The Last Day (25 page)

SEVENTY

Cupping his hands to keep light from leaking, Louis Gismano used his penlight to look at the picture of Gizmo one last time. “This is for you, little guy,” he told the picture. Placing the photo in his front pocket, Louis stood from his crouching position and raised his hands over his head to stretch his arms and loosen his tense shoulder muscles. He had just dragged a warm corpse, now lying at his feet, deep into the woods. Opening the dead man's cell phone, he broke it in half and, winding up like a major-league pitcher, threw it off into the woods, hearing it shatter against a tree trunk.

For the past twenty years Louis had exercised religiously, even doubling up on his repetitions since leaving the Army because if a man ever slows down, his reflexes rapidly go to shit. He'd seen it happen, and slowed reactions meant the difference between life and death—a bullet slamming home because you didn't move fast enough, or a sudden scraping of the tip of a
blade nicking the inside of your spine as it sliced through your neck.

Someday no amount of exercise or vitamins would help maintain his speed, strength, or reflexes. Often he tried to look down the road at his life- to- be, but he could never see anything of it. Before Gizmo's death, he often pictured himself watching his son grow up, saw Gizmo joining the military to follow in his father's footsteps, driving a car to take his girlfriend on a date; he imagined Gizmo's bachelor party, and the grandchildren he would have bounced on his knee, taught to shoot a gun, use a knife. After Gizmo died, there had been nothing in the future.

Gizmo had been full of life and laughter. Louis's wife had been a good mother to the boy, except for that one lapse in judgment that had cost their son his life. Louis told himself that he cared that she had screwed Ross only because it had put their son in a position to be killed by some worthless punk. That had sealed her fate, more than the betrayal of their vows. That betrayal was something he understood. He'd slept with a lot of other women to satiate his needs, and what was a little sperm
toss- and- catch between friends? He could have forgiven her, and allowed her to live, had it not been for what her actions had done to Gizmo. Everybody who had a part in his son's murder had to pay for that involvement, even the woman who had given birth to him.

This was just another war.

In war you fight and you win, or you die trying.

In war there are casualties.

In war there is justice.

In justice there is truth.

Louis moved rapidly around to the garage, unlocked the garage door electronically, and using his back silently raised the door two feet and rolled beneath. Before cutting the landline, he'd called the alarm company, posing as their local installer, to tell them the system would be offline from ten until around midnight. He had prepared for his mission, as a good soldier would. He pulled out his knife and, moving from car to car in the dark garage, stabbed each of the twelve tires, releasing the trapped air in a dull whoosh.

There were now three women and one man
inside the house waiting for Todd Hartman to rush in and save the day. But Hartman was gone, and the only other person the people inside the house would ever see on this earth was Louis Gismano.

He was still crouching behind the BMW when the lights inside the garage suddenly came to life, so he froze, holding the knife at the ready.

Seconds later, when the garage lights went out, Louis moved to the kitchen door and stared through the glass into the house. He saw the golden pulsing glow from the candle in the den visible through the kitchen doorway. Knife in hand, he readied himself to move into the house and get on with the task at hand.

SEVENTY-ONE

Ward sat holding the gun in one hand and Natasha's hand in the other. Alice was seated with her legs bent under her, playing an electronic game in a chair to one side of them, her face illuminated by the small screen. She was absorbed in
the whistles and beeps. Leslie sat with her ankles crossed on the ottoman in front of her chair, ab-sently tapping the blade of the butcher knife on her thigh. She was glaring at Alice.

“I should take a walk around and check the doors,” Ward said.

“Take the gun,” Natasha told him.

“You keep it,” he said.

“No, I insist,” Natasha said. “It freaks me out.”

He walked through the kitchen to the garage door. Turning on the light inside the garage, he stared out at the vehicle closest to him— Natasha's Lexus—and his heart sank when he noticed that the two tires he could see were flat. Gismano had flattened the tires of the vehicles. If they had already been flat when Todd had slipped out, neither had noticed in the dark.

“Shit,” he said.

“What is it?” Natasha said, startling him. She had come up behind him.

“Nothing,” he said, flipping off the light. He led her back to the kitchen.

“Obviously it isn't nothing,” she insisted.

