Read Jack Daniels Six Pack Online
Authors: J. A. Konrath
“I’m sorry, I don’t know any of those people.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I’ve called the police, but they haven’t been able to find her. Sam didn’t tell me much about Gracie, only that she was a dancer too before the car accident scarred her face.”
My core temperature dropped ten degrees.
“Gracie had a scarred face?”
“Just one side, Sam said.”
“Can you describe Samantha for me?”
“Tall. Athletic. Blond hair.”
“Did she have a pair of red boots?”
“She was a dancer. She had a lot of boots.”
“I’ve got your number. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up, feeling numb. This wasn’t Harry’s phone. It was Alex’s phone. The last phone in the daisy chain.
It all came to me in a rush. What Alex had done. How she’d pulled it off.
Alex was still alive. And she was getting away.
And I knew what I had to do to stop her.
N
OT PERFECT,
but not bad.
The plan had been to grab Jack and drive the Winnebago to the Prius parked a few blocks away. Then she’d blow up the RV, with Samantha Porter’s body inside, and Harry would ID the body from the ugly Enrique Perez boots. But things had gone a little squirrelly, and she had to abandon both Harry and Jack.
Still, the plan mostly worked. After her date with Sam, they’d gone back to her apartment. Alex had taken Sam’s passport, ID, and some of her belongings, then marched the naive stripper back to her Prius and shot her in the backseat.
Now Alex was Samantha. They looked enough alike that she should be able to cross the border into Mexico without any hassle. Once there, the plastic surgeon she’d been exchanging e-mails with would fix her scarred face, turning her into an exact copy of Sam, for the tidy sum of forty grand cash. After recuperating, Alex could go after Jack, Harry, and Phin at her leisure, without worrying about the law breathing down her neck.
Alex smiles, half her face immobile, and runs her hand along the My Ass jeans she’s wearing. Samantha’s jeans.
I knew I’d get into your pants.
Alex looks at her reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusts her bangs.
“Hello, Sam. I think I’m going to love you.”
For the first time in a long time, Alex has hope for the future. And it feels wonderful.
She checks out of the hotel using the TV remote control, grabs the duffel bag full of money, and notices that her cell phone, plugged into the charger, is blinking like it has a message.
Odd. No one should know this number.
She picks it up, sees the call forwarding is still on. Alex thought she’d turned it off. Maybe that’s what’s blinking. She turns it off for sure this time, and also double-checks that the Bluetooth is disabled.
Not that it matters. No one knows she’s alive. No one is coming after her.
Alex leaves the hotel and walks into the parking lot. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and warm. She left the windows open on the Prius last night, and the death smell is just about gone. There are some stains, if you look really close. Alex decides she’ll stop at the next car wash she sees and give the carpet a shampoo.
She climbs in, starts the car, and gets ready for the long drive south.
A few moments after pulling onto the expressway, her cell phone rings.
Alex’s breath catches. There’s a simple explanation. There has to be. It’s a wrong number. Or a telemarketer. Something stupid and harmless.
She picks it up but doesn’t answer, squinting at the caller ID.
555-5555.
What the fuck?
There has to be something wrong with the phone. That’s the only thing that makes sense.
Then it beeps, indicating a text message.
THIS IS ALEX. SHE’S A SERIAL KILLER.
It’s followed by a photo.
Alex’s mug shot.
THIS IS NOT SAMANTHA PORTER. AND THE BORDER PATROL KNOWS THAT.
This can’t be happening. This really can’t be happening. Alex has worked out every detail. This plan is perfect. Who the hell could have figured it out?
Another beep.
THIS IS JACK. SHE’S REALLY PISSED OFF.
A photo. Jack Daniels, staring right at her. Looking colder, harder, meaner, than Alex has ever seen before.
And Alex feels something she hasn’t felt since she was a little child, hiding in the basement from Father so he couldn’t punish her.
Alex feels absolute terror.
Someone honks, and Alex looks up and slams on the brakes, the Prius fishtailing, barely avoiding a collision with the car ahead of her. She pulls onto the shoulder, heart hammering, a giant lump in her throat preventing her from swallowing.
The phone rings again. Alex jumps in her seat.
