Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (71 page)
I gave the kid a threatening glare.
‘All eight cars are locked on the hundred-eighth floor,’ Ted reiterated.
‘Has anyone tried summoning them?’
We exchanged uncertain glances.
Sonny shook her head. Pressed the big button on the wall.
Immediately, my cell phone shrilled.
‘Trying to get a rise out of me?’
The Undertaker
snickered as I answered the call.
‘Just send down the damned elevator.’
Distantly, we heard a metallic whine as the elevator mechanism engaged.
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I had no idea what to expect as the elevator rocketed to the top of the
Stratosphere Tower
with enough speed to force the blood out of my brain. What did I think would happen once I came face to face with
The Undertaker
? A trade? Jamie in exchange for me? Why? Kidnapping was not this monster’s plaything. What was I going to do anyway? Tackle him singlehandedly? I had no plan. No idea what I was heading into. I was going in blind. Going against everything I’d learned. Being impetuous. I’d have to think on my feet. Improvise. I was going to get somebody killed. Probably me.
I shook out a handful of antacids and gulped them down as the ground fell away.
Everything that had happened over the last week had led to this point: The 7th Street Bridge; the LA homicides; the murder of Harry; the Vegas killings; the booby-trapped bombs. The Undertaker was as far out of reach has he had been a week ago. Why take Jamie hostage now? It didn’t make any sense. To make me dance to his tune? It didn’t add up.
I was missing something.
Nothing the killer had done so far had indicated he’d pull a crazy stunt like this.
What did he have to gain from this situation?
Was this a trap?
Maybe I was the real target.
But then why not come straight after me?
I watched the digital floor numbers escalate like the jackpot accumulator on a slot machine.
The only fact I knew with any certainty was that Jamie’s life hung in the balance. Everything else was wild speculation.
I glanced at the illuminated ceiling grille. Visualized Sonny standing barely a few yards above. Possibly contemplating the exact same questions.
I glanced at my wristwatch: thirty seconds.
Half a minute to make
The Undertaker’s
ultimatum.
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The doors hissed open. Noisily. I followed the Glock out into a short corridor that led to the wrap-around observation deck. I took it easy; checking out alcoves and doorways as I went. My pulse was already elevated by the rapid ascent. I could hear it tapping out Morse code in my throat.
The whole external wall of the observation deck was composed of big glass panels, I saw. Sloping upwards and outwards from the carpeted floor. Beyond lay a myriad of twinkling rainbow lights. A night-washed cityscape ablaze with luminous color. For a moment my balance went askew. I pressed shoulders against the internal wall. Drew a deep, uneasy breath. The view was
dizzying
.
A cold breeze snapped at my skin. I wondered where it was coming from. I headed into it. The observation deck was a huge hollow ring. I followed the natural curve. Clammy hands wrapped around the Glock. Lightning bugs dancing in the corners of my eyes. The breeze grew stronger, becoming noticeably colder. Now I could hear the distant grind of traffic and the incessant whine of wind.
Then I stopped. Dead.
Finally, after a week of relentless pursuit, I had come face to face with
The Undertaker
.
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___________________________
But not just
The Undertaker.
He had company. Him and a woman – directly facing me.
Jamie.
She was still alive! She looked worse for wear. Out of it. Drunk but standing immobile. Head tipped. Arms dangling loosely by her sides. The other was
him
: the monster we’d been chasing all week. The child killer.
He’d blown out one of the big glass panels at floor level. Creating a gaping maw about three yards wide and two yards tall. Freezing night air was blasting through it. Blowing bits of refuse around the deck and ruffling hair. The drop looked perilous.
Was
perilous. One wrong move and they’d both fall through.
I took a hesitant step forward.
Then stopped.
The breath solidified in my throat.
I blinked at the picture of
The Undertaker
and Jamie.
I shouldn’t have recognized his face.
But I did.
Only it was
Bill
and Jamie.
Bill and Jamie.
My brain buckled.
How could this be?
Only one explanation:
My good friend from the Bureau was
The Undertaker.
205
___________________________
Things don’t always make sense. This didn’t. The Universe has a warped sense of humor. Get used to it.
206
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I almost dropped the gun – not the smartest move in any deadly confrontation. But shock makes us do crazy things. I once saw a woman see her husband mown down by a drunk driver. The guy had cartwheeled over the vehicle. Ten feet off the ground. Hit the pavement, hard – where his head had cracked open like an egg. Shock had caused the woman to run in the opposite direction – straight under a passing bus. Shock can be a killer. As for this epiphany, it was enough to throw every sense out of kilter.
I screwed up eyes. Vainly trying to make sense of the senseless.
My friend from the Bureau was
the killer!
The air was on fire.
Bill was The Undertaker!
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It goes without saying that major quakes are followed by aftershocks. It is also the case that these aftershocks can wreak more devastation than the first unsettling tremor. My brain was still reeling from being pulverized when I realized there was a third person standing behind Bill and Jamie. I hadn’t seen him at first. He’d been obscured. Hiding. But now he was stepping into view. He had a gun to Bill’s head. Pressed hard enough into Bill’s temple to force his head into a tilt.
I squinted against the cold wind scratching at my eyes, not exactly sure what I was seeing. Not sure what to believe. The eyes can be deceptive. Blind you from the truth.
The man wore a dark, brooding stare as though he owned it. Did own it. You know the type: one of those self-assured cocky kinds that like to be the center of attention, then sulk when they’re not.
All the same, it was a face I recognized.
A face that burned into my soul.
And in that moment my whole world fell apart.
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Like I say, some things don’t bear thinking about. This one didn’t. But I had no choice. The reality was pummeling me in the face and demanding a reaction.
‘George?’
It came out a rasp. Didn’t sound like it came from me. Maybe a mouse cowering in a corner. Certainly not from me; I was still trying to unravel the unfathomable, and failing.
What did I expect?
It was incomprehensible.
Beyond reason.
Inexplicable.
All those words we use to separate us from the truth.
How could George,
my son
, be here, now?
Had
The Undertaker
kidnapped him too?
But George was holding the gun against Bill’s head.
Which meant …
George was the killer.
The thought put my brain on ice. Stopped the Earth spinning.
My boy
…
Funny how two simple, normally unassuming words can cut you clean to the core.
My Boy.
The killer belonged to me.
No doubt about it. It was staring me in the face. Punching me in the gut. And bleeding every last ounce of logic from my whirling mind.
George was
The Undertaker.
My child: the slayer of children.
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There is no preparation for this kind of world-shattering event. No manual to guide our reactions. No
now here’s what to do when you find out your son is a murderer
precedent to work from.
Distantly, I remembered once wondering how the parents of killers must feel in the moment they learn their own offspring have sinned so evilly. Back then, I’d presumed that revulsion, embarrassment and heartbreak would vie for emotional dominance. Now that I was experiencing it first-hand, my scrabbling mind could barely cope with the plethora of conflicting emotions panel-beating my brain, let alone make any rational sense of it all.