Monkeewrench (43 page)

Harley was using his shoulder as a battering ram. The door rattled in its metal frame, but it wasn’t going to give anytime this century. “God-
damn
-it!”

“I thought you said it didn’t lock from the inside.”

Harley took another run at the door. “It’s not supposed to.”

“Harley, give it up. You’re not going to break down a metal door.”

“Any better ideas?”

“You have your cell?”

“Roadrunner, we’re in a concrete room inside another concrete room underground. A cell phone is not going to work.”

“I just saw a movie where this guy is in an underground bunker in Iraq during Desert Storm and
that
cell phone worked.”

“That’s fucking Hollywood for you.” He grabbed the knob and started shaking it in pure frustration.

“Harley?” Roadrunner said in a small voice behind him.

“Yeah, what?”

“Am I bleeding? Like, a lot?”

Harley turned and saw Roadrunner touching his head where he’d run into the breaker box. “You have a big, red goose egg that’s starting to turn blue now, but no blood.” He followed Roadrunner’s worried gaze down to the floor. The concrete was covered in bloody footprints.

Their
footprints.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Harley. That wasn’t oil out there,” Roadrunner whispered.

And suddenly everything clicked—the power that shouldn’t have gone out, but did; the door that wasn’t supposed to lock, but did. Harley let out an anguished roar and pulled out his .357 and leveled it at the doorknob.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Roadrunner screamed. “You can’t
shoot a steel door in a concrete room—you’re going to shred us to ribbons!”

“I know that!” Harley’s hand was shaking; Roadrunner’s eyes followed the muzzle of the gun as it wobbled back and forth. “I know that,” he said again, this time in a whisper, and when he turned to look at Roadrunner, he was crying. “He’s here, Roadrunner. And Grace is up there alone.”

And then they heard the elevator, rising.

“Grace?”

“Magozzi, is that you?”

“Grace, do you trust me?” He was running through the office, dodging desks, pushing aside anyone who got in his way, cell phone pressed to his ear so hard it would hurt for days.

“No, I don’t trust you.”

“Yes you do, Grace. You trust me with your life. You’ve got to. The killer’s there! Get out! Get out of there right now! Right this second … Jesus Christ, goddamn it to hell!”

“What?” Gino was pumping, panting behind him.

“I lost her.”

“Goddamn it,” Gino echoed, and they were in the hall, down the stairs, racing for the front door because that was closest to the car, knocking over the anchor from Channel Ten, rocking a stationary camera, hitting the bar on the door so hard Magozzi thought for a minute it might go right through the glass.

He’d hit redial the second he’d gotten disconnected, and the phone at Monkeewrench kept ringing, ringing in his ear.

Grace stood frozen at her desk, phone pressed to her ear, her eyes wide and fixed on the elevator across the loft. She could hear the grind of the gears as it rose; she could see the cables moving through the wooden grate.

“Magozzi?” she whispered frantically into the phone, and heard nothing in her ear but dead air.

Do you trust me, Grace?

Her hand was shaking so badly that the receiver rattled when she set it down on the desk.

The killer’s there! Get out! Get out of there right now!

She heard her heart pounding against the wall of her chest, she heard the hum of the computers and the oblivious twitter of a bird outside the window.

And over it all, she heard the elevator, coming up.

Run! Hide, goddamn it!
She dropped to a crouch behind her desk and in a flash she was back in that closet in Georgia ten years ago, doing what FBI Special Agent Libbie Herold told her to do. She’d heard her heart pounding then, too, and other sounds: the quick padding of Libbie’s bare feet across the wooden floor, toes still wet from her shower; the creak of a floorboard in the hall, and then a
snick, snick
, coming from the bedroom doorway. Through dusty louvers she saw Libbie’s bare legs wobble back into view, and then there was a flash of metal that opened her thighs in two bloody smiles that spilled a red lake on the floor. And through it all, Grace hadn’t made a sound. She’d just cowered in her laughable hiding place, eyes wide with terror as she waited for her turn, doing nothing to help Libbie Herold, doing nothing to save herself.
Doing nothing.

Run and hide
. It was an instinct so ingrained, so powerful, that in an instant it had overridden the exhaustive training of the last ten years. The defense classes, the bodybuilding, the target practice, all of it useless as Grace cowered now as she had ten years ago, waiting, doing nothing.

Like any prey, she tried to make herself smaller, pressing her arms tight against her sides, hugging herself, and then suddenly she felt the gun and remembered who she was. Who she had created from that ruined girl in the closet.

She glanced over her shoulder at the window that led to the fire escape. She could still make it. Out the window, down the stairs, onto the safety of the street …

Not this time.
She closed her eyes briefly and turned back to the elevator. It was almost all the way up. Too late to race past it to the stairwell, but time enough to pull the Sig from its holster and chamber a round; time enough to dart forward to the cover behind Annie’s desk and steady the gun in both hands on the smooth wooden surface.

This is your entire world when you shoot
, her first firearms instructor had lectured over and over again.
Your gun hand, your target, and the path between. Nothing else exists.

She’d been in that world a hundred times, a thousand, firing fifteen rounds in a pattern so close the holes all overlapped. Ironically, the deafening noise of the target range had provided her only moments of real peace, when the world around her blurred and disappeared and there was only that narrow, sharply focused path demanding her attention.

She felt the peace settle on her now as she put pressure on the trigger and saw only her gun, and the grate of the elevator door.

She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth, and waited with eerie calm to kill her first human being.

Magozzi was driving so fast the Ford fishtailed when he took the turn onto Hennepin through a red light. Pedestrians and bikers scattered in front of the wailing siren and the screech of tires. Gino was in the passenger seat, one hand braced on the dash, yelling the warehouse address into the radio, calling for ERT and backup, broadcasting a possible officer down.

