Authors: J. A. Konrath
A
NOTHER DRIVE, BUT SHORTER THIS TIME.
Staying in Chicago isn’t a smart idea. By now the authorities know she’s here. Killing across state lines is a federal crime, so the FBI is going to be involved. Plus, the CPD won’t take threatening one of their own lightly. Everyone will be looking for her, and hers isn’t a face that’s easily forgotten.
But just because Alex has to be in Chicago for one final crime doesn’t mean she has to stay there. So instead she gets a room in nearby Rosemont, at a second-tier hotel near the airport. She dons the black veil and pretends to be a grieving widow as she checks in, the fake sniffles and sobs giving her an excuse to keep her hand on her face, over her scars.
When Alex gets to her room she collapses onto the bed, exhausted. She thinks about her upcoming sabbatical, and how nice it will be to take a break from killing for a while. After she kills the doctor, of course.
There’s still Jack to deal with. And that asshole Harry. And Phin. But the need for revenge, pressing on Alex’s every thought like a full bladder, isn’t quite as pressing. Jack’s not dead, but she’s certainly suffering.
And it’s going to get a lot worse,
Alex thinks. After Herb dies, she’s going after Jack next.
It’s kind of sad, really. Alex has been fixated on Jack for so long that having her gone will leave kind of a gap. Perhaps it’s best to savor the little time they have left.
Alex kicks off her shoes, wiggles her toes, and locates the nail polish she bought earlier. She dials, then begins painting the first little piggie.
The phone is answered on the third ring, but Jack doesn’t say anything.
“What, no hello?” Alex asks. “Rude. Are you still mad at me for Alan? That was hours ago.”
“I’m going to find you.”
Jack sounds weak.
“I know. And I’m going to make it easy for you. Tomorrow, after your partner dies, I’m going to call you and we’ll set up a meeting. Just me and you, Jack. That’s what you want, right? Revenge?”
No answer.
“Are you still there? If you want, I can call up Harry instead.”
“I’m here.”
“And you want revenge, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Quiet and squeaky, like a mouse.
“I’m an expert in revenge, and let me tell you something. It doesn’t bring back the dead. Sure, it’s fun. I’m having a great time slaughtering everyone important to you. But Charles is still dead. And even if, by some miracle, you happen to kill me, Latham will still be dead. Herb will still be dead. Alan will still be dead.”
“You’re the next one to die, Alex.”
Alex listens to the background sounds. Wind. A car passing at a high speed. She discerns Jack is on a highway.
“What happened to Phin? Were you too much of a downer so he took off?”
“Get to the point.”
“I wanted to tell you that I watched you try to save your husband. Exciting stuff. You know, you were only about thirty seconds late. If you’d been just a little faster, he’d still be with us.”
Another sound joins the wind and car noises. Alex is overjoyed to hear it.
“Lieutenant Daniels, are you crying?”
The sound becomes muted. Jack has put her hand over the mouthpiece. Not only is she devastated, she’s also embarrassed.
How delicious.
“He’s in a better place, Jack. If he lived, he’d just be pining for you. Did you know his Internet password was
Jacqueline
? I’m not making that up. And he still had a picture of you in his wallet. Poor sap. I bet he was the type who sent you poems. Did he write you a poem, after your first time? Something about how lovely you were, fucking him in that restaurant bathroom? What rhymes with
toilet
?”
“I’m…I’m going to—”
“Jack, woman to woman, threats don’t really work when you’re crying like a baby. It’s pathetic. Now, fun as this little chat has been, I’m painting my toenails and it isn’t easy holding the phone at the same time. So here’s the deal. When I call tomorrow, with the clue to save your partner, you’ll have to react fast. You won’t have twelve hours, or two hours. You’ll have less than a minute. Use it wisely.”
Alex hangs up, pleased with how the call went, but not pleased with the job she’s done on her first few toes.
Now isn’t the time to be sloppy. Alex pads over to the bathroom, dumps some acetone on a hotel towel, and wipes off the nail polish to start again.
B
Y THE TIME
I found a room for the night I was a mess. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I’d walked several miles, freezing my tail off, before finding a small mom-and-pop motel with carpeting older than I was. I ate out of the lobby vending machine, not tasting a damn thing, and drew a bath in a cracked tub with water tinted orange.
I crawled in and let the guilt overtake me, crying until my throat hurt. Mixed with the guilt was shame, for not being there for Herb when he needed me most, and anger, at Phin and Harry and Alex, but most of all at myself for allowing all of this to happen.
