He could stand it no longer. 'Ferguson, boy, come on out. You're fucking under arrest. You know who this is. Put your fucking hands up and come on out.'
The words seemed to echo briefly in the small room, dying swiftly as silence swept over them.
He waited. There was no reply.
'Goddammit, c'mon, Bobby Earl. Cut this shit. It ain't worth the trouble.'
He took another step forward.
'I know you're here, Bobby Earl. Goddammit, don't make this so damn hard.'
Doubt abruptly creased his heart. Where is the son of a bitch? he shouted to himself. He stiffened with tension, fear, and anger.
'Bobby Earl, I'm gonna shoot your fucking eyes out unless you come out right now!'
There was a scratching noise to his right. He tried to turn fast in that direction, pulling his gun from the wall toward the sound. His mind could not process what was happening, only that it was pitch black, and he was not alone.
For a microsecond, he was aware of the shape swooshing through the air toward him, aware that someone, grunting with exertion, had risen up out of the darkness beside him. He tried to command himself to duck back, and he raised his broken hand to try and ward off the blow. He fired once in panic, haphazardly, aiming at nothing except fear; the explosion crashed through the darkness. Then a length of metal pipe smashed against his shoulder and ear. Bruce Wilcox saw a sudden immense burst of white light in his eyes, then it disintegrated into a whirlpool blackness far deeper than he'd ever imagined. He staggered back, aware that he could not let himself slip into unconsciousness. He felt damp cement against his cheek, and he realized he'd fallen to the floor.
He raised his hand to deflect a second blow, which arrived with a similar hissing sound as the lead pipe sliced the cold basement air. It thudded into his already broken arm, sending red streaks of pain across the darkness in his eyes.
He did not know where or how he'd lost his revolver, but it was no longer in his hand. But he reached out savagely with his left arm, and his fingers found substance. He tugged hard, heard a ripping noise, then felt a body slam down on top of his.
The two men became entwined in the darkness, struggling, their breath mingling. Wilcox simply fought against the shape of the man he grasped, trying to find his throat, his genitals, his eyes, some critical organ that he could attack. They rolled together, thudding against the walls, smashing through the wet puddles on the floor. Neither man spoke, other than grunts of pain and outrage which burst unbidden from their lips.
They wrestled in the pitch black, pinned together by pain.
Bruce Wilcox felt his fingers encircle his attacker's neck, and he squeezed hard, trying to choke the life from the man. His useless right hand rose and joined his left, completing a ring around his opponent's life. Wilcox grunted with exertion.
He thought, I've got you, you bastard.
Then pain spiked his heart.
He did not know what it was that was killing him, did not know even who was killing him, only that something had ripped through his stomach and was rising toward his heart. He felt panic surge past the instant agony; his hands dropped away from the killer's neck, tumbling down to his midsection, where they closed around the handle of the knife that had ruined his fight. He felt a single insignificant groan escape from his lips, and he crumpled back to the wet floor.
He did not know it, knew nothing anymore, but it would be almost ninety seconds before he rattled out his last breath and died.
24. Pandora's Box
Her solitude was complete.
Andrea Shaeffer peered down the empty streets, eyes penetrating the gloom and mist, searching for some sign of her companion. She retraced her route for what seemed to be the tenth time, trying to impose reason on the disappearance, only to find that each footstep drove her deeper into despair. She refused to speculate, instead allowing herself to fill up with complaining expletives and anger, as if her inability to find the man were mere inconvenience rather than disaster.
She paused beneath a streetlight and steadied herself by leaning against it.
She would even have welcomed the sight of a Newark patrol car, but none came into view. The streets remained empty. This is crazy, she thought. It's not late. It's barely night. Where is everybody? The rain continued to thicken, hammering down on her. When she finally spotted a single woman, working a street corner in desultory fashion, she was almost pleased, just to see another human being. The woman was slouched against a building, trying to shield herself from the elements, her enthusiasm for another assignation on a cold, wet night, clearly limited. Andrea Shaeffer approached her carefully, producing her badge from about ten feet away.
'Miss. Police. I want a word.'
The woman took a single look and started to move away.
'Hey, I just want to ask a question.'
The woman kept moving, picking up her pace. Shaeffer followed suit.
'Dammit, stop! Police!'
The woman slowed and turned. She eyed Shaeffer with apprehension. 'You talking to me? Watcha want? I ain't doing nothing.'
'Just a question. You see two men come running through here, fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago? A white guy, a cop. A black guy in a dark raincoat. One chasing the other. You see them come by here?'
'No. I ain't seen nothing like that. That it?'
The woman stepped back, trying to increase the distance between the detective and herself.
'You're not listening,' Shaeffer said. 'Two men. One white, one black. Running hard.'
'No, I ain't seen nothing, like I told you.'
Andrea felt anger creaking about inside her, pushing at the edge of its container. 'Don't bullshit me, lady. I'll make some real goddamn trouble for you. Now, did you see anything like that? Tell me the damn truth or I'll run you in right now.'
I ain't seen no men chasing. I ain't seen no men at all tonight.'
'You had to see them,' Andrea insisted. 'They had to come by here.'
'Nobody's come by here. Now leave me alone.' The woman stepped back, shaking her head.
Andrea started to follow, only to be surprised by a voice behind her.
'Whatcha bothering people for, lady?'
She turned nervously. The question had come from a large man wearing a long black leather coat and a New York Yankees baseball cap. Rain droplets had formed at the edge of the brim. He was a dozen feet away, striding toward her steadily, his voice, his body, all uttering menace.