I surprised them with the quick shot. They hadn’t expected me to shoot while they were holding Sampson. The taller of the monsters grabbed his shoulder and fell back. The other looked down the hallway at me. The cold glare of the fierce death mask was a warning. Still, I’d taken away their edge.
I fired the pistol a second time, aiming at the second death mask. All the lights went out suddenly in the underground house. At the same time, rock ’n’ roll music erupted from speakers hidden somewhere in the walls. Axl Rose howled “Welcome to the Jungle.”
Pitch-blackness fell over the hallway. The rock music shook the foundations of the building. I clung to the walls, and moved steadily toward where Sampson had gone down.
My eyes pressed into the darkness, and a terrible fear swept over me. They had jumped Sampson and that was no easy task. The two of them seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Was there another way in or out?
I heard a familiar low growl. Sampson was up ahead. “I’m here. Guess I didn’t watch my back,” he gasped out the words.
“Don’t talk.” I moved closer to where his voice had come from. I knew approximately where he was now. I was afraid that maybe they hadn’t left. They had just improved their odds, and I was sure they were waiting to jump me.
They liked to work two on one. They needed to twin. They needed each other. Together they were unbeatable. So far.
I inched my way along the wall, pressing against it with my back. I moved toward shapes and shifting shadows at the end of the passageway.
There was a faint glimmer of amber light ahead. I could see Sampson curled up on the floor. My heart was pounding so fast there was barely a space between the beats. My partner was badly hurt. This had never happened before, not even when we were kids on the streets of D.C.
“I’m here,” I said to Sampson, kneeling beside him. I touched his arm. “You bleed to death, I’ll be pissed off,” I told him. “Just be real still.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m not going into shock, either. Nothing shocks me anymore,” he groaned.
“Don’t be a hero.” I held his head lightly against my side. “You’ve got a knife stuck in the middle of your back.”
“I am a hero… go on!… You can’t let them get away now. You already hit one. They headed toward the stairs. The same way we came in.”
“Go, Alex, you have to get them!” I turned at the sound of Naomi’s voice. She knelt over Sampson. “I’ll take care of him.”
“I’ll be back,” I said. Then I was gone.
I turned a dark comer of the long passageway in a low shooting crouch. I found myself entering the first corridor we’d come to. They headed toward the stairs, Sampson had said.
Light at the end of the tunnel? Monsters hiding along the way? I moved faster in the semidarkness. Nothing would stop me now. Well, maybe Casanova and Rudolph could. Two against one weren’t the odds I wanted on their home field.
I found the doorway out at last. There was no lock, no doorknob. I’d blown it away.
The stairway was clear, at least it looked that way. The trapdoor was open, and I could see dark pine trees and patches of blue sky overhead. Were they waiting up there for me? The two clever monsters!
I climbed the wooden steps as quickly as I could. My finger was light on the Glock’s trigger. Everything was surging out of control again.
I exploded up the final stairs like an all-pro fullback through a small hole in the line of scrimmage. I burst from the rectangular opening in the ground. Did a semiacrobatic roll. Came up firing the Glock. At the least, my combat routine might ruin somebody’s aim.
No one was there to shoot me, or applaud my performance, either. The deep woods were silent and appeared absolutely empty.
The monsters had disappeared… and so had the house.
CHAPTER 110
I CHOSE the same general direction that Sampson and I had come in. It was definitely one way out of the woods, and it might be the route Casanova and Will Rudolph would take. I hated leaving Sampson and the women, but there was no other choice, no other way.
I stuck the Glock into my shoulder holster and I started to run. Faster and faster as my legs began to work again, remembered how to run fast.
A trail of fresh blood on leaves led a few yards into the thick undergrowth. One of them was bleeding heavily. I hoped he would die soon. I was on the right trail, anyway.
Vines and thorny bushes tore at my arms and legs as I moved through the densely overgrown thicket. The leafy branches whipped across my face. I didn’t care about being whipped.