And hate. I felt hate so dark it scared me. I didn’t just want to kill Alex. I wanted to burn her alive and watch her scream. I’ve lived—hell, I’ve
dedicated
my life to upholding the law, but I would trade every arrest I’d ever made, ever perp I ever put behind bars, for twenty minutes alone with Alex in a small cell, her handcuffed to a chair, me with a baseball bat.
What had I become?
A drip, from the lime-coated showerhead above me, dimpling the surface of the water between my feet. I stared up at it, and then the shower curtain, old and stained but on an aluminum rod that looked strong, sturdy. It would probably support my weight. I didn’t have any rope, but there was a gas station on the corner.
Stupid. Cops don’t hang themselves. They eat their guns.
I thought about the Beretta in my backpack. One bullet, and I’d stop feeling this awful. I’d let so many people down, myself included. One bullet would make it all go away.
You’re being weak, Jack.
So? Can’t I be weak for once?
Killing yourself is the coward’s way out.
Okay, I’m a coward. One more reason to hate myself.
I stood up, walked naked into the bedroom. Stared at my backpack.
You’re seriously considering this?
A sob caught in my throat. I blinked away some tears.
Yes. It’s the best idea I’ve had all week.
I reached my hand inside, wrapped my hand around the butt of my gun. It felt solid. Reassuring.
Just do it.
I closed my eyes, tried to think of a reason to stop myself. Faces popped into my head.
Mom, begging me not to.
Sorry, not good enough.
Dad, tacking an article about my suicide onto the wall in his spare bedroom, to add to the dozens of other articles and pictures of me.
Take it all down, Wilbur. I’m not worthy of a shrine.
Harry, telling me I hated myself.
You nailed that one, bro.
Phin, saying he loved me.
Looks like you’ll outlive me after all.
Alex, laughing at all the pain she’s caused.
Not my problem anymore.
Latham, his kind, sad, beautiful face, telling me I had to be strong.
Why? Why do I have to be strong all the goddamn time? Where has it gotten me?
Alan, his eyes rolled up in his head…
Enough. I’m done.
I want out.
I opened my mouth, brought up the gun, my hand shaking so much I had problems getting the barrel between my lips.
Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels vs. the world.
The world wins.
It always does.
I flicked off the safety, put my thumb on the trigger, and opened my eyes so I could watch myself do it in the bureau mirror. I wanted the last thing I ever saw to be how pathetic I looked.
Movement, peripherally, to my right.
My gun pointed reflexively, and I pulled the trigger on instinct.
Rat. Big one in the corner.
Deader than hell now, without a head.
I laughed, once, but it sounded more like a strangled cough.
In a way, that’s all I was good for. Killing rats.
But I
was
good. I was very good.
And there was still one rat left to kill. The biggest one of all.
I put the gun back in the pack, got dressed, and called a cab to take me to a better motel, all thoughts of suicide momentarily replaced by thoughts of murder.
T
HE MORNING AND EARLY AFTERNOON
are going to be uneventful. Alex orders room ser vice and spends some time familiarizing herself with a M18A1 she’s taken from Lance’s boss, the bomb squad lieut. It’s a serious piece of hardware, appropriate for the job, and comes with det wire and a spring trigger. On the green plastic cover are three words.
FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.
Alex runs her fingers over the embossed letters and smiles her half smile. God love the military.
Next she shapes a good-sized hunk of PENO into a cone and sets up the blasting cap, sun cord, and sparker.
Then it’s a pay-per-view action film, charged to the room. A cop thriller, with a hard-nosed veteran chasing a wily serial killer. Alex liked it up until the end, when the cop predictably shot the villain down. Why can’t there be a movie where the killer beats the cop and gets away? Wouldn’t that be cool?
Alex blames the writers. None of them have the balls to let the bad guy win.
But the bad guys do win sometimes. People have to learn to accept that.
Lunch is room ser vice, again, and the food is so bland and mediocre, and the room so run-down, that Alex wonders how this place can even stay open, especially since it isn’t really cheap. Maybe they have a lot of conventions here.
The hotel has a tiny workout room with a dearth of decent equipment. Alex makes use of the StairMaster for an hour, a towel wrapped around her neck and hiding her face should anyone else come in. No one does. Then it’s back to her room for a shower and another movie—this one a romantic comedy starring Sarah Jessica Parker, who is cute and dresses great but can’t make up for a lackluster script.
Finally, the clock zeroes in on three p.m. She grabs her gear, fights awful traffic, and makes it to downtown Chicago and the corner she’d staked out yesterday. Alex parks in a pay lot, sets up her laptop, finds a free WiFi connection—Chicago abounds with hot spots—and accesses the phone taped to Herb’s tree. She watches the live feed.
The house looks normal, no unusual activity, but Alex can guess that there are a bunch of cops inside, as well as throughout the neighborhood. All waiting for her.
Won’t they be surprised when she doesn’t show up?
Alex keeps her cell phone handy—when things happen, they’ll happen fast. Then she settles in to watch the show.
I
T WAS ALL I COULD DO
not to tear out my hair in frustration.
Two calls to Detective Tom Mankowski confirmed that Herb was being closely guarded. He was still home—something he insisted upon because he wanted to be bait—but he had three cops and two Feebies in there with him. In neighboring houses were ten more cops and just as many Feds. There were three SRT snipers on nearby rooftops. Air support was standing by. As Mankowski said, a squirrel couldn’t fart within a block of the area without having six guns drawn on it.
But the waiting was still torture. Herb was my partner. I should be there. Instead, I was pacing in a Wisconsin hotel room, my fingernails chewed down to blood, waiting for something to happen. Hopefully, the something would be of the good variety, involving Alex getting gunned down. But I had a feeling that Herb wasn’t as safe as everyone wanted to believe.
What were they missing? What was I missing? How do you get to a guy who is heavily protected?
A long-range weapon? That had been anticipated. A mail bomb? The mail for Herb’s route had been checked out and cleared back at the post office, and FedEx, UPS, and DHL had nothing for Herb or for his address. Hidden explosives? Earlier in the day, two bomb-sniffing dogs had covered every inch of Herb’s property.
He was safer than the Pope. But we had to be forgetting something.
Unless Alex was lying. Unless Herb wasn’t the target at all.
She couldn’t get to my parents. Phin was unreachable. Harry?
I called him, using the hotel room phone.
“Hi, sis. I forgive you for acting like a jerk yesterday. I found the Milwaukee cell phone. Motel lobby, at the Old Stone Inn, behind the ice machine. Weren’t you just there?”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to Chicago. That’s where the next one is. You wouldn’t believe how much gas I’ve gone through the last few days. I think I’m getting about three hundred yards per gallon.”
“Harry, Alex might have been lying about Herb. You might be the next target.”
“Let her try for me. Slappy will take care of her.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I am too. After you left, I gave the monkey some pills, to calm him down.”
I shook my head, amazed. “You gave the monkey Vicodin?”
“I thought it was. But the wrong pills were in the bottle. I actually gave him Viagra. He’s been a little, uh,
aggressive
since then.”
“I bet.”
“I got him back in his cage by throwing in a cashmere sweater he’s taken a serious liking to. He and the sweater have been going at it non-stop for about eight hours. But if I open the cage, he’ll pounce on Alex like a starving man after a donut.”
“Be careful, McGlade.”
“I’ll be okay. If he jumps on me, I’ll be wearing earplugs and nose-plugs and keep my mouth closed tight.”
“I meant with Alex.”
“Slappy and I are ready. Does Mom like cashmere?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Not this sweater. A new sweater. I was going to give this one to Herb.”
“Stay in touch,” I told him.
“Does this mean we’re partners again?”
“Just stay in touch.”
I hung up, did some more pacing, tried to eat a room ser vice turkey club, failed, did more pacing, tried to watch a movie, failed, called Tom again for an update when none was needed, did push-ups until my arms wouldn’t work anymore, paced, and finally around four p.m. Alex’s phone rang.
I picked up, expecting to see a text message. But instead I saw a photo, of Herb’s house, a red car parked in the driveway.
No, it wasn’t a photo. This picture moved, the car door opening.
This was a live feed.
I got on the phone, my phone, and hit the speed dial for Herb.
One ring.
A man was getting out of the car. Big, muscular, wearing a tight shirt.
Two rings.
The shirt had a logo on the back, large enough for me to read even on the small LCD phone screen.
1-800-MEATS4U.
Three rings.
But this couldn’t be the meat I ordered for Herb. That was being sent UPS, and not for another few days.
Alex. Somehow Alex knew about it.
The man reached into the passenger seat, removed a large white foam box.
Why weren’t the cops taking him down?
“Hello?”
“Bernice! It’s Jack!”
The big guy walked up to the front door. Two figures with FBI on their jackets rushed at him from both sides.
“Jack, the Turduckinlux is here.”
“I didn’t send the—”
Herb’s front door opened, and then an explosion shook the camera. I heard a shocking
BOOM
through the tiny speaker of my cell, so startling I dropped my phone.
My other hand clenched Alex’s phone, the screen fuzzy and gray. I watched, horrified, as the smoke cleared.
Herb’s front porch, and a large chunk of his house, were gone.
I picked up my cell, whispered into it, “Bernice.”
She didn’t answer. But in the background, I heard screaming.