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.
She lowered her arms and went after him, her feet thumping across the wooden walkway.
Instead of sprinting down the steps, he froze on the landing and glanced over the railing. She didn’t know why he hesitated; perhaps the height intimidated him. Whatever it was, it gave her time to catch up to him. She stopped twenty feet from where he stood, but kept her gun down. “Charles!”
He pivoted around with his revolver in his shaking hands. “Get away!” he panted. “I’ll tell you about the other one! Just get away!”
By her count, he had one bullet left. While he couldn’t shoot worth shit, the bullet could ricochet around the top of the tower—a cage the size of a small bedroom. Equally hazardous were the gaps between the railings: they were large enough to fall through or get shoved through. It would be a six-story drop.
She moved toward him but stayed on the bridge. “Put down the gun, and let’s talk.”
He backed up, pressing himself against the bars while keeping the barrel pointed at her. “You don’t want to talk! You want to blow my head off!”
“I could have taken you out in your kitchen. I just want to talk. Swear to God. Tell me the names.”
He raised his shaking hands. She hit the boards while his bullet disappeared into the night. “Fuck it!” He threw the gun at her and the revolver bounced on the boards behind her.
She got up and went after him, entering the tower and cornering him in the cage. “Tell me who they are.”
He raised his hands high. “Not until you put the gun away.”
“No way.”
His eyes darted from her gun to the hole in the platform on his right. The opening was where the stairs started their descent. “Why should I tell you? You’re going to kill me regardless.”
“I want to get out of this dog kennel.” She tipped her head toward the walkway. “Come on. Move it.”
Keeping his eyes on her weapon, he inched forward. “You kill me, you’re never going to get to the truth.”
“Slowly,” she said, pressing her back against the railing so he could move past her. “Keep those hands in the air.”
His eyes darted to the stairs.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?” He threw himself on top of her.
A shot vibrated the platform. She felt a flash of pain in her own gut, and then it evaporated. “Charles?” she panted.
He rolled off her and onto his back, clutching his stomach. “You … shot … me.”
Crawling to her feet, she kept the gun on him. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
Holding his stomach with both hands, he moaned. “Oh … God!”
He wasn’t getting away from her; stomach wounds were bad enough, and this had been at close range. She pocketed her gun and pulled out her cell. Punched in a number. “Try not to move.”
“Oh … God! Hurry!”
Turning away from him, she spoke into the cell in a low voice. “I need an ambulance on the West Side …” While she gave directions to the dispatcher, the man behind her coughed and groaned. She had no pity for him. She felt nothing at all, and the numbness was a relief. Finally, she was liberated.
She hung up and turned around to see that Araignee had rolled onto his side. “Stay still. Help is coming.”
“Ruth,” he wheezed.
Bernadette didn’t give a shit about Ruth anymore. She pocketed the phone and went over to him, kneeling at his head. “Tell me about the other drownings. Names.”
“Twins,” he wheezed.
She shuddered. “Names.”
“I’m dying.”
She knew better. The most evil ones often pulled through, their innate cruelty carrying them to a full recovery. She bet Araignee was one of those lucky pricks. She should have put a few more into him and guaranteed him a trip to the morgue. She stood up and turned away from him. He disgusted her. Twins. She’d get the names while he was in the hospital.