Stripping off his gloves, he pocketed them, and with a cursory inspection to certify no blood splatters marred his tidy clothes, he went on through the alley and out the other side. Within half an hour, he’d be back at his house, secluded, safe, watching the news for any word of the destruction he’d wrought.
If it all wasn’t such a bother, he’d be having the time of his life.
Gaby was closing in on her prey when an onslaught of sensation contracted her muscles and stiffened her bones. No,
Pain of this magnitude either meant she was too late, or there were multiple threats.
Caught in an illimitable quandary, the pain intensified to egregious proportions. She stumbled, fell against a wall.
What to do?
Closing her eyes, she tried to bank the physical misery and clear her mind for instruction. Gasping in deep, fast breaths, she separated the callings, weighed them, and made a choice. For one calling, she was already too late to gain anything. For another, there was still time.
From what she prevised, only one summons would offer erudition.
God help her if she chose the wrong one.
Hating herself, Gaby gave over to the deepest encroachment of consecrated instruction. Driven forward, following a compulsion, she traversed to a dark alley. The pain blistered and popped—then settled into a fizzling ache.
Too late. She knew it, and still she hastened in, her knife in hand, her senses on alert. She was so immersed in the need to find a live body that she nearly tripped over a dead one.
She pulled back and focused on the grisly scene.
Blood drenched a human’s clothes, splattered the surrounding bricks, the hard ground beneath. The body, still in a semi-upright position, was so abused, Gaby couldn’t determine if it was male or female.
But it was a stranger.
And this was all for show.
Careful not to disrupt anything, knowing that somewhere here, a clue waited, she scoured the area and, eventually, descried the needle.
Bingo. The tie she needed to convince Luther that the attacks were related.
By the looks of things, the poor drunk hadn’t put up much of a struggle, meaning he’d probably died before the mutilation.
Tipping her head back to see beyond the old towering buildings, Gaby peered up to the cloudless sky. “Very merciful. Thank you.”
Urgency pressed in on her, reminding her that this corpse wasn’t the only source of her suffering. Keeping the heterogeneous pains segregated, she decided she had to quickly notify Luther of the incident before following the other dictate.
Backing out of the alley, she went to the nearest pay phone, dug out Luther’s card and some change, and put in the call.
Sounding harried and frustrated, he answered on the first ring. “Detective Cross.”
“It’s me.”
His tone changed. “Gaby?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Ever since she’d stood him up for breakfast a few days ago, and then rescued the woman from the fire, she’d avoided him. She had to avoid him in order to sense these perversions. Around him, her perception was blown to hell. “Surprise, surprise, huh?”
After a tick of silence, he asked, “Is everything okay?”
Straight to the chase, huh? Maybe he was still pissed at her. And maybe he’d finally given up on her.
She wouldn’t blame him either way. “Actually . . . no. I hate to fuck up your day, but—”
“I’m dealing with three dead addicts. Believe me, my day is already fucked.”
Three dead addicts? Gaby thought of that needle lying by the dead body in the alley. “What happened?”
There was a rustle as Luther probably moved away from the crowd. “Someone conveniently lost a stash of what looks like cocaine in a crack house, only it was laced with something deadly. Three women made use of it, and after the first died in convulsions, the third hightailed it to the hospital. She got there in time to shriek out the story, flail in panic, and expire. The docs tell me it was an ugly, painful death. They’re still diagnosing the contaminant used.”
It struck Gaby that Luther was in a strange sharing mood for a man who was through with a woman. But what the hell? She’d take any edge she could get. “What about the other person? You said there were three, right?”
“Found her dead at the crack house. Whatever they shot into their veins, it killed them quick and nasty.”
Damn. Gaby wanted to ponder the connections, but she couldn’t ignore the demand growing to excruciating proportions.
Hand shaking, she kept the phone to her ear. “I can trump that.” She stared toward the alley, making sure no one entered from the street side. She couldn’t guard both entrances at the same time, though. “Someone played slice and dice on a transient dozing in a drunken stupor in an alley.”
“And you know this how?”
She heard the burgeoning anger in Luther’s tone, but there wasn’t time enough, or caring enough, to apologize. “I’m looking at him. Or her. Not sure which it is, the body is so . . . dismantled. Judging by the clothes, though, I’d guess a guy.”
“Give me an address.”
Gaby rattled off directions, then said, “I found a needle by the body. I left it there, but I don’t want you to miss it.”
“No faith in my detective skills, huh?”
“Don’t go wounded on me. This is too important for ego.”
“Right.” His tone changed. “Do not go near it again, Gaby, do you understand me? I’m coming right now, so stay on the street and stay out of trouble.”
“You should hurry, because I can’t stay. I need to . . . do something.” She wasn’t sure what yet, but if she didn’t move soon, the torment would overtake her.
She hung up on Luther. Bossy jerk. What did he think— that she looked for trouble?
Hell, it stalked her, often at the most inconvenient times.
Even as she started on her way, following her instincts, each step quicker than the one before, Gaby began putting the puzzle pieces together.
Poisoned addicts.
Mutilated transient.
Trouble always came in threes, and this was trouble. Now in a full-out run, going on autopilot to expedite matters, Gaby ran several blocks away. Because she was focused inward, she didn’t at first recognize the area where Mort lived, not until she came alongside the playground at the abandoned elementary school across from Mort’s apartments.
Her steps became sluggish, her brain ticking like a bomb. Like a million tiny razors cutting into her flesh, the pain took her.
Oh no.
Kids of various ages and colors filled the broken concrete play area. Rusty chains on swings clashed with squeals of laughter. High-pitched voices rose like musical bells, happy and carefree despite the public squalor and misery of their lives.
Gaby saw them all.
And she saw the pipe bomb.
Her heart shot into her throat. Her vision narrowed. God no. Not a group of children.
In one agile leap, she went over the chain-link fence and loped to the center of the playground. Two youths, probably ten to thirteen years of age, noticed the bomb and ran toward it.
