The Maze

by Catherine Coulter

  “It didn’t look to me like you were tying your sneaker. Come on now or I’ll have to do something you won’t like at all.”

  “I’m coming.” She walked through the narrow entrance into a narrow corridor of six-foot-high sheets of plywood, painted green to simulate yew bushes. She came to an intersection. Four choices. She took the far-left turn. It led her to a dead end.

  He laughed. “Wrong choice, Marty. Just maybe if you didn’t curse so much, God would have let you find the right way to go. Maybe if you weren’t so mean to your poor husband, God wouldn’t have brought you to me. Try again. I’m getting impatient.”

  But he wasn’t at all impatient; she realized it in that instant. He was relishing every moment. The longer it took her to get to the center, the more he enjoyed himself.

  “You’re slow, Marty. You’d best hurry. Don’t forget about the time. I told you that time was important.”

  She could hear the excitement in his voice, unleashed now, feel the stirring of his excitement in the air around her. It nauseated her. She couldn’t wait to see him.

  She backtracked and took another turn. This one also led to a dead end. On the third try, she picked the right path. There was only a small pool of light around her, never varying, never growing brighter or dimmer. She hit another dead end off a wrong turn. She heard his breathing quicken; his excitement was peaking. She was close to the center of the maze now.

  She stopped and called out, “Why a maze, Marlin? Why do you want me to find the center of a maze?”

  His voice trembled, he was so excited. No one had asked him this before. He was bursting to tell her. “It’s like finding your way to your own soul, Marty. There are lots of wrong turns and dead ends, but if you’re good enough, if you try hard enough, you’ll eventually come to the center of your soul and then you’ll know the truth of who and what you are.”

  “That’s very poetic, Marlin, for a stupid psychopath. Who let you out of the asylum?”

  “I’ll have to punish you for that, Marty. I’m not your husband. You’ve no right to insult me.”

  She yelled, “Why the fuck not, you puny, pathetic little bastard?”

  “Stop it! Yes, keep quiet, that’s better. Now, I’m waiting, Marty, I’m waiting for you. You’re running out of time. You’d better stop mouthing off at me and run.”

  She did, no wrong turns now, just right to the center, no hesitation at all.

  He was there, standing right in the center of the maze, wearing goggles. In the next moment, he’d pressed a button and a pool of light flooded down where they stood. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues with black army boots laced up to the top. He pulled off the infrared goggles. He looked as white as a death mask in the eerie light. Now he did look scrawny. He gave her a big smile. “You made it here real fast when you tried, Marty. I scared you enough so that you knew if you didn’t hurry, I’d have to hurt you really bad.”

  “Scare me? You stupid moron, you wouldn’t scare a dead chicken. Did I beat your time limit, you worthless little shit?”

  His smile dropped away. He looked more confused than angry. “Why aren’t you afraid? Why aren’t you begging me to let you go now? You know it makes me crazy when you say bad words, when—”

  “You’re already so crazy I don’t have to say anything, you stupid prick.”

  “Shut up! I hate to hear a woman curse, hate it, hate it, hate it! You didn’t make the center in time, Marty. I’ve got to punish you now.”

  “Just how will you do that, you little creep?”

  “Damn you, shut up!” He pulled a hunting knife out of the sheath at his waist. It was a foot long—sharp, cold silver. It gleamed in that dead white light.

  “Why a maze, Marlin? Before you punish me, tell me about why you use a maze?”

  “It’s special for you, Marty, just for you.” He was playing with the knife now, lightly running the pad of his thumb over the blade. “It’s real sharp, Marty, real sharp.”

  “Of course it is. It’s a knife, you idiot. Not only are you pathetic, you’re also a liar. You didn’t build this maze just for me. Your little game isn’t at all special. You aren’t capable of any originality at all. Nope, the same thing over and over. Every one of the women you’ve killed had to find her way to the center of your maze. Why the maze, Marlin? Or are you too afraid to tell me?”

  He took a step closer, then stopped. “How do you know about all the other women?”