“I was just looking at the cars. Silly since the driveway is blocked. That's all.”

“That isn't all,” she said. “I know you, Ward. What else?”

“He punctured the tires of your Lexus, probably all three cars. I couldn't see the Beemer or the Toyota's tires, but I assume he got them as well.”

“We have to get Alice and Leslie out of here. They aren't involved in this,” Natasha said. “It isn't fair for them to be in danger. It isn't fair for you to be either.”

“I'm with you about them, but I'm sticking with you. He's our problem, and with Todd's help we'll get through this. And I do have a gun. That's an edge. Isn't it?”

“One thing,” Natasha said. “He got into the garage, and we know he's gotten into the house before. So, can't he do it again?”

SEVENTY-TWO

“Don't you think it's like really weird?” Alice asked. “That this shit happens on the anniversary of your son's.… you know.…”

“Barney's death,” Natasha said. “Yes, it's an unpleasant coincidence, to say the least.”

“That does seem very odd,” Leslie said.

“Maybe it isn't a coincidence at all,” Ward said. “If this Gismano character has been watching us, he knows what today is.”

“He marked it on the calendar,” Natasha said wearily.

“Maybe this Gismano guy set all of that up,” Leslie said. “And timed it all for the anniversary. Tonight.”

“You ever think what if he killed your son?” Alice said, without looking up from the Game Boy screen.

“He didn't,” Leslie said reflexively “Barney died from faulty wiring. Nobody killed him. It was an accident. This guy Louis loved his son. I doubt he would murder an innocent child.”

“Leslie's right,” Ward said, wondering if
Gismano could have rigged the wiring to electrify the place where Barney stepped, wet from swimming in the pool. It was too monstrous an act to consider. Or could he have done it believing that Ward or Natasha would be killed, and he hadn't considered that the boy might be the victim? No, Ward couldn't believe that kind of indifference to a life so precious was possible. He and Natasha had never considered that pos sibility, and the investigators would surely have found evidence to point to tampering, and they hadn't. The ground-fault interrupter hadn't been put on the line and saturated ground had allowed the electricity to find its way out through a bare spot in the insulation and kill his son. Barney had not fallen into a trap that had been set for Ward. Ward's heart palpitated at the thought.

Ward also let himself wonder if the virus might have been a killer's doing and that the hacker's and Trey's murders were committed by the ex-soldier to cover his trail. Not that it mattered now.

Ward said, “Right now we just have to keep him at bay until help gets here, which should be very soon. Todd will get word out and his guys are on their way here.” And he wondered if Todd had indeed made it out to a good signal.

Leslie said, “Can we talk about something else? He's just a crazy man, and talking about him won't get rid of him. We have to figure out a plan to kill him.”

“Did you guys ever have a séance to talk to your son? Maybe he like has an idea. Séances are so cool.”

SEVENTY-THREE

Ward opened the .38 and looked at the candle's reflection on the brass circles, the contrasting silver primers in their centers. He closed the cylinder carefully, hearing the positive snap of steel on steel as it locked back in place.

Sitting in the silence, he heard a squeak over Alice's Game Boy that was so slight he almost missed it. The women heard it, too, and turned toward the sound. His house had been built using expensive hardware throughout, but even the best metal hinges, when not lubricated regularly, would make a noise when opening.

“Natasha, take Leslie and Alice to our bedroom
and lock the door,” he whispered. “You can escape through the window. Once I know he's in here, I'll yell.”

“Maybe it's Todd,” Natasha whispered back.

“No, he'd knock,” Ward whispered.

Alice turned off her Game Boy and looked at Ward. Without saying anything, Leslie took the butcher knife, Alice lifted her tote bag, and they followed Natasha out of the room, moving fast down the hallway.

Ward blew out the candle, got behind the chair, and aimed the .38 at the kitchen door thirty feet away across the dining table. He heard the bedroom door slamming shut behind the women. He blinked and waited for his eyes to become fully accustomed to the darkness.

