by P J Parrish
The next thrust of the knife plunged into his lower chest. In a flash fire of air, his lungs emptied, and he was paralyzed. Left with only the burn of the gaping hole and the feel of blood pouring from his body. His shirt grew warm and heavy. His head filled with the horrible image that he was sliced completely in half.
“Don’t you die yet, motherfucker,” Brandt said. “Look at me. Look at my fucking face!”
Shockey opened his eyes. Brandt loomed above him. His face was splattered with blood and mud.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Fuck you, Brandt…”
Brandt hit him with the same hand that held the knife. It tore a fresh gash across Shockey’s cheek.
“Where’s the god damn girl?”
“I won’t tell you…go ahead and kill me.”
Brandt shifted his weight, and for a second, he was gone. Shockey’s mind screamed at him to struggle, but he had no strength to raise his arms or even roll away. Brandt’s screams grew dull and distant, absorbed into the darkness that was starting to strangle his mind.
“Where’s the fucking girl?” Brandt shouted.
Shockey closed his eyes. An unexpected calm moved through him, something dull and hard and final.
He was going to die.
The bastard had gotten them both.
Louis climbed out of the Bronco and slammed the door. The Gremlin was sitting two spaces down. There was no one else in the parking lot and not a car on the street. A light burned on Shockey’s balcony.
He hurried through the drizzle to the steps. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a crash from above, like a door being back-slammed against the wall.
Louis froze, then spun back toward the Bronco.
Damn it. His Glock was in the glovebox.
A man appeared on the landing above him. Dark shirt, dirty jeans, a gun shoved into his belt. And holding a knife slick with so much blood it was dripping at his feet.
Brandt.
Jump the rail. Run.
Brandt barreled down the stairs, the knife raised. Louis pressed himself against the railing, hoping Brandt’s momentum would propel him down the stairs. But Brandt wasn’t off balance. He rushed into Louis, screaming something about Amy.
The knife came down into Louis’s arm, slicing the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
Louis groped for Brandt’s wrist, not wanting to give him time to go for the gun. But Brandt was strong and slippery and fighting him like an animal. The blade plunged into Louis’s shoulder and hit bone.
Christ!
“You die, too!” Brandt screamed.
Louis was trapped, pinned against the railing. He ducked, throwing an arm against the flashes of metal. The blade sliced across his hand and his bicep as blood rained down in a warm spray.
Sonofabitch!
Suddenly, Brandt slipped off the step, and for a second, the struggle stopped. Louis lunged into a punch that slammed into Brandt’s head and almost sent him over the railing.
Louis grabbed the back of Brandt’s shirt and, with both hands, swung him sideways, trying to throw him down the stairs.
Brandt spun around, desperate for something to break his fall. The knife came around with him in a vicious arc.
Louis tried to jump away, but there was nowhere to go. No way to block the knife—both his hands were on Brandt’s shirt.
The blade ripped through the hard muscle of Louis’s chest. Fire razored through his torso.
“Jesus…Jesus,” Louis gasped.
He dropped to the step, hand to his chest. God, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but a wet burning beneath his fingers.
Stay calm.
Stay calm, and breathe.
It can’t be too deep.
Somewhere in the night, sirens swelled and died and swelled again. Were they coming here? Had someone heard something and called the police?
Look at something. Focus. Think.
Brandt…nowhere. He was gone. Louis dropped his head against the iron railing and tried to see the parking lot. It shimmered, wet asphalt and gauzy white spots of light. Blue lights sparked beyond the trees.
He blinked to clear his tears.
The Gremlin was gone.
Shockey…
Louis pushed to his feet and used the rail to steady himself as he stumbled up the stairs. Shockey’s door was ajar. Louis pushed it open and looked inside.
Shockey was lying on his back, a pool of blood soaking the gold carpet. His eyes were open and vacant, his face shredded.