  “I’m psychic, you toad. I can read that miserable little brain of yours without trying. Yeah, I’m psychic, as opposed to a psychopath, which is what you are. Why the maze, Marlin? You’re afraid to tell me, aren’t you? I knew it, you’re nothing but a pathetic little coward.”

  “Damn you, shut up! I’ll tell you, then I’ll cut out that filthy tongue of yours and I’ll make you eat it before I slice you like a stalk of celery.” He was panting, he was breathing so hard, as if he’d sprinted a good hundred yards. “My father loved mazes. He said they were a work of art when done well. He taught me how to build mazes. We lived in the desert outside Yuma. There weren’t any nice thick green bushes, so we had to build our own bushes, then we had so many, we made them into mazes.” He shook his head, frowned at her. “You got me off track. You made me change my lines. I’ve never done that before. I’ve got to punish you for that now, Marty.”

  “I sure hope your father isn’t alive. He sounds as sick as you. You said the other women didn’t make you change your lines. Why did you punish them? What’d they do to you?”

  “Damn you, shut up! Don’t you dare talk about my dad! And I won’t tell you anything!”

  “Bad language, Marlin. You’re not a very good role model. Did the women you butchered always use bad language? Or was it because they insulted their husbands?”

  “Bitch! Shut up!”

  She shook her head at him. “I can’t believe you called me that, Marlin. I hate bad language, too. It makes me crazy, did I tell you that? I’ll have to punish you as well. Who goes first?”

  He yelled, running at her, jerking the knife over his head.

  Savich yelled, “Down!”

  At the same instant, full lights came on. Marlin stumbled, blinded by the sudden lights. So was she, but she knew what to do.

  She was already rolling as she jerked her Lady Colt from her ankle holster and came up onto her elbows.

  Marlin Jones was yelling, bringing the knife down, slicing it through the air again and again, yelling and yelling. Then he saw her, lying there, the gun pointed at him.

  Captain Dougherty’s voice came out of the darkness. “It’s the police, Marlin. Throw down the knife and back away from her! Do it now or you’re dead.”

  “NO!”

  “I want to kill you, Marlin,” she whispered, aimed the gun at his belly, “but I won’t if you put that knife down.” Her finger was stroking the trigger. She wanted to squeeze it so badly she felt nausea rise in her belly.

  Marlin stopped in his tracks. He stared down at her, at that gun she was training on him. “Who are you?”

  ‘I’ll tell you that in court, Marlin, or I’ll wire it to you in hell. How many times did you stab all those women, Marlin? Was it always the same number of times? Didn’t you ever vary anything? No, you didn’t. You stabbed them and then cut out their tongues. How many times, Marlin? The same number as Hillary Ramsgate? Twenty stabs? Keep coming to me now, Marlin, if you want a bullet through your gut. I want to kill you, but I won’t, not unless you force me to.”

  He was shaking his head back and forth, his jaw working madly as he took one step back, then another. Then, suddenly, in a move so fast it blurred before her, he aimed the knife and released it.

  She heard Savich yell even as she jerked to the right. She felt the knife slice through her upper arm. It didn’t hit the bone. “Thanks, Marlin,” she said, and fired the Lady Colt. The impact sent him staggering back, his arms clutched around his belly.

  Savich yelled, “He’s down! Hold your fire! Don’t
shoot!”

  He wasn’t in time. Sporadic rounds of fire burst from a dozen weapons, lighting up the warehouse with dim points of light. Savich yelled out again, “He’s down! Stop!”

  The guns of the dozen police officers surrounding the maze fell silent one by one. They stared at the ripped-up rotted flooring. Incredibly, they hadn’t hit Marlin Jones. The closest shot had ricocheted off the side of one of his army boots.

  Then the silence was abrupt and heavy.

  “Sherlock, damn your eyes, I’m going to throw you from here to Buffalo!”

  She was lying on her back, grinning up at him even as he dropped to his knees beside her, ripping the sleeve off his own shirt. The knife was sticking obscenely out of her upper arm. “Hold still now, and don’t move a muscle. This just might hurt a bit.” He pulled out the knife.

  She didn’t yell until she saw it in his hand, her blood covering the blade.

  “Don’t whine. It barely nicked you. Hold still now.” He bound her arm with his shirtsleeve. “I can’t believe you did that. I’m going to kill you once you’re okay again. I’m going to tromp you into the mat three dozen times before I even consider letting up on you. Then I’m going to work your deltoids so hard you won’t be able to move for a week. Then I’ll kill you again for doing this.”

  “Is he dead, Dillon?”

  Savich turned to look at Ralph, who was applying pressure to Marlin’s stomach. “Nope, but it will be close.” Ralph said. “You got him in the belly. The ambulances are real close now. You did good, Sherlock, but I agree with Savich. You nearly got yourself killed. After Savich is done with you, I think I should take you to my boat in the harbor, go a bit out into the ocean, and drown you.”

  She smiled up at Savich. “I sure hope he bites the big one. If he doesn’t die, he’ll prove he’s mad, which he is, and if he gets a liberal judge and easy shrinks then he could be pronounced cured and let out to do it all again in another seven years and then he—You pulled that knife out of me. It sort of hurts really bad now. Goodness, look at all that blood.”

  Her eyes simply drifted closed, her head lolling to the side.

  “Damnation,” Savich said, and pressed harder on the wound.

  He heard two men and a woman calling out, “Let us through. Paramedics! Let us through!”

  Savich took the Lady Colt from her slack fingers, stared down at the little gun that could so easily kill a human being, shook his head, and pocketed it. He didn’t touch the bloody knife.

  15

  SHE WOKE up in the ambulance, flat on her back, an IV dripping into her arm, two blankets pulled up to her chin. A female paramedic was sitting at her feet. Savich was sitting beside her, his face an inch from hers.

  He said the moment her eyes opened, “It’s all right, Sherlock. Mrs. Jameson here redid the bandage on your arm, applied a little pressure, and the wound is only bleeding lightly. You’re going to have to be checked for any arterial damage, then have some stitches when we get to the hospital, and antibiotics, but you deserve it. I’m going to tell the doctor not to anesthetize you at all and use a big needle. The IV in your arm is just water and some salts, nothing for you to worry about. I told you, the knife just nicked you, no big deal.”

  Her arm burned so hot she was vaguely surprised that it didn’t burst into flame. She managed to smile. “So I’m not to whine?”

  “Right.”

  Mrs. Jameson said, “You’ve got great veins. How do you feel, Agent Sherlock?”

  “Really good actually,” she said and nearly groaned.

  “She’s lying. It hurts like hell. Listen to me, Sherlock. When Marlin threw the knife at you, if you hadn’t already been moving away, it would have gone right through your heart and none of us would have been able to stop it. What you did really makes me mad. I never should have trusted you, never. I was sure you knew what you were doing, but you didn’t. You turned those green eyes of yours on me and that super-sincere FBI voice, and I bought everything you told me. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did, so it’s my fault too. Damn you, you lost it with that murdering bastard and you didn’t even care. You pushed him and pushed him. He could have forgotten all about his act. He could have just killed you without following his script. That was stupid. That really pisses me off, Sherlock.”

  “It hurts, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Jameson, drawing Savich off. “But I can’t give you any pain medication. We’ll have to let the doctor decide on that. Your blood pressure’s just fine. Now, just hang in there. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

  At that moment, when she thought her arm would burn off her body, she said, “I’m sorry, Dillon, but I had to.”

  “Why did you shoot him in the gut? Why didn’t you go for his chest?”

  Her eyes were vague, filled with blurred shadows, but she knew there were no more ghosts to weave in and out of her mind, tormenting her. No, everything was all right now. His voice seemed farther away than just an instant before. What had Dillon wanted to know? Oh yes. She licked her lips, and whispered, “I wanted him to suffer. Through the heart would have been too easy on him.”

  “Finish it, Sherlock.”

  “All right, the truth. He hasn’t told us everything. If I could have gotten all of it out of him, then I would have shot him clean. Well, maybe. Yes, we have to get him to tell us everything, then I’ll shoot him in the chest, I promise.”

  She was utterly serious. On the other hand, she was woozy from pain and shock. He said slowly, smiling at her, “Actually, if you hadn’t shot him at all, if the bullet hadn’t thrown him a good three feet backward in the same instant, he would have had at least thirty rounds pumped into him. So, Sherlock, the bottom line is that you really saved his life.”