Another ring.
Another ring—it seems to be getting louder.
Alex reaches for the phone, jittery and fearful, like it’s a scorpion, then tentatively holds it up to her ear.
“I know the ID you’re using,” Jack says. “I know the car you’re driving. You can’t leave the country. Once I call the state cops, you won’t even get out of Illinois.”
“What do you want?” Alex asks, surprised at how weak her voice sounds.
“To meet. We’re ending this, Alex, once and for all.”
Alex forces a laugh. “You’re insane. I’m not meeting with you. If I show up, I’ll be surrounded by cops.”
“No cops. Just us.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I’ll have my passport on me. Samantha Porter’s name is worthless to you. I’ve made sure of that. But if you kill me, you can be Jack Daniels. You’ll have to dye your hair from blond to brunette, but I’m betting you can manage.”
Alex considers it, then dismisses it almost immediately.
“No way. I’ve got no reason to trust you.”
“I’m not going to arrest you, Alex. I’m not going to make that mistake again. We’re meeting so I can kill you.”
Now Alex does actually laugh.
“You don’t have it in you, Jack. You’ve tried before and always lost.”
“I won’t lose this time.”
“Why? Because you’ll have one of your dumb-ass friends backing you up?”
“Harry and Herb are in the hospital. Phin is in federal custody, his bail set at a million dollars. This is between you and me, Alex. It’s always been between you and me.”
“And if I don’t show up?”
“Then I’ll be following you. Every day. Every hour. Every minute, I’ll be on your ass. But I won’t be playing it your way anymore, running around trying to save people. Latham left me a fortune, and I’ll spend every last dime hunting you down like the animal you are. If you want to live constantly looking over your shoulder, that’s up to you. But I want to finish this. Now.”
Alex drums her fingers on the steering wheel, her mind churning. She’s always been smarter than Jack. Outsmarting her one more time shouldn’t be hard. And if it actually came down to a fight, Alex is stronger, and faster, and a better shot. The only thing to worry about is being lied to, but Alex doesn’t sense any deceit on Jack’s part. One of the good lieutenant’s many flaws is her honest streak. Like a forty-seven-year-old Girl Scout.
“Fine,” Alex decides. “Same place as yesterday, behind O’Hare. If I sense something is funny, I won’t show up.”
“Twenty minutes,” Jack says.
Alex pulls back onto the expressway. Jittery—from nerves, excitement, and anticipation.
How fun it will be to live life as Jack Daniels.
I
T ISN’T MURDER.
Like my dad said, killing a rabid dog is actually mercy.
Which is why, when I pulled into the vacant lot and saw Alex parked in the distance, sitting behind the wheel of a Prius, I floored the gas and headed straight for her.
I had no idea what Alex had been expecting. Maybe a gunfight. Maybe a fistfight. And maybe she could have beaten me in both.
But in a demolition derby, a two-and-a-half-ton Ford Bronco truck beat a compact Toyota hybrid any day of the week.
By the time I got close enough to see Alex’s expression—pure shock that I wasn’t going to stop—she hit the accelerator. But it was too little, too late. The Bronco crashed into her front end with a satisfying, metal-crunching clang, the four-wheel-drive climbing up onto the hood of the tiny car, a heavy steel-belted radial smashing through her front windshield.
I jammed it into reverse, my tires found purchase on the gravel-covered asphalt, and I rocketed backward off the Prius, bouncing high in my seat from the shocks.
Alex was buried under an airbag, the front end of her car smashed to half its height. I backed up until I was a good fifty yards away, then punched it and rammed her again.
The Prius lurched sideways, its tires shrieking, the big truck pushing until it reached a divot in the cracked pavement and rolled up onto
its side, and then over the top, rocking upside-down like a big metal turtle.
I backed up again, but after a few feet something begin to whine under the floorboard. I tried to pop it into gear, and the truck jerked, then was still. I’d killed the transmission.
No biggie. I was just getting started.
I tugged on the door handle. It didn’t budge. So I stuck my Beretta in my teeth and climbed out the missing windshield onto the hood of the Bronco. I slid off the bumper and onto my feet, then went after her.
