Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (50 page)

I feel woozy. Like I am about to faint.

Just keep moving. God, help me move.

85

June 21, 12:01 a.m.

YOU HAVE GOT
to be kidding me. What else can go wrong? It
sounds like we have visitors, darling Klarissa.
Just when I thought I had
you all to myself.

I
do find it frustrating that people won’t leave me alone to do my work. That’s all I asked for at this moment. To
be left alone.

Sadly,
Angel, our last time together is going to be rushed. Very rushed.

86

ADRENALINE IS AN amazing gift from God. Not even the cortisone our team trainer used to shoot me with works like this. My knee feels no pain. I am sprinting up the stairs to the second floor. I know where he is and he knows I’m coming. I reach for my Beretta and discover it hasn’t magically appeared. No matter. I can take him.

He’s got a choice: fight or flight. I have a feeling he made up his mind long before this moment.

I’m at the top of the stairs. In the back of my mind, I know that my knee is shredded and will soon be weeping in agony. That doesn’t worry me. A little voice is telling me that when the hand-to-hand combat starts, I won’t be able to kick effectively, if at all. I may not weigh as much as the guys, but Soto says I pack a big punch. I hope he’s right.

I stride down the narrow hallway to the back corner room. The key for me now is to not think but to just keep moving and let my training take over. There is no plan available other than a full assault on the bedroom door. Kick it in and be ready to attack anything that moves. Other than Klarissa.

Has not waiting for backup, for a full-blown SWAT team, encouraged the Shark to move faster? Maybe. But in the depths of my spirit I know that this is the only possible course of action if I am to save Klarissa.

I’m at the door and try to turn the knob. Locked. I take a step back, balance myself on my damaged right leg, and give an excruciating kick that buckles the door open.

I can only hope that my relatively quiet mad dash up the stairs gives me even a second of surprise to lash out first.

Hold on, Klarissa.

87

June 21, 12:02 a.m.

ONLY
ONE SET
of steps. And they are light. Could it be?
She came alone? If she
did, then I will admit .
. . not even I could have planned it so well. That
would be too good to be
true.

Sisters. A two-for-one bargain. Incredible.

Come on, Kristen, keep moving. To think I was ready to just settle for your sister before leaving town. But this is so much better. I get my sweet
detective in the bargain too. I’m not going
to get to express my
full artistry—I’m sure the Keystone Kops are right behind her—but two in the hand is worth more than one in the bush. Ha ha.

Just a few more steps . . .

88

I DON’T HAVE to guess where the Cutter Shark is as I hurl myself into the room. He is on top of me as I come through the shattered door. I have a split second to see his face and an eternity to take everything in. I even have time to agree that it must be possible to see your entire life pass before your eyes in the instant before death. He’s not what I expected—and nothing like his pictures. He looks like a middle-aged skinhead with lots of tattoos.

Robert Frost’s road poem flashes in my mind. Two roads diverged in the woods or snow or something. That seems quite apt for Dell and Dean. Whatever happened to them as boys, they definitely went different directions. The road I took, following my dad as a cop, means that for Dean and me, our roads have now converged.

The instant I kicked the door in, it bounced off the rubber stopper and Dean used the momentum of the door bouncing back to drive it at me and try to sandwich me in the doorway. The door whacks the right side of my body and my right arm. I’m pretty sure it broke my wrist. I’m very dependent on my right foot and hand, and that side of my body is now nearly out of commission. I spin away in agony, narrowly avoiding his roundhouse punch. I think of my dad taking me to the soccer field and having me kick left-footed goals over and over to build my power and aim. Thanks, Dad.

I hope there is some physical memory trace to help me now.

As he tackles me in a bear hug and both of us slam against a nightstand, the lamp crashes to the floor and we carom off the side of the bed and sprawl into the center of the spacious room. I catch a glimpse of Klarissa. She is tied to the bed with duct tape at her wrists and ankles. I see a flash of blood. Is she dead already? Am I too late? I want to scream. I focus and feel a supernatural energy to fight kick in. Adrenaline or God? Maybe both.

We grapple and roll and he ends up on top of me. He tries to pin me on my back but then reaches back to pull a knife from his belt. I spit in his face. He recoils and gives me just enough room to really arch my spine and put everything I have into a head butt. I catch him right on the bridge of the nose. It is with great satisfaction that I hear the cartilage splinter and see blood explode from his face.

He instinctively shoots both hands to cover his mangled nose and I am able to twist and scoot away on all fours. I thrust a donkey kick back in the direction of his head. I feel a nice solid thud on his jawbone with my left foot.

Enraged and bleeding he lunges at me from a crouch. He got the knife out fast and the blade is arcing sideways toward the center of my body. Half kneeling, I still get an arm up inside his trajectory and deflect his slash, while rolling away as hard as I possibly can. My wrist is definitely broken and I can hear more bones grinding from the force of his blow. The knife is already flashing toward me again and despite partially blocking it, I feel the blade cutting the flesh in my obliques. But I actually feel a surge of relief, knowing he missed my vitals and that the gash is going to be mostly superficial. What’s another scar? Mom always tells me I should wear one-piece bathing suits. It crosses my mind she is going to get her wish. I get my left foot back up. Not enough room for a kick, but I push him away with it. We both stagger to our feet.

“You just love screwing things up, don’t you?” he asks, panting and circling me. “I’m going to put an end to that.”

He moves the knife in small circular movements in front of him. I take a step backward and then a second and third as he moves toward me.

