Authors: J. A. Konrath
A
LEX CLIMBS OFF THE BED.
Naked. Satisfied. Bloody.
The blood isn’t hers.
Jack’s husband held up pretty well. The erection pills probably helped, but twice in an hour was more than Lance ever managed.
“Not bad, loverboy. If you enjoyed yourself, don’t say anything.”
Alan stays quiet. The duct tape gag has a lot to do with it, but it makes Alex feel good just the same.
In the shower, she lathers up and plans her next few moves. Alex is good at planning. Thinking things through. Anticipating problems. It’s one of the reasons she’s been such a successful killer, caught just one time in a career lasting well over two de cades. Being careful doesn’t just happen. It requires deliberation. One must consider every possible contingency, and then predict probable outcomes.
Though genetically she’s a predator—something she got from Father—she can also thank him for her plotting capabilities. Growing up in a house hold ruled by fear and abuse can turn the most innocent child into a cold, calculating machine. Alex never learned how to play chess, but guesses she’d be good at it.
She playfully swishes a toe through the blood-streaked suds swirling down the drain, and decides to find some time in her busy schedule today to paint her toenails. She likes how the red looks.
The hair dryer is even worse than the one at the Old Stone Inn—Alex bets her hair is growing faster than it’s drying. She gives up after a few minutes, putting it into a ponytail while still damp. Makeup is a chore. She’s going out in public, so that means caking on the thick scar cover. The product comes with a tiny spatula, and it goes on like flesh-colored Spackle. Alex fusses with her bangs, letting them hang down over the bad half of her face, and then chooses to walk away before she starts to get angry again.
Back into the bedroom, naked. No real room for any serious exercise. But then, she probably got enough exercise in the last hour. She dresses in the cop uniform again, pleased that Alan is watching her. He’s gone from looking scared to looking devastated. Like a kicked dog.
“I’ll be back soon, dear. Don’t wait up for me.”
He doesn’t answer. She spends ten minutes online, giving Alan’s credit card a little workout. She remembers his e-mail address from his Web site, but she does have to give him a few gentle slaps to get him to spill his preferred Internet password. It gives her tremendous plea sure to hear his password is
Jacqueline.
What a sap.
When she’s finished with the computer, she sits on the bed and opens up the defibrillator, pretending to press a few buttons.
“I’ve activated the automatic motion sensor. So if you struggle, or try to scream, it will give you a nasty jolt. Plus, it will make me really angry. Trust me, I’m much easier to get along with when you’re on my good side.”
She runs a finger along his forehead, wipes the blood off on a pillowcase, and leaves the hotel room, making sure to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
It’s a bright day, bright and painfully sunny, a sharp contrast to the cool wind chilling her scalp. Alex stands in the parking lot, pretending to search her pockets for her keys but actually getting the lay of the land. No one loitering. No parked cars with tinted windows or with the engines running. She knows that the authorities have by now found the Hyundai’s own er, dead in the ditch, and are looking for his car and his murderer.
She heads on to the car, climbs in, and drives twice around the parking lot. No tails.
Using the onboard GPS, she searches department stores in the area, and heads for the closest. She finds the superglue, the floss, the half-inch screw eyes, the inkjet printer and specialty paper, the socket set, the road flares, and the five-gallon gas canister easily enough, but has to walk up and down several aisles before finding the outlet timer. In the cosmetics department, she chooses a fire engine red nail polish. Standing in the checkout line, Alex notes that people are avoiding looking in her direction. She’s used to that—people tend to be repulsed by deformities, and after one glance they turn away. But in this case, people aren’t even giving her that first look.
It’s the uniform. People naturally distrust cops. In a weird way, it’s almost like being invisible. Alex watches a mother in line ahead of her, repeating over and over that she isn’t going to buy her son the toy he’s clutching and whining about. It reminds Alex of Samantha, the stripper with the little girl from yesterday, and Alex digs out her cell.
“Sammy? It’s Gracie.”
“Gracie?” Samantha sounds groggy. It’s lunchtime, but dancers work late hours.
“We met yesterday at the bookstore. You offered to take me clothes shopping.”
“Oh, hi! Glad you called.”
Alex’s eyes flick to a woman, Caucasian, mid-fifties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that she probably bought at this store. Short hair, brown with blond streaks. Gym shoes. Strangely, no purse. She’s beelining in this direction, face frantic, arms pumping.
“I’m free to night,” Alex says. “What’s your schedule look like?”
“I have off. I can call my neighbor, have her watch Melinda.”
The woman is a few steps away now, so close Alex can see the trickle of blood leaking from her nose.
“Officer!” the woman calls.
