“What happens now?” I asked.
“Well, we can’t leave things the way they are, can we?” His voice was cold, the voice of a stone killer. “No, we can’t do that at all. Let me see … Harry finds out you killed Connie. Confronts you with it. Maybe he’s blackmailing you. Yes, I like that. And so will the newspapers. You kill him. Then, in a fit of hysteria or guilt, you take your own life.
“Star-crossed lovers to the end. Oh, yes, the papers will love it.”
Rachel gasped. “No, Walter-”
“He’s right, Rachel. It has to be this way, doesn’t it? It’s the only way.”
He smiled at me again, a little softer now. “I’m glad you understand. Stand up, you two. We need to go back to the bedroom.”
He motioned with the gun. I stood up, glancing out of the corner of my eye at the mess spilled out onto the kitchen table from Rachel’s fanny pack. Lying in the pile of tissues, gum, keys, and a couple of wads of paper, was the stun gun.
If I could just get to it.
I tried not to stare at it, hoping with every breath that he wouldn’t see it. If I could only get to it…
I slid my arm over the table as I stood up, scooping the stun gun up into my right coat sleeve. All I had to do now was get close to him. My chest felt heavy, my heart thumping away helplessly.
Rachel sat there, frozen. The lines in her face were suddenly deeper, her eyes popping.
“You’re serious,” she whispered.
“Stand up,” he ordered. “Now.”
Then I heard it. Far away, at first, but louder by the second.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“What’s what?” he demanded.
“That. Listen.”
We stood silent for just a moment. “What is it?” Rachel asked, looking at me. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was deus-ex-freaking-machina. Whatever, I was going to play it for all it was worth.
“Sirens,” I said. “Hear?”
The unmistakable high-pitched whooping grew even louder.
“You call the cops, Walter?” I asked, mustering as much calm as I could.
“Shut up, damn you! Move, upstairs!”
“It won’t work, Walter. They’re coming. I don’t know who did it, but they’re coming.”
“My God,” Rachel said.
“Move!” Walter yelled. He came around the counter, was barely a foot away from me. I turned, my back to him, Rachel just beyond me facing the hallway. I uncupped my hand; the stun gun slid into my palm. I took a step, then dropped and spun, my hand on the button. I jumped for him.
Something hit the back of my head and exploded in searing heat and pain. Thought: oh, hell, so this is what a bullet feels like. Only it wasn’t a bullet. It was the butt of the gun.
I felt the stun gun go into his gut, my finger mashing the button so hard it hurt. He screamed, jerked. I felt his arm slam down on my shoulder.
Then next to my left ear, the gun went off. It was a bellowing, sharp, excruciating crack, followed only by the echoing silence of a battered eardrum. I felt him go limp on me, then fall.
I was dizzy, nauseous, lying on top of Walter the same way I’d fallen on top of Conrad. I hyperventilated, my heart in my chest, my breath shallow, short, rapid gasps. I reached up and took the pistol out of his hand.
The sirens blared outside, but they seemed softer now that I was only hearing them out of one ear. Tires screeched from just beyond the living room behind us.
I struggled to get up, but I was dazed, the nerves in my legs a light year away from my brain. I couldn’t move very fast. Nothing worked. There was a ringing in my head.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out.
I rolled off him, the gun in my hand. I turned. Rachel was on the floor, her back against the wall, staring at me.
A red splotch slowly widened in the middle of her shirt.
Time hung like that for what seemed an eternity, the adrenaline flooding my body breaking everything into microseconds. I tried to yell again, dropped the pistol, scooted over to her.
Her eyes were glassy, fading fast.
I took her hand. It was turning cold. She opened her mouth. I pulled her to me, my arms around her shoulder. I pulled my left hand away from behind her. It was covered in blood.
There was a long red smear on the wall.
Behind me, there was the crash of a door splintering, then the pounding of booted feet. I felt somebody behind me, then arms all over me, pulling me away from her. I fought, yelled. Nothing happened.
Rachel fell back against the wall, a gentle crimson foam filling her mouth.
30
Somebody put one of those blue chemical ice packs on my head, over the bandage the paramedics had stuck on, then lifted my right hand to hold it in place.
“Everything you’ve told us jibes with what we already figured,” Howard Spellman said. We were in the living room, feeing each other across the coffee table as I sat on the couch. “We had credit reports, the insurance policies. We knew she had the motive. We just hadn’t put it all together yet.”
“I’m afraid that I just stumbled onto it,” I said. “If she hadn’t said something about my head getting bashed in, I’d never have figured it out.”
“Well, you ever tell anybody I told you this, and I’ll break both your arms,” he said, “but that crack about your not being able to find your ass with both hands and an instruction manual.…”
“Yeah?” I twisted my head to meet his eyes. The ice pack slipped painfully.
“That was uncalled for.”
Lieutenant Howard Spellman was being halfway nice to me. Go figure. “No problem. Forget it. By the way,” I said, scooting around to face him, “how’d you guys get here, anyway?”
“Damndest thing,” he answered. “We had a call on the police band. Officer down at this address. The uniforms that pulled up heard the shot from in here. You’re lucky they didn’t blow you away.”
“Yeah, I’ve always been lucky that way.”
“Is that all you want in your statement?” he asked.
“That’s it, Lieutenant. That’s everything.”
“I’ll have this typed up. You come downtown later, review it, sign it. Okay?”
“Sure, I’ll come right down.”
“Not immediately,” a feminine voice said. I looked up. Marsha Helms was at the end of the couch. “I think he’s going to need stitches this time.”
“Great,” I said. “Another trip to the emergency room.”
Spellman stood up, walked back into the kitchen. Marsha and I were alone in Rachel’s living room now.
“You’re lucky, you know that?” she asked, matter-of-factly. “The Glock was loaded with Glasers. Hollow core round with shot suspended in liquid Teflon. Ninety-seven percent kill rate. The round doesn’t kill you, the liquid Teflon poisons you.”
I looked up at her. Her hair was pulled back professionally, cleanly, her shoulders square, her dress severe. She was a pro, doing her job. She arrived right after the police tore down the door, had done the forensics and filled out the death certificate with a coldness that was simultaneously attractive and repulsive.
“I think I’ve said this before, but you’re amazing.”
“So I’ve been told. Anyway, worked out better for the victim. She was history before she hit the floor. Went quick, no suffering. The slug-”