Louis dropped to his knees next to him and tried to feel for a pulse, but the skin at Shockey’s neck was too slick. The smell of blood filled his nose. He shut his eyes, fighting a wash of nausea.
Margi said Brandt threatened to kill me and take Amy.
Louis’s head came up.
Brandt didn’t know where Amy was. Had Shockey been tortured into telling him?
Louis crawled to the shattered coffee table and found the phone. He dialed the hotel.
“Room four-ten. Hurry, please.”
The phone began to ring. Two, three times.
Answer the damn phone, Joe.
“Louis?”
“Joe, Shockey’s dead, and Brandt’s looking for Amy, and he might know where she is. Get out of the hotel, and meet me at the university hospital. Now!”
Chapter Thirty-six
The needle in his hand burned. The young nurse who had put it in had apologized over and over as she stuck him, over and over, trying to find his vein.
It had taken forever. Louis had almost fainted.
He fucking hated needles. He could stand almost anything except someone sticking needles in him.
He closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the pillow. The IV was necessary, the doctor had told him. So was staying one night in the hospital, no matter how much Louis had tried to argue that point.
“I’m all right,” Louis had told everyone who hovered over him.
“Your chest muscle is slashed,” the doctor had told him. “We just want to watch you for twenty-four hours.”
Twenty-four hours…Brandt could be in Canada by then.
Detective Bloom had left ten minutes ago. He had questioned Louis relentlessly, his undercurrent of irritation kept in check only by his need to get things under control. Bloom had pulled rank on the Ann Arbor cops and taken charge of the search for Brandt. Not that anyone needed motivating. Even though Shockey had been fired, Louis knew the bond between cops didn’t end with a pink slip. Every available officer was out scouring the farmlands for Brandt.
Bloom had brought other news. A semi driver had found Margi by the side of a country road out near the Brandt farm. She had arrived at the hospital in Howell near death. They weren’t sure she would live.
Louis lay there, listening to the noises out in the hallway. Brandt wasn’t going to get in; there was a cop stationed outside the room. But Louis wasn’t going to get out—not even to go check on Shockey.
No one would tell him anything. Finally, a nurse checked and came back to report that Shockey was not expected to make it through the night.
“Oh, God.”
He opened his eyes. Joe was standing at the door.
“Oh, Jesus, Louis…”
Joe was there, suddenly, at his side, clutching his hand, her head on his chest.
“Easy, easy,” he whispered.
“What?”
“My chest…”
She drew back, her eyes wet as she focused on the swath of gauze encasing his chest. “They wouldn’t tell me anything,” she said. “I didn’t know if you—” Her eyes welled as they traveled over the other bandages on his arms.
“I’m okay, honest,” Louis said.
She ran a hand under her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face splotchy. She was wearing a Browns sweatshirt and a pair of shapeless pink pants imprinted with cats that Louis recognized as the bottoms of her favorite pajamas. He had a sudden vision of
her, slumped on the floor of his cottage that night a year ago when a madman had broken in while he was gone. Invaded his home, attacked Joe, and left her for dead. His heart softened. She had every right to that awful panicked look on her face now. He knew what she was feeling.
Joe bent down and gently kissed him. Her lips were a balm on his dry mouth. She drew back and let out a ragged breath.
“I can’t believe Shockey’s dead,” she whispered.
Louis had forgotten he had told her that over the phone. “No, he’s in ICU,” he said. “But they said he’s not going to make it.”
Joe shook her head slowly. “Brandt?”
“On the run,” he said. “And they found Margi by the side of the road out near Hell. Looks like Brandt threw her from the car. She’s in bad shape.”
“God.”
He was about to close his eyes when it hit him, and he struggled to sit up. “Where’s Amy?”
“Out in the hall with the officer,” Joe said. She hesitated. “Can I bring her in? She’s worried sick.”
Louis nodded and lay back against the pillow. He didn’t want to admit to Joe that he felt weaker than he was letting on.
