Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 40

THUMPING OUT OF the bathroom, Araignee was drinking straight whiskey—she could smell it out in the hallway—and it made her nauseous. She hoped her tolerance for the stuff was the same, glass for glass, as his. How could she use her gun when she was plastered? Garcia would have to do all the shooting.

Inside the bedroom, they could hear dresser drawers being opened and slammed shut at a ferocious pace. Garcia touched her arm, and she looked at him hunkered next to her in the hallway. They were both thinking the same thing: Chaz was getting ready to take a trip.

Suddenly something shattered in the bedroom.

“Shit!”

He’d dropped his bottle or glass. Hopefully, that would end his binge for the night.

“Fuck!”

A sharp sensation stabbed her right hand, and she inhaled sharply. She switched the gun to her left hand. Lifting her right palm, she was horrified to see deep cuts across her index and middle fingers. He’d sliced himself on the broken glass. While she wiped her bleeding fingers on the leg of her jeans, she sensed Garcia tense next to her. He knew what was going on, and it was scaring the crap out of him. She wondered if the same question came to his mind as to hers: If they shot Charles Araignee, would she be hit as well?

The music stopped. The next sounds made them stand straight, ready to charge the room. It was a moan, followed by Charles’s response.

“Shut up, bitch.”

Gritting her teeth through the pain, Bernadette pulled her leather glove back on over the injury. She turned her head and nodded to Garcia.

Suddenly their prey bounded out of the suite. They watched his back as he went down the steps barefoot, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a torn T-shirt. He held on to the banister with his left hand and carried the broken glass in his right. The hand with the tumbler was bandaged.

“I’ve got the girl,” Garcia growled, and bolted into the bedroom.

Moving to the top of the stairs, Bernadette looked down and saw Chaz next to the bookcase, bending over something. He’d discovered the book Garcia had knocked off the shelf. She took a step back from the railing and held her breath, wondering if the fallen volume would set off an alarm in his head. After a minute of quiet, she peeked over the railing again and saw he was gone. A faint light was coming from the kitchen.

Her weapon pointed, she glided down the stairs, cut through the front room, and went into the dining room. Sidling up to the kitchen door, she saw light spilling out from the bottom of the door. On the other side, she heard cupboards being opened and closed. If he was hunting for whiskey, she prayed he’d find none. She was starting to snap out of the daze, helped in part by the sobering pain radiating from her fingers.

She heard silverware rattling. What was he looking for? Before he sliced himself again or unearthed another bottle of booze, Bernadette decided to make her move. Crouching down, she pushed the swinging door open an inch. At the far end of the kitchen, with his back to her, he was fiddling with something on the counter. She couldn’t see what it was; a bread machine blocked her view of his hands. She closed the door and stood up. With her gun in both hands, she raised her arms out in front of her. She kicked the door open and went through. “Don’t move, Charles!”

He spun around with a revolver in his hand.

Keeping her gun trained on him, she shouted, “Drop it!”

He took a step backward.

The look on his face told her Charles was panicked, and his anxiety was becoming her own. “Drop the gun!”

“All right!” He lowered the revolver.

“Drop it now!”

“If you kill me, you’ll never know about them.”

“The six girls in the river? The two in the tub? The one upstairs.”

His eyes bugged out. “How?”

“I should give you a bullet for each of them. Nine bullets.”

He swallowed hard. “There’re more. Kill me, and you’ll never know who they are.”

Was he lying? Bernadette tried to get a read of his emotions, and all she felt was anger. She had no idea if it was his fury or her own. It didn’t matter. Her violent urges and sexual overdrive had been from him. The cuts on the face and fingers, the drunkenness, and now the anxiety—all had been unwanted gifts from Charles Araignee. She wanted to free herself of him and his emotions. Without saying another word, she took aim from across the room and pulled the trigger. The window behind him shattered.

“Crazy bitch!” Covering his head with his arms, he ducked behind the far end of the counter. He popped back up with the gun in his hands.

She crouched behind the butcher-block table. “Don’t do it!”