  “Well, damn,” she said, then smiled back up at him.

  “If he pulls through, you can question him and get everything you want out of him. We’ll do it together. Don’t worry now. Despite the fact that I’m going to throw you across the gym when you’re okay again, you still got the bastard.” But it had been close, far too close, unnecessarily so. She’d totally disobeyed orders. She’d been a loose cannon. On the other hand, he doubted she’d have ever done that if it hadn’t been the psycho who had killed her sister. He’d chew her up some more when she was well again. He hoped it would be soon. She could have died so easily.

  She said, “Thank you, Dillon. Give me a while before we go to the gym and you tromp me into the floor. I don’t feel so good right now.”

  She leaned up and vomited into a basin quickly put under her face by Mrs. Jameson.

  “You’ll do, Agent Sherlock. Hey, you’re not related to Mo-hammad Sherlock, that famous Middle Eastern sleuth?”

  She wanted to shriek at him for the ghastly pain of those six stitches in her upper arm, but she wasn’t about to make a peep. He’d given her a pain shot before he’d ever touched her with that needle, but it hadn’t helped all that much. Savich was sitting in a chair by the small cubicle door, his legs crossed, his hands folded across his chest, looking at her, daring her to wuss out on him. She said between gritted teeth, “That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard yet, Dr. Ashad.”

  He swiftly knotted off the thread. “I pride myself on not being too trite. There, all done. Now, let’s pour some stuff on this, sorry, but it’ll really sting, then give you three more shots in the butt—tetanus, an antibiotic, and another pain med. Then you’ll be out of here. Do go see your doctor down in Washington in a couple of days. The stitches will resorb. You can just forget about them. A great detective like you, I don’t suppose you want anything for the pain?”

  “I still have the strength to give you a good kick, Doctor. If you don’t give me a shot, I’ll do it.”

  “I thought for sure that local would be strong enough for a big FBI agent, particularly one with such a flamboyant name.”

  “I’m a new agent. It’ll take a while to get to full pain-absorbing capacity, like that guy over there who could have his head kicked in and still sin
g and crack jokes.”

  Savich laughed. “Yeah, go ahead and give her a shot of something to knock her out. Otherwise she’s so hyped up she won’t shut up until I gag her.”

  Dr. Ashad, thin, dark-skinned, yellowish teeth from too much smoking, said as he prepared three needles, “Are you really a new agent, or is that a joke? Come on, you guys have worked together for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “No, I never saw her before in my life until a month ago. Now I’m going to kill her as soon as she’s fit again, so our total acquaintance will have been very short in cosmic terms.”

  “You’re funny, Agent Savich.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Drop your pants, Agent Sherlock.”

  “In the arm, please, Dr. Ashad.”

  “No can do. In the butt, Agent.”

  “Not until he leaves the room.”

  Savich stood right outside the door. He smiled grimly when he heard her yell. Then she yelled again. Two shots. Another yell. There, that was all of them. That should fix her up. She’d nearly died. He should have known that she’d lose it and do just what she’d probably planned to do for the last seven years. He looked up to see Ralph Budnack and Captain Dougherty walking toward him.

  “How is she?”

  “Just fine. Back to being mean again.”

  “That woman likes to dance right up to the edge,” Captain Dougherty said. “You need to talk to her about that, Savich.” Then he smiled. “Got him,” he said, and rubbed his hands together. He didn’t look at all old or worn out tonight. Indeed, there was a bounce to his step. As for Ralph, he couldn’t hold still, just jumped from one foot to the other, his hands talking faster than his mouth moved.

  There was another yelp.

  “Four shots,” Savich said. “In the butt. She deserves all the jabs the doctor gives her. I wonder what that last one was for? Maybe part of her punishment.”

  A few minutes later, Lacey came out of the small cubicle tucking in her blouse with one hand since her other arm was in a dark blue sling. “He’s a sadist,” she said to Savich before she saw the two cops. “He’s not trite, but he is a sadist. I think I might invite him to dinner just so I can poison his food.”