He heard a faint shuffling and looked toward the door. Amy was standing just inside the room, staring at him. Her eyes were dark and huge in her pale face.
He tried to smile, but it hurt, and he had the feeling a smile, given his beaten face, might make him look even more grotesque than he was. But as Amy came toward his bed, she didn’t look frightened. She looked…
“He did this to you,” she said softly. “Poppa did this to you.”
He looked to Joe.
Amy’s eyes teared. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Joe was there. “Amy, it’s not your—” But Joe didn’t finish. She pulled Amy into her arms and held her close.
Louis thought suddenly of the small, blurred picture he had of Jean, the only photo that existed of the woman for all he knew. He thought of Shockey, lying in a bed somewhere in this huge, anonymous place without anyone to care whether he lived or died. He had a sudden, jarring vision of a cruel man named Moe, one of the countless blank faces whose blank homes Louis had passed through as the foster system funneled him downward. He thought of all of that and knew that Amy needed to know the truth.
She needed to know where she came from.
He met Joe’s eyes. She was thinking the same thing.
Joe led Amy from the room, giving the officer stationed outside a nod as they went by. They walked a short ways down the hallway and finally, Joe stopped and took Amy’s hand.
“Amy, come sit here with me for a second,” Joe said, pointing to a bench.
Amy sat down, but her eyes went beyond Joe to a woman sitting at the end of the hallway, who was sobbing into the shoulder of an elderly man.
“I have to tell you something,” Joe said, sitting down. “Amy, Owen Brandt isn’t your father.”
Joe held her breath, watching Amy’s face as it passed through surprise and confusion before settling into a lost look that made Joe’s heart ache. Then Amy’s expression changed, and Joe could almost see the girl’s mind racing, racing backward as it searched desperately for a sign or a clue to remember. For a second, Joe regretted telling Amy about Brandt. Her sense of identity was so fragile, and as despicable as Brandt was, he was the only real link to her past.
Except for Shockey. Even if there was no way to prove he was Amy’s father, he had loved her mother. This was an awful place to tell her, this ugly, sterile hallway. But Amy needed to know this, too.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Joe said.
Amy had been staring at the crying woman down the hall and looked back at Joe.
“It’s about Mr. Shockey,” Joe said. “He might…Mr. Shockey and your mother knew each other before you were born. They loved each other.”
Amy blinked in surprise but said nothing.
Joe drew in a breath. “Mr. Shockey thinks he might be your real father.”
Amy’s eyes widened, with surprise but also with an odd look of recognition.
Joe touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
Amy could only nod.
“This is a lot to take in, I know,” Joe said.
Amy didn’t seem to hear her. She was just sitting there, staring at nothing.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Mr. Shockey?”
“Yes, where is he?”
When Joe didn’t answer immediately, Amy searched her face. “Did he get hurt, too?” she asked.
Joe nodded. Then she linked her arm through Amy’s. “Let’s go find him,” she said.
The nurse at the ICU stopped Joe and Amy at the door, telling Joe that children weren’t allowed to visit. Joe took the nurse aside, discreetly showed her badge, and explained why she wanted Amy to see Shockey. The nurse told her Shockey was not going to regain consciousness.
“I don’t think you should let her see him,” the nurse said.
Joe glanced at Amy, who was waiting at the door. “She can handle it,” Joe said.
The nurse led them into the small room. Joe watched Amy’s face as she moved forward slowly, taking in the monitors and tubes, the bleats and blips of the machines that were forcing air into Shockey’s ravaged lungs.
Shockey’s head was wrapped in gauze. Only the left side of his upper face was visible, the skin mottled purple, the eye swollen shut.
None of it seemed to bother Amy. She went right to the bed and looked down at Shockey.
“Can he talk?” she asked softly.
“No,” Joe said from the shadows.
“You said he loved Momma?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Is that why he was trying so hard to find her?”
“Yes. He tried for a very long time.”
Amy looked like she was trying to figure something out. She turned back to Joe. “How old am I?” she asked.