“Go to hell!” Two shots rang out, both slamming into the glass-front cupboards lining the walls behind her. Glass and wood and bits of china rained down like hail. He lowered his arm, spun around, and ran to the door. Pulled frantically on the knob and worked the deadbolt.

Even as she took aim at his back, she struggled to negotiate with herself. Lower the gun. This isn’t right. You can’t shoot a guy in the back. You could be nailing yourself in the back. An instant before firing, she raised her arms and aimed for the wall over the doorframe. Wood and plaster exploded, showering him with dust and splinters.

He looked up at the hole. “Jesus!” He spun back around with his gun in his hand. She dove behind the butcher-block table again while another set of cupboards and china took the hit.

He darted back to the door, yanked it open, and ran out onto the porch. He frantically jiggled and pulled on the handle until he remembered how to unlock his own screen door. He slammed it open, ran down the steps, and took the sidewalk at full gallop. Throwing open the gate, he bolted out of the backyard with his gun in his right hand.

Garcia ran into the kitchen. “What the hell?”

“He’s on the run!” Bernadette dropped her Glock into her jacket pocket and ran outside.

“Cat!” Garcia yelled after her. “Wait!”

“Stay with the girl!” Bernadette took the back steps two at a time and flew through the open gate.

She chased Charles down the alley behind his house, the way lit by the security lights mounted on the back of neighbors’ garages. As she was closing in on him, he glanced over his shoulder, and she yelled, “Stop!”

He paused long enough to tip a pair of garbage cans in front of her.

She dodged the cans and retrieved her gun from her jacket. “Stop!” she repeated to his back.

The alley spilled out into the street. The two of them ran down the middle of the road in a chase scene that could have been mistaken for a violent domestic dispute: a bandaged man in his pajamas, running barefoot from a bleeding blonde—both of them armed.

After two blocks, the road emptied onto the boulevard that followed the top of the bluffs. Her quarry was pulling away from her. “Stop now!”

Bounding onto the sidewalk that led to the green tower, he was going to take the steps down to Wabasha Street. From there it would be a quick dash to the Mississippi. If he made it to the river, she’d lose him for good. She followed him down the sidewalk.

After the sidewalk came a set of steps leading down to a wooden walkway, a fifty-foot bridge that spanned the gap between the bluff and the tower. Bernadette stopped before her feet hit the wood. Araignee was almost over the bridge and to the tower. She went down on one knee and took aim at the white T-shirt. “Charles!”

He spun around, saw her gun trained on him, and raised his own. He fired a wild shot over her head, lowered his revolver, and headed for the tower.

She lowered her arms and went after him, her feet thumping across the wooden walkway.

Instead of sprinting down the steps, he froze on the landing and glanced over the railing. She didn’t know why he hesitated; perhaps the height intimidated him. Whatever it was, it gave her time to catch up to him. She stopped twenty feet from where he stood, but kept her gun down. “Charles!”

He pivoted around with his revolver in his shaking hands. “Get away!” he panted. “I’ll tell you about the other one! Just get away!”

By her count, he had one bullet left. While he couldn’t shoot worth shit, the bullet could ricochet around the top of the tower—a cage the size of a small bedroom. Equally hazardous were the gaps between the railings: they were large enough to fall through or get shoved through. It would be a six-story drop.

She moved toward him but stayed on the bridge. “Put down the gun, and let’s talk.”

He backed up, pressing himself against the bars while keeping the barrel pointed at her. “You don’t want to talk! You want to blow my head off!”

“I could have taken you out in your kitchen. I just want to talk. Swear to God. Tell me the names.”

He raised his shaking hands. She hit the boards while his bullet disappeared into the night. “Fuck it!” He threw the gun at her and the revolver bounced on the boards behind her.

She got up and went after him, entering the tower and cornering him in the cage. “Tell me who they are.”

He raised his hands high. “Not until you put the gun away.”

“No way.”

His eyes darted from her gun to the hole in the platform on his right. The opening was where the stairs started their descent. “Why should I tell you? You’re going to kill me regardless.”