“That would be so cool,” Alex says into the phone. “You’ve got my number, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you. Awesome!”
“See you later.”
She hangs up just as the woman is tugging on her arm.
“He hit me and took my purse!” The woman’s voice is high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Her cheeks glisten with tears.
“I’m off duty, ma’am.” Alex points at her cart with her chin. “You should call 911.”
“You have to help me! Please! There he is!”
Alex follows the woman’s finger in the direction of a teenager sporting gang colors, heading for the exit. He’s about forty yards away, young, moving fast. He’ll be out the door in a matter of seconds. A challenging target.
The holster on Alex’s hip has an unfamiliar snap holding the gun in place, and she loses half a second fumbling with it. But the draw is smooth, her aim is sure, and the kid flops to the ground minus his right knee.
There’s a moment of shocked silence, then pandemonium, people diving and ducking and screaming and shouting. Alex drinks in the reaction.
“I can’t see from here, but it doesn’t look like he has your purse.” Alex talks louder than normal; her ears are ringing, and so are everyone else’s. “But he probably has your cash and credit cards on him. I’m guessing he ditched your purse someplace in the store.”
The woman’s jaw is hanging open. Alex tips her cap, holsters her gun, and pushes her cart toward the exit.
The gangbanger is on the floor, clutching his knee, face wrenched with pain. Early teens, peach fuzz on his chin. His running days are over. And from the amount of blood on the floor, his walking days might be over as well. He sees Alex approach and fumbles for something in his loose-fitting jeans. Alex draws again, pointing the barrel at his groin.
“I blew off your kneecap from over a hundred feet away,” she says. “You want to see what kind of damage I can do this close to you?”
He shakes his head, his whole body twitching, and slowly raises his empty hands. Alex digs into his pocket, takes out a battered .22. She tucks it into her belt.
“Do yourself a favor, kid, and quit crime. You suck at it.”
She walks out of the store with a cop swagger and a cart full of merchandise she didn’t pay for.
P
HIN AND I STARED AT EACH OTHER
for a little bit. I put on my cop face to keep my emotions hidden. But instead of Phin wearing his tough-guy face, he looked like the last kid picked for kickball.
“I’m not going to be around for long,” he said.
I folded my arms. “I’m not forcing you to help me, Phin. You can leave whenever you want to.”
“I meant being alive. I’m dying of cancer, Jack. I might not make it through winter.”
“Oh.” I was trying to be strong, not be an asshole. “Sorry.”
“It’s just—women carry pregnancy tests for two reasons. Because they think they’re pregnant…”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“…or because they want to get pregnant.”
“I don’t want to get pregnant. And you had no right to search my purse.”
“I wasn’t searching your purse. You told me to take money for donuts.”
“And you saw something wrapped in toilet paper and decided to take a look?”
“It wasn’t wrapped in toilet paper. It was sitting on top of your wallet.”
I wasn’t buying. I reached into my purse, pulled out the wad of toilet paper I’d used to wrap up the EPT, and waved it like a surrender flag.
“Are you saying this isn’t toilet paper?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, that’s toilet paper. But it wasn’t wrapped around anything.”
“Why else would I have toilet paper in my purse?”
Phin shrugged. “Emergencies? Afraid of being caught without it? How should I know? I’m not a chick, I don’t own a purse. I don’t know why you women keep half that stuff in there.”
“I only keep essentials in my purse.”
“You’ve got a wind-up plastic nun in there.”
“That’s Nunzilla. She shoots sparks out of her mouth.”
“That’s essential?”
“It was…a gift.”
Latham gave it to me, on our first-year anniversary.
“Look, I know you’re hurting. I know you miss him a lot. But if you’re trying to get pregnant to fill a void in your life, you should find a father who will be around for a while.”
I wasn’t sure what rankled more, Phin thinking I slept with him to get pregnant, or Phin thinking I needed a child to fill some void in my life.
“It’s not any of your business, but since you brought it up, I missed my last period and thought I might be pregnant, so I bought a pregnancy test when we were at the gas station last night. If you’d bothered to look closer, you’d see there was only one blue line, not two. I’m not pregnant, so this conversation is over.”
Phin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then cupped his elbow and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I believe you,” he said.
“Good. Because I’m telling the truth.”
“But if it’s negative, why did you save it?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. What was I supposed to tell him? That part of me wanted to be pregnant, so I could always have part of Latham with me? That maybe I did have a void that needed to be filled? That keeping a negative pregnancy test was one more way I could punish myself, as a reminder of what never would be?
I wasn’t ready to tell him that. Especially when he was high on coke.
“If you think I slept with you because I wanted a sperm donor—”
He raised his palms. “I’m just trying to understand you a little better.”
