Shaken (23 page)

“But he won’t, Jack. He won’t watch anything ever again, because I just poked his fucking eyes out.”

“Thanks, Harry. Tell Mom I love her, would you? And take care of her for me?”

“I will, Jack.” Now Harry started to cry. “And I know I’ve been an asshole. A huge asshole.”

“You’re my favorite asshole on the planet, Harry McGlade.”

“And you’re…the bravest person I’ve ever known, Jackie Daniels.”

“You and Phin are going to hunt down this bastard for me, right?”

Harry nodded. “There won’t be a place on earth he can hide from us.”

“Phin?”
Jack began to cry.

“I’m right here, babe.”

Jack hung her head down, then summoned some inner reserve of courage and looked up into the camera. Right at Phin.

“I’m pregnant.”

Phin struggled to control his own sob. “I know.”
“I was thinking. If it was going to be a girl, to name her after my mother. If it was a boy…oh, Christ…if it was a boy…”
Jack stuck out her lower jaw, defiant and strong. “
I want to name it after you guys. The men in my life. Phineas Herbert Harrison Daniels.”

Phin shook his head. “I’m sorry, babe. But you got the names wrong. If it’s a boy, or a girl, we have to name it after the woman I love. Jack. Our child has to be named Jack. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Phin. That’s why I’ve got a last request.”

Phin had to wipe away the tears, because he couldn’t see anything but blurs. “Name it.”

Jack stared up at the camera again.
“Don’t watch me die.”

“Jack…”

“Please. It will hurt more if I know you’re watching. Promise me.”

Phin summoned up the courage to lie to her. “I promise, Jack. We won’t watch. I love you.”

“I love—”

Dalton took the phone away, holding it to his ear.
“That was touching. Really. Now I’ve got a proposition for you gentlemen. I want a hundred thousand dollars, wired to my account.”

Phin’s spirit soared. Was this guy actually going to let her live?

“A hundred grand, and you let Jack go?” Herb asked.

“Don’t be silly. Jack is going to die today. I’m planning on breaking her legs and her arms, ripping her child from her womb, spinning her on the wheel, then pulling out her intestines, inch by inch.”
Dalton looked up at the camera.
“But if you wire me the money, I’ll be merciful and put a bullet in her head right now.”

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

T
he Motorola DynaTAC cellular phone was an expensive, state-of-the-art communications device on the cutting edge of technology. It also weighed about two pounds and was shaped like a brick.

It hit with the force of a brick, too, when I smashed it into Victor Brotsky’s forehead as he pulled away the box spring and mattress and reached for me.

The fat psychopath dropped to his knees, stunned, blood erupting from the goose-egg on his head. I’d managed to hit him in the same spot I’d whacked him with the toilet. Figuring three times is a charm, I did it once more.

The phone held up surprisingly well. Brotsky, on the other hand, did not. His eyelids fluttered and he fell forward, crushing me under his elephantine weight.

The sudden pressure on my leg also pushed me to the brink of consciousness. Pushing, hard as I could, I leveraged him off me and he rolled onto his side. Then I crawled out from under the metal bed frame. I still didn’t see my gun, and now the mattress and box spring were covering most of the bedroom floor. But I was able to locate some of the contents of my purse, including my police-issue handcuffs.

Staring back at Brotsky, who had begun to snore, I knew cuffing him was the best move. But every instinct I had told me to get the hell out of there, get away. It was a moment right out of every bad horror movie. The psycho is knocked out, and the heroine runs rather than finishing him off.

Killing Brotsky wasn’t an option for me. I was a cop, and I respected the law. Every part of the law. Too many older cops I knew bent rules and broke laws in the course of their jobs, and I was determined to never let that happen to me. Besides, killing a helpless, unarmed human being, cop or no cop, was something I knew I’d never be able to do.

But cuff him? Absolutely, I should cuff him.

Now all I needed was the guts to do it.

Mark Twain once said that true bravery isn’t the absence of fear, but the ability to act in the face of fear. I was certainly experiencing fear at that moment. Fear, pain, exhaustion, disgust, and myriad other emotions, none of them pleasant.