Sharon Mueller wasn’t responding to radio calls.

The top of the elevator rose slowly into Grace’s line of sight, then the interior, and when it was level with the floor, it clunked to a stop.

Grace’s heart stopped with it, and then broke into a million pieces. She heard it break in her ears, and felt the clatter of all its parts against the inside of her ribs.

There was no killer in the elevator. Only Mitch, slumped against the side wall, staring at his sprawled legs with blue, sightless eyes, wearing bloody Armani. The side of his head that faced her was utterly gone, inside out, as if someone had pulled off his ear like a pressure cap, letting his wonderful brain spill out.

No, no, no
. Grace felt an anguished, outraged wail threatening to rise from her throat, and knew that that sound, if she let it come, would be her surrender.

So she looked away from strong curled hands that had touched her with tenderness, dead eyes that had loved her once and forever, and let the hatred come instead, filling her up.

She moved silently, quickly, boots barely scuffing as she crept around the desk, past the elevator—
don’t look!
—toward the stairwell, gun held at arm’s length, leading the way.

The door opened fast, but Grace was faster, down on one knee, holding her breath, finger increasing the pressure on the trigger until she felt that tiny tug of resistance that came a hairbreadth before firing …

… and then Diane stepped clear of the door and froze, staring down at the muzzle of Grace’s gun.

She was in heavy sweats and her running shoes, a canvas purse slung over her shoulder. Her blond hair was snagged up in a ponytail, and her face was flushed and twisted and terrified. “I … I … I …”

Grace jumped to her feet, grabbed Diane’s arm, and
pulled her against the wall, all the while keeping her eyes and gun trained on the door as it eased closed. “Goddamn it, Diane …” she hissed close to her ear, “did you see anyone? Harley? Roadrunner? Annie?”

Diane made a tiny, keening noise in her throat, and Grace felt her start to collapse next to her. She jerked her eyes away from the door for a second, saw Diane staring at Mitch’s body in the elevator, her mouth open and her breath coming very fast.

“Look what you did, Grace,” she whimpered. “Look what you did.”

Grace flinched as if she’d been slapped, looked down at her gun, then realized what Diane must be thinking. “For God’s sake, Diane, I didn’t do that!” she whispered frantically, jerking Diane to her other side, standing between her and the awful thing in the elevator. “Listen to me. We don’t have time. There’s a deputy downstairs—did you see her?”

Diane was moving her head, trying to see past Grace to the elevator. Her eyes were wild, open too far, a circle of white showing around the blue.

Grace shook her arm. “Don’t look at that, Diane. Look at me.”

Empty blue eyes slid slowly to Grace’s. They seemed pathetic, resigned, as ruined as Mitch’s head. “What?” she asked dully.

“Did you see anyone downstairs?”

Diane’s head went up and down. “Woman cop.” Her throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “She’s dead … messy …”

“Oh, God.” Grace closed her eyes briefly. “What about the others? Harley, Annie …”

Diane shook her head mindlessly.

Jesus, Grace thought, she isn’t even blinking. I know where she’s going. I’ve been in that place, I remember. She
pinched the skin of Diane’s arm, hard enough to make her gasp in surprise and jerk backward.

“You hurt me.” It began as an anguished whisper and crescendoed to an awful wail. “You hurt me you HURT ME YOU HURT ME …”

Grace slammed her free hand over Diane’s mouth, pushing her back against the wall, hissing into her face. “I’m sorry. I had to do that. Now listen to me. I have to go downstairs. I have to find Harley and Roadrunner.” A
nd please, God, let Annie not be here; let her be safe outside, standing in line at the restaurant, impatient and pissed and sassy and alive.…
“Do you understand, Diane? I have to go, and I can’t leave you up here alone. You have to come with me, behind me, all right? I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

Because this time she had a gun, by God, and this time she was ready. No one else was going to pay with their life for the dubious privilege of being part of hers.

“We can’t go, Grace.”

“We
have
to go. Just for a little while.” Grace was thinking fast, talking fast, feeling precious seconds tick away, cursing the imagination that saw Harley and Roadrunner and Annie somewhere downstairs, bleeding to death while goddamned stupid selfish Diane … She stopped and took a breath, redirected that good, strong anger away from Diane, back toward the killer.

“Come on, Diane. It’s time to leave,” she said reasonably. “You told me that once, remember? And you were right. Remember?”

Diane blinked at her. “The hospital.”

“Right. I was in the hospital, and you told me that sometimes we just have to walk away from things. That everything would be better if I just went away. And that’s what we did, remember …?”

“But …” Diane looked at her helplessly. “I didn’t mean it that way. We weren’t all supposed to go.”

Grace felt a tiny hitch in the world. “What?”

“You were supposed to go. Not me, not Mitch, just you, but then everybody went, everybody had to follow Grace and I had to go, too, and now see what you’ve done?” She was crying hard now. She dug in her purse for a tissue and pulled out a silenced .45 and stuck it in Grace’s chest.

M
agozzi bit the inside of his cheek as he took the turn onto Washington on two wheels, tasted blood while he waited an eternity for four tires to find the pavement again, then jammed his foot against the floorboards.

They slid sideways to a stop in front of the warehouse in time to see Halloran spread-legged in front of the little green door, emptying his clip at the lock with booming explosions that sent shrapnel flying all over the place. The trunk was popped on an MPD unit parked across the street, and a young patrolman was sprinting toward Halloran with a twelve-gauge and a tire iron.

Magozzi and Gino were out of the car before it stopped rocking after the hard stop, doors left hanging open, coattails flapping as they ran for the door. Magozzi grabbed the shotgun barrel and jerked it down before Halloran started shooting. “No! It’s steel! Wait for the ram!”