the side. I wonder if Mario had looked at them in his last moments.
His feet were bare. Next to them lay a power drill. There were small neat holes, perfect tiny circles of maroon red, through his toes and deep into his heel. The holes had come, I knew, from the drill. I found my legs and managed to move closer. There were other drill marks. Through the kneecaps. The rib cage. My eyes slowly traveled up toward his face. There were drill marks beneath the nose, through the cheekbone and into the mouth, another in the chin. Mario's thin face stared up at me, his eyes twisted. He had died in horrible pain.
Billy Idol again whispered: 'Oh, sweet Jesus…'
'What time did you hear the loud music?'
'Huh?'
I didn't have the strength to say it again, but he caught on. 'Five in the morning.'
Tortured. The music had been used to cover the screams. I didn't want to touch anything, but the blood looked fresh enough. Off-white bone dust littered the floor. I looked back at the drill. The whirring screech, the sound of that, and the screams as it pierced through flesh and cartilage and penetrated bone.
Then I thought about Terese, just a few blocks away with Karen.
I started running for the door. 'Call the police!' I shouted.
'Wait, where are you going?'
No time to respond. I pocketed the gun and took out my cell phone, still running. I dialed Terese's cell. One ring. Two rings. Three. My heart thumped in my chest. I pressed the button for the elevator repeatedly. I glanced at a window during the fourth ring and then I saw her, looking up at me.
The young blond girl from the van.
She saw me, turned, and ran. I didn't get a good look at her face. It could be any blond girl, really. Except it wasn't. It was the same girl. I was sure.
What the hell was going on?
My head started twirling. I started looking for the stairway, but the elevator opened. I got in and pressed for the lobby.
The call to Terese went into her voice mail.
That shouldn't happen. She should be at Karen's. Karen's house got service-wasn't out of range. Even if they were in the middle of a serious conversation, Terese would pick up. She'd know that I would only call if it was an emergency.
Damn, now what?
I thought about the power drill. I thought about Terese. I thought about Mario Contuzzi's face. I thought about the blonde. Those images all swirled in my head as the elevator dinged and the door opened.
How far was I from Karen's?
Two blocks.
I sprinted outside, hitting the speed dial for Win. He answered on the first ring and before he even had a chance to utter 'Articulate,' I said, 'Get to Karen's. Mario is dead; Terese is not answering her phone.'
'Ten minutes away,' Win said.
I hung up and immediately felt my phone vibrate. Still running, I put the phone up so I could see the caller ID. I stopped.
It was Terese.
I hit the Answer button and put it up to my ear. 'Terese?'
No response.
'Terese?'
And then I heard the whirring, screeching sound of a power drill.
The adrenaline spike snatched my breath away. My eyes squeezed shut, but only for a second. No time to waste. My legs tingled, but I pumped them even harder.
The drilling sound stopped, and then a man's voice came on:
'Payback is a bitch, don't you think?'
The refined English accent, that same cadence as when he said to me in Paris: 'Listen to me or I will shoot you dead…'
The man I hit with the table. The man in the mug shot.
The line went dead.
I grabbed my gun, running now with one hand holding the cell phone, one hand holding the weapon. Fear is a funny thing. It can make you do some miraculous things-you've read all the tales of people lifting cars off loved ones, for example-but it can also paralyze you, do crippling things to your body and mind, make it difficult to draw hard breath. Sprinting can suddenly feel heavy, like trudging dreamlike through deep snow. I needed to calm myself even as the terror tore a hole in my chest.
Up ahead I could see Karen's house.
The young blonde stood by the front door.
When she saw me, she disappeared inside Karen's house. This was so obviously a trap, but really, what choice did I have here? The call from Terese's phone-the sound of the power drill-still rang in my ears. That had been the point, hadn't it? And what had Win said? Ten minutes. Probably down to six or maybe seven by now.
Should I wait? Could I?
I ducked down and moved closer to the houses. Hit my speed dial. Win said, 'Five minutes.' I hung up.
The blonde was in the house now. I didn't know who else was there or what the situation was. Five minutes. I could wait five minutes. They'd be the longest of my life, but I could do it, needed to do it, had to stay disciplined in the face of pure panic. I stayed low, crouched under a window, listened. Nothing. No screams. No power drill. I didn't know if that was a relief-or if I had gotten there too late.
I kept down, back against the brick. The window was above my head. I tried to picture the layout of the house. This window looked in on the living room. Okay, so? So nothing. I waited. The gun felt good in my hand, the weight a comfort. Guns of any size are substance. I was a good shot, not a great one. You had to practice a lot to be great. But I knew to aim at the center of the chest and I could usually come close enough.
So now what?
Stay calm. Wait for Win. He was good at this stuff.
'Payback is a bitch, don't you think?'
The refined accent, the calm tone. I flashed back to Mario and those damn holes, the unfathomable pain while hearing that damn refined accent. How long had that gone on? How long had Mario had to endure the pain? Did he welcome death in the end, or fight it?
Sirens crackled in the distance. The police heading to Mario's maybe.
I don't wear a watch anymore, so I checked the time on my cell phone. If Win was accurate-and he usually was-he was still three minutes from arriving. What to do here?
My gun.
I wondered if the blonde had seen it. I doubt it. As Win has pointed out, firearms are rare in the UK. Whoever was inside that house would probably figure I would be unarmed. Hard as it was, I put the gun away, back in my leg holster.
Three minutes.
My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed me that it was Terese's phone again. I said a tentative hello.
'We know you are outside,' the refined voice said. 'You have ten seconds to walk through that door with your hands up or I shoot one of these fine ladies in the head. One, two…'
'I'm coming.'
'Three, four…'
No choice. I jumped up from my crouch and sprinted to the door.
'Five, six, seven…'
'Don't hurt them, I'm almost there.'
Don't hurt them. Duh. But what else was there to say?
I turned the knob. It was unlocked. The door opened. I stepped inside.
The refined voice: 'I said, hands up.'
I put my hands high in the air. The man in the mug shot stood across the room from me. He had white tape
