Chapter 13 #2
“I can’t let you go, Foster. I’ve taken too many risks lately.” I raise the blade to his chin. “You’ve proven that tonight.”
I give him a few seconds to absorb the reality of his situation. What will he do? He’s surprised me once—maybe he’s capable of more.
He lunges for the weapon.
His beefy grip on the knife results in a slash to his palm. Red spreads to the cuff of his coat. He manages to knock me off balance, taking me to the dewy earth. Spittle flies from his mouth as he grunts from above, still trying to wrangle the knife from my grasp.
“You cost me everything, you fucker.” Enraged, Foster throws a blow toward my head. He strikes my ear, and I release my grip on the weapon.
I’m able to nudge my booted foot under his ample stomach and shove him off. He lands on his back, knife in hand. I get to my feet and stand over him. “Dr. Noble is above you. Skulking around her like a prick with a hard-on reveals your incompetency.”
He wheezes in a breath. “I’m not the only one with a hard-on for the doc,” he says.
His hand shoots out quicker than I predict.
The razor-sharp edge of the blade slices into my shin.
The pain is delayed; my adrenaline too ramped.
I stomp on Foster’s wrist, pinning his hand, and extract the switchblade from his meaty digits.
“Besides,” I say as I wipe the blade clean on his collar. “You’re wrong about her. Your preoccupation with the good doctor is giving you tunnel vision. You need to cast your net wider.” Hands on knees, I get close to his face. “Unless that’s your plan. To frame London.”
Debilitating fear clouds his expression, hindering my assessment. I’m unable to get a clear read on him. Foster trembles with a combination of rage and anxiety, masking any hint of shock on his part.
“What are you talking about, you psycho?”
His response is disappointing. Since I can’t have him getting in the way any further…
“We should make this look good,” I say. “It would be too much of an embarrassment on your part if I got away too easy, don’t you think?” I plant my foot on his forearm and grab his wrist.
Confusion draws his eyebrows together, until the sickening crunch of bone snapping reverberates off the tombstones. Finally, real emotion displays on his face. I feel the crack of Foster’s radial bone beneath my boot.
A litany of foul words imbue the night as Foster moves through the stages of shock, pain, fear. And finally, rage.
“You motherfucker—” His tirade persists, spittle flying, as he draws his broken arm to his chest. Sprawled on his back, the detective resembles a flipped turtle, limbs striking the ground with no ability to right himself.
“A broken wing won’t stop you for long.” I prod beneath his waist and unclip the set of handcuffs. Then I drag Foster toward the staked headstone where I kicked up the stone. It’s not an open grave, but it will do. Besides, I can’t have the detective traumatized. We still need him.
His feet kick out at me, but he’s too preoccupied with his pain to put up much of a fight. I fasten one cuff to his chubby ankle, the other to the exposed rebar of the cheap headstone. He cries out as the steel cuff bites into his flesh.
“You should think about a diet, old man.” I pocket the handcuff keys, thinking they’d look beautiful strung around London’s neck.
After a useless attempt to work the cuff free of the rebar, Foster relents. Breathless, he glares up at me. “I don’t care what the media says, you’re a killer. Just a fucking killer like any other homicidal criminal locked up in prison.”
I squat next to him and—I give him credit—he doesn’t flinch. “Do you really think now is the time to have me come to God?” My tone is brutally serious.
Real fear flashes in his eyes. For the first time, the detective who’s looked death in the eyes every day of his career realizes that today might be his last.
I reach into the inseam of his coat and take out his phone. “You have two choices,” I say, setting the cell next to his head. “Get yourself out of the handcuffs, or call for help.”
His gaze narrows. “You’re giving me options?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Not much of an option. You can chew through your ankle rather than face the degradation of your department and every other official…not to mention the media you so loathe. But I just don’t think you have the stomach for it.”
Cradling his wounded arm, Foster glances between me and the phone. I stand. “Good luck.”
As I start off, he says, “Just tell me she’s in on it.”
My eyes close. “You just can’t leave it alone. Even for your own good.”
“I’m a detective,” he says around a grunt. “If the doc was a conspirator in your escape, I’ll figure it out.”
No, he won’t.
I turn around and collect Foster’s phone.
Scrolling through the messages and recent calls, I shake my head.
“You haven’t contacted anyone since yesterday.
” I push the phone into my pocket. “That’s unfortunate.
No one knows where you are, and you’re the only one who can place me inside London’s office building. You’re the only one who can warn her.”
Through the haze of pain, it takes a moment for him to decipher my meaning. “What do you want with her?”
I untuck the Glock from my pants. “You wasted my mercy. I’m not an endless well of sympathy.” I release the magazine and, one by one, spit the bullets to the ground with a flick of my thumb.
“What are you doing?” Foster asks.
I insert the empty mag and pull the slide back. Tilting the gun toward Foster, I show him the chamber. “Pick a bullet,” I say.
Still gripping his broken arm to his chest, Foster glances at the bronze bullets splayed around his head, refusing to play the game.
“Stubborn as ever,” I mutter, and select one myself. I hold it up, then chamber the round and drop the slide. The resounding click makes Foster squeeze his eyes closed.
“Ever play Russian Roulette, Foster?”
His eyes snap open. “You’re crazy. You can’t play Roulette with a fucking Glock—”
“Sure you can.” I cock the gun and press the muzzle to his temple. “Rules are real simple. Answer the question honestly, and I don’t shoot you.”
He tries to squirm away and releases a strangled cry as the cuff jerks his leg back.
I reposition the gun to his head. “Done?” He sends me a lethal glare but doesn’t move this time.
“What the fuck do you want to know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“Have you ever harmed an animal?” I ask.
“The fuck—?”
“Honesty, Foster. It’s very important right now. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
He blows out a harsh breath, pain mounting despite his adrenaline. “No. Never.”
I tilt my head, studying him. Deciding he’s telling the truth, I pull back the gun and yank the slide open, popping out the bullet. “One down,” I say, and toss the bullet over my shoulder.
Foster’s head smacks the ground as he relaxes, breathing hard. “Is this some sick psych evaluation?”
“Something like that.” I load another round into the chamber and cock the gun. “Thirteen bullets to go. Bet you wish you didn’t load a full mag today.”
“Christ.”
“Have you ever fired your gun on the job?”
Foster doesn’t blink. “No.”
We go on like this, working our way through bullets, him giving me the answers I want to know. Until we’re down to the final round.
At this point, Foster has stopped sweating. He’s slipping into shock. I still haven’t gotten the answer I need, however. Whether or not it’s his signature on the vics.
I load the bullet.
“It’s not Russian Roulette unless you point the damn thing at yourself once in a while,” he says between wheezes. His eyes fluttered closed.
I nudge his head with the barrel, rousing him. “Fair enough. Now pay attention.” I stretch his arm out and he bites off a scream. I place the Glock in his shaky hand, helping him secure his finger to the trigger. “Don’t break the rules.”
His gaze holds me in a disbelieving stare. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sting of dried sweat from his eyes, then maneuvers himself onto his elbow and aims at my head. I lower myself to make it easier for him. I put my forehead right up to the muzzle.
Unsteady, he can barely keep the gun raised. I give Foster credit, though, his sheer stubborn determination won’t let him drop that gun.
“Ask,” I say.
The cool steel trembles against my forehead. Foster smiles. “Fuck you.” His finger twitches, he pulls the trigger, and the slide jams home with a resounding click. Foster’s eyes widen. He tries to pull the trigger again, and I pry the gun away.
I show him the bullet in my hand. “No one ever passes their test,” I say as I chamber the bullet, this time without first dropping it into my hand. “Sorry. That’s not right. London passed hers.”
“Is that why you left her alive?”
I check the gun, making sure it’s ready, and get to my feet. “You’re the detective,” I say, pointing the weapon at him. “Figure it out.”
“Wait!” Foster holds up his hand, as if he’ll stop the bullet. “You can’t do this…”
I really can. “I don’t like guns. Unimaginative. But our game has inspired me.” I slip my finger around the trigger and take aim.
The passing cars are too far away to hear the gunshot.