So this was my chance to be brave.

Clutching my handcuffs like they were a talisman, I dragged myself back to Victor Brotsky. The closer I got, the more I thought of another horror film cliché. The one where the killer suddenly opens his eyes and grabs the victim.

When I finally reached Brotsky, I tried as hard as I could, but I couldn’t force myself to grab his wrist. The image of him, naked and writhing on top of me, threatened to make me physically ill, and my hands were shaking so bad the cuffs were rattling.

But that moment, that test, was the reason I had become a police officer. I joined the force to catch bad guys. Real bad guys, not the pathetic idiots paying street hookers for BJs.

Victor Brotsky was as bad as they got. And if I didn’t have the guts to do this, I had no business being a cop.

My teeth had begun to chatter from fear, but I managed to get a cuff open and snick it around Brotsky’s fat wrist.

That’s when he stopped snoring.

Moving quickly, I pulled on his arm, forcing it behind him, looping the chain around the metal support beam in the center of the bed frame. Then I reached for his other hand.

He was lying on it, pinning it beneath his massive bulk. I dug my fingers under him, breaking out in goosebumps at the touch of his moist, warm flab.

Brotsky groaned, shifting his weight, exposing his free wrist. I yanked on the cuffs, desperately trying to get the chain to reach.

Then he turned his fat head and opened his eyes, staring right at me.

I felt myself pucker in horror, and the adrenaline surge gave me just enough strength to pull the cuff that extra inch and lock it around the monster’s other hand.

I jerked away from him as he suddenly sat up, jostling the bed frame. His shoulders flexed, his hairy fat jiggling as he erupted with a string of Russian words that I didn’t understand, but was pretty sure weren’t flattering. On my butt, I pushed myself away with my good leg, while Brotsky tried to get up on his knees and come after me. But his position, and the bed frame, kept him in place.

Red-faced, flecks of foamy spittle flying from his screaming mouth, he finally said something I understood.

“I WILL KILL YOU, YOU FILTHY COP WHORE!”

I’d been threatened by a lot of perps, but none sounded as wholly convincing. The pure hate and rage made me want to shrink into a ball and hide.

Which is why I stuck out my chin, defiant. “You’re going to prison forever, asshole. Your killing days are over.”

Brotsky roared, quaking with fury. I backed the hell away from him, scooting my way to the bedroom door. My leg still throbbed with my heartbeat, but strangely, it seemed more bearable.

Once in the hallway, I turned to face my new nemesis: the phone on the wall. The receiver was still hanging on its cord from when I’d dropped it. Moving slowly, the carpeting warm under my butt, I made my way toward it as Brotsky continued to thrash and scream, his efforts making the floor shake.

I reached the phone, putting the receiver to my ear. The line was dead. There wasn’t even that annoying, off-the-hook beeping.

I knew what I had to do—stand up, hit the bar to get a dial tone, and call 911 again.

Putting my back against the hallway wall, I pressed both palms against it, then pulled my good knee to my chest. My injured leg was swollen, like someone had inflated it with an air pump, but it didn’t look bent or misshapen. Perhaps the break wasn’t as bad as it felt.

Pushing hard, flexing my healthy leg, lifting with my hands, I was able to shimmy up the wall and balance on one foot. Beads of sweat had sprung out of every pore on my body, and I closed my eyes and controlled my breathing and slowed my heart rate in an effort to keep from passing out.

Brotsky continued to rage in the bedroom, and the clanging of the metal bed frame against the floor sounded like he was tearing it to pieces. I turned my attention to the phone, reeling in the receiver on its curly cord, tapping the disconnect cradle a few times, getting a dial tone, sticking my finger in the 9 of the wheel—

—just as Victor Brotsky filled the bedroom doorway.

I dialed 9, hands trembling, thinking about how easy it was to screw up a number on these phones, and how it took forever to dial again. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

Brotsky thrashed, trying to force himself into the hall, but the bed frame was too big and wouldn’t pull through.

I stuck my finger in the 1 and spun the dial again. The rotary seemed to turn in slow motion, taking forever for the
click-click-click-click
to get to 0.