I ran for what must have been a mile, or seemed like it. I was perspiring, and searing pains ripped through my chest. My head felt as hot as the engine of an overheated car. Every footstep seemed heavier than the last.
For all I knew, I was putting distance between myself and the two of them. Or maybe they were right behind me? Maybe they had watched me come out? Trailed me? Circled around behind me? Two on one wasn’t how I wanted this to go down.
I looked for more signs of blood or torn clothing. Some sign that they had been through here. My lungs were on fire now, and I was soaked with perspiration. My legs ached and were tightening up.
I had a flashback, a rush of images. I was running with Marcus Daniels in my arms, in Washington, D.C. I saw the poor little boy’s face again now. I remembered hearing Sampson scream in shock and pain back at the house. I saw Naomi’s face.
Something was up ahead—two men were running. One of them was holding his shoulder. Was it Casanova? Or the Gentleman? Didn’t really matter—I wanted both of them. Wouldn’t settle for less.
The wounded monster showed no signs of slowing. He knew I was bearing down on him, and he unleashed a bloodcurdling yell. It reminded me that he was an unpredictable madman of the highest order. The scream—“Yaaaaahhhhhh!”—echoed through the fir woods like the howl of a wild animal.
Then another primal scream. “Yaaaaahhhhhh!” It was the other madman.
Twinning, I thought. They were both natural animals. They couldn’t survive anymore without each other.
The sudden sound of gunfire caught me off guard. A chip flew off the bark of a pine tree and whipped past my head. It came within an inch or two of cutting me down, killing me on the spot. One of the monsters had turned around that fast, fired off a shot.
I crouched behind the tree that had taken a bullet for me. I peered out through leafy branches. I couldn’t see either of them up ahead. I waited. Counted off the seconds. Tried to get my heart to start again. Which one of them had fired the shot? Which one was wounded?
They had been near a crest of a steep hill in the woods. Had they gone over the top? If they had, were they waiting for me on the other side? I slowly moved out from the safe cover of the tree and looked around.
It was eerie and quiet again. No screams. No gunshots. No one seemed to be there. What the hell were they up to? I had just learned something new about them, though. I had another clue to go on. I’d seen something important a moment ago.
I sprinted to the balding crest of the hill up ahead. Nothing! My heart sank, fell a million miles into the abyss. Had they gotten away? After all this?
I kept running. I couldn’t let this abomination happen. I wouldn’t let the monsters go free.
CHAPTER 111
I THOUGHT I knew the direction of the state highway, and I headed that way. I had my second wind, or maybe my third, and ran more easily now. Alex the Pathfinder.
Maybe two hundred yards ahead of me, I spotted them again. Then I saw a familiar flash of gray: a curling ribbon of highway. I could make out a few white-shingled buildings and ancient-looking telephone fines. A highway. The way for them to escape.
The two of them were running in the direction of a shambling roadhouse. They still wore their death masks. That told me Casanova was in charge. The natural leader. He loved his masks. They represented who he believed he really was: a dark god. Free to do whatever he chose. Superior to the rest of us.
&nb
sp; A red-and-blue neon sign blinked Trail Dust on the roadhouse roof. It was one of those country gin mills that got good customer traffic all day. The monsters were heading that way.
Casanova and the Gentleman Caller climbed into a late-model blue pickup truck parked in the lot. Busy tavern lots were a good place to park a car inconspicuously. I knew that as a detective. I raced across the state road toward the roadhouse.
A man with long, frizzy red hair was just climbing into his Plymouth Duster in the parking area. He wore a wrinkled Coca-Cola workshirt, and had a bulky brown bag shoved under one arm. Liquid groceries.
“Police.” I flashed my badge a foot from his lightly bearded chin. “I have to take your car!” I had my pistol out, ready for trouble if it came at me. I was definitely taking the car.
“Jesus Christ, man. This here’s my girlfriend’s car,” he drawled rapidly. His eyes stayed on the Glock. He handed over the car keys.
I pointed back toward where I’d come from. “Call the police right now. The missing women are back there, maybe a mile and a half. Tell them there’s an officer down! Tell them it’s Casanova’s hideaway.”
