She looked at Galaz, the supercilious smile on his face. Seeing living, breathing women as something to torture for his pleasure, because he was so empty he couldn’t get a high any other way.
Buddy secured Lundy to the tree with the cuffs after tearing strips of the man’s shirt for a gag. Arms behind him, cuffs looped around a sturdy bough. Lundy on his knees.
That would hurt before too long. His back would be in agony. Good.
Buddy started for the back of the warehouse.
The cars were there, Laura Cardinal’s and Galaz’s. He made a circuit of the building, which was uniformly dark except for the one area near the corner, where a dim light leaked out through the holes in the painted-over windows.
That’s where they were.
Buddy leaned his back against the brick, which still retained heat from the day. He needed to call it in. The cell phone would have to do. But before that, he took the knife he always carried and stabbed the tires on the two vehicles.
He called 911, explained who he was, that he was a cop. Gave the exact location. The South Tucson police were on their way. He got through to DPS, to Jerry Grimes.
He’d give them five minutes.
Laura was aware of Galaz standing near her. He was smug, pleased with himself. But there was something else.
Something going on with him.
Working out a problem.
“Why don’t you check her shackles?” Galaz said to Harmon.
“They’re fine.”
“Humor me, Mick.”
Ponderously, Harmon walked over to Summer and bent down to check. He straightened, said, “I told you they were fi—“
The bullet took him in the chest, throwing him against the wall.
Galaz was holding Laura’s weapon, looking down at Harmon.
“Sorry, Mickey, there’s been a change of plans,” he said.
Mickey started crawling along the floor.
Galaz crossed over to Mickey, his latex-gloved hand swooping in to take the gun from Harmon’s shoulder holster. Harmon gasping, still crawling.
Galaz staring down at him. “You look like a snail, Mickey.”
He followed as Mickey Harmon crawled, his fancy shoes inches from his face. Laura saw the narrow planes of Galaz’s face—rapt attention.
She looked from him to the work table. Less than two feet away, but her muscles had gotten cold again from not moving, and when she tried to move in that direction, her body resisted like wood.
Had to do it.
Couldn’t.
She looked at Summer. The look on her face. Jesus.
Throat constricted, aching, clenching—she inched her way, one eye on Galaz, the pleasure he got from watching Mickey crawl.
“Almost to the door, Mickey,” Galaz said. “If you make it before dying, I’ll let you go.” Pocketing her gun. Holding Mickey’s.
Laura was almost to the table.
Mickey, two feet from the doorway.
Galaz, in a world of his own. The look on his face orgasmic.
The knife was closest. She didn’t know if she could even wrap her crippled fingers around it. Even the idea was agony.
She heard a train horn.
Galaz still had his back to her, but he seemed to have lost interest in Mickey, who had fallen short of his mark and lay either dead or unconscious short of the doorway. Galaz oddly still. Thinking?
Laura’s fingertips touched the knife. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, tried to grasp it. How she’d be able to do anything when she couldn’t even wrap her fingers around the knife, she didn’t know.
Suddenly, Galaz turned.
Laura started and the knife scuttled out of her fingers.
Galaz looked from the knife to Laura. “Can’t do it, can you, Detective Cardinal? It must be frustrating, not being about to tell your body what to do when you’ve done it all your life.”
Unconcerned, he crossed to the place Laura had been. Like a choreographer, he eyed the distance between that spot and where Mickey Harmon was shot. “This can work,” he said, and nodded. “You shoot at Mickey and Mickey shoots at you. The problem is—maybe you can help me figure this out—what about all my hairs, fibers,
