Naked.
Fucking.
All of them.
Alone. Together.
Red red red red.
Say when it hurts.
When… Jack screamed… When when when when when when when! Please, God, it hurts… Oh… my… God… It huuuuuurrrrrrtttttsssssss…
FORTY-FIVE
It took him several seconds to realize that he was awake. His mouth was dry and nasty. It felt as if he had eaten a bucket of sand. His tongue was coated with a hard, rough crust and when he tried to clear his throat it came out like a croak, like he hadn't spoken in years and years and his throat had stopped working.
Jack was disoriented. He had no idea how long he'd been dreaming or what time it was now and instinctively he went to look at his watch. But he couldn't. His left hand was handcuffed to the bedpost at the top left of the bed. Not yet comprehending where he was or what had happened, he yanked his hand but he couldn't get free. He yanked again, harder, and the pain of the cuff cutting into his wrist brought reality back to him in small drips: finding Samsonite, going to her apartment, talking, drinking, the hallucinogenic drug that had been slipped into his wine. He didn't know exactly what had happened after that, but flashes of it slipped in and out of his brain, and with them came anger and confusion and humiliation and, he couldn't deny it, excitement.
He yanked his hand again; it did no good. But his hard pull twisted his body over and Jack suddenly realized he was not in bed alone. He twisted his head to look to his right. Samsonite was next to him. Naked and still sleeping. Enraged, he shoved her with his right hand, pushed her hard in the back, but she didn't wake. He went to push her again, overcome by anger, but as his hand touched her spine, he saw that on the sheet by her lower back was a red stain. He could see her legs now, and they, too, were splashed with red. Jack looked down at his own naked body and realized that he, too, was stained. His chest, one arm, a thigh was splotched with thick, red blood.
He wanted to yell at her, to scream, 'Wake up, you crazy bitch!' but there was no point because when he grabbed her shoulder and turned her body toward him he saw the river of blood covering her neck and breasts. He saw the slash marks, the deep stab wounds. Saw that she'd been gutted, her stomach slit wide open.
He yanked his arm as hard as he could and the bed rattled noisily, but Jack couldn't free himself. The handcuff cut into his wrist as he pulled again, grunting. He was starting to panic, in bed with a corpse, covered in her blood, but he forced himself to be calm. He could not afford to lose it, not now, so he told himself he'd been around many dead bodies before. Not human bodies but he'd seen a lot of blood and torn flesh, that's all this was, and there was nothing to be done about it now, and he made himself close his eyes and take a deep breath and think. Think…
Jack examined the bedpost. He stopped pulling and turned so he could put both hands on the knob at the top. He gripped it tightly and yanked upward. Straining, he felt something give. He took another deep breath, got another grip on the post, and pulled again. And again. He thought maybe the give had been his imagination but he shook that thought away and forced himself up onto his knees now, using them to dig into the mattress and give him more leverage. He forced himself to lift up as hard as he could. His jaw clenched and his entire body was as taut as it could be and this time, yes, definitely, he felt something move. One more tug, it moved again, and then a frantic pull and he was free, the metal post flying out of its socket. Jack tumbled out of the bed and, still scrambling on the floor, slid the cuff down and off the bottom part of the post. It dangled from his wrist as he ran to the phone…
Dead. No, not dead. Cut. The phone line had been cut, he could see the splayed cord sticking out of the baseboard.
Shaking, his breath coming in short, emphatic bursts, he spotted his pants lying crumpled in the middle of the floor, pulled them on, searched the pockets for his cell phone but, no, he realized he'd left it at home, he'd forgotten to take it when he went to pick up Grace. He saw his shirt, torn, ripped down the front, but he put it on and, not bothering with his shoes or socks, he ran to the front door, out into the hallway, down the steps, practically leaping from landing to landing, and out the front door. He was on the street now, still running. Ahead at the corner he saw a telephone.
He ran past a parked car and, as he did, he saw the front windshield explode. He stumbled and then there was a second explosion. Behind him, a storefront window had shattered into thousands of pieces. Jack's first thought was that the apocalypse had come. The world was blowing itself up. Madness had won out and destruction was complete. And then he realized it was nothing so overwhelming. It was much more banal and much, much more dangerous.
Someone was shooting at him.
What the hell was happening!
What the hell was going on!
Another window burst behind him and Jack dove for safety behind a parked car. An alarm went off, the noise echoing up and down the street. He heard footsteps. Running. And then the only sound was the blare of the alarm. Jack stayed on the ground, panting. When he finally raised his head, he saw a cop car pulling up and jerking to a stop. Two uniformed policemen ran out, their guns drawn. One took off down the street in the direction of the footsteps. The other stood over Jack, pointing the pistol straight down at him. The cop was telling him not to move, not to move one fucking inch or he'd get a bullet in his head.
Jack was only too glad not to move anymore.
He glanced down, saw the blood that still covered his body, stared back up at the cop and hoped that his eyes conveyed his fear and his innocence, and then Jack didn't move again until the second cop returned, panting, shaking his head to show he'd found nothing. By that time another cop car had pulled up and Sergeant Patience McCoy hopped out, mad as hell, Jack presumed, because she was probably missing breakfast with her husband.
– '-'-'THEY WERE STANDING in the shabby, puke-green hallway outside Samsonite's apartment. A locksmith was busy working to get Jack out of the handcuffs that still dangled from his wrist. Cops were going through the bedroom, examining the body and going over every inch of the place. It did not take long to establish that Samsonite had been stabbed fourteen times or that the murder weapon was not in the apartment or anywhere in the vicinity on the street. They had people going through garbage cans and searching in alleys but no one seemed particularly hopeful that anything would turn up.
McCoy had retrieved Jack's socks and shoes, which he'd put on, and in the trunk of her car she'd found a blanket, which, although it was quite warm outside, she'd put around his shoulders. The sergeant didn't say a word, just waited until the cuffs were off and the locksmith was heading downstairs. Then she nodded and said, 'Let's start at the very beginning, and you tell me everything, only this time I'll believe you. And then we'll see if we can catch this crazy motherfucker.'
Jack nodded and forced himself to remember every single detail he could. McCoy had also managed to get some hot coffee, which he sipped gratefully as he talked. He went through it all, from the first moment Kid showed up in his living room, through all the conversations about his team, every detail Jack could dredge up. He told McCoy all of it: about Kid's funeral and how, after that, he'd tracked down the Mortician. He explained what happened in Kid's apartment, and later at the Migliarinis' funeral home. He told her about talking to Bryan, which led him to Kim. How he'd found the Entertainer, and exactly what had happened the night of her murder, and how next he found the Rookie. At that point, he said, 'I guess you know about her, though, she's the one who called you.' When McCoy looked confused, he said, 'She called you, right? When I didn't show up. In fact, if I wanted to be picky I'd ask what the hell took you so long.' When McCoy finally told him she didn't have any idea what he was talking about, Jack shook his head, as if he were talking to somebody who didn't understand English, and said, 'Grace Childress. The Rookie. She was with me at the gambling club. I told her to call you if I didn't check in with her in two hours. That was, what, four, five hours ago now, and you just got here, so-'
'Nobody called in for you,' McCoy said.
