He should die.
A gurgling breath leaked out of his mouth.
Katie pressed the trigger slightly, swallowing in anticipation. She could do it. She knew she could. All it would take is for her to apply few pounds of pressure on the trigger and a 186-grain bullet would blast into the back of his head.
Blood coursed down her fingers and dripped from her extended hands onto the floor. The dollops that landed on the wooden floor seemed louder than her own breathing, louder than the approaching sirens.
All she had to do was squeeze. Kill him. Kill the memory of Phil. Just another pound or two of pressure and the gun would explode with the same fury and pain she’d carried with her all these past years. The blast would fill the room. The gun would leap backward in her hands. The bullet would sizzle through the air, impact his head and end his miserable life. No one would know any better.
She would feel good about it.
She would be free.
She could do it.
Another wheezing breath came out of him.
He should die.
Katie MacLeod lowered her gun.
1026 hours
Gio screeched to a halt in front of Katie’s house. He leapt out of the patrol car, leaving the engine running and the door standing open. He sprinted up her walkway, his long legs eating up the ground quickly. At the same time, he drew his sidearm on the run. At her door, he stopped and checked the knob.
Locked.
Gio drove his shoulder into the door.
It didn’t budge.
He cursed loudly, stepped back and delivered a powerful, thrusting kick directly next to the doorknob. With a crash, the doorjamb shattered. The door swung open and Gio dashed inside, his gun extended in front of him.
“MacLeod?” he shouted. He scanned the living room and kitchen for any movement. The bathroom door stood open, the remnants of steam still visible on the mirror. Another siren drew closer, followed by another set of tires screeching to a stop.
He could detect the unmistakable scent of fired gunpowder hovering in the air. And something else, too, but it was a moment before he recognized the odor.
Blood.
“MacLeod?” he shouted again. “Where are you?”
The only room that remained was the bedroom. He shuffled toward it, his gun trained on the doorway.
“I’m in here,” Katie called out weakly. Then, a moment later, she added, “Code Four.”
Gio lowered his gun but didn’t holster. He strode quickly into the room. Katie sat with her back to the wall on the far side of the bed. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped herself in her bloodstained terry cloth robe. Her wrist rested on a raised knee. A still-smoking automatic dangled from her hand.
“Are you all right?” Gio asked.
Katie didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the ground in front of her. Gio followed her gaze, moving around the foot of the bed.
In front of her lay a man, collapsed in a twisted heap, a bloody knife still clutched in his hand.
Gio covered the man with his own gun and brushed the knife away with his foot. The blade skittered and spun across the wooden floor. Then he reached for his radio.
“Adam-254, situation is Code Four here,” he transmitted. “I need medics to this location.” He hesitated, then added, “Two ambulances.”
“Copy.”
“And start a supervisor,” he said. “This is an officer-involved shooting.”
Behind him, Gio heard the stomping of heavy feet. Before him, he heard the rasping, gurgling breath of the downed suspect. He ignored both sounds. Instead, he stepped over the bent form and knelt in front of Katie. His uniform blocked her view of the attacker. Gio looked into Katie’s eyes. He waited until their focus shifted and met his own.
“You did it,” he told her softly. “You’re okay.”
Part V
AFTERMATH
RIVER CITY, WASHINGTON
I sit and savor that I’m alive
Abandon the world to die and thrive
Moment by black moment passes me by
Beneath a weeping sky.
Rebecca Battaglia
TWENTY-ONE
Friday May 9th
1406 hours
Detective John Tower stood on the fringe of the crime scene. He watched as Detectives Finch and Elias from Major Crimes worked the scene. The pair was an efficient tandem and he knew he shouldn’t resent them for being inside the yellow tape, examining evidence and espousing theories. It was their job. Moreover, this was an officer-involved shooting, so it fell under the purview of Major Crimes. It wasn’t their fault he was on the sidelines, so he shouldn’t be pissed at them for it.
But he was.
He stood at the front of his car, sipping terrible convenience store coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The acid in the foul brew made his stomach gurgle in protest, but he ignored it. Instead, he watched the hustle and bustle of the crime scene. Watched Elias direct Diane from Forensics and other support personnel this way and that. Watched Finch’s careful contemplation. He watched it all happen outside the residence and then he watched it all drift gradually inside as a careful, measured, recorded process.
A few minutes later, Ray Browning arrived. The compact, cocoa-skinned detective gave Tower a soft, sympathetic smile before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.
Tower didn’t smile back.
He knew he shouldn’t resent Ray, either. But he did.
Lieutenant Crawford stood inside the crime scene perimeter, overseeing the activity but giving very little direction. Everyone knew their job, so little was necessary. He glanced over at Tower. Even at the distance of forty yards or so, Tower could read the disgust plainly on the lieutenant’s face.
Everyone knows their job, all right.
Tower held Crawford’s gaze, refusing to look away.
And my job is to stand here and watch. To have it rubbed in my face.
Crawford stared back until one of the crime scene photo-graphers approached a few moments later and asked him a question. He broke away and spoke with her. After that, he studiously ignored Tower.
“I had him,” Tower whispered. “I
fucking
had him, and I blew it.”
A dark green Lincoln pulled to a stop across the street. The Prosecuting Attorney, Patrick Hinote, exited along with Julie Avery. Both approached Tower. Hinote offered his hand. Tower shook it without much conviction.
Avery greeted him with a nod.
“Not how we’d have planned it, huh?” Hinote remarked, motioning toward the house.
Tower shook his head.
“What do you know?” the Prosecutor asked.
Tower took a sip of the brackish coffee. He eyed the lawyer for a moment, then said, “He attacked one of our officers. She shot him. They’re both up at the hospital.”
Hinote nodded, his expression calm and open. When Tower didn’t continue, he asked, “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, right?”
