"You still should have called."
"I saw a show about this on Oprah. Adult-age children, caring for their feeble parents."
"You're far from feeble, Mom."
"Role reversal, they called it. There was a woman on who changed her mother's diapers. I'll eat my .38 before I let it come to that, Jacqueline."
"Please, Mom. You don't have to talk like this."
"Well, that's still a ways off. All I did was bruise my hip. I can still get around. It just limits some of the things I can do with that naughty Mr. Griffin."
"Mom..."
"Look, I just wanted to tell you. I have to go now. Real Sex 38 is almost on HBO. I'll call you soon. Love you."
And she hung up.
Sleep was miles away.
I remember my father like I remember old movies; just a few quotable lines and a general impression. He died when I was too young to get to know him as a person.
But my mom...my mom was everything to me. She was my best friend, my mentor, my hero. She was the reason I became a cop.
Mothers shouldn't be allowed to get old and fragile.
I purposely pushed it out of my head to avoid getting maudlin. Instead, I focused on my Lunch Mates appointment tomorrow. They'd be taking a picture, and I still looked like I'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. What guy would go out with a woman with bruises all over her face?
I got up and went to the bathroom, checking the vanity. Maybe a little foundation here, a little concealer there...
So the face would be okay, but what to wear?
I mentally ran through my wardrobe. My best outfit was the Armani. I normally couldn't afford designer clothing, and had picked this up at an outlet store. The price tag was hefty, even with the discount, but it gave me confidence when I put it on. I had several blouses that matched, and wondered if I should go with the loose silk one, or the tighter cotton one.
Only one way to find out.
I went to the closet.
Chapter 19
EXCITEMENT HAS GIVEN WAY TO FRUSTRATION, and finally anger. Juices flowing, locked and loaded, he's only moments away from sneaking out of the closet to pounce on her, when the phone rings.
He endures a syrupy conversation between Jack and her mom, so thick in parts that he feels like gagging. Then he waits stock-still for Jack to go back to sleep.
But she doesn't.
The little bitch stares at the ceiling, tossing and turning like her panties are a few sizes too small.
For an hour, he waits.
And for an hour, Daniels refuses to snooze.
Every few minutes she'll close her eyes, and just when he's ready to move, they'll spring open again.
The most infuriating part is that her gun is right next to her on the nightstand. He knows that Jack will shoot him before he can even get the door open.
He could try to fire through the closet, but that's too risky. It's only a .22, and if he misses, he's pretty sure that Jack won't.
He grinds his teeth in rage, then forces himself to stop because it's noisy. The muscles in his neck and back are cramping. His eyes are beginning to blur from peeking through that tiny hole. And worst of all, he has to piss again.
Then, like an answered prayer, Jack gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. Away from her gun. The time to strike is now.
He's about to ease open the closet when the bitch is back again. But instead of going to bed, she's coming this way.
The Gingerbread Man stifles a giggle. Imagine Jack's shock when she opens up her closet and he shoves a gun in her face.
Standing erect, he grips the pistol and prepares to spring.
Chapter 20
I WAS HEADED FOR THE CLOSET when I remembered my new sweater. It was a brown wool pullover, L.L.Bean, and it made me look soft and feminine. That would work just fine, and then I could save the Armani for the actual date, assuming I get one.
I went over to my dresser to find the sweater, along with a pair of jeans. Satisfied I wouldn't look like another desperate nine-to-fiver for my picture tomorrow, I turned to go back to bed, when something made the hair on my neck stand up.
Someone was in the closet.
I wasn't sure how I knew. A vaguely defined sense. An alarm on an instinctive, subconscious level. But I felt paralyzed, a deer in headlights, and my stomach dropped down to my ankles.
Then, action.
Hoping I didn't give myself away during my brief catatonic pause, I took two steps toward the nightstand and my gun.
Like a whisper, the closet door rolled open behind me. My intruder yelled, "Don't move!"
I moved anyway. I dove for the pistol, my hand wrapping around the butt just as the shot rang out. I felt a sudden pressure in my thigh, like I'd gotten kicked.
I belly flopped on the bed and rolled, gun in hand, squeezing off two shots in the general direction of the closet. A shadowy figure ducked the bullets and scurried out my bedroom door.
Keeping my gun trained on the doorway, I felt behind me for the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on.
My leg was covered with blood.
The entry wound was four inches above my knee, on the inside of the thigh. The flow was steady, but not pulsing. There was no pain, only numbness. But the pain would come, I was sure of that.
I picked up the phone to dial 911, but there wasn't any dial tone.
"Hi, Jack."
It hit me almost as hard as the bullet had. This wasn't some burglar, after my cash and VCR. It was him -- the Gingerbread Man. And he was on the phone in my kitchen. I hit the disconnect button twice, but couldn't get a dial tone with the extension off the hook.
"Hello, Charles."
"How do you -- oh, you must have traced the prescription. Clever, Jack. But you have to know I wouldn't be dumb enough to leave my real name."
His voice was soft, gravelly.
"Yeah, you're a regular Einstein. How long were you stuck in that closet, sitting on my dirty laundry?"
"I hope I didn't hit an artery. I wouldn't want the fun to end so soon."
"Maybe you should come in here and check for yourself."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll check on you soon enough. After you've lost some blood, and your reactions have slowed down."
The pain hit. Red and angry, making my vision swim. It felt as if I'd been impaled by a white-hot pickax. I held the phone between my ear and shoulder and clamped my hand down over the wound. Hopefully someone in the building heard the shots.
"I hope you stick around." Speaking through my teeth. "Cops should be here any second."
"Why should they come? A few loud bangs? Could have been a television turned up too loud, or a car backfiring."
"I'm calling from my cell phone right now."
"You mean this one, in your purse next to the microwave?"
Dammit. I tried to sit up, my bed soggy with blood. The killer was right. If I lost too much, I'd pass out. Then he'd come back and finish the job.
"Ooh, look -- pictures. This must be Mom. Maybe when I'm done with you, I'll take a trip to Florida. She fell, I understand. So sad. But I bet I can get her on her feet again."
I bit back my response, focusing all my energy into getting off the bed. The pain made me cry out, but I managed to get on my feet and limp over to my dresser. I pulled out a braided belt and looped it around my leg, over the wound.
"What do you think, Jack? Should I pay Mom a visit?"
"You know what I think, Charles?" I jerked the tourniquet tight and winced. The room began to spin. "I think you're a sad, small little man who didn't get enough love when he was a baby. Either that, or you were dropped on your head."
He giggled.
"You don't know what you're talking about. People like me are labeled as psychotics. But it's a cruel world, Jack. Only the strong thrive. And I'm one of the strong. I'm no more psychotic than a shark, or a lion, or any other predator at the top of the food chain. And I'm head and shoulders above you and the rest of the world because I know what I want, and I know how to take it."
"Dropped down a whole flight of stairs, it sounds like."
I had to sit, or risk passing out. The pain was a writhing, living thing, full blown and making any movement agony.