“Why? Why the hell do you need to understand me?”
“Because…”
He gave me that look again and I knew that he was going to say the L word, and I did not need to deal with that right now.
“Never mind,” I interrupted. “We need to get to Gurnee and meet Harry. You want to drive, or rifle through my purse some more?”
He went from lovey-dovey to wounded, which I preferred.
“I’ll drive.”
I followed Phin out to the Bronco. The day was gray, overcast, and matched my mood. We got in the truck and didn’t say anything to each other for the first half hour of the drive. I finally got hungry and picked out one of the donuts he bought.
“Sprinkles,” I said, after swallowing a bite.
“Excuse me?”
“I like donuts with sprinkles.”
“Oh. Good to know. Anything you want to know about me?”
He sniffled, rubbed his nose. I resisted the temptation to ask which coke he preferred, Colombian or Panamanian. I also resisted asking him about criminal acts he’d committed in his past. I was curious how bad this bad boy really was, but I was also a cop and might feel compelled to act on the information. Sometimes ignorance makes things easier.
“Does it hurt?” I asked instead.
“The cancer?”
I nodded.
“Only some of the time.”
“When doesn’t it hurt?”
“When I’m asleep.”
“The pain is bad?”
He nodded, took one hand off the wheel to rub his elbow again. I reached out, touched his injury.
“Jesus, Phin! It feels like you have a beanbag in your elbow.”
“It’s pieces of cartilage. I’m supposed to keep it immobile.”
“You should have it in a sling. You don’t want permanent damage.”
“It won’t be permanent,” he said.
He didn’t say it with regret, or self-pity. He said it matter-of-factly, like he was talking about the weather.
I’d met some tough guys. Cops. Military. Bikers. Mobsters. Killers. With one sentence, Phin took the tough-guy crown. Which made me want to kiss him.
Jesus, this was messed up.
The phone rang. I cringed, thinking it was Alex, but it was Harry again.
“Where you at, sis?”
“We’re taking the Gurnee exit now.”
“I’m on the north side of the mall. Knock three times.”
“What about that deal you made?” I asked, referring to him selling out Phin to the Feds. I didn’t want to walk into a Feebie party.
“Not until we catch Alex. Trust me.”
Gurnee Mills was one of the largest malls in America, but the Crimebago was easy to find, even in the packed parking lot. Phin pulled up behind it, and I knocked three times like Harry instructed.
“Door’s open!” he called from inside.
Upon opening the door, I was greeted by a nasty smell. Not the normal nasty smell I associated with Harry. Something far worse.
“Jesus, Harry, it stinks in here.”
“I’m working on that.”
Harry was in a rumpled suit, stained with wet spots of various colors. He was holding a handful of those cardboard pine-scented car fresheners shaped like Christmas trees. But I wasn’t smelling pine. I was smelling zoo on a hot day.
There was a scream to our left, and I dropped to one knee and struggled to dig my gun out of my purse. When I got it in my hand Harry grabbed my wrist.
“Sis, don’t shoot Slappy!”
Another screech. I followed the sound to a large wire cage. Inside the cage was a monkey. It was light brown, perhaps eight or nine pounds, with large brown eyes and the cutest little monkey face.
I put my gun away.
“This is the extra help you recruited?” I asked.
He nodded, grinning. “He’s a pig-tailed macaque.” Harry said it
mack-a-cue
.
“I think it’s pronounced
ma-kak
,” Phin said.
Harry scratched his stubble. “That’s not what Al told me.”
“Al?”
“Al at Al’s Exotic Pets, in Deer Park. He sold him to me this morning.”
“He’s adorable,” I said, meaning it. “Why’d you name him Slappy?”
On cue, the monkey slapped himself on the side of the head. He did this over and over, increasing in speed and force. The sound wasn’t unlike applause.
Harry frowned. “There wasn’t much of a selection down at Al’s. It was either him or another primate I would have named Gassy. He also had some sort of gibbon, missing an arm and both legs.”
“Stumpy?” Phin said.
“More like Sitty. I’ve seen turtles that moved faster. I wonder if he was dead.”
“I think you chose perfectly,” I said.
Slappy screeched again, baring sharp yellow teeth.
“You sure he’s tame?”
“Most of the time. But don’t put your fingers near the cage.”
I knelt down on the carpet to get a closer look. Monkeys always fascinated me, ever since I was a little girl. Blame Curious George.
“Hello, Slappy. I’m Jack.”
Something wet hit me in the cheek. Something wet and brown and horribly stinky.
“Your monkey threw poop at me.”
“He does that. There are baby wipes next to his cage.”
