wall. He didn’t resist as she worked his hands behind him and cuffed his wrists.
“You can’t do this!” he said in a shocked voice as he felt the handcuffs dig into his flesh. He turned around unsteadily and stared at everyone.
“Can and are.” Pearl pulled her shield and held it up where he could see it.
The door opened and the two uniforms from downstairs, who’d been on the last elevator ride, came in with guns drawn.
“We got him,” Pearl said, waving at them to lower their weapons. “We nailed the bastard before he could get out the door!”
“Jubal?”
Everyone turned to look at Claire standing in the living-room doorway. She was sagging against a wall, staring uncomprehendingly at her husband. “You’re in Chicago…”
“He’s here,” Quinn said. “And he’s under arrest for murder.”
“Don’t listen to this bullshit! Call me a lawyer, Claire!”
“Jubal…?”
“A lawyer!”
Fedderman read him his rights, then grabbed his left arm above the elbow. Pearl had the other arm.
“I notice you didn’t ask if your wife was hurt,” Pearl said to Jubal.
He glared at her in a way that made her glad he was cuffed.
Quinn looked over at Campbell. His left arm was bleeding, but he otherwise seemed all right. The knife wound didn’t look too serious.
“Knife’s in the bedroom,” Campbell said.
Quinn sent Fedderman in to bag it. Fedderman seemed awfully reluctant to release his grip on Jubal, as if nobody in his right mind finally captured something so elusive, then didn’t hold tight to it.
“Looks like this is what we want,” Fedderman said when he returned holding up the plastic evidence pouch containing the knife. He displayed it like a prize. “Thin blade about ten inches long, sharp edge and point.”
“It’s goddamn sharp, all right,” Campbell said.
“You want an ambulance?” Quinn asked, making sure but knowing the answer.
“Fuck a bunch of ambulances,” Campbell said.
Tough old bastard. We need more like you. Quinn glanced at one of the uniforms, the younger of the two, black, with a calm look about him, eyes never still.
“We’ll drive him to the hospital in the cruiser,” the cop said. He looked at Campbell and grinned. “You’ll need some stitches, Sarge, if you’re not too scared.”
Quinn expected Campbell to explode.
Instead, he said, “This little prick’s kinda my protege.”
The cop nodded. “I’ll see the old fart’s taken care of.”
“And I’ll see you spend the rest of your career chasing Times Square sketch artists,” Campbell growled.
They threatened each other all the way down the hall to the elevator.
Claire was staring at her husband, still trying to grasp the metamorphosis. This man who looked exactly like her husband was one of the most brutal and dangerous killers in the city’s history. “Jubal? Can you explain? Will you tell me what’s going on? Please?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“I shouldn’t talk without a lawyer, Claire. You know that. I’m sorry. Just get me a lawyer.”
“We don’t even have a lawyer.”
Quinn knew Jubal was being smart, but he didn’t say so. “Do you want someone to stay here with you?” Quinn asked Claire.
“No. Really, I’m all right.”
“Take the suspect down to the elevator and wait for me,” Quinn said to Pearl and Fedderman.
Each of them gripped Jubal by an arm, and Fedderman used his free hand to bunch the back of Jubal’s collar. They marched him toward the door he’d been so anxious to exit.
They could have been more gentle.
John Lutz
Darker Than Night
69
When Quinn was alone with Claire, he went to her and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. He’d expected her to be trembling, but she was steady. Strong inside, even if she looks frail as a bird.
“Can I go with him?” she asked.
“You can, but there’s no point to it at this hour. He’ll go through the booking procedure; then he’ll be moved to a holdover cell. You get referrals in the morning and contact an attorney. In the meantime I’ll see he gets a public defender to protect his rights. I promise you that.”
He could see her thinking about it, trying to sort out her allegiances. Should I take the word of the arresting officer? Who saved my life. Or should I stand by my husband? Who tried to kill me.
It took her longer than it should have to make up her mind.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you think you might need medical attention?” Quinn asked. “I mean, for your pregnancy.”
“No. I’d be able to tell if I were hurt that way.”
“Someone will call you tomorrow morning. We’ll send a car for you.”
She nodded.
“Sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Okay as anyone can be, lost in all the questions.”
“We’ll sort things out and have the answers for you. Meantime, try to worry as little as possible.”
“Easy to say.”
“Yeah, I know. Like so many things.”
“I didn’t expect this!” she said, then bit her lower lip and stared up at the ceiling. She didn’t look as if she were going to cry, though.
Quinn glanced down at her pregnancy, which was beginning to show, and thought of what she faced alone. God help her.
“It’ll all be okay after a while,” he lied, and patted her gently on the shoulder. He felt suddenly cheap, conning her along, even though he was trying to help. “Better, anyway.”
He could find nothing else to say to this woman whose husband had been about to murder her, so he turned away.
After Quinn left, Claire went to the door and locked it, then trudged back into the bedroom.
Jubal! How could this be happening?
She’d never felt this way, as if she were alone at the edge of a cold hell. As if there were some dark inadequacy in her. As if this were all because of something she’d done.
Was it…was it something I did?
Or didn’t do?
She sat stunned on the edge of the bed and tried not to sob.
Was it?
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to throw herself on the bed like a child and beat the mattress with her fists until she was exhausted.
Her misery was a weight that would never lift. She felt beyond crying, but tears that were someone else’s tracked down her cheeks.
She wanted to die.