When I got within twenty feet of the Prius I fired three shots, bursting all three airbags. Keeping the Beretta aimed, I pressed on the airbag fabric, deflating it, ready to fire at the first thing underneath.
But there was nothing there. The car was empty.
I spun around just as I saw the blur. The kick connected solidly with my hand, my gun taking flight and arcing through the air, clattering to the concrete a few dozen feet away.
I pivoted, brought my own leg around, aiming at Alex’s chest. She turned into it, absorbing the kick on her shoulder. Then she shoved me away, backpedaled, and assumed a tae kwon do stance, legs apart and fists raised.
I got in the same stance.
“I’m going to rip your fucking head off,” Alex snarled at me.
“Bring it, bitch.”
Alex advanced, feinting with her left, hooking with her right. I ducked my head down, her knuckles grazing off my skull, and then I brought my knee up, driving it into her ribs.
She recovered quickly, spinning to my left, whacking me in the neck with the back of her hand. I staggered from the blow, and she followed up with a scissors kick, her body taking to the air.
Her foot met my jaw, hard enough to bring the stars out. I spun with it, and kept spinning until I hit the ground, slapping both palms against the tarmac to cushion my fall.
Alex was on me quick as a snake, punting one of my kidneys up into my lungs. I screamed, but managed to pin her leg on the second kick, shifting with it, flipping her onto her face.
I kept hold of her ankle, rolling her up, getting on top of her.
Then I grabbed her bleach-blond hair and introduced her face to the pavement. Once. Twice, three times, and then she tangled her hand in my hair and yanked me off.
We both rolled to our feet. Alex spat out blood and teeth. Her face was the picture of rage, the scar tissue stretched so taut it was pure white. She lunged, but anger had replaced form and I easily sidestepped the move, giving her a one-two punch to the nose.
She wiped a sleeve across her face, mopping off blood.
“You’re all alone, Jack. No one is here to save you this time.”
I thought of every major case I’d ever been on. Each time, someone had come to the rescue. Herb. Harry. Phin. None of them were here now to watch my back.
Alex was right. This time I was totally alone.
But this time I didn’t need any help.
I moved in, kicked at her instep, dropping her to one knee, then hammered a right cross home, jerking her head back. Alex brought up her fists, swung and missed. I followed the right with a left, rocking her sideways, then another right, and another left. It was like hitting a heavy bag, except heavy bags don’t whimper.
She fell onto both knees, not even fighting back, keeping her head covered up.
I grabbed her arms and my knee met her nose. If it hadn’t been broken before, now it was.
Alex slumped onto her ass. She wasn’t getting up again.
“Lucky,” Alex said, blood dribbling down her face from eight different places. “You got lucky.”
“Wrong. I’m better than you. And I just kicked your ass.”
I scanned the empty lot, found my Beretta only a few yards away. I strode over to it and scooped it up. Then I returned to Alex, sticking the
gun in her face, pointing it at her eye socket so she could look up the barrel.
Alex tried to smile, all red gums and broken teeth.
“You’re not going to kill me.”
“Yes. I am. And I don’t want your last thought to be a hopeful one, so stop trying to convince yourself of that. In five seconds, I’m pulling this trigger.”
“You can’t do it.”
“You’ll find out in four more seconds.”
Alex’s half grin faltered. “You’re a cop.”
“Not anymore.”
And there it was. The sneering, mocking face that had haunted my dreams for so long became something pitiful, pathetic, filled with fear.
“Jack. Don’t do this.”
“This is for Latham, and Alan, and Coursey, and the dozens of others you’ve slaughtered. But mostly, it’s for me.”
“Jack, please—”
“When you get to hell, say hi to Charles.”
Alex cried out, “Jack—no!”
The bullet took off the back of her head. She flopped onto her side, blood spraying the broken concrete. I put two more into her skull, kicked her over, and fired three more into her dead heart.
Dad was right. It was like killing a rabid dog.
I checked her pulse, found none.
But just to make absolutely sure, I waited ten minutes before calling the police.
I
WAS SWEEPING UP
my wreck of a house—something I’d put off during my three-week bout of drinking and depression—when a car pulled into the driveway.