * *

  Cinnamon stood outside Sammy’s room. The lady cop left a while ago. Cinnamon tried to build up her courage. What could she say to him? He knew she’d used him — tried to kill him. How could she make him understand that she’d been wrong? That she loved him? She remembered all too well the look in his eyes when she held the gun to his chest — the trust. He didn’t believe she would do it — didn’t think it possible that she would pull the trigger. A part of her hadn’t believed she could do it either. But she’d felt so trapped between Enrico and Sammy — smothered by their obsession — and in that second — alone in the closet — disbelief became reality and she heard the gun go off — the bang so much louder than gunshots ever sounded on television. And his eyes — his eyes had changed in that instant — changed from trust and love to something very different — something that both frightened and crushed her.

  For the first time his eyes saw her as she really was — a midget — a whore — an immoral freak –a mutant creature that lived only to survive — a selfish deviant intent on pure self-satisfaction — a user — and worst of all — a monster.

  And still he had risked his life to save her.

  She could just leave, take her money and run. Of course he could find her if he wanted to, that had been the problem from the beginning, only she didn’t think he would try now. So why didn’t she run? She had the three million dollars, Enrico was dead and Sammy no longer cared about her; it would be so easy now. She had everything she wanted. She could be her own person for the first time in her life. She could be free.

  But she would be alone.

  Cinnamon felt tears gather. She tried to fight them back and succeeded, at least for now. She could really use a cigarette — a cigarette or a nice line of coke, but she didn’t want to attract any undue attention from the hospital staff. She almost laughed at that — undue attention. As if a freak like h
er could do anything but.

  She shook her head. She was no coward, never had been. She had to do this so she should just get to it. Clenching her teeth she steeled her nerves and entered the room.

  Sammy lay asleep before her. Machines clicked and burred beside him. He looked so pale, so fragile, so helpless. She remembered how incredibly fast he’d moved when she fired the gun. How his hand had slapped against hers, nearly breaking her wrist and numbing her fingers. She had thought she could finish them both off if she had too, Sammy and Enrico; how stupid she’d been, how incredibly foolish. Either man could have killed her in an instant. She’d thought herself in charge of the situation, that she’d played them, when in reality she’d never had a chance. All her life she’d survived by using men who wanted to use her; by being smarter than them, by playing on their weaknesses and using their strengths against them, but Enrico proved to be harder, colder, more merciless than she could ever think of being. While Sammy had shown himself to be faster, smarter and filled with a self-sacrificing love that she had never before witnessed and couldn’t fathom.

  Both men were better than her. One dark and evil — the other light and good. The darker man, the one she would have put money on coming out on top had been defeated. The lighter man, the man of law and order and good, had prevailed, both in living and in touching Cinnamon’s heart in a way it had never been touched before.