CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
And best of all, he had just completed the last of his legal obligations related to the one mistake he’d made. As far as the government knew, he’d paid his debt to society and was a reformed and highly successful day trader.
And he was. He worked about twenty hours a week in the markets and made enough money to appear legitimate whenever anyone cared to look. The other twenty hours a week were spent on what he considered his real job to be.
Kevin Marshall was a world-class forger. At one point in his career, he’d been famous for producing driver licenses so good that there were still about eight hundred people using them despite not having taken a single test.
Those came with risks, though. The government really didn’t like people who made fake IDs. Get caught doing that, and you ended up with a lot more than a slap on the wrist. Service dog certs, though? Hell, he could probably get caught again and not suffer any serious consequences.
He had no desire to test that theory, of course.
He made sure his records were clean as a whistle, and every certificate he mailed had a return address to a P.O.
Box registered to a business that was registered in Delaware.
He never saved a template, making each cert from memory each time and deleting every single file once the document was printed.
He liked his fast car and his hot casual girlfriend. He really didn’t want to screw that up.
He deleted the file for this most recent order, poured himself a congratulatory glass of wine, then heard a knock on the door. He frowned and tried to remember if he’d ordered a package.
Another knock sounded. His heart started to thump a little, but if this was the police or the FBI trying to nail him, they’d be unable to find anything incriminating. He was okay.
A third knock sounded. He rolled his eyes, ignoring the increasing thump of his heart, and headed for the door. He looked through the peephole and saw no one.
He sighed and rolled his eyes again. “Damned ding-dong ditchers.”
He turned around, and when the knock sounded again, he spun back, threw the door open, and shouted into the air. “Hey! You guys want some? Come back here, you little assholes!”
Nothing. No one. The porch was empty.
Heat climbed his cheeks. “Yeah, screw you too!” he shouted.
He expected laughter to follow him as he closed and locked the door. No laughter came, but when he turned around, he saw his kitchen window open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze.
He stopped and stood stock still. His throat constricted, and when he saw the shadow extending across the floor toward him, he released a soft cry.
He looked up and saw the owner of the shadow, a petite person—it looked like a woman—wearing a dog mask. The fake teeth of the mask dripped fake blood that looked real enough he wondered if maybe it was real.
Light glinted off the stranger’s palms. Kevin released another cry when he saw the razor blades embedded into the woman’s gloves. “Oh, shit,” he whispered. “Oh God, please—”
Then the attacker rushed him. Kevin staggered backwards, but the claws found his ribs, his stomach, his face, his throat. He tried to scream, but no noise escaped. The world was a blur of pain.
***
Faith frowned when she saw the open window of Kevin Marshall’s residence. Her blood chilled when she saw the screen torn open and pushed inward, leaving ragged strips clinging to the edges of the frame.
“Shit,” she cursed. “She’s here.”
“Yeah, I see it,” Jessica said. “You think she’s still—”
A shriek interrupted her, loud enough to drive the songbirds roosting in a nearby tree fleeing into the sky. It didn’t sound like a scream of pain. It didn’t really sound like a scream at all. To Faith, it sounded a lot more like the snarl of an enraged animal.
“Yep,” Faith said. “She’s still here.”
Turk sprinted toward the open window, releasing a snarl of his own. Faith followed, drawing her weapon. Please, please don’t let us be too late.
Faith leaped through the window after Turk and landed in a forward roll. She got to her feet and saw the killer snarling at Turk, who had her left arm pinned. Her face was covered with a snarling dog mask, painted red around the teeth to represent fake blood.
Some of the paint slid down the mask’s chin, and Faith’s stomach lurched as she realized the blood wasn’t fake.
For a split second, Faith could only stand there, staring in shock at this human-turned-monster, this animal demon wrestling with her dog. Then the killer raised her right arm, boxcutter claws extended as she prepared to slash at Turk’s face.
Faith aimed her handgun at the suspect and shouted, “Hurt him, and you die!”
Jennifer stopped and stared at Faith. Through the mask, Faith could see her eyes roll wildly in their sockets, any pretense at sanity gone. She snarled at Faith, and Faith stifled a shiver. To her left, Kevin Marshall lay on the ground choking on his own blood.
Jessica’s shadow darkened the window. “Faith!” she called. “Did you… Oh, God.”
“Climb through the window and unlock the front door,” Faith said. “Have the paramedics take Kevin Marshall out of here.”
“No!” Jennifer shrieked.
She tried to stand and Turk yanked her back down. She slashed at him, and he released her, jumping just out of the way of the claws. She popped to her feet, but Turk was on her again, clamping down on her ankle and dragging her to the floor.
“Don’t move,” Faith warned. “Try that again, and I’ll shoot.”
“Fuck you, whore!” Jennifer shouted. “I’ll kill your dog, and I’ll kill you too! I’ll tear all of you to pieces! You assholes!”
Her voice, muffled by the mask, was far deeper than the one she’d used at her house.
The timidity and fogginess was gone. In its place was powerful animalistic rage.
And below that, the cunning. The cunning that had allowed her to plan these murders, to make them entirely the product of this half of her mind and leave the other part as spotless as the home she existed in without truly living there.
