Chapter Fifty-Two
Fifty-two
“Drop your gun,” I said.
Teddy Piro stared at me, his lips pursed, his cheeks flushed. He looked like an angry Botticelli cupid.
I held my own gun straight out in front of me. “Drop it,” I said again.
Piro’s cupid mouth twitched into a smile. I hated him. I’d always hated people who smiled when nothing was funny.
“Lower your fucking gun,” I said.
He lowered his gun. Then he fired it. The bullet grazed my thigh.
My flesh seared. Tears sprung into my eyes.
I glanced down. Blood bloomed on my leg.
My white satin skirt was thick with it, the knife dragging at my pocket.
I gritted my teeth and fired my own gun.
But my aim wasn’t good. I was in too much pain.
My knee buckled and I fell to the ground, my . 38 dropping from my hand.
“That’s a good girl,” Teddy Piro said. His eyes were tiny and pale blue, like two chips of ice.
He knelt down and picked me up, kicking my gun across the floor.
He brought me to another room and kicked open the door, carrying me over the threshold.
I bit his arm. He didn’t even flinch. He was solid.
It made me think of Leila Donnelly, who was smaller than me and probably weaker physically.
It made me think of her little son, Tommy.
“I told you to mind your business,” he said. “But you wouldn’t listen. You wanted to know what happened. You…You called my dad. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He dropped me onto a hard chair and turned around for a moment, the gun shoved into the belt of his jeans.
I glanced around. It was a small guest room with two neatly made twin beds.
The chair where he’d dumped me was part of an old-fashioned desk set.
The desk was tall and narrow, with shelves stacked with Star Trek figurines.
He turned around for a moment and opened the desk drawer.
My wounded leg shrieked, but I managed to slip my hand into the pocket of my bloody satin skirt.
“You killed Leila Donnelly,” I said. “Why?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why?” I said again as I palmed Blake’s knife.
“I’m not here to answer your fucking questions.”
I struggled to my feet, my leg throbbing. I was dizzy, my vision clouded. I braced myself and stood up just as he turned around, a stack of zip-ties in his hand.
Oh, no you don’t.
I thought of Natalie Blythe’s yogic breathing.
In on ten, out on ten…I tried it as he lunged at me, heavy hands on my shoulders.
In on ten…It didn’t help. I was still in pain.
But at least it gave me something to think about besides the blood pouring out of me, the way my brain was swimming.
He pushed. I resisted. “Sit the fuck down,” he said.
“Or I’ll have to shoot you again.” I kicked the chair away.
He stumbled. He went for his gun. I slammed myself into the desk and pushed the figurines off the shelves.
Grabbed one of them in my bloody hands. It was an old one.
Spock. Probably rare. At any rate, it was made of something breakable.
“Give it back!” he yelled. I threw it across the room and heard it smash to bits.
For the briefest of moments, Teddy Piro was suspended. Torn. Shoot me again or check the status of his precious figurines. I could feel it. I took advantage.
I plunged Blake’s knife into Teddy’s gut. He roared at me. The gun dropped to the floor. As I knelt down and grabbed it, I saw spots in front of my eyes. Keep going. I pushed the door open and fell into the hall, the gun slick in my hand.
I heard something. It was coming from the living room—a male voice shouting, “Hello!”
“Help!” I shrieked, with Teddy behind me, his footsteps on the carpeted floors.
“Hello?” said the male voice again. “Where are you? What’s going on?”
The voice was muffled. It could have been a neighbor. The doorman. The police. Blake. Please, please…“Help!” I shrieked again. “Help me!”
Teddy grew closer. The gun was heavy in my hand, my head light.
I shot at him and missed. Shot again and connected.
He grasped his shoulder but kept moving.
He was indestructible, like a tank. He was moving faster now, his shoulder bleeding, the knife sticking out of his side a minor hindrance. A trifle.
I shot at him again. The gun clicked. Seriously?
I pulled the trigger again. Clicked. Pulled the trigger.
Clicked. “Unbelievable,” I whispered. Was it confidence that had made Teddy Piro come at me with an almost-empty chamber?
Or stupidity? I was leaning toward the latter. I’d seen his report cards.
I made my way to the end of the hall with Piro close behind, twinkling dots of light all around me, a ringing in my ears like chimes. Church chimes. He must have hit an artery or something. I was starting to get delirious.
“Help.” I said it again in a faint, small voice as I made it into the living room.
Blackness flooded my field of vision. I fell to the carpeted floor, at the feet of the man in Piro’s apartment.
Not a cop. Not Blake. For a second, I thