Authors: Chelsea Cain
Archie threw her to the ground. How he did that, since he could barely walk, she didn’t know. Maybe he just stopped trying to stand and took her with him when he fell.
She opened her eyes just as the axe hit the concrete by her head. The floor shook and sparks exploded from the blade.
The axe lifted again and she covered her head with her hands.
And then there was another gunshot—this one much, much closer—and then the thud of a body hitting concrete along with the metallic slap of an axe head.
Susan did a quick mental inventory of limbs. No blinding pain. Her head still seemed attached to her neck.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head. She was panting. Archie was on top of her, shielding her from the axe blow. He rolled off her and sat up.
Henry was moving toward them, his gun still trained on Jeremy, who now lay facedown on the floor.
Cops rushed in from everywhere—impressive, because as far as
Susan could tell, there were only two doors. They had their guns drawn and it seemed as if all of them were shouting, only Susan’s head was spinning so hard she still couldn’t absorb any of the content.
“It’s okay,” Henry yelled at no one in particular. He put his gun down and lifted his arms. “We’re okay.” He lowered his gaze at Susan. “I told you to wait for me.”
Susan, for once, didn’t have a comeback.
“She doesn’t do that,” Archie said. He crawled over to where Jeremy lay facedown on the floor. “She doesn’t wait.”
“Is Jeremy dead?” Susan asked.
“It’s not Jeremy,” Archie said.
Claire burst through a foursome of anxious-looking patrol cops who were standing, guns still at the ready, on the edge of the light. She stopped in her tracks at the sight before her and then said something to the patrol cops that made them lower their weapons.
Then she moved to the body.
Susan crawled closer, too, next to Archie, so she could get a better look at the man who’d nearly chopped her up. His head was twisted to the side, eyes open blankly, and his lips fallen apart, revealing a set of sharply filed teeth. The bullet had hit him in the back of the neck. He was definitely dead.
Archie glanced up at Henry. “Jeremy left,” he said. “About a half hour ago. I don’t know when Shark Boy got here.”
Susan saw Henry’s face falter. He looked down at the man he’d just killed and cleared his throat. “It’s not Jeremy?”
“He was swinging an axe,” Claire said. “It was justifiable force.”
Henry’s face was slack for a moment and then he snapped back into action. “Suspect’s still at large,” he barked to everyone who’d assembled. “His car’s still out front. So he may be on foot. Fan out. He’s got a half hour on us.”
Someone hit a light switch and fifty caged industrial fluorescents sprang to life overhead, illuminating everything, and everybody. Susan’s eyes stung. Archie lifted a hand to wipe a smear of blood off his forehead. “Would you mind helping me find my pants?” he said.
C H A P T E R 58
Archie’s task force office was exactly as he’d left it two months earlier. His cherry-veneer desk, left over from the bank manager who’d had the office before him, was stacked with files. A faint layer of dust covered his computer keyboard. The office was small, just big enough for the desk, a bookshelf behind it, and two cheaply upholstered armchairs in front. The blinds were closed over the small window that looked out over the street. Henry, who’d run the place since he’d left, had locked it and led the manhunt for Gretchen from his own desk in the main room.
Archie leaned back in his chair, and was instantly reminded of the wounds on his back. He flinched and then eased back slowly. He was bandaged and back in his clothes; he’d washed his face; he’d given his statement; he’d let the EMTs redress his wounds.
A photograph of Debbie and the kids still sat propped by his desk lamp. Archie ran a finger along the top of the frame, lifting up the dust—Debbie with her mouth open, saying something, an arm around each kid. He realized, sadly, that he wouldn’t tell her about today. She didn’t need to know. She would never see the new scars.
Looking at the picture, he noticed for the first time that there was a picnic bench in the background. Archie picked up the photograph and squinted at it. They had stopped at a rest stop on their way up to Timberline Lodge. He chuckled darkly with recognition. His smiling family portrait—the only evidence of the only vacation they’d taken that year, and it was taken at the rest stop where Jeremy Reynolds would later spew his carnage.
Fucking perfect.
Archie pulled his top left desk drawer open. He reached in and felt around for the bottle of Vicodin he’d kept in there, but it was gone.
The office was almost exactly as Archie had left it.
Henry appeared in the doorway. He’d been in the conference room with Internal Affairs for the last two hours and he looked tired. Archie slid the drawer back closed.
“You know Frank doesn’t have a sister,” Henry said.
“I had an inkling,” Archie said.
“A woman called the Herald, claiming to be the owner of a shop on Hawthorne,” Henry said. “Said Pearl worked for her. But when Susan and I went there, the owner said she’d never made the call. But she did lead us to Pearl, which is how we found you.”
Archie leaned back in his chair. “You think Gretchen is my guardian angel now?”
Henry put his palms on the desk and looked, for a second, like he might push the thing through the floor. “Do you have a phone from her?” he asked.
Archie looked him right in the eye. “Nope,” he said.
He wasn’t lying. As far as he knew, it was still in Susan’s car.
Henry took a step back and sat down in one of the armchairs. “Claire said you refused medical care.”
“I refused to go to the hospital,” Archie said. “I let them treat
me at the scene. Don’t worry. I have an appointment with Rosenberg in the morning. And an NA schedule in my bag.”
Henry folded his hands in his lap and looked at them. “What did he do to you?” he said gruffly.
Archie had been tempted to omit some details. By the time he had recovered enough movement to lift his head the suspension gear was gone. He wasn’t sure he wanted them to know what had gone on between him and Jeremy. But he was tired of keeping secrets.
“I gave Claire a statement,” Archie said. “Go ahead and read it. But I’m not pressing charges.”
Henry lifted his head and glanced up at the ceiling as if for guidance. “What is it with you and psychopaths?”
“Jeremy confessed,” Archie said. “He took responsibility for the rest stop, and Fintan English, and the other three. You have him for four murders—everyone but Courtenay. You don’t need me.” Archie sat forward and folded his hands on his desk. “He remembers his sister’s murder. He told me everything.”
“You buy it?” Henry asked.
“He knew about the triangles, the contusions,” Archie said. “He remembers. He watched Gretchen kill her. He spent almost two days in that car.” He wanted Henry to see what this meant, to know that everything had changed. “She made him what he is.”
“You went through worse, and you’ve managed not to carve anyone’s eyes out.”
Archie shook his head. “I didn’t go through worse,” he said. Jeremy had watched Gretchen torture his sister. Archie had survived his own torture. But Jeremy had been innocent. Archie had brought it on himself. “It was just a different kind of bad.”
“No,” Henry said. “You aren’t like him.”