What’s left of the door is shut and I’m almost trapped against it. He lashes at my face and I duck under it. The momentum of his attack carries him forward as he jams the tip of the knife into the solid wood of the door frame. I watch his eyes widen from the effort to pull the blade free. I deliver a left-right combo, my broken right to his gut with little force, but my left hard to his mouth. He pulls the knife free and tries a quick back cut with it. I anticipate correctly and move to the side, landing a hard kidney punch. I hear him exhale sharply. But he counters with an elbow to my jaw and tries to grab my hair. I jump back and we are facing each other. I can hear a herd of loud footsteps on the floor below. He doesn’t seem to notice. He has a crazed, bloody smile on his face. Blood is even bubbling between his teeth as he grins, reminding me of a . . . shark.

Help has arrived, but they won’t get up here in time to save me. Whatever happens next is up to me. Problem is I’m physically shot. I can barely stand, much less move. Now it’s me on the precipice between life and death. I’ve taken my sister’s place. They’ll get here in time to save her. I put her in harm’s way, so it seems only right.

Ever the predator, he smells blood in the water and moves in for the kill.

Don’t give up now.

I spin into an excruciating crouch and drive my left fist into his solar plexus with every ounce of power I have—Barry Soto would be proud. Dean seemed to be looking for a right and I mixed it up. I won’t tell Mr. Barry it was from necessity.

Dean grunts and I hear a raspy wheeze as the air is knocked from his lungs from my blow. I dart forward. He has lowered the knife trying to catch his breath. I get halfway around him and manage to hook a finger in his eye socket with my thumb leveraged on the base of his already fractured nose. He screams and drops his knife, but still manages to lunge away, freeing himself from my grip. He recovers in a blink and comes at me low, but way too slow. I get both of my hands behind his head and pull forward as I drive my left knee forward into his already severely damaged face. But even as he falls back he drives his leg up and retaliates by nailing me in the crotch. I bend forward in pain, praying that nothing’s broken down there. I may not want a husband just yet, but I know I want children someday.

Footsteps are pounding up the stairs. I have a chance. Now I’m simply trying to stay away from him. I’m panting, circling, bleeding, limping. Neither of us has a weapon. He bull-rushes me and grabs my hair to push me down and drives a sharp elbow into the middle of my upper back as I go down. The momentum is his, but I’m not through. I throw my head back and up, hoping to catch him on the nose again. I’ll settle for the chin. I know the force of my head and his face meeting will hurt me as much as it does him, but I’ve got to get free. If he gets me to the floor again, I’m history. I connect with his chin and from the sound of grinding and twisting bone, I’m sure I’ve busted his jaw. I hope so, because I really am seeing stars and wobbling defenselessly on my feet with my back to him. He’s too injured to finish me when he could have. But somehow we are both upright and facing off again. We look in each other’s eyes. How am I going to attack him next? What do I have left that works?

His face is a twisted, tortured chunk of hamburger meat. He takes a faltering step forward, fists up, sneering. I bob to the right again and come back with a straight left to his already shattered jaw. He falls backward with a small grunt and lands flat on his back. He is out for the count. I barely stay on two feet and stare at his hands for any sign of movement. I then kick him as hard as I can in the side with my left foot, just in case he’s playing possum. A couple of broken ribs will make any sudden motion just about impossible. But he doesn’t even groan.

I still don’t feel safe. My eyes never leave him as I stumble over to my sister. She is sobbing, but no tears are falling down her cheeks and she is not making a sound. She could be doing a pantomime in an old silent movie or posing for Edvard Munch’s
Scream
painting. I look her in the eyes and they are absolutely empty. But she’s alive.

We can worry about empty eyes tomorrow.

I pull her close and feel the pulse on her neck, which is strong and true. I try to rip the duct tape off her, but I’m too weak. I fall back on the bed beside her.

Don, Martinez, Blackshear, and Reynolds crash through the door, guns in two hands and safeties off, their eyes racing in every direction. The cavalry has arrived. My heroes. It’s about time, you slackers. I don’t have enough energy to say anything out loud. The battle’s already won. I can relax now.

But instead I pass out.

89

June 22, Obituary Page, Chicago Sentinel

ALLEN (AJ) JOHNSON, 56, died at his home in Lombard, Illinois, on June 19. The cause of death was internal bleeding from knife wounds. Johnson was a longtime news anchor for WCI-TV and for the past six years produced his own news report that was distributed exclusively over the web. He was known as the ChiTownVlogger.

Johnson was the only child of Frank and Mary Johnson. He is a graduate of St. Michael the Archangel High School. He attended Lombard Junior College and the University of Illinois Chicago Circle Campus, where he studied public policy and journalism. While at UICCC, he was editor of the student newspaper and one of the first graduates of its school of journalism.

It is estimated that his ChiTownVlogger site received more than half a million hits every day. He was the second-to-last victim of serial killer Dean Woods, the man that Johnson dubbed the “Cutter Shark.”

Johnson was a particularly vocal critic of Mayor Michael T. Doyle Jr. The mayor issued the following comment in a press release from City Hall: “Many people assumed that I disliked the ChiTownVlogger. Honestly, I found him entertaining. I always respected his willingness to engage in the issues confronting our city. We will miss his sense of humor, his wit, and his call to accountability.”

According to Allen Bowker, professor emeritus at the McGill School of Journalism, Northwestern University: “The mainstream press dismissed the ChiTownVlogger for his brand of ‘yellow journalism,’ yet he was both admired and feared by the same people who criticized him. His popularity with Gen-X and younger residents of Chicago far outpaced the major newspapers and television and radio stations. His death will leave a hole in the fabric of Chicago’s information and entertainment network.”

Johnson was preceded in death by both parents. He is survived by a daughter, Rebecca Johnson, who is a graduate student at the University of Illinois.