The Watcher in the Wall (33 page)

Gruber’s shotgun was empty. He leveled the revolver in her direction. “Where’s Earl?” he said.

The woman kept crying. Shook her head, her mouth working, but no sound came out. Gruber took a couple steps toward her. Jammed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson in close.

“I said,
Where the hell is my stepfather?
”

<<<

Windermere aimed her flashlight
down the hall, searching for Gruber as the gun smoke dissipated.

Gruber had fired three slugs from the shotgun. Meant he could still swing out from that doorway and lay waste if he wanted. Stevens was right; the hallway was a shooting gallery. Still, she wasn’t waiting around.

Haul ass. Save whoever you can.

Windermere dashed down the hall, fast as she could, sticking to the wall, the narrow doorways for cover. Could hear screaming from the doors she was passing, crying, shouting, all kinds of noise, the music from the bar below.

None of it mattered.

Gruber was through that smoke somewhere.

Stevens caught up to her two doors down from Sanderson’s. “Careful,” he said. “That shotgun’s not empty, Carla. And he still has his handgun.”

Windermere shook him off. “He won’t be aiming that shotgun our way, not while he’s still looking for Earl. Might as well gain some ground while we can.”

“You’ll get yourself killed running cowboy like this. Whatever you’re dealing with here, just play it safe, okay?”

Another shot sounded from inside the apartment. Not the boom of the shotgun, something smaller. A strangled sound, and fresh screaming.

“No time for safe, partner,” Windermere said as the shooting continued. “Either Gruber gets it, or Sanderson’s poor girlfriend does. You going to let me do my job, or what?”

>>>

Gunshots. Loud, close,
inrapidsuccession.

Not the police; they were still in the hall. These shots came from deeper inside the apartment. They blasted big holes in the wall above Gruber’s head, sent him ducking down beside the screaming woman, behind the easy chair. She scrambled back, far as she could, wouldn’t stop crying. Wouldn’t shut up.

The crying. The laugh track from the TV. The cops’ voices in the hall and the throb of the bass line from somewhere down below. Chaos.

Gruber peered over the top of the easy chair. Caught movement down a narrow hall. Someone’s backside, someone running. Earl. It had to be Earl.

Gruber swung up with the revolver, fired, wild. Missed by a mile. The man turned a corner into a yellow kitchen, disappeared from sight. Gruber pushed himself to his feet, those gunshot wounds like hot pokers. Left the woman behind and started down the dark hall.

He made the kitchen doorway, stopped before the entrance. The apartment was tiny, barely half the size of the old double-wide. A dingy little bathroom at the end of the hall, little more than a toilet and sink. A crummy bedroom opposite the kitchen, a bare mattress on the floor, the covers messed and unkempt. A plastic carrying case for a pistol by the closet, a few scattered boxes of ammunition, American Eagle, .45 caliber.

The woman kept screaming. The cops kept approaching. Around the corner, Earl waited in the kitchen. No time for indecision. No time to waste. Gruber raised the revolver. Ducked low. Peeked around the corner and nearly got his head blown off, the shots coming back about chest level, if he’d been standing.

Gruber hung around just long enough to get a feel for the kitchen—linoleum, old appliances, peeling paint on the cabinetry. Caught a glimpse of Earl’s face, too, by the window, his skin weathered and aged, those same hard, piercing eyes. Then Gruber was scrambling back again, self-preservation, his heart a drum machine, his whole body electric.

He crouched in the hall, the Smith & Wesson at the ready, that shotgun dangling from his shoulder, clattering against the wall. Was trying to figure his next move, some way to get to Earl without getting himself shot, when the cops showed up in the apartment’s doorway.

Two of them, the man and the woman from the trailer park. Gruber swung around with the shotgun, pulled the trigger twice and fired off his last two slugs, his good shoulder feeling like a horse had kicked it. Couldn’t be sure if he hit anything, but the cops disappeared.

They would come back with numbers. No time to waste. Gruber switched back to the revolver. Crawled down to the kitchen doorway, counted in his head,
One, two, three.
Then he was moving again, diving
in through the doorway, bracing himself for more gunfire and squeezing off shots, his eyes closed, pointing the Smith & Wesson in Earl’s general direction and praying he got Earl before Earl got him.