Brotsky spat more invectives at me in several languages. He managed to get his shoulders through the door, but the frame still held him at bay.

My finger found the last 1, the dial taking impossibly, ridiculously long to register the number, and then, blessedly, I heard ringing on the other end.

Brotsky bellowed, more animal than human. His head shook, his shoulders straining, and then there was a tiny, almost insignificant
ching
sound.

His hands came free, and Brotsky stumbled forward.

He had broken the handcuffs.

Present day

2010, August 10

“J
ack
,” hin said as Dalton held his phone to my face. I could hear the pain in Phin’s voice, and my heart bled for him. “
What do you want us to do?”

My leg throbbed, and every tiny jiggle of the wheel I was strapped to brought waves of agony. I couldn’t imagine having all of my limbs broken, then spun. It would be unendurable.

But then I thought of a Mark Twain quote. The one about bravery in the face of fear. It was a truism that had served me well throughout my life, prompting me to do things I never thought I was capable of doing.

Yes, I’d made mistakes. Yes, I’d missed some opportunities.

But I really did believe I’d made the world a slightly better place, because of my efforts. Trying to objectively judge my years on this planet, I figured I deserved that B+ as a final grade.

An A- would be sweeter, though. And last words, last acts, if they were brave enough, could perhaps count for a bit of extra credit and make my time here just a little bit more worthwhile.

I’d never been big on spirituality. I had no illusions that this life would lead to another.

That meant, for every second I still breathed, I had to make this life count.

If my final act could be one of defiance, of bravery, or showing fear that it had no hold over me, then I damn well earned that A-.

I looked at John Dalton—Mr. K—dead in the face and spoke evenly, clearly, and calmly to Phin—no tears, no regrets, no hint of fear, knowing these might well be my last words.

“Don’t give this prick a dime.”

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

“T
his is Officer Jacqueline Streng!” I yelled, dropping the receiver and hopping away from the phone as Brotsky rushed at me. “Officer needs assistance! Officer needs fucking assistance!”

I limped backward as Brotsky charged like a bull, panic overriding my pain. He would be on me any second, and I had two choices of where to go: the basement, or the kitchen.

I threw myself into the kitchen, climbing over the upside-down table, belly-flopping over Shell’s cooling corpse, scrambling for the utensil drawer in the cabinet. My fingers sought, and found, the handle, and I jerked my arm back, silverware exploding into the air and raining down on me, the tarp, the counter.

Locking my hand around a steak knife, I twisted onto my back and faced Brotsky’s attack, my weapon outstretched and clenched in a death grip.

But Victor Brotsky wasn’t there.

Still brandishing the knife, I felt behind me for the counter, painfully pulling myself up to my good foot while wondering where he’d gone. My imagination fired into overdrive, conjuring up scenarios. Was he going to get a gun? Had he heard me calling the police and fled the house? Or was he on the phone with someone, maybe the person he’d been talking to earlier?

“I’ll take care of her soon,”
he had said.
“In fact, I’ll do it right now.”

What if Victor Brotsky was calling for backup?

I needed to get the hell out of there. Right now.

Keeping one eye on the doorway, I began tugging open drawers, looking for keys. The back door was right behind me. If I found the damn deadbolt key, I was sure I’d get to safety, because once I had an out, I would break the world record for the hundred yard dash, even if I had a compound fracture.

The drawers contained more utensils, loose change, various plastic toys from cereal boxes, bendy straws, pens and pencils, and an assortment of maps. But no keys.

Expanding my search, I began opening cabinets. Plates, glassware, plastic containers, pots and pans, but nothing else. No key hooks on the walls. No key bowl on the counter. I hadn’t noticed any keys in the bedroom, or the bathroom. And he was naked, so he certainly didn’t have them on him.

So where were they? Men don’t have purses, so where did they put their goddamn keys? Their pants?

Could the keys be in Brotsky’s pants?

I pictured him taking off his clothes so they wouldn’t get bloody when he murdered Shell. Brotsky excited. In a hurry. He might very well leave his keys in his front pocket while he undressed.