The question surprised Joe, because there was no reason for Amy to wonder when exactly Jean and Shockey had been together.
“You’re sixteen,” Joe said.
In the dim light, Joe saw that the answer pleased Amy. At least there was that.
Amy turned back to Shockey again. She was quiet, just standing at the bedside, staring down at him. Even when a shrill beeping sound brought a nurse into the room, Amy didn’t move. The nurse briskly adjusted a machine and left.
“Why didn’t he come get us before?” Amy asked.
The words had been spoken in a whisper, and Joe wasn’t sure she had even heard right.
“He didn’t know about you until just a little while ago,” she said finally.
Amy fell silent again. Joe let out a breath of relief that her answer seemed to satisfy her. For now, at least. There would be a million questions later.
And no one left to answer them, Joe thought, looking away.
“Does he want me now?”
Joe’s eyes shot back to Amy. There was nothing to do but lie. Not for Shockey’s sake but for Amy’s.
“Yes,” Joe said.
It had hit her only in that second. She was going to take Amy back to Echo Bay. The thought had come out of nowhere and left her heart beating so fast that Joe felt a sudden warmth flood her body. It was just the rush of adrenaline, she knew, the same rush that came when you were afraid or backed into a corner. But that was exactly where she felt like she was right now. There was no other choice. There was no one else.
The beeps of the machines moved in to fill the silence. Joe was watching Shockey’s swollen eye, almost willing it to open. Finally, she focused on the jagged green line jerking slowly across the heart monitor.
“He’s going to die,” Amy whispered.
She picked up Shockey’s hand and wove her fingers through his.
Chapter Thirty-seven
He wasn’t going to die. Not like this, damn it.
Brandt stumbled on through the brush and mud. The icy rain stung his face, and his hands were so
cold he couldn’t feel them anymore.
He stopped, trying to get his bearings in the dark. Where the hell was he? Was he going south or north? He couldn’t even figure that out anymore. There was no moon and no lights out here and if he didn’t figure this out soon, he was going to freeze to death.
He pulled up the soaked collar of his denim jacket and trudged on through the mud and blackness.
A sudden memory hit him: his father walking ahead of him, the crackling of his boots on ice the only sound in the gray morning light. Trees bent and broken from the ice storm the night before, barbed-wire fences dripping ice daggers. And then, there in the field, the frozen carcass of a calf that had gone lost in the storm.
I’m not going to die out here!
Not cold and wet and hungry, like some pitiful animal someone was trying to hunt down.
But that’s what he was now. A hunted animal.
Why hadn’t he had the sense to take a warmer coat? Why hadn’t he stopped to get some food? Why didn’t he take a flashlight? Why hadn’t he fucking planned this whole thing better, instead of just showing up at that cop’s apartment?
The cop was dead. At least he had done that right.
But everything else was all so fucked up now, and he couldn’t even think straight.
Margi…
He had even fucked that up.
He should have gone back right away. He should have gone back and made sure she was dead after he pushed her out of the car.
But he didn’t. And when he finally did go back and look, she was gone. He had driven along that road five times looking for her body, stopping to stare down into the ditches thinking she had crawled into one to die. He had kicked the brushes, looked in drainage pipes, and even walked out into the fields. But she was gone.
Like a fucking ghost.
Like Jean.
And then he had seen the cop car, a cruiser tearing east on Territorial Road, and he knew they were coming after him.
The cop hadn’t seen the Gremlin. But he knew they would soon. So he had headed north, driving clear up toward Unadilla, where he had found an abandoned old barn and left the Gremlin hidden inside.
Then he had started walking.
Keeping off the main roads, cutting across fields and muddy meadows in the dark. Hours of walking in the icy rain as the plan took shape in his head. He would get back to the farm. He’d come in from the north across the creek, because they’d never be looking for him like that. He would get back to the farm, find a way past the cops, pick up what food and clothes he could, and then find a place to hide until things calmed down.