Shaken (22 page)

That’s when I squeezed his balls with every intention of pulling them off.

Brotsky’s groan became a high-pitched wail, and he wrapped his hand around my neck, cutting off my air, but in our little game, two balls beat one throat, and he let go and tried to roll off me, chopping at my wrists.

I released him, rolling off the other side of the bed, grabbing my dress as I hit the floor, beelining into the bathroom and slamming and locking the door behind me. I tugged the Versace over my head, feeling less vulnerable now that I was no longer naked, but my emotional state was a wreck. I was near hysterical, feeling like laughing and crying at the same time, amazed to have him off me, sick at what had happened so far, terrified at what was still going on.

I bit back the encroaching nervous breakdown and threw open the medicine cabinet, looking for a razor or scissors or anything sharp, listening to Brotsky howl in the bedroom, the howls getting louder as he came after me. There was nothing usable, so I spun around, searching for something. I saw towels, on a cheap rack. Brotsky’s underwear and shoes, discarded on the floor. A basket in the corner, with a scrub brush and a roll of toilet paper.

I turned my attention to the toilet, grabbing the heavy porcelain lid on top of the tank, swinging it around just as Brotsky came barreling through the door.

The lid connected with his forehead, cracking in half, the impact hurting my fingers. Brotsky backpedaled, his arms pinwheeling as he fell onto his butt. I ran right at him, jumping over him as he fell.

Somehow, a nanosecond later, I wound up face-first on the carpet, bright stars blinding my vision from the impact.

Brotsky had grabbed my ankle. And he still had it.

I kicked out with my free leg, trying to drive my heel into some sensitive part of his body. But all I kept hitting was fat and flesh, my blows thudding off harmlessly. Then Brotsky turned, pinning my ankle, his weight forcing it into an unnatural position.

The
SNAP!
was loud enough for both of us to hear.

The pain was the worst thing I’d ever experienced.

Present day

2010, August 10

“R
emember how it feels to break a bone, Jack?”

I blinked, my vision of John Dalton blurry. He was older, tanner, but the dead eyes and expressionless face were the same.

I swallowed. My wrists still burned, and my jaw ached. The ball gag was gone, but wearing it for so long had made my mouth tender.

“Is this you being the hero in the movie of your life, John?”

My voice sounded strange, echoey. A side effect of the drugs, I guessed.

“Ah, yes. I remember that conversation. That was my way of saying we’re all very good at justifying our actions. But as for heroes…I’m afraid there are none. You’re a perfect example of that. Dedicating your life to catching despicable villains. Giving up everything for your endless pursuit of evil. And where has all of that gotten you? Dying in agony.”

Dalton moved closer, until we were almost cheek to cheek. “You’re not a hero, Jack. You’re an unhappy ending. A Greek tragedy. An object lesson for those who try to lead a selfless life.”

“You going to get on with this, Dalton?” I said through my clenched teeth. “Or are you going to talk me to death?”

Dalton took a step back, raising the sledgehammer.

“The leg first, I think,” he said. “Which one did Victor Brotsky break? It was the right one, wasn’t it?”

There was no way I could brace myself for it. So I didn’t even try.

When the hammer connected with my tibia, cracking the bone, the pain was so bad that darkness overtook me.

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

I
’d heard the cliché
sharp pain
many times in my life, but that’s exactly what it was when Brotsky snapped my leg—like someone was stabbing a skewer into my bone.

I jackknifed around, swiping at his eyes with my fingernails, getting him to let go of me. Then I crawled like crazy for the bedroom. Each time my knee hit the floor, the skewer dug deeper. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a whirlpool, and my head got so light I could literally feel the blood draining from it. I went straight for the bed, pulling myself underneath the dust ruffle, waiting for Brotsky to come storming in.

But he didn’t come storming in.

“I’ll find you,
tee karova
! Victor Brotsky will find you!” But his voice was further away than the bathroom. It sounded like he was coming from the kitchen.

Maybe, between the crack in the head and the scrape across the eyes, he hadn’t seen where I’d gone.

Taking advantage of this, I peeked through the dust ruffle on my left side, looking for my gun.

Not there. I tried the right.

