The Closer (31 page)
Authors: Donn Cortez
Through another door. Framed black-and-white photographs, a wall-size collage blurred past.
“You can’t even turn me in to the police, Jack. I rented this warehouse in Falmi’s name, told him it was a tax dodge. I made sure he was working, alone, every murder I committed; I’ve gotten his prints on weapons, planted all sorts of evidence. I’ve had a long time to think this through, Jack. I’m what the textbooks call an
organized
killer.”
He stopped. The door leading to the next room was closed; all the others had been ajar. Jack whirled, dashed for the one leading to the hall, instead. It was closed, too, but unlocked. He yanked it open.
The corridor was dark and empty… but at its end, on the other side, a thin crack of light shone from the bottom of a door frame.
Jack crept quietly down the hall. He could still hear Charlie’s voice, coming from the galleries. He wondered how many of them there were, how many rooms stocked with distilled torment and destroyed lives.
He reached the door. Stopped, with his hand hovering above the doorknob.
Abruptly, he took several steps backward, and wrenched open the door he had just passed.
Charlie stood with a double-barreled shotgun aimed directly at the wall. A hole had been knocked through it, with some sort of cloth covering it up on the other side. The only light in the room spilled from the face of an ancient amplifier on a table. A cord led from it to the microphone in Charlie’s hand.
As Jack leaped for him, Charlie whirled and fired.
The impact caught Jack high on the left side, spinning his body but not stopping him. Pain seared all the way down his arm and into his shoulder. He slammed into Charlie at an awkward angle, knocking him back and into the wall.
Jack hit him as hard as he could with a right, snapping Charlie’s head to the side. He grappled for the shotgun with his left, but his arm was starting to go numb.
Charlie brought his knee up into Jack’s belly, doubling him over. Jack had a grip on the barrel of the shotgun with his left hand, and managed to keep it pointed away from him. He clawed at Charlie’s face with his free hand, trying for his eyes. Charlie threw an elbow into Jack’s face, smashing his nose in a detonation of pain. His vision blurred, but he hung on to the barrel grimly. Charlie yanked on the gun, bringing it between them, pointed at the ceiling.
Jack grabbed for the trigger guard with his right hand. With the last of his strength, he pushed the barrel forward and the stock back.
The gun went off under Charlie’s chin.
Jack staggered back, tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground. Charlie fell backward, knocking over the table with the PA system. He sprawled to the floor, blood seeping from his throat.
Jack gasped for breath. He felt light-headed, dizzy. He wondered how badly he was hurt.
“You’re—not dying, Jack,” a voice said wetly.
Charlie lifted his head from the floor. His neck was covered in blood, but there was no gaping wound. “My own—invention,” Charlie managed. His voice sounded like he was drowning. “Chloral hydrate crystals instead of—buckshot. Fast-acting… knockout. Guess the first to wake… is the one that wins.”
Everything was going gray. He could barely hear Charlie’s final words.
“Either way… Nikki dies…”
The last thing Jack heard were sirens, getting closer.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was green.
He blinked a few times until his eyes focused. It was a drab, industrial green. It surrounded him on all sides. He tried to raise his hand, and it moved only a few inches before it stopped with an audible clink.
The green was curtains, drawn around his bed. A bed with chrome handrails, that he was handcuffed to. He was in a hospital.
Slowly, Charlie Holloway smiled.
The police must have responded to the gunshots. They’d found him and Jack. Both of them were now in custody… but Charlie wouldn’t be for long. Even if they found Nikki’s body in the hidden room upstairs, he could still pin it on Falmi.
He heard footsteps. The curtain was drawn aside.
The walls of his room were made of shiny, black plastic.
“Hello, Patron,” Nikki said. “How did you enjoy
my
little mind-fuck? See, us whores know a few things about tricks,
too.”
Charlie gaped at her.
“For instance,” Nikki said, “this.” She held up her wrist with the charm bracelet dangling from it. “You were so sure this was a bunch of sentimental shit you never took a second look at it. Otherwise, you might of noticed one of these charms is a handcuff key… works on most models, too, at least the cheapass ones. You hadn’t shot me full of dope, I would have been outta there thirty seconds after you closed the door. ’Course, once I woke up, it took me a few minutes to find the real exit—and guess who I found taking a nap downstairs?”
“You—you
bitch
—” Charlie rasped. His throat ached.
“Save your voice,” Nikki said. “You’re gonna need it.”
She pulled the curtain the rest of the way aside. Jack stood beside a long table. Various instruments gleamed under the glare of a single lamp.
“He’s all yours,” Nikki said.
Jack reached down and pressed the Record button on a small tape recorder. His face was expressionless.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” the Closer said.
Dear Electra:
This was one of the strangest Halloweens ever.
Don’t get me wrong, I had lots of fun. Uncle Rick was late, but we still managed to catch the parade. What really sucked, though, is that someone broke into his car and stole his costume. Jerks. And somebody found my cell phone and was supposed to return it, but they never showed.
Uncle Rick still dressed up, though—he grabbed some old stuff from his studio and made this kind of werewolf/astronaut thing on the fly. It looked weird but it “worked as a concept,” as Uncle Rick said. And it still kind of went with my Moon Goddess costume, though it wasn’t as cool as his Sun God. Sigh.
Still, it was a blast. There were people spinning fire around on chains and a big metal dragon on wheels and
thousands
of people. The streets the parade went down were decorated too, with jack-o’-lanterns and spiderwebs and torches. I think what I liked best, though, were the shrines in the park. They were all
dedicated to different people or groups or even things—the only thing they had in common was, well, death. There was a shrine for pets that had passed on, and another to people who had died of AIDS. There was even one for murder victims. You could light a candle, or incense, and put something personal on a little altar. People left pictures, toys, flowers, clothes—all kinds of stuff. I even saw an electric mixer. I guess almost anything can remind you of someone if you miss them enough.
And then, of course, the very next day IT happened.
Christmas.
I don’t know why I should be surprised, Electra. I mean, it happens
every
year—the day after Halloween, Santa and company hit town like a convention of drunk reindeer salesmen. Sometimes it even starts before October 31, which as far as
I’m
concerned is a hanging offence.
Uncle Rick agrees with me—which is why he and his new girlfriend are taking off. They’re going to travel around the Pacific Rim for two months, and they’re not coming home until the last Frosty the Snowman has been put back into cold storage. They’re gonna just bypass the whole commercialized holiday thing: no carols, no Santas, no Christmas trees or lights or decorations.
I tell you, Electra: some people just don’t know how lucky they are.