Using the back of the chair to brace his extended hands—one gripping the weapon, the other under the butt—Ward felt his gun hand shaking. Never in his life had he been in mortal danger. He knew Louis Gismano was in the kitchen; to get into the rest of the house he had to come through the kitchen door, which Ward could just make out. Once through the door Gismano's choices were to make a hard left turn to the foyer, or come in the darkness
straight toward Ward through the dining area. When Louis left the kitchen to come into the den, he would be in range. The only problem was that Ward had never fired a gun at any living thing before.

“Louis,” Ward said in a louder than conversational tone. “I know why you're here. What happened to your son was a terrible tragedy, but it wasn't my wife's fault. There are people with guns coming any minute. You can just go,” Ward said, his voice breaking up slightly. “I have a gun. I don't want to shoot you, but I will if you don't give me any choice.”

He jumped at the sound of Natasha's voice drifting eerily out from the kitchen. “Little guy, Mama loves you so very much.”

He knew the recorded voice came from the stuffed bear that had been stolen.

Ward wondered if his mind was playing a trick on him, or if there was a figure filling the kitchen doorway.

Rage replaced his fear, and remembering Todd's instructions, and trusting his instincts, Ward let his brain tell his hand where to send the bullet, and he slowly tightened his grip, squeezing the trigger back evenly. For a split second
when the trigger broke, his hand jumped, bright light filled the large space, and the explosion deafened him. In the flash Ward saw a man standing there. As Ward's eyes adjusted, he was sure the door frame was now empty.

“Shit,” Ward said.

He was answered with a loud, eerie burst of laughter and Natasha's recorded voice: “Little guy, Mama loves you so very much.”

SEVENTY-FOUR

Holding hands, the three women strode in controlled panic down the hall in the dark, entering the master bedroom. Natasha slammed and locked the heavy door after them.

“The killer is in the house?” Alice asked.

“Not now,” Leslie snapped.

“Well, excuse me for asking questions,” Alice shot back. “There is a maniac after me.”

“Sorry, Alice,” Natasha said. “Why in God's name are you two here? It isn't fair. We have to get you both out safe.”

“What about you?” Leslie said, holding the knife down by her side.

“He wants me,” Natasha said. “Worst case, he gets me. Go, you two. Out the window. Go to the road and flag down a car, or turn right and go to the subdivision and call the sheriff.”

Taking the window crank in hand Natasha started turning it counterclockwise and the window began to slowly open out. As she was about to get it open enough for them to get out, there was an explosion, loud even through the solid door.

“Ward!” Natasha cried out.

“Was that a gun?” Alice asked.

“Ward must have shot at him,” Leslie said, hopefully. “Maybe he got him?”

Or maybe he shot at Ward.
“Leslie, you and Alice go now! Get away while he's in here.”

“What about you?” Leslie said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Alice went to the window and looked out. “It's a long way down,” she said. “I could get hurt jumping down there.”

“You could get killed in here,” Natasha said. “Now go. You, too, Leslie.”

“You're not coming?” Leslie asked, incredulous.

Through the door the women heard the killer's muted laughter.

“Ward needs me,” Natasha said. “I won't leave him. Give me that knife and go.”

“You want the knife?” Leslie asked.

“What, are you going to fight a killer?” Alice asked.

“If need be,” Natasha said.

“But you're a doctor,” Alice said. “What do you know about killing people?”

SEVENTY-FIVE

“Nobody's coming. Hartman never made a call.” The odd, lilting voice came from the kitchen. “The doctor has to pay for murdering my son.”

A sinking feeling captured Ward when he knew that Todd hadn't made it out. But, he thought, Todd had already called for backup, and Louis had no way to know that.

“Todd called for help,” Ward called out in the darkness.

“Ward, I never made any calls. I hope you can forgive me for deceiving you. I never called my guys. But I want you to know I did tear up the check you wrote me.”

“Todd?”

The voice changed, became instantly rec ognizable. “No, I'm Louis Gismano. I've only been Todd Hartman, P.I., for three years. Hartman was a buddy of mine from Bragg. Nice guy, too, if a bit simple. He was an MP from Muncie, Indiana, who married a sweet gal from Australia and moved to Sydney. We stay in touch. I got his birth certificate and switched our fingerprints and DNA records. He's a successful private investigator because I put in a lot of legit hours, when I wasn't watching you two, or Howard Lindley.”