I reached for one, and Slappy managed to pitch another slider, which hit me in the nose.
“I think he’s aiming for my mouth,” I said, mopping my face with baby wipes.
“Are you wearing makeup? He was rescued from a research lab. They tested cosmetics on him. Don’t let him see your lipstick—he gets a little agitated.”
“I’m not wearing—” I dodged left, a monkey turd zinging by my face. He was definitely aiming for my mouth.
“I like him,” Phin said. “He’s spunky.”
Slappy aimed and Phin ducked, dung splattering on the wall.
“Remind me again why you bought this thing,” I said to McGlade.
“I wanted to train him to get me beer and watch sports. But all he does is throw feces, hit himself in the face, and scream. He’s kind of a downer.”
Slappy screamed in agreement. Then he pressed his pelvis against the side of the cage and urinated on the floor. The smell was pee times a hundred, and made me cover my nose.
“He does that too,” McGlade said. “A lot. Al said he knows how to use the toilet.”
The stream arced through the air, landing on Harry’s sofa. Harry picked up a coffee mug that said
Don’t Worry Be Happy
and tried to catch the stream. I stepped away.
“I think maybe Al lied to you.”
Slappy screeched, then began banging his little monkey head into the side of his cage.
“You should buy him a helmet,” Phin said.
“He came with one. I took it off because I thought it was cruel. Now I’m afraid to get close enough to put it back on.”
I crouched down again, wary of another salvo but determined to make friends.
“I think you just need to learn some manners, and then you’ll be fine,” I told Slappy, keeping my voice soft. “You’re probably just scared. I would be too, living with Harry. But I bet with a few days of training, you’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Slappy stopped banging his head and made an adorable cooing sound. Then he grabbed his little monkey ding-dong and began to beat off with frightening intensity, keeping his eyes on me the whole time.
Never saw Curious George do that.
I got out of range and busied myself looking for the rifles. They were in the bedroom closet. I checked to make sure they were loaded, safeties on.
“What does he eat?” Phin asked.
“It’s called monkey chow. It’s not that bad. Sort of tastes like meat-flavored charcoal briquettes.”
“You tried it?”
“Yeah. Want some?”
“I’m gonna pass on that one.”
“Slappy hates them. See?”
I carried the rifles back to the main room just as McGlade was bending down, handing Slappy a tan square object the size of a mini candy bar. Slappy took it, screeched, and bounced the food off Harry’s forehead.
“Well, it’s been fun,” I told Harry. “But we’ve got to get going.”
Harry frowned. “But I want to tell you how I found the second phone. It was in the mall, hidden behind a flat-screen TV at Sears. I used my Bluetooth receiver and…”
I kept one eye on Slappy as Harry droned on. The macaque seemed to be temporarily out of bodily fluids, but I didn’t know what his refractory period was.
“That’s brilliant,” I interrupted, “but we really have to hit the road.”
“How about lunch? We can grab some lunch together. Sis?”
“Not hungry,” I said. “Might never be hungry again.”
“Phin?”
“No thanks.”
“Please don’t leave me alone with Slappy,” Harry said.
“Maybe a beer will calm him down.”
“You think?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“How about whiskey? Think a shot of whiskey is too strong?”
“I’d give him a different kind of shot,” Phin said. “One in the head, then a quick funeral wrapped in newspaper.”
Harry stared at Slappy, as if considering it.
“Harry, you can’t kill your monkey.”
That was how my day was going, cautioning people against murder.
“Maybe Al will trade him for the amputee one,” Phin suggested.
“How can a no-legged monkey fetch me beer? Roll it to me?”
“You can tie a little cord to his neck, and he can tug it behind him.” Phin mimed a one-armed primate dragging itself across the floor.
McGlade winced. “That’s not fun. That’s depressing. I wanted a fun pet.”
“You’re right. A pet that throws shit at you is a lot more fun.”
“Maybe a glass cage? Then he couldn’t throw anything.”
“He still could,” Phin said. “It would just cling to the inside walls. You’d have a big brown box.”
“How about some sort of restraining device. Do they make little macaque-size handcuffs?”
Monkey bondage was our cue to leave.
“We gotta go, Harry. I’ll call you later.”
I herded Phin past the monkey cage, giving Slappy a wide berth. He was sitting down, looking vaguely superior, like a king on a throne.
We got out of there before the king threw anything else at us.
“Where to?” Phin asked after we climbed into the truck.
“The woods. Someplace secluded.”
“Got something in mind?” He grinned at me.
“In fact I do. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Want to clue me in?”
I closed my eyes, thought it through, then said, “Just drive to a place where no one will be bothered by gunfire.”