Tower motioned toward Crawford. “You can get it from him.”
Hinote gave Tower a confused look, but said nothing. Without another word, he turned and headed toward the lieutenant.
Tower watched him go. Then he peeled off the plastic lid on his cup and dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the black asphalt of the street. Turning, he headed toward the car.
“Wait.” Julie Avery’s voice stopped him as he opened the driver’s door.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”
Avery cleared her throat. “You said the officer was up at the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he all right?”
“She,” Tower corrected. “And I don’t know.”
“She? Who was it?”
“Katie MacLeod.”
Avery’s eyes widened slightly. “She was the decoy, right?”
Tower nodded.
“And he attacked her?”
“That’s what I said.”
Avery walked around the nose of his car and to the passenger side. She tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open it,” she instructed Tower.
“Why?”
“Because I need a ride to the hospital, that’s why.”
Tower regarded her for a moment, then nodded. He flipped the door lock switch. Avery opened the passenger door and got into the car without a word. Tower did the same. He started the car and drove away from the crime scene.
1442 hours
Beeps.
He heard beeps.
Not pleasant ones, either. No, these were insistent, shrill, accusatory beeps. He listened to the machine that made them, knowing in his rational mind that there was no emotion behind the monotonous sounds. But his rage wouldn’t listen.
He heard his mother.
You are the reason my entire life has been wasted.
His father.
You little whore’s son. You’ll never be shit.
Maybe they were both right.
Beep… Beep… Beep.
He pushed the medication button in time with the beeps.
He wanted to go away.
He stared at the machine. He thought of how close he’d come to…to
becoming
something. Would his father have ever been proud? Would he admit who the better man was? Oh, he wouldn’t show it, but if he found out his little Jeffie was the Rainy Day Killer, there’d have been a spark of pride that would’ve inevitably fired off in the old man’s chest.
If the old man was still alive, that is.
A weak smile touched his lips.
Of course, if he was in hell, looking up, he’d have been proud, too.
But now what was he? A failure. Just like his mother said, like his father said. Even the kids in school, all those years ago, had been right. He was a broken failure, destined for prison. Still only the Rainy Day Rapist, a ridiculous name.
Motion flashed in the doorway. The dark blue of a police uniform swaggered toward him. The creak of leather seemed to dance with the beeping of his machine, with his mother’s cruel tones, his father’s harsh voice.
A leathery face appeared next to his. A closely cropped mustache seemed to be almost burned into the man’s upper lip. The sour stench of coffee and cigarettes rolled off his tongue as he growled out his words.
“What the fuck are you smiling about, you piece of shit?”
Jeffrey forced his smile wider, a ball of spite beginning to grow in his belly.
The old cop smiled back, but his eyes were as cold as death. Jeffrey could see that even though the man was undoubtedly assigned to guard him, he’d much preferred to have throttled him. The hard eyes said it all.
“The doctor says one of MacLeod’s bullets hit your spine,” the cop whispered gruffly. “He says you might be a cripple.”
A cripple? Somehow, the karma didn’t surprise him. Why not? Everything else bad has happened to him. Why not that, too?
“I hope not,” the cop said to him. “You know why?”
Some confusion overcame him. The beeps were getting fuzzier. Colors seemed to blur. He turned his heavy eyes to the cop’s nametag.
M. Ridgeway,
it read.
He looked back at M. Ridgeway’s face. He blinked a long blink.
“Wuh-eye?” he slurred.
“Because,” Ridgeway told him, “You’re going to prison for a long time. And I want you to be able to feel what rape is like while you’re there.”
He blinked at Ridgeway, still confused for a moment. Then it dawned on him through the fog of the medication.
Of course.
He was a cop. So he hated him.
He understood.
But it wasn’t his fault.
No. None of it was.
It was
hers
.
Katie’s.
Bitches ruin everything,
he thought. Then a soft, blessed darkness took him.
1502 hours
Katie’s head rested on the hospital pillow. She wanted to reach back and fold it over for a little more support, but couldn’t work up the motivation to do so. Everything hurt. Her left forearm throbbed dully. Her left hand seemed to have more of a stinging pain. Her shoulder shared the general, aching soreness which had settled over her entire body.
She imagined the real pain lay lurking below the light pain medication they’d given her. She’d refused anything stronger. She had vague recollections about bouncing red balls and the secrets of the universe from her previous trip, and no desire to experience those bizarre images again.
The doctor entered, trailed by a pair of interns. He glanced wordlessly at her chart for a moment, the spoke without looking up.
“How are we feeling?” he asked in a preoccupied, distant tone.
“Like hell,” Katie answered truthfully.
“Mmmmmhhhhhhmmmm,” the doctor replied, his eyes skipping over the chart. “Well, all in all, things look well.” He handed the chart off to one of the interns, looking at Katie for the first time. He didn’t smile. “There’s really no reason to keep you any longer than overnight. Your cuts were deep, but clean. Luckily, no nerves were severed. The cuts stitched well, and scarring should be minimal. A couple of weeks of rest at home and you should be mostly recovered.”
“Why am I staying overnight if I’m all stitched up?” Katie asked.
“Holcomb?” the doctor asked.
One of the interns, a rail thin kid with small spectacles stepped forward. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bounced up and down his throat. “Uh, your medical history shows a recent concussion. You were struck in the head during this assault, so there is an increased potential for another concussion.”
“Excellent, Holcomb,” the doctor said. He gestured to the second intern, a beefier man with soft eyes. “Bullock?”
Bullock glanced at the doctor, then at Katie. After a moment, he said, “He’s right about the concussion. And your body’s been through a lot today.” He gave Katie a warm smile and touched her foot gently. “Anyway, keeping you overnight is just a precaution.”
Katie nodded her understanding.
“Is there anything else you need?” the doctor asked her.