The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons (31 page)

“I work for Tower International now,” Jake said. “Kira Thorn is my supervisor.”

Gorman’s jaw dropped open and he looked as if he had been slapped.

Good
, Jake thought. He hurled the mask at Gorman’s chest and it landed at his feet. Jake returned his left hand to the Glock’s grip. “Pick it up.”

Gorman stood frozen.

“I said,
pick it up.”

Gorman crouched with his hands still locked behind his head.

“Just use one hand …”

Gorman removed his left hand from behind his head and picked up the bag. He stood, eyes on Jake.

“Breathe into it.”

Gorman looked from the gun in Jake’s hand to his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he held the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and exhaled. The bag expanded with his expelled air, swelling like a small balloon. He inhaled and the bag deflated. He exhaled and it inflated again.

As Jake’s finger tightened on the Glock’s trigger, he noticed a spot of color on Gorman’s neck, within the open collar of his shirt. An alarm went off in his head. “Put the bag down and take off your shirt.”

Gorman stopped breathing, confusion clouding his eyes. He removed the mask from his face and set it down on the counter behind him. He pulled his polo shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor, then stood before Jake with his torso exposed.

Marc could not understand why the Widow had set him up, but there would be time to figure that out later. He would deal with her as he had his mother. But first he needed to teach this cashiered cop a lesson.

Jake felt the blood rushing from his head, and the muscles in his face twitched as outrage surged through him. Tattoos covered Gorman’s shaved chest and a fresh bandage masked his left breast. The faces of the Soul Searchers stared back at him, perfect reproductions of the photos Gorman had taken before slaying them. Their terror had been woven into a tapestry of needlework and dyes, primarily black and green. Jake did not see Sheryl’s face.

That’s right, look at my body in awe. Look at the Needle Man’s artwork in wonder. Gaze at the images of my handiwork. Fear my craft. I’ll make you pay for hurting me. And then the Widow will be mine, body and soul
.

“Take off that bandage,” Jake said, his voice cracking.

Gorman did not move.

“Take off that goddamned bandage!”

Keeping his eyes on Helman, Marc felt along his chest for the bandage. Locating the edge of the white adhesive tape, he tore the bandage from his chest, revealing his most recent tattoo.

Sheryl had become part of Gorman’s obscene collage, his blood visible on her features. Jake realized where Gorman had been for the last three hours: at a tattoo parlor. His hands shook and tears filled his eyes, obscuring his vision. His prey went out of focus.

That’s it
—

Releasing the Glock with his left hand, Jake wiped the tears from his eyes. His right hand shook even more.

$$

Now!

Feeling the floor shake, Jake saw Gorman charging at him, the briefcase in one hand.
No!

Marc swung his briefcase at Helman’s outstretched hand, knocking it aside, the gun firing at the wall. Helman tried to recover his balance, but Marc dropped the briefcase, seized the ex-cop’s wrist, and smashed his hand on the counter. The gun clattered in the sink and Marc reached out for one of the black-handled kitchen knives protruding from the butcher’s block …