Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (47 page)

“And you felt you were entitled to kill three
men and wound four others because your daughter went to a back
alley quack instead of involving you and getting a good doctor?
Maybe she knew her pious father would look down his nose and call
her a whore because she didn’t live up to his idea of what a proper
woman should be.”

“No, I loved my daughter, even if she was
wild and didn’t obey my rules.”

“And I guess the wife who left you was a
whore in your eyes too? She was probably just a normal person who
got tired of your crazy talk and holier than thou attitude.”

“I sat in the Devils lair and drank the
Devils drink and then I rose above it to punish him. I’ll go to
meet God with righteousness on my side.”

“God isn’t going to be where you’re going but
he’ll hear you singing your heart out.”

“You're talking big for a man who has a gun
trained on his chest; you probably don’t know it, but when I was in
the Army I was on the international pistol team. I was one of the
top marksmen, and I have the trophies and medals to prove it. Are
you as good?”

“Yeah, I’m even better! Shooting at targets
is one thing, but before yesterday, how many times have you
actually looked into the eyes of a man you were going to kill.
Yesterday you had a passion to kill Tony Giliano; do you have the
same passion today? And do you feel the difference in a slow
methodical kill vs. one that happens quickly and then it’s over?
Are you comfortable with sitting here talking with me and having to
look me in the eyes? Up close, the eyes are what make the
difference. Can you look into my soul and then kill me?” While he
was talking, Clay slowly slid down the front of the cabinet to sit
on his heels, never letting the silencer leave Horstman’s chest.
His angle of fire was wrong while standing across from Dick sitting
in the chair. For a sure and immediate kill he wanted the angle to
be up; in Dick’s right eye and up into his brain.

The two men sat watching each other from
sevent feet apart, guns trained on their targets, neither wanting
to take the chance of the first shot.

“Dick, what were you going to do when the
police came? Were you going to surrender or have a shoot out and
try to take as many of them with you as possible?”

“I won’t surrender; but I won’t kill innocent
men either. I planned to step out on the stoop with a gun held
behind me, then raise it over their heads and fire. They could
shoot me in self defense and it would be over.”

“Doesn’t your religion condemn suicide?”

“It’s not suicide if they kill me.”

“The hell it’s not. Your actions will
guarantee they shoot and that makes it suicide in the eyes of any
church.”

“No it’s not,” yelled Dick Horstman.

Clay laughed loudly and gave Dick a
contemptuous smirk. “You’ll let them kill you because you don’t
have the balls to do it yourself. If you were half the man you
think you are you wouldn’t burden an innocent man; you’d go in and
sit by the butchered daughter you failed, and do the right thing
yourself. The only reason you could shoot those seven men in the
bar was because you got your belly full of beer and shot them while
they were unarmed. You’re a coward.”

Dick was grinding his teeth and clenching his
left hand in anger, and while staring at Clay he yelled, “I’m not a
coward.” Tears began to form at the corners of his eyes. His hand
holding the gun was wavering, shaking slightly and had trailed
slightly to his left.

Clay seized the moment, elevated the barrel
of the pistol and fired while he pivoted to his left. A second shot
followed the first and hit Dick in the neck just as Clay felt a
burning punch to his right rib cage. While falling on his left
side, Clay continued to fire as Dick rolled out of the chair.

Dick’s body flopped on the floor as his brain
sent its final disoriented signals, causing muscles to react for
several seconds, as if its limbs were being controlled by a
maniacal puppeteer.

Rolling to his left Clay used his left arm to
rise so he could assess the damage to himself.

Blood hadn’t yet soaked his coat. Moving his
right arm made him wince slightly from the pain, but his biggest
problem was caused each time he took a breath. Getting his coat and
shirt off hurt like hell, but he was glad to learn the arm had a
minor nick; probably a fragment from the slug had ricocheted off
his ribs. The rib cage was something else. Blood was oozing from
the open wound which ran along the edge of the rib cage at what his
probing finger determined to be the fourth rib from the bottom.
Slipping his gloves back on, he rummaged through cabinet drawers
until he found kitchen towels. Two of them would fit under the
shirt and coat, and with pressure from his arm against the ribs,
would slow the flow of blood.