I jumped into the Duster, and was doing forty before I got out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror I could see the man with the six-pack still staring at me. I wanted to call Kyle Craig myself and have him send help, but I couldn’t stop now, couldn’t lose Casanova and his friend.
The dark blue pickup headed toward Chapel Hill… where Casanova had tried to kill Kate, where he had originally kidnapped her. Was that his home base, after all? Was he someone from the University of North Carolina? Another doctor? Someone we had never even heard of? Not only was that possible, it was likely.
I closed to within four car lengths of them inside the city limits. No way to tell if they knew I was there. Probably they did. Chapel Hill’s version of rush hour was in progress. Franklin Street was a narrow winding stream of traffic rolling slowly alongside the tree-lined campus.
Up ahead I could see the funky Varsity Theatre, where Wick Sachs had gone to a foreign movie with a woman named Suzanne Wellsley. It had been adultery, nothing more, nothing less. Dr. Wick Sachs had been set up by Casanova and Rudolph. Sachs had made a perfect suspect in the case. The local pornographer. Casanova had known all about him. How was that?
I was close to getting them now; I could feel it. I had to think like that. They caught a red light at the corner of Franklin and Columbia. Students wearing ratty T-shirts with Champion and Nike and Bass Ale logos jaywalked between the stopped cars. Shaquille O’Neal’s “I know I Got Skillz” played loudly from somebody’s radio.
I waited a few seconds after the stoplight turned red with a noisy click-click sound. Then I went for the whole enchilada. Ready or not, here I come.
CHAPTER 112
I SLID out of the Duster and ran in a low crouch down the middle of Franklin Street. The Glock was out, but held flat against my leg to be less conspicuous. Nobody panic and scream now. Let this go right one time.
The two of them must have spotted the trailing Duster earlier. I’d figured as much. As soon as I hit the street, they threw themselves out of opposite sides of the pickup.
One turned and fired off three quick shots. Pop. Pop. Pop. Only one of them had a gun out. Something clicked inside my head again: I remembered a quick scene from the woods. A connection made. A flash of recognition.
I ducked down behind a black Nissan Z that was waiting for the light, and yelled at the top of my lungs. “Police! Police! Get down! Get down on the ground! Get out of these cars!”
Most of the drivers and pedestrians did as they were told. What a difference between Chapel Hill and the streets of D.C., in that regard. I took a quick peek up the sheet-metal lane between the cars. I didn’t see either of the killers anywhere.
I slid alongside the black sports car, bent over more than double in a low-slung crouch. Students and store owners watched me warily from the sidewalk. “Police! Get down. Get down. Get that little boy the hell out of here!” I yelled.
I saw crazy things in my mind’s eye. Flashing images. Sampson… with a knife in his back. Kate… after they had beaten her to a bloody, helpless mess. The sunken eyes of the women prisoners back at the house.
I was keeping low to the ground, but one of the monsters saw me and went for a head shot. We both fired at almost the same time.
His bullet barely nicked a sideview mirror that was between us. It probably saved me. I didn’t see the final result of my shot.
I went down behind the cars again. The stench of motor oil and gas was almost overpowering. A police siren wailing in the distance told me help was on the way. Not Sampson, though. Not the kind of help I needed.
Just keep moving. Keep them both in sight somehow… two of them! Two versus one. Better way to think about it: two for the price of one!
I wondered how well they would deal with this. What they were thinking. Planning. Was Casanova the leader now? Who was he?
I looked up quickly and saw a cop. He was near the corner of the street and his revolver was out. I never had a chance to shout a warning.
A gun fired twice from his left and the patrolman went down hard. People were screaming all over Franklin Street. Jaded college kids didn’t look so blasé anymore. Some of the girls were crying. Maybe they finally understood that we’re all very mortal.
“Get down!” I shouted again. “Everybody get the hell down!”
I ducked behind the cars again and inched my way up on the side of a minivan. I saw one of the monsters as my eyes cleared shiny, silver sheet metal.
My next shot wasn’t so ambitious, no hero crap. I was willing to settle for a hit anywhere. Chest, shoulders, lower torso. I fired!
Trick shot, fuckhead. Watch this one. The bullet exploded through both passenger windows of a deserted Ford Taurus. It caught one of the bad guys high in the chest, just below the throat.
He dropped as if his legs had been pulled from underneath him. I sprinted as fast as I could, toward the place I’d seen him standing last. Which one went down? my brain was screaming. And where is the other one?
I darted in and out between the parked cars. He was gone! He wasn’t there! Where the hell was the one I had shot? And where was the other clever boy hiding?
I saw the one I’d hit. He lay spread-eagled under the traffic light at Columbia and Franklin. The death mask still covered his face, but he looked almost ordinary in his white hightops, tan khakis, and windbreaker.
I didn’t see a gun anywhere around him. He wasn’t moving, and I knew he was badly hurt. I crouched on my knees over him, my eyes darting around as I checked him out. Careful! Careful, I warned myself. I didn’t see his partner anywhere. He’s out there someplace. He knows how to shoot.
I peeled the costume mask off his face, the last façade ripped away. You’re not a god. You bleed like the rest of us.
It was Dr. Will Rudolph. The Gentleman Caller lay close to death in the middle of the street in Chapel Hill. His blue-gray eyes were glazing over. A sopping puddle of arterial blood had already collected under him.
People were pushing in closer from the sidewalk. They were gasping in horror and awe. Their eyes stretched wide. Most of them had probably never seen anyone actually die. I had.
I lifted his head. The Gentleman. The murdering, maiming scourge of Los Angeles. He couldn’t believe that he’d been shot, couldn’t accept it. His darting, fearful eyes told me that much.
“Who is Casanova?” I asked Dr. Will Rudolph. I wanted to shake it out of him. “Who is Casanova? Tell me.”
I kept looking around behind me. Where was Casanova? He wouldn’t let Rudolph die like this, would he? Two patrol cars finally arrived. Three or four local cops ran toward me with their guns drawn.
Rudolph struggled to focus his eyes, to see me clearly, or perhaps to see the world one final time. A bloody bubble formed on his lips and then popped with a soft spray.
His words came slowly. “You’ll never find him.”
He smiled up at me. “You’re not good enough, Cross. You’re not even close. He’s the best ever.”
A raspy howl rose from the Gentleman’s throat. I recognized the sound of the death rattle as I placed the death mask back on the monster’s face.
CHAPTER 113
IT WAS a wild, jubilant scene, one that I would never be able to forget. The immediate families and close friends of the captive women kept arriving at Duke Medical Center all through the night. On the rolling hospital grounds and in the parking lot near Erwin Road, a large, emotional crowd of students and townspeople gathered and stayed on past midnight. There were nothing but indelible images for me.
Photographs of the survivors had been blown up and mounted on placards. Faculty and students held hands and sang spirituals as well as “Give Peace a Chance.” For at least one night everyone chose to forget that Casanova was still out there somewhere. I tried it for a few hours myself.
Sampson was alive and recovering inside the hospital. So was Kate. People I had never met came up and fiercely shook my hand inside the suddenly festive facility. A father of one of the surviving victims broke down and wept in my arms. It had never felt this good to be a policeman.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor to visit Kate. Before I walked into her room, I took a deep breath. Finally, I went in. She looked like a mysterious mummy with all of her head bandages and wraps. Her condition had stabilized. She wasn’t going to die, but she remained in a coma.
I held Kate’s hand and I told her the long day’s news. “The captive women are free. I was at the house with Sampson. They’re safe, Kate. Now you come back to us. Tonight would be a good night,” I whispered.
I ached to hear Kate’s voice again, at least one more time. But no sound came from her lips. I wondered if Kate could hear me, or make any sense of the words. I kissed her softly before I left for the night. “I love you, Kate,” I whispered against her bandaged cheek. I doubted that she could hear me.