Midnight Man

  Using the Sig was out. John didn’t know if the guy had body armor, which meant the usual double tap to the head wasn’t an option—his weapon would wipe the guy’s face off entirely and John wanted an ID. He wanted to see the face of the son of a bitch who was threatening his woman.

  That left the K-Bar.

  John had excellent night vision. He moved swiftly and silently through the room into the next one. A kitchen. Empty. Oh Jesus, Jesus. Suzanne’s living quarters were a replica of his. Four rooms. Her bedroom was the last room down, she’d said. One more room to go.

  Except the son of a bitch might not be here. He might have already wasted Suzanne and left. John moved more quickly, silently entering the next room and…there he was! Gun up, at the bedroom door, hand out for the doorknob.

  He still didn’t have a clue anyone else was in the house. He died not having a clue, face down to the floor, John’s K-Bar through his throat.

  John turned on the lights, crossing the room quickly as the man flopped for two, three seconds, feet drumming, on the floor. Blood spurted, sprayed. John watched, cold-eyed, as the man bled out fast all over the hardwood floor, then stilled in the unmistakable sprawl of death. John looked down at him for a long moment, thinking.

  Next to the couch was the Portland phone book. There were two pages of Morrisons but only one Tyler Morrison. He dialed the number with his cell phone.

  “Morrison.” Though it was very late, Bud sounded alert. John knew he would sound that way even if he’d been roused from a deep sleep.

  “Bud, John here. Huntington.” John kept his voice low.

  Bud didn’t waste time on small talk. “What’s up, John? You in trouble?”

  “Might say that. I just killed a man.” John heard sheets rustle and a soft woman’s voice murmuring in the background. He remembered Suzanne saying Bud was dating a friend of hers. “Sorry to wake you up at this hour, Bud, but I need to call this in. I’m in Suzanne Barron’s building on Rose Street. She had an intruder tonight. Armed. I took him down. You’d better get over here with your team. It’s not pretty.”

  Bud put his hand over the receiver and John could hear muffled soothing noises. He came back on line. “I’ll be right over.” Bedsprings squeaked. “I’ll call it in and go directly to Suzanne’s house. The rest of the squad will be there in about a quarter of an hour.”

  “Door’s open,” John said. “Wide open. He trashed the security system. And you can use the sirens. He’s not going anywhere. Hang on a second, Bud.”

  John hunkered down to study the dead man.

  The crime scene squad would be here soon and John knew better than to disturb the scene, but what he was able to see was bad news. The intruder had dropped his flashlight and gun to claw at his throat. The gun was a silenced .22 Colt Woodsman. A raw-looking rectangle on the side told its own story. John’s jaw clenched.

  A Colt Woodsman was the standard assassin’s gun.

  John’s fists closed at the thought of a .22 bullet hitting Suzanne. The .22s were subsonic rounds, perfect for silencers. You can get in close with a .22. The bullet is guaranteed to bounce around inside the victim’s body doing massive damage instead of passing through. He pushed out of his mind what a headshot would have done to Suzanne and spoke into the phone.

  “I think we’ve got ourselves a hired hand here, Bud.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “He’s got a Colt Woodsman with the serial number filed off. With a suppressor. You don’t carry a weapon like that to make off with the silver tea service.” John rapped a knuckle on the guy’s shoulder. It echoed hollowly. He’d been right. “And he’s got body armor. That’s not standard B & E fare, either.” Something prickled on the back of John’s neck. He knew that prickle, trusted it, and it wasn’t good. “Hurry it up, Bud.”

  “On my way, big guy.”

  John hung up, picked the bedroom lock, easily dispensed with the chair under the handle and screwed in the light bulb on the lamp nearest the door.

  Good girl, he thought as he saw the closet door on the other side of the room. She’d followed his instructions to the letter.

  He picked the lock on the closet door and looked inside. Two huge gray eyes in a white face looked up and he felt something in his chest clench hard. They stared at each other for a long moment then Suzanne launched herself into his arms. He held her close, closer.

  She was safe.

  And she was going to stay that way.

  * * * * *

  Suzanne couldn’t stop trembling. Finally John held her so tightly against him it was as if he absorbed her shock into his system. She was able to draw in a deep breath for the first time in what felt like hours.

  “Better now?” His voice was a deep rumble against her ear. She nodded jerkily.

  “Yeah,” she whispered. Biting her lips, she stepped back.

  “Good,” he grunted. He held her at arm’s length and looked her over carefully. There was absolutely nothing lover like in his gaze. It was cool, impersonal and very thorough. Suzanne understood he was studying her to judge what shape she was in.

  Well, she was alive, for starters, thanks to him. That was good, that was certainly better than she thought she’d be a just few minutes ago. The panic was subsiding and any second now she’d get her trembling under control. She tried on a smile and he nodded and dropped his arms.

  It hadn’t been much of a smile but it seemed to satisfy him because he was backing away, while taking in her room, observing everything carefully, then moving on. Looking for another intruder, maybe? He still had a gun in his hand. He held it loosely, barrel pointed toward the floor, but he held it like an extension of his hand. He stood lightly, almost on the balls of his feet like a dancer limbering up. She got the impression that he was ready for anything. That nothing would or could catch him unawares.

  He pushed open the bathroom door, gun up beside his ear, a lightning-quick perusal inside, and then closed it. Moving quietly, he checked everything, every point danger could come from, before coming back to her. He was studying her again, taking in her nightgown and bare feet.

  “I called it in, so the police will be here soon. You might want to put some clothes on. Dress warmly and comfortably. Pants, sweater, boots. And Suzanne, while you’re at it, put together a small case with a couple of changes of clothes.”

  Small case? Changes of—Why? She started to ask but then looked at the grim expression on his face.

  O-kay.

  He’d come to her rescue, big time. She could pack a bag.

  “All right,” she said quietly and he nodded. Pleased at her acquiescence, but with that air of…remoteness about him, as if he were listening to sounds in the distance.

  And now she heard it too. A siren, faint at first, then two, quickly rising in tone, almost unbearably loud until they were suddenly cut off. Two police cars, lights flashing, stopped in front of her building and the muffled slam of the car doors filtered through the night air. Another car pulled up behind them and a tall, familiar figure climbed out.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  “I’ll wait outside,” John said as he disappeared through the door. “Hurry.”

  Suzanne quickly dressed. She did exactly what he’d said, and pulled on a thick heavy sweater, comfortable wool pants and cold-weather boots. Pulling her small suitcase on wheels out of the closet, she packed quickly. Again, exactly what he’d said. Two pairs of pants, three sweaters, another pair of boots, underwear and two nightgowns. Beauty case on top and she was ready.

  There were low voices in the other room, but everyone stopped talking as she opened the door. Suzanne stepped into the living room, pulling her suitcase behind her, then stopped.

  Just stopped, and stared.

  He had fallen to the right of the door. Any further to the left, and he’d have blocked it.

  The only dead body Suzanne had ever seen was Granny Bodine, who had died peacefully in her sleep at ninety-three, gently laid out in her casket. This man hadn’t
died peacefully.

  He was sprawled facedown on the floor, hands curved into claws, one clutching the big black blade handle sticking out from his throat. The knife must have severed the jugular. Blood pooled under the head of the man and sprays of it surrounded the body.

  Suzanne took a deep breath, then another, desperately trying to get her stomach under control. She blinked, as the dead man seemed to rise up from the ground and float toward her. A dull roar filled her ears.

  A hard hand cupped her neck, pushing her head gently down. “Breathe.”

  She didn’t need to see him to recognize John’s voice, recognize his touch. Obediently, she bent and tried to breath past the shakiness. Slowly the stars before her eyes receded. There were people in the room, talking, moving around, but she only registered John’s presence. Large and solid beside her. “Come on now, breathe deeply.”

  She swallowed heavily and looked away, down. Breathed. Deeply. In and out. Concentrating on that and not on her stomach trying to come up.

  “Suzanne?” Another male voice. Not John. She risked looking up and almost regretted it. Any movement made her stomach swoop.

  Tyler Morrison. Everyone but her friend Claire called him Bud. He looked like a Bud. Tall and powerfully built, with light brown hair and light brown eyes which turned soft whenever he looked at Claire. His eyes were hard now, all business.

  “Hi, Bud.”

  “You okay?”

  “Peachy,” she gasped and swallowed again. Her stomach seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in the middle of her chest but at least it wasn’t sliding greasily upwards. She was released and a moment later John took her hand, wrapping it around a glass. “Here, drink this.”

  Suzanne gulped the ice water down gratefully. It went down in one chill rush, soothing the overheated feeling that accompanies a wave of nausea. “Thanks,” she murmured. She tried on a smile for John but got no answering smile back. “I needed that.” She turned to Bud. “You got here quickly.”

  “It’s our new citizen-friendly policy. We aim to please.” Bud smiled faintly but it was clear that he was here as “The Police” and not as her friend Claire’s boyfriend, a man she’d had drinks and dinner with. His face was serious, his manner sober. “Okay, honey. There are some things we need to go over. But before we do, I need you to do something for me. Come over here.”

  He gestured and Suzanne followed him to the dead body lying on his stomach. She had to step around the pool of blood and felt saliva fill her mouth. With an enormous effort, Suzanne willed her stomach to stay right where it was. John’s arm slipped around her waist. She leaned into him, into the strength and the heat of him. At that moment, she didn’t care what Bud thought. She was just grateful for the support of that iron arm. Her legs were shaking and she knew he would keep her upright forever, if need be.

  Three men were kneeling around the body. All three had carefully chosen the few places that weren’t spattered with blood. One was finishing up taking fingerprints using a curved implement she remembered seeing on CSI, another was taking swabs, and the third was using tweezers to pick up fibers, putting them in a glassine envelope.

  A bright flash behind her went off and Suzanne jumped.

  “Steady,” John murmured, his deep voice a bare whisper, for her ears only.

  She drew in a deep breath and nodded. John’s arm tightened around her. They were standing hip to hip but his attention was directed outwards. His face was remote; gaze cold and vigilant as it made its way in regular sweeps around the room. Were it not for his arm firmly about her, Suzanne would have imagined that he wasn’t even aware of her presence. And yet he knew every move she made.

  Another flash went off, then another and another as the photographer, a short, sandy-haired man with a blond handlebar moustache, circled the body. The flashes continued steadily until finally the camera was dropped, allowed to rest hanging against the technician’s chest by a leather strap.

  “That about wraps it up, Lieutenant,” the photographer said, stepping back.

  “Okay, Lou,” Bud said. “Stand by. We’re going to see who we’ve got here.”

  Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Bud kneeled on a clear patch of floor. He studied the back of dead man for a long moment. He reached out and pulled at the man’s left shoulder steadily until the dead man flopped over and settled on his back. “Okay, now.” Bud sat back on his haunches. “Who is he?” he asked, looking up at Suzanne then over at John.

  She steeled herself and looked down.

  The dead man had a long, narrow, deeply tanned face with regular features. Without the rictus of a painful death, he might have been mildly good-looking, though it was hard to tell. The wide-open eyes were a muddy brown, starred with deep lines in the skin around them, more a result of the effects of sun and weather than age. He had crooked, yellowish teeth. One eyetooth overlapped the incisor. The hair was dark brown, straight, shot through with a few gray hairs.

  Bud was watching her. “Suzanne?”

  She stared for another two minutes, nauseated, and then shook her head. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life,” she said firmly.

  “John?”

  John had only glanced at the dead man, and then had returned his attention back to the room. He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

  Bud stood, dusting his hands. “Well, you might not know him, Suzanne, but he knows you. I need to ask you a few questions.” He looked over. “You, too, John,” he said, faint irony in his voice.

  Suzanne didn’t need to ask what kind of questions Bud had for John, not with John’s knife through the dead man’s throat.

  “Let’s take it to the couch,” John said, his arm still around her. Suzanne knew he was shielding her. They couldn’t see the body from the couch.

  He settled her on the little couch, then sat down beside her, taking up about two-thirds of it. His left arm was behind her, her right side completely up against his left. He was effectively embracing her but that felt just fine. As a matter of fact, she had to clench her fists to resist the temptation to lean more heavily into him, to let his strength surround her.

  His face was set and hard. He had placed the big black pistol on the coffee table, but close to hand, the butt facing him so he could pick it up and use it immediately if necessary. Though he was sitting, she could feel the coiled tension in his big body. At regular intervals, his eyes kept quartering the room, his gaze like a searchlight, only dark. She knew he had taken the measure of every person—two more technicians had joined the crime scene squad technicians milling around—and every object in the room. Something told her he was aware at all times of the position of every person and every object. And of her.

  He might protect her, but he wasn’t going to comfort her. He was as remote and as untouchable—except in the most physical sense of the term—as someone on the moon. And yet he kept within touching distance of her at all times.

  Bud sat down across from her, looking at her somberly, then he looked over to John. He pulled out a notebook.

  “Okay, want to tell me what went on?”

  John turned to her. You first, his look said.

  Okay.

  She ran a hand through her hair. It was still a little tangled, the quick swipe with the brush she’d allowed herself in the bathroom not enough make it smooth. She’d managed to wash her face and brush her teeth, though, which made her feel better. She put her hand down to straighten up and encountered iron-hard male flesh. John’s thigh. She snatched her hand away, only to find it caught in his.

  His palm was hard, callused, his fingers curled tightly around hers. She didn’t pull her hand away, surprised at the comfort in that single touch.

  Bud noted her hand in John’s but didn’t say anything. He looked at her expectantly. “Where do I start?” Suzanne asked.

  “Why don’t we take it from when you came home last night? What did you do?” Bud looked at her expectantly and she felt a spurt of panic swell up in her chest. He wanted to k
now about last night?

  “Last night?” she breathed, shocked.

  Oh God, she couldn’t talk about it. The heat and the sex. Not in front of Bud. And how on earth could Bud know she and John had—

  Oh.

  It was after midnight. By last night, Bud meant a few hours ago. He didn’t mean—tell me about you and John and the wall. He meant—tell me about you and the dead man. Which was almost easier than the sex.

  “Tell me about your day. Did you notice anyone following you? Anything unusual happen?”