Also not there. But I did remember something that was there. Brotsky’s gigantic cellular phone.

I inched closer to the side, gasping at the pain when my leg was jostled. The gasp filled my mouth with a giant dust bunny, sticking in the back of my throat. I slapped my hand over my mouth so I didn’t cough.

“
Where are you, sooka?
”

Brotsky was closer now. Maybe in the hallway. My lungs spasmed, but I wouldn’t let the air out.

“Did you go back downstairs, to play with Brotsky’s collection?”

I heard his feet creaking on the basement steps. Now was the time to act. Inch by painful inch, I dragged myself out from under the bed, pulling my broken leg behind me.

Above me, on the nightstand, was the Motorola DynaTAC. The pain was becoming so bad I was going to either scream or pass out, and I didn’t see any way I’d be able to sit up and grab the phone. So, from a prone position, I reached for it, stretching my hand up, brushing it with the tips of my fingers.

The stairs creaked again, getting louder. Brotsky was coming back up.

I strained, grunting with effort, pinching the base of the phone between my thumb and forefinger.

Brotsky’s footsteps, in the hallway.

Finally getting a firm grip, I pulled the phone from the nightstand. It was heavy, about two pounds, eighteen inches long with the antenna. I shoved it under the bed, then pushed myself backward, trying to get under the dust ruffle before Brotsky came back.

Holding my breath, I listened for the killer.

I didn’t hear anything. Not a single sound.

Turning my attention to the phone, I pressed one of the buttons. The keypad lit up, bright green.

Still no noises from Brotsky.

I tapped a number, the beep so loud it made me flinch. The red LED screen displayed a digital number 9. Sure Brotsky must have heard it, I tapped 1 and 1 again, waiting for the operator to pick up, hoping they didn’t put me on hold.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Then they put me on hold.

I could feel my leg throb with my heartbeat. I had no idea how serious the break was, but there was no way I’d be able to get out of there without assistance. If they didn’t pick up soon…

“Nine one one, what is the nature of your emergency?”

The connection wasn’t the best, and the operator’s words fluctuated in volume. “This is Officer Jacqueline Streng,” I whispered. “I’m in a house with a killer. There are eleven dead, possibly more. His name is Victor Brotsky.”

“Where are you located, Officer?”

“I don’t know. Can’t you pinpoint the call?”

“We can’t. Are you using a land line at the location?”

I forced myself not to yell. “Goddamn it, just look up his goddamn address.”

“I’m looking it up, Officer. But I don’t have any Chicago addresses for Victor Protsy.”

Goddamn bad reception. “His name isn’t Protsy. It’s—”

Then the mattress and box spring were lifted off the frame and tossed aside, and Brotsky was reaching down for me, a sharpened broom handle clenched in his meaty fist.

Present day

2010, August 10

O
n his knees, Phin looked up at the bear of a man eagerly approaching. Lust sparkled in Brotsky’s bulging eyes, and his clenched fists were the size of hams and ready to serve up more damage. Dizzy from Brotsky’s last punch, weak from the chemotherapy, Phin realized he wasn’t only going to lose the fight, but he’d probably be killed as well.

Sorry, Jack. You deserved so much better.

Then Victor Brotsky halted in mid-step, his whole body vibrating. His mouth opened, and he dropped like a redwood tree, his spine ramrod stiff, the two thin, silver wires sticking out of his chest trailing a small puff of smoke. Phin heard a crackling discharge of electricity, then followed the wires and turned to see—

—Harry McGlade, standing in the doorway, holding a taser gun.

“I bribed the warden ten grand to watch you get your ass kicked,” Harry said, “and now just blew another K on the guard’s taser. Find out where Jack is.”

Phin didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto Brotsky, sweeping away the electrodes, pinching the man’s chubby neck.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Da?”

He squeezed harder, seeking Brotsky’s trachea through the flab. “Where is she!”

“Meester K has her. He…is going to kill her.”

Phin slapped the confused Brotsky across the face. The killer smelled of stale sweat and ozone, and his eyes weren’t focused. “Where does he have her, Victor?”

