Chapter 40

THUMPING OUT OF the bathroom, Araignee was drinking straight whiskey—she could smell it out in the hallway—and it made her nauseous. She hoped her tolerance for the stuff was the same, glass for glass, as his. How could she use her gun when she was plastered? Garcia would have to do all the shooting.

Inside the bedroom, they could hear dresser drawers being opened and slammed shut at a ferocious pace. Garcia touched her arm, and she looked at him hunkered next to her in the hallway. They were both thinking the same thing: Chaz was getting ready to take a trip.

Suddenly something shattered in the bedroom.

“Shit!”

He’d dropped his bottle or glass. Hopefully, that would end his binge for the night.

“Fuck!”

A sharp sensation stabbed her right hand, and she inhaled sharply. She switched the gun to her left hand. Lifting her right palm, she was horrified to see deep cuts across her index and middle fingers. He’d sliced himself on the broken glass. While she wiped her bleeding fingers on the leg of her jeans, she sensed Garcia tense next to her. He knew what was going on, and it was scaring the crap out of him. She wondered if the same question came to his mind as to hers: If they shot Charles Araignee, would she be hit as well?

The music stopped. The next sounds made them stand straight, ready to charge the room. It was a moan, followed by Charles’s response.

“Shut up, bitch.”

Gritting her teeth through the pain, Bernadette pulled her leather glove back on over the injury. She turned her head and nodded to Garcia.

Suddenly their prey bounded out of the suite. They watched his back as he went down the steps barefoot, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a torn T-shirt. He held on to the banister with his left hand and carried the broken glass in his right. The hand with the tumbler was bandaged.

“I’ve got the girl,” Garcia growled, and bolted into the bedroom.

Moving to the top of the stairs, Bernadette looked down and saw Chaz next to the bookcase, bending over something. He’d discovered the book Garcia had knocked off the shelf. She took a step back from the railing and held her breath, wondering if the fallen volume would set off an alarm in his head. After a minute of quiet, she peeked over the railing again and saw he was gone. A faint light was coming from the kitchen.

Her weapon pointed, she glided down the stairs, cut through the front room, and went into the dining room. Sidling up to the kitchen door, she saw light spilling out from the bottom of the door. On the other side, she heard cupboards being opened and closed. If he was hunting for whiskey, she prayed he’d find none. She was starting to snap out of the daze, helped in part by the sobering pain radiating from her fingers.

She heard silverware rattling. What was he looking for? Before he sliced himself again or unearthed another bottle of booze, Bernadette decided to make her move. Crouching down, she pushed the swinging door open an inch. At the far end of the kitchen, with his back to her, he was fiddling with something on the counter. She couldn’t see what it was; a bread machine blocked her view of his hands. She closed the door and stood up. With her gun in both hands, she raised her arms out in front of her. She kicked the door open and went through. “Don’t move, Charles!”

He spun around with a revolver in his hand.

Keeping her gun trained on him, she shouted, “Drop it!”

He took a step backward.

The look on his face told her Charles was panicked, and his anxiety was becoming her own. “Drop the gun!”

“All right!” He lowered the revolver.

“Drop it now!”

“If you kill me, you’ll never know about them.”

“The six girls in the river? The two in the tub? The one upstairs.”

His eyes bugged out. “How?”

“I should give you a bullet for each of them. Nine bullets.”

He swallowed hard. “There’re more. Kill me, and you’ll never know who they are.”

Was he lying? Bernadette tried to get a read of his emotions, and all she felt was anger. She had no idea if it was his fury or her own. It didn’t matter. Her violent urges and sexual overdrive had been from him. The cuts on the face and fingers, the drunkenness, and now the anxiety—all had been unwanted gifts from Charles Araignee. She wanted to free herself of him and his emotions. Without saying another word, she took aim from across the room and pulled the trigger. The window behind him shattered.

“Crazy bitch!” Covering his head with his arms, he ducked behind the far end of the counter. He popped back up with the gun in his hands.

She crouched behind the butcher-block table. “Don’t do it!”

“Go to hell!” Two shots rang out, both slamming into the glass-front cupboards lining the walls behind her. Glass and wood and bits of china rained down like hail. He lowered his arm, spun around, and ran to the door. Pulled frantically on the knob and worked the deadbolt.

Even as she took aim at his back, she struggled to negotiate with herself. Lower the gun. This isn’t right. You can’t shoot a guy in the back. You could be nailing yourself in the back. An instant before firing, she raised her arms and aimed for the wall over the doorframe. Wood and plaster exploded, showering him with dust and splinters.

He looked up at the hole. “Jesus!” He spun back around with his gun in his hand. She dove behind the butcher-block table again while another set of cupboards and china took the hit.

He darted back to the door, yanked it open, and ran out onto the porch. He frantically jiggled and pulled on the handle until he remembered how to unlock his own screen door. He slammed it open, ran down the steps, and took the sidewalk at full gallop. Throwing open the gate, he bolted out of the backyard with his gun in his right hand.

Garcia ran into the kitchen. “What the hell?”

“He’s on the run!” Bernadette dropped her Glock into her jacket pocket and ran outside.

“Cat!” Garcia yelled after her. “Wait!”

“Stay with the girl!” Bernadette took the back steps two at a time and flew through the open gate.

She chased Charles down the alley behind his house, the way lit by the security lights mounted on the back of neighbors’ garages. As she was closing in on him, he glanced over his shoulder, and she yelled, “Stop!”

He paused long enough to tip a pair of garbage cans in front of her.

She dodged the cans and retrieved her gun from her jacket. “Stop!” she repeated to his back.

The alley spilled out into the street. The two of them ran down the middle of the road in a chase scene that could have been mistaken for a violent domestic dispute: a bandaged man in his pajamas, running barefoot from a bleeding blonde—both of them armed.

After two blocks, the road emptied onto the boulevard that followed the top of the bluffs. Her quarry was pulling away from her. “Stop now!”

Bounding onto the sidewalk that led to the green tower, he was going to take the steps down to Wabasha Street. From there it would be a quick dash to the Mississippi. If he made it to the river, she’d lose him for good. She followed him down the sidewalk.

After the sidewalk came a set of steps leading down to a wooden walkway, a fifty-foot bridge that spanned the gap between the bluff and the tower. Bernadette stopped before her feet hit the wood. Araignee was almost over the bridge and to the tower. She went down on one knee and took aim at the white T-shirt. “Charles!”

He spun around, saw her gun trained on him, and raised his own. He fired a wild shot over her head, lowered his revolver, and headed for the tower.