Dick Horstman lay on the floor by the wood
kitchen table with blood oozing from his neck and his forehead,
just above the right eye. Two more blood spots had formed on his
chest. Under the circumstances, he knew his second shot hitting
just under the chin, while he was falling to his left, was
extremely lucky. Two bullets had gone wild and were embedded
somewhere in the walls.

On a coffee table in the living room lay the
.45 automatic beside the note from Irene. Clay laid Dick’s revolver
on the table beside the other pistol. Picking the .45 up he smelled
the barrel; Dick hadn’t cleaned it yet.

Moving down the hall way he opened a closed
bedroom door and saw Irene laying on the blood soaked bedding. The
smell of blood and excrement reached his nose and made him want to
turn away. She had been a pretty girl, a bit heavy, dark brown hair
like her father, but with facial features different from his. A
picture on her dresser of a mature woman showed who she had taken
her good looks from. Going back to the living room, Clay took time
to look at pictures of Dick in an Army uniform, flanked on each
side by first place citations for pistol marksmanship. Passing
through the kitchen he stepped over Dick’s body and headed to the
basement.

In the damp basement he flipped on the lights
and found the copper gas line to the water heater. After turning
the gas valve off he bent the thin corrugated tubing back and forth
until it cracked. Using a pair of pliers he pinched the end of the
tubing down to a small opening and then cracked the gas valve to a
partly open position. A flaming cigarette lighter was enough to
ignite the gas, before he opened the shut off valve fully. Clay
grasped the flaming torch and pushed the tubing up into the floor
joist, right below where Dick’s body was crumpled on the kitchen
floor.

At the top of the stairs he picked up the
tool box and opened the door to leave. The key was removed from the
door and used to set the lock from the outside, and then it was
tossed out into the snow in the yard. He walked away quickly,
feeling pain with each breath.

After setting the toolbox alongside the
deserted building where he knew it would be stolen, he headed
toward the home and office of Dr. Russell Joutras. Doc and his wife
were in their seventies and had treated Tony and his men when they
had been injured seriously, but would not require hospitalization.
“Judi” as everyone called her had been Doc’s nurse and office
manager before he went into semi retirement. Now they treated
mostly older neighborhood people and a few injuries like his, where
notification of law enforcement was to be avoided. Doc charged a
premium for his silence and everyone he treated was happy to pay
it. Tony had introduced Clay to Doc and Judi shortly after his
decision to be a professional killer. Tony had predicted his fate,
“Sooner or later, you’ll need to visit Doc.”

Clay parked the stolen truck two blocks from
his destination and used the rearview mirror to see while he
removed his stage makeup. His ribcage was throbbing and his
sweating belied the cold temperature inside the truck.

Russell Joutras responded to the knocking and
opened the kitchen door of the apartment. Clay had barely managed
the wooded steps to reach the second story porch and was leaning on
his left shoulder against the brick wall, still holding his right
arm tight against his ribcage.

“I can see from the way you’re standing and
the blood soaking through your jacket where your injury is located.
What happened?”

Clay stepped into the kitchen and replied, “I
got myself shot.”

“Was this related to Tony Giliano’s
death?”

“Yes.”

Doc called to his wife Karen, “Judi, we have
a patient. Let’s get you downstairs where we can get your clothes
off and have a look at what you’ve brought me.”

Both of them helped Clay down the inside
stairway to the surgery, where Judi began cutting his coat and
shirt off.

Doc raised Clay’s right arm and removed the
bloody towels from the wound. After probing the long slice along
the rib and moving a light to view it better, he turned to Clay.
“You need to go to a hospital, the rib is shattered and needs more
care than I can provide here.”

“No can do Doc. Do the best job you can and
I’ll have to live with it or die with it. You know how it is, I
can't go anywhere else.”