That cunning told her how hopeless her situation was. The rage tore a shriek from her mouth. She lifted her clawed hands again, and Faith pulled the slide back on her pistol. “Don’t do it.”
The front door unlatched, and Jessica pulled it open cautiously. She drew her own weapon and aimed it at Jennifer, then said into her radio. “Medics now. One injured gravely.”
Jennifer looked through the front door, eyes narrowing as she considered her chances for using one of the approaching paramedics as cover.
“Don’t do it,” Faith said. “You won’t make it.”
Jennifer looked at the two of them. Disgust seasoned her voice. “You fucking sluts,” she spat. “Good little whores for the government, aren’t you? Protecting the innocent. Yeah. Bet you’re real proud when you preen in front of the mirror every morning.”
Jessica made a face at Jennifer’s vulgarity. Turk kept his jaws clamped firmly around her ankle, watching warily in case she swung at him again. Faith kept her handgun on the purely vicious side of Jennifer Suleiman’s personality and said, “I’d like to talk to Jennifer, please.”
“Go fuck yourself,” the suspect spat. “What the hell do you think this is, a cartoon? I’m not going to scream and then go to sleep just because you summoned my other half.”
“We can bring Marshall to justice,” Faith said, stepping so she was in between Jennifer and the paramedics quickly strapping Marshall onto a gurney. “We can find evidence—”
“They already brought him to justice,” Jennifer—or whoever this was—sneered.
“He did three months in jail—suspended sentence—and probation. Never actually saw the inside of a cell. Played nice with his probation officer once a week, and as of today, he’s free to continue being a prick.
No one cares, Faith. No one cares that he gets innocent dogs killed for a quick buck. Who gives a shit. They’re just dogs.”
A tremor ran through her shoulders. She shook her head angrily and forced the snarl back into her voice. “I’m about to decide I’d rather die fighting than go to prison for seeking justice,” she told Faith. “I really hope you’re a good shot.”
“Are you going to kill my dog?” Faith asked calmly.
“Why not? He’s no better than the fake dog that fucking ate Princess’s throat out!”
But a flicker crossed her eyes, something other than the hateful creature with the dog mask and blood dripping from her claws.
“Please don’t,” Faith said, still calm. “I love him. I don’t want to lose him.”
Jessica frowned at Faith, and Faith willed her partner to trust him and not try to intervene. Jessica shifted her grip on her handgun and turned back to Jennifer, ready to fire if the suspect didn’t comply.
Jennifer laughed bitterly. “I loved Princess. I watched her die. I watched her legs kick as she bubbled blood out of holes in her throat.”
She pressed her hands to her temples. The sharp edges of the blades bit through the mask and into her skin, and a few seconds later, blood trickled down her neckin little rivulets.
Jessica flinched toward her, but Faith stopped her with a chopping motion of her hand.
Jennifer took a deep breath and shouted into the air, seemingly oblivious to the wounds she was causing herself. “God! I just want her back!”
Behind Faith, Jenkins quietly said, “Wait for the dart to hit, then go.”
Before Faith could ask what that meant, a feathered tranquilizer dart appeared on Jennifer’s neck. The woman shrieked and flailed her arms wildly. Turk grabbed her ankle and twisted, causing her to stumble to one knee.
Faith and Jessica rushed her. Faith grabbed her left arm before she could stab down onto Turk’s head.
Jessica grabbed the other arm, and they forced her to the floor.
Jennifer turned her wrist and sliced Faith’s arms. Faith winced, but she could feel Jennifer weakening.
The woman’s struggles slowly subsided. Her shrieks turned to sobs. Then deep, steady breaths.
“On your left,” Jenkins said.
Faith stood and allowed Jenkins to take over. He put Jennifer into handcuffs and carefully removed the dart. “Should keep her out long enough to restrain her,” he said.
Turk whined and looked at Faith’s arm, which was dripping blood onto the floor.
“Get that taken care of,” Jessica said. “Jenkins and I will wrap up here.”
Faith nodded. She stepped out of the house, Turk at her side.
One of the paramedic vans turned on its lights and sirens and sped away, carrying the doomed final victim with them.
Paramedics from the other van saw her arm and rushed toward her.
They put protective arms around her and led her to their vehicle.
Turk followed, and one of the medics, a beautiful dark-skinned woman of around forty, smiled at him.
“Don’t worry, boy. Your mommy’s gonna be just fine. ”
Turk whined in response, eyes riveted on Faith’s bleeding arm. He stayed at her side while the medics patched her up—three cuts, thin and clean, no stitches needed—and when they finished, he pressed himself to her. He was shivering.
Faith held him, crooning softly and rocking back and forth as she watched the paramedics roll the unconscious Jennifer Suleiman out of the house. The older paramedic motioned for Faith to leave the tailgate of the ambulance, and Faith got to her feet and led Turk to the sidewalk.
She watched them load Jennifer onto the ambulance and watched it drive away.
Not for the first time, Faith felt sympathy for the killer she’d helped to catch.
There was no excuse for what she’d done, but Faith understood her anguish.
When she stepped into the house and saw Jennifer’s claws raised above Turk, she almost pulled the trigger.
If she was fractured the way Jennifer was, could she have controlled herself?
She was afraid to answer that question. She knew the answer she would give.