But Earl didn’t get him. Gruber made the far side of the kitchen, the stove. Opened his eyes as the revolver clicked empty, realized he wasn’t wearing any new bullet holes. Earl hadn’t shot him. And Gruber could see why.

The kitchen was empty. The window was open, and Gruber could see the fire escape railing against the night sky beyond. Could hear Earl’s boot steps pounding down the steel grating.

The coward was making a run for it.

<
131
>

BOOM.

Stevens threw himself to the floor as the slug tore a thumb-sized hole in the wall above his head. His flashlight clattered away, the beam making crazy patterns against the carpet, the ceiling, the wall. Stevens rolled away from Sanderson’s doorway, ducked for cover, knew the slug would have killed him if he’d spotted Gruber a moment later.

He peered around the wreckage of Sanderson’s door. Surveyed the living room, an overturned easy chair, a TV cranked loud, Sanderson’s lady friend hunkered down in the corner—scared shitless, Stevens could see, but otherwise unharmed.

Windermere poked her head around, too. “You see him?”

“Down the hall,” Stevens said. “Disappeared.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

She was through the ruined doorway before Stevens could reply. Before he could tell her to slow down, be careful, watch her ass. Figured Gruber’s shotgun was probably spent, couldn’t speak for the handgun. Knew it’d be hard to miss a shot in the apartment’s crowded confines, regardless of what weapon he chose.

But Windermere was off and running, her flashlight sweeping the living room, the hallway, her Glock following its lead. Stevens followed close behind, staggered himself so one of Gruber’s slugs couldn’t kill the both of them. Windermere swept through the living room, looked once at the woman in the corner and kept moving, making for the hall to the rest of the apartment. She hit the kitchen doorway and stopped.

Stevens crashed in behind her. “You see the fresh bruises on Sanderson’s girlfriend?” Windermere asked him. “Guess old Earl hasn’t changed his MO, huh?”

Then she was gone again, blitzing into the kitchen, her pistol raised, her injured arm by her side. Stevens tensed for more shooting, got silence instead. Found Windermere by an open window, peering out into the night.

She looked back at him. “Fire escape,” she told him. “Call Wheeler. These boys are on the run.”

<
132
>

Earl’s boots pounded
the stairs below. Gruber pushed himself to keep up.

The music from the bar was gone, replaced by sirens, getting loud and getting closer. Gruber made the second floor, landed hard. Hurried to the railing and spun over, pointed down with the Smith & Wesson, searching for Earl in the gloom.

Earl wore a mustard-yellow jacket. He was easy to find, but he was moving fast. Gruber fired until the revolver clicked empty. Fumbled in his pocket for more bullets, dropped more than he loaded. No matter. If he could catch up to Earl, he would only need one.

He kept going. Heard the cops above him, loud voices, radio chatter. More boots, these ones coming down toward him. Coming
for
him. He kept going.

There was a ladder between the second floor and the street. Gruber backed down it, quick as he could. Descended to the bottom and dropped to the ground, found himself in the alley, a dumpster, a couple parked cars. The police coming at him from above.

Earl was still running, out the far end of the alley, his mustard coat betraying him as he ran toward the bridge. Gruber could hear the rush of cars headed into Louisville, a train’s horn. The sirens and the shouting and the pounding of his heart, his own urgent gasping for breath.

He hurried down the end of the alley. Pulled shotgun slugs from his pocket and tried to reload as he walked. Had two in, was working on
the third when another cop rounded the corner in front of him, a man, mostly in shadows. He saw Gruber and reached for his pistol. Gruber brought up the shotgun and fired.

The cop took the slug in the midsection. Flew backward, doubled over, hit the ground hard. Gruber didn’t slow down to admire the shot. He stepped over the cop and out of the alley. Found Earl running parallel to the bridge, down a wide, empty street, the train tracks and the low, grassy rise of the flood wall ahead of him.

Earl disappeared into shadow. His boot steps resonated. Gruber ignored the pain in his shoulder, his side. Gave chase.

<<<

The alley lit up.
Another
boom
from the shotgun. Windermere peered over the side of the fire escape, caught nothing but silhouettes and darkness. Prayed Gruber had missed whoever he’d been shooting at—except Sanderson,
maybe
.

She hit the fire escape ladder. Dropped awkward, dropped hard, her cut arm bitching as she hit pavement. She ignored the pain. Looked up the alley in the direction of Gruber’s boomstick, saw a dark mass at the entrance that could have been a body, booked it in that direction. Kicked brass as she walked, magnum cartridges, unspent—Gruber in a hurry to reload.

Stevens hit the ground behind her, puffing and wheezing. Somewhere in the distance more cops were arriving; she heard Stevens on the radio, calling in updates, hoped Wheeler was still out front to provide directions. Then she made the end of the alley, the dark mass on the ground. It was Wheeler, a shotgun slug through his belly.

Wheeler was ashen. He was holding the wound, teeth clenched, sweat on his forehead, blood everywhere else. Lots of blood. He saw her coming, tried to roll over, sit up, keep going. Gave that up pretty quickly, settled for nodding toward the bridge with his chin.

“Gruber got me,” he said. Tried to laugh. “I guess that’s obvious. He disappeared after Sanderson, over that way.”

Windermere followed his gaze. A short stub-end street parallel to the bridge, train tracks at the end and a grassy hill beyond. She picked out both men, shadows on the move. Then she heard Stevens coming up behind her. Looked back down at Wheeler, gauging his chances.

“I’m going after Gruber,” she told her partner. “I think Wheeler can make it, but he needs attention, fast. We leave him here alone, he dies here alone.”

Stevens searched her face, got the gist pretty quick. “I can’t just let you run off,” he said. “They’re both armed, Carla. You’re hurt.”

“You can and you will,” she replied. “Call me some backup, and save Wheeler’s life. We’ll compare notes in an hour or so.”

He started to complain. She was gone before he could get the words out.

<
133
>

Traffic roared, loud,
over the Sherman Minton Bridge. Interstate cars and trucks into Louisville, eighteen-wheelers headed north, machine-gun engine brakes, rapid-fire, as they came down the grade.

Gruber chased Earl down toward the train tracks, the flood wall, the town opening up to empty lots and railroad outbuildings, no light but the moon and the streetlights on the bridge. A train was coming, long and slow, horn blaring. Gruber could see the headlights in the distance, feel the ground rumbling.

Earl was running, fifty yards ahead, aiming for the train tracks and beyond. Gruber stopped and took aim, middle of the road, fired and missed.

“I just want to talk to you,”
Gruber called.
“Just slow down for a minute and we can talk this thing through.”

Earl’s response was a couple shots of his own, tossed over his shoulder and dangerous to nobody. He kept running—tottering, more like, an old man, decades of hard living catching up to him at the worst possible time. Still, he had distance. Was almost to the tracks. If that train rolled through before Gruber followed him across, the old man would get away clean.

And Gruber would die full of police bullet holes. No way. Not acceptable.

“I’m right behind you,”
Gruber called out.
“Catching up on you fast. You can’t run forever.”

Earl looked like he aimed to try. He reached the end of the road, hit the train tracks. Stumbled up the roadbed, and Gruber slowed, timed his stepfather’s climb. Fixed the Smith & Wesson at a point above the rails, knew Earl would be high and exposed when he reached the top of the ballast.

But his stepfather tripped as Gruber pulled the trigger. Fell into the rails, hands outstretched, and Gruber’s shot missed high. He waited, aimed again, drew a bead on Earl’s back. Earl caught his balance. Pulled himself to his feet. Gruber steadied the gun, exhaled, pulled the trigger.

Click
.

The revolver was empty again. Earl disappeared down the other side of the roadbed. Gruber muttered a curse, hurried forward. The train was fifty yards away. Earl was on the other side. Gruber would make it, too. The cops wouldn’t.

He would have Earl to himself, at last.

<
134
>

Windermere watched
the train appear and urged her legs to move faster. Heard the horn blare as Gruber climbed to the top of the tracks, lit bright in the powerful headlights. Raised her Glock and aimed at him, thought about taking the shot.

Best of times, she’d have liked her chances at this distance. The guy was literally in a spotlight. He wasn’t moving fast. She could have
slowed, pulled up in a Weaver stance, leveled and fired. Put him down with one shot, let the train grind him to mincemeat.

Best of times, she’d have done it. But this was nowhere near the best. Her left arm was killing her, spasms of pain with every step. It would be exactly useless when it came to precision firing. She would have to slow to fire at him. She would probably miss. The train would roll through, a hundred cars long, and by the time she worked around it, Gruber would be gone.