Brotsky stared up at Phin, his expression almost childlike in its honesty. “I don’t know. The man I hired, he did not tell me.”

If Phin had had a gun, or a knife, he would have killed the fat bastard right then and there. Because he believed Brotsky was telling the truth. Jack was about to die, and there was no way to save her.

He focused more pressure on Brotsky’s neck, his forearms straining, his fingers cramping. Putting all of his fear and anger into it. Thinking that if Jack were going to die, this piece of shit would precede her.

Brotsky’s eyes bugged out and his tongue began to protrude. He tried to reach for Phin, but the smaller man had pinned the killer’s arms with his knees.

“If there’s a hell,” Phin said through clenched teeth as he watched the life drain out of Brotsky, “I’ll see you there, so I can kill you again.”

Then Brotsky tried to say something. A glimmer of hope overtook Phin. Did the killer know something after all? Phin let up the pressure enough to allow Brotsky to speak.

“C-c-call…her,” the fat man sputtered.

Call her? That actually made sense. The camera over Jack was connected to an iPhone. Perhaps it was possible to talk to the guy who had Jack. Make some kind of deal.

“What’s the number?” Phin demanded, relaxing his trembling hands.

Brotsky coughed. “I do not know. But Meester K will call me. He said he would. I paid him to. He sent me the phone so I could watch her die, and hear her screams.”

Then Phin heard it. Music, coming from the hallway. It was Garth Brooks, “Friends in Low Places.” Phin released Brotsky, ran past the guards who’d been watching with casual interest, and saw Herb sitting with his back against the wall, staring at the iPhone as it played the country tune—Brotsky’s ringtone.

Herb’s jowls were slick, tear-stained, his eyes rimmed in red.

“Dalton…he…broke her leg…”

Phin snatched the phone from Herb, running his finger along the touch screen to answer it.

“Is this Dalton?” Phin was surprised how calm and together he managed to sound.

“Who is this?”
a man answered.

There was no point in lying. “My name is Phineas Troutt. I was in bed next to Jack when you grabbed her.”

“Ah, yes. You must be the father of the baby. Would you like to talk to the mother? I’ll try to wake her up for you.”

Phin held the iPhone away from his face, seeing Jack on the wheel, seeing Mr. K wave something under her face—smelling salts—waking her up.

Jack’s face transformed from the peace of sleep to a mask of twisted agony. Something inside Phin snapped. He slid to the floor, next to Herb, his own tears coming fast and hard.

“Jack?” Phin’s voice was thick, the words threatening to clog up his throat. “Where are you, babe?”

“Phin? Is that you
?” Jack’s voice was strained, her breath labored.

“It’s me.” He pressed the screen, putting it on speaker phone. “Do you know where you are?”

“No. I’m…I’m with a man named John Dalton. Herb…he knows who he is.”

Dalton?
Phin had no idea who he was. He’d been expecting Luther Kite.

Then Phin realized Luther Kite couldn’t have been the one to grab Jack, because there had been no nettles in the house. When Phin came down from the tree where Kite had been, he’d gotten covered in nettles, and had dragged them into the kitchen. If Luther had been in the house, he’d have done the same.

Phin heard a scream coming from Brotsky’s cell. Then the guards rushed in. “Herb’s here with me. So’s Harry.”

“I’m here, Jack,” Herb said, leaning close. A tear slid down his nose, splashing onto the phone. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Herb. Nothing you could have done.”

“Jack…” Herb began to cry so badly he couldn’t talk. The cop pressed his hand over his face and began to shake. More guards hurried up the hall, piling into Brotsky’s cell.

Jack looked up at the camera.
“You’re my best friend, Herb. And you’re the best man I’ve ever met. It was such an honor to work with you, to know you, for all of these years.”

“You’re my best friend too, Jack. I…love you.”

Jack’s tortured face broke into a sad smile.
“And you didn’t even have to be drunk to say it. I love you too, buddy.”

Harry walked over and crouched down. His hands were bloody, and his expression grim.

“Jackie? Can you hear me? It’s me, Harry.”

Jack nodded, her head slumping down as her body shook with sobs.

“Victory Brotsky, he said he paid to watch you die,” Harry said, his voice cracking.