“I’ll do the best I can, but you’re going to
be laid up for some time.”

“No Doc. Tony’s funeral is going to be in the
next few days and I’ll be there. There’s no way anything is going
to prevent me from saying goodbye to my best friend.”

“We’ll see. If you get up and go wandering
around in three or four days after I sew you up, you’re a better
man than most.”

“I will, and I am. What’s your fee for
this?”

“Five thousand, in cash. Small bills
preferably, tens and twenties are the best.”

“I’ll get it to you within three or four
days.”

“No problem. A week or two will be fine. Tony
vouched for you, so your credits good. Now let’s stop talking and
get started before you bleed to death.”

Doc and Judi helped Clay lie backward, and
then rolled him over onto his left side, raising his right arm up
to give clear access to the chest wound. “I’ll use a local
anesthetic and you’ll be awake through the procedure. Are you ready
to start?”

“Do it.” He was about to learn getting
patched up is much more painful than getting shot.

He spent the night on a bed in the surgery
and woke up the following morning when he heard footsteps on the
wooden staircase. Doc entered the room carrying two cups of
coffee.

“I didn’t know if you drink coffee or not, so
I brought one just in case.”

The local anesthetic had worn off hours
earlier and Clay had spent a painful night drifting in and out of
sleep. Doc gave him a hand, and he rose to a sitting position.
While moving he had grimaced in pain, and then had constant pain
while sitting up. His mouth was dry and he felt like hell, but the
coffee was strong and good and helped him focus his mind.

“We’ll change the dressing this morning
before you leave. I can see there’s been some drainage during the
night; I’ll take a good look at the wound and the sutures when the
bandage is off. I managed to remove all of the bullet fragments and
the bone fragments. It’s going to be several months before this
heals completely, but it should heal in time. There’ll be a
depression left where the section of rib is missing. Would you like
to try to eat some breakfast before you leave?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll eat what ever your wife
fixes. What time is it?”

“It’s a quarter past seven.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes, it’s morning.”

He had gotten to Doc and Judi’s at just past
noon and had been patched up three hours later. So he had slept
well over fifteen hours. And he hadn’t eaten for almost twenty four
hours.

Gingerly, Clay got out of Doc’s car three
hours later and entered his house with help. There were eleven
messages waiting on the answering machine. Gladys had called once
to ask a question about an account and Anna had called three times,
telling him to call her ASAP. His mother and Lizzy had each called
once when they heard about the shooting. The others were from
friends of Tony and Joey, probably just wanting to talk about the
shooting to learn what had happened. He phoned Anna first. She
wanted to hire him to kill the bastard who had shot Tony; it took
her a minute to accept the news when he announced the man was
already dead and cremated. She admitted she should have known what
he was up to. Tony’s visitation was set for Friday and Saturday
evenings starting at six, and the funeral was scheduled for two the
following Sunday afternoon. He’d have all day Thursday and half of
Friday to stay in bed and rest.

Next he returned Lizzie’s call, and then
called Margaret. She expressed her condolences, but he thought he
detected gloating and relief in her voice.

Dr. Joutras had offered to change the bandage
as required if the wound started bleeding and every other day if it
didn’t. After undressing he determined the wound wasn’t bleeding
anymore than he would expect, popped two pain pills, and went to
bed.

Clay endured the following four days; endured
the pain of losing Tony’s council and friendship, and endured the
pain earned while dispatching Tony’s killer. Standing erect at the
visitations and during the funeral was the worst physical pain; but
the emotional pain far outweighed the rib. He knew the physical
pain would eventually ease, but the pain caused by the loss of Tony
was, and would continue to be permanent.

Following the burial service Anna invited
family members and close friends to the house for dinner. The
church’s Women’s Auxiliary and many of her and Tony’s friends had
brought food to the house and there was enough home cooking to feed
half of Chicago. Clay listened to stories about Tony, told by
people who had been close to the family for years and knew him and
Anna intimately. Adrianna and Marshall were both there, with the
baby, along with John and Meredith.