“I want to get out of this dog kennel.” She tipped her head toward the walkway. “Come on. Move it.”

Keeping his eyes on her weapon, he inched forward. “You kill me, you’re never going to get to the truth.”

“Slowly,” she said, pressing her back against the railing so he could move past her. “Keep those hands in the air.”

His eyes darted to the stairs.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?” He threw himself on top of her.

A shot vibrated the platform. She felt a flash of pain in her own gut, and then it evaporated. “Charles?” she panted.

He rolled off her and onto his back, clutching his stomach. “You … shot … me.”

Crawling to her feet, she kept the gun on him. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Holding his stomach with both hands, he moaned. “Oh … God!”

He wasn’t getting away from her; stomach wounds were bad enough, and this had been at close range. She pocketed her gun and pulled out her cell. Punched in a number. “Try not to move.”

“Oh … God! Hurry!”

Turning away from him, she spoke into the cell in a low voice. “I need an ambulance on the West Side …” While she gave directions to the dispatcher, the man behind her coughed and groaned. She had no pity for him. She felt nothing at all, and the numbness was a relief. Finally, she was liberated.

She hung up and turned around to see that Araignee had rolled onto his side. “Stay still. Help is coming.”

“Ruth,” he wheezed.

Bernadette didn’t give a shit about Ruth anymore. She pocketed the phone and went over to him, kneeling at his head. “Tell me about the other drownings. Names.”

“Twins,” he wheezed.

She shuddered. “Names.”

“I’m dying.”

She knew better. The most evil ones often pulled through, their innate cruelty carrying them to a full recovery. She bet Araignee was one of those lucky pricks. She should have put a few more into him and guaranteed him a trip to the morgue. She stood up and turned away from him. He disgusted her. Twins. She’d get the names while he was in the hospital.

“God, I’m dying,” he moaned behind her.

“I wish,” she muttered. Taking out her cell, she punched in a number and walked out onto the bridge to look up at the night sky. The wind had died down, but the stars remained obscured by the clouds.

It rang once before Garcia picked up. “Cat? Where are you? What the hell is going—”

“Did she make it?”

“She’s going to live.”

“Thank God.” She glanced over at the man down in the tower and turned back around. “I shot the bastard, but he’s going to make it, too.”

“The cops are crawling all over the West Side. Where are you?”

“Those green steps on Prospect Boulevard. Top of the green stairs, on the bluff.”

“I’ll send an ambulance.”

“Tony, he says he killed twins. I hope to God he’s—” She heard a scuffling noise and a chilling wail. For an instant, everything in front of her went black. She gasped.

“Cat!” Garcia yelled from the cell. “What is it?”

“Charles,” she breathed, and lowered the phone. Turning around, she looked at the tower platform. Empty. She ran across the walkway and looked down. He’d crawled to the edge and slipped between the bars. By the glow of the streetlamps, she could see his lifeless body sprawled on the sidewalk at the foot of the tower.

Had it been a desperate attempt to escape, or an effort to end his life his way? She didn’t want to weigh the third possibility: that her emotions had for once taken over his psyche, making her death wish for him become a reality.

Chapter 41

YELLOW POLICE TAPE and flashing squad lights took over the neighborhood at the top of the tower, as well as the sidewalks and street at the bottom. A few people were roused from their beds by the sirens, throwing on coats and jackets over their pajamas to go outside and check out the ruckus. Half an hour after the body was taken away by the ME’s hearse, a television news van pulled up and then promptly departed. There were no photographers, reporters, or news helicopters anywhere in sight.

Bernadette and Garcia sat in the front seat of his car. Every once in a while, he thumped the steering wheel with his fist to punctuate a point. Her gloves were off and in her lap, and she fiddled with them as he spoke. Her jean jacket had been bagged, and she never wanted to see it again. It was covered with Charles’s blood and some of hers. Another article of outerwear lost to this case. The cuts on her face and fingers hurt, but the paramedics had taped her up.

A couple of blocks away, yellow tape also trapped Charles’s house. Bernadette and Garcia had gotten there just in time. Regina Ordstruman had nearly bled to death in Araignee’s elegant claw-foot tub. She was a University of Minnesota senior with a major in American studies and double minors in anorexia and depression. She’d never been a patient at the VonHader clinic, but Regina had tried to commit suicide twice before her twentieth birthday. She’d met Charles through the Suicide Stop Line that he’d so enthusiastically staffed as a regular volunteer—the number provided by the unknowing but ever-helpful Professor Wakefielder.

The tub and river drownings would all be examined to see how Charles Araignee had first come in contact with his victims. Recent drowning cases in Minnesota and Wisconsin would have to be resurrected to see if any were the twins Charles had tried to use as a bargaining chip. The murderer himself would be studied postmortem to see how one man’s childhood obsession could turn into a killing spree spanning two states.

Because her death didn’t match the pattern, the toughest loose end could be Zoe Cameron. Even if her autopsy showed she’d died of an overdose rather than her eating disorder, Bernadette was uncertain of Charles’s complicity. Araignee could have talked her into suicide while the girl sat in that oppressive waiting room, or Cameron could have done it all on her own—the tragic timing wreaking havoc with the investigation into Wakefielder. The prof’s lawyer would probably sue everyone in sight, but Bernadette figured no one owed Wakefielder anything. He purposely and habitually surrounded himself with unstable women half his age. Maybe this mess would convince him to stop offering classes that attracted basket cases.

Bernadette wasn’t at all certain she would be entrusted with tying up the loose ends, or be allowed to take credit for cracking the cases in the first place. Even if she and Garcia managed to keep the use of her sight out of the reports, there would be other questions raised about how she’d conducted her investigation. For starters, the cops and the ME were asking how her suspect, though shot through the gut, could have managed to crawl out of the tower and fall to his death.

“He was alive when I called you,” she told Garcia for the fourth time. “I did not push him. He jumped. Crawled, actually.”

“After you shot him.”

“Yes.” She glanced through the window, at the tower across the street. “What else do you want from me?”

“Your gun’s been turned over. His revolver’s been recovered. We’ll have to wait for ballistics. The crime scene crew is crawling all over the shooting gallery that used to be his kitchen.” He paused. “I have to ask …”

“What?”

“Do you need some more time on the gun range or what? Why couldn’t you hit him the first twenty times?”

She flexed her injured hand, a reminder of all the weirdness that had taken place while she and Garcia were stalking their prey in the house. “I was afraid if I shot him, I would also be …” Her voice trailed off.

“Let’s keep that out of the reports, shall we?”

“Good idea.” She looked over at all the blue uniforms mingling with the black FBI jackets. “Who from St. Paul Homicide—”

“Ed has it all under control.”

“Your cousin drew the short straw on this?” She sank back against the car seat. “I suppose he’s got questions about this tower thing, too.”

Garcia rubbed his face with his hand. “You could say that.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry if I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“I want you to go home and get some sleep.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Please stay put, Cat.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. This is serious now.”

“I know it is,” she said.

“Don’t leave the house without talking to me first.”

“I won’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t even go downstairs to collect your mail without calling me.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“I’ve gotta hang around,” he said tiredly. “I’ll have one of our folks take you home.”

“Not Thorsson,” she said. “He’ll lose me.”

Garcia’s face lightened for the first time since they got in the car. “Not Thorsson.”

EVEN THOUGH she felt as if she’d been trapped in Garcia’s car forever, dawn was still a couple of hours away by the time she got dropped at home. She was pretty sure Charles’s suicide had happened after the papers’ deadlines, but there’d be something on the TV news later in the morning. She made a mental note to leave the television off for the day and stay away from newspapers for the rest of the week. She walked into the bathroom, flipped on the lights, and peeled off her clothes. She activated the shower and hopped in the tub. The hot water felt good. She heard her phone ringing and ignored it.

Tired and aching, she threw on a bathrobe and hobbled into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. The phone again. She picked it up off the counter. “What?”

Garcia said, “Did you see the morning paper?”

“You told me not to pick up the mail.”

“Meet me at the VonHader place. Don’t go in. Wait for me.”

“Both men are in jail,” she said. “There’s no one there.”

“Their lawyer sprang them already.”

“But why—”

“My turn. I got a bad feeling,” he said.

She hung up and stared at the phone. She was rubbing off on Garcia.

BERNADETTE PARKED a block over from Summit and jogged to the mansion, instinctively feeling the inside of her jacket pocket before remembering her gun was gone. When she got to the front door, Bernadette raised her fist to knock but hesitated. She had no idea what this was about, and Garcia had asked her not to go inside. Reluctantly, she stepped off to one side of the porch to wait.

She heard a vehicle rumbling down the street, but it wasn’t her boss; it was someone in a beat-up station wagon. She saw the driver slow in front of a neighbor’s house and toss a folded newspaper from the car window. It landed on the front stoop. Not a minute later, an early riser came out in his sweats and picked up his morning read.

Bernadette wondered if the carrier was going to stop in front of the VonHader place. She stepped away from the porch windows and watched while a newspaper landed on the sidewalk leading up to the steps.

“Shit,” she muttered. Afraid someone inside was going to come out for the paper, Bernadette took cover behind the army of statues. Several minutes went by, and she wondered if she was being too cautious. As she started to stand, the porch light flicked on. Ducking back down just in time, she heard the deadbolt slide open.

Peeking out from behind a statue, Bernadette saw the doctor step out onto the porch. “Damn paper boy.” Wrapping his robe tighter around his body, he pushed the screen door open and went outside to collect the morning news.

Immersed in the headlines, he paused in front of the door. With the porch light directly over his head, Bernadette was able to get a good look at his face. His mouth dropped open, and he put his hand out to steady himself against the doorframe. Whatever he was reading, it horrified him. “God, no,” he said under his breath.

The Dow is down, Bernadette thought cynically.

As he folded the paper in half and tucked it under his arm, his expression changed. Relaxed. It was almost one of surrender, and it disturbed Bernadette. He disappeared through the door, closing it and locking it behind him.

Something was wrong, and she was impatient to get inside. Abandoning her hiding spot, she went up to the porch windows to scan the street for Garcia’s car. She fished out her cell to call and then dropped the phone back into her pocket. He’d be there soon enough. She left her post at the windows and sat down on a concrete bench to wait.

______

INSIDE, LUKE VONHADER sat in front of the fireplace with a cup of coffee and a yellow legal pad. Tucked between two burning logs, the morning headlines erupted in flames and quickly collapsed into ash. Already yesterday’s news. Shuddering at the bitterness of his dark brew, he wished there had been cream in the house. He had meant to pick up a few groceries Monday, but the day had gotten away from him. Clicking his pen, he began to write.

Dear Liz:

All of the documents are where you’d expect them. If you have any questions, call Chip or one of his assistants. Susan in particular is up to speed on our holdings, as she handled matters related to my sister’s passing.

I suggest you sell our Scottsdale and Twin Cities properties and relocate to the East Coast. The private schools are good, and your mother would enjoy having you closer. Of course, it is entirely up to you.

DO NOT believe what you read in the papers and see on television. I know you will try to shield our daughters from the ugliness, but it will be difficult. Again, a move might be best for all concerned.

Kiss Em and Mel for me and tell them to take care of each other. I apologize for leaving my girls like this, but you more than anyone understand these demons of mine. I have lived with them for so long, they have taken over. Forgive the heartache I have caused you and try to move forward.

All my love, Luke

He set the pen and pad down on the coffee table and finished his drink. He carefully tore the sheet out of the pad and folded it in half, running his thumb along the crease. He folded it two more times and stood up to tuck the rectangle into the front pocket of his robe. He’d thought about finding a fireproof place to hide the letter, but he was confident the fire department would douse the fire before his body was incinerated.

He stepped up to the mantel and reached for one of his mother’s favorites, a tall Victorian pedestal oil lamp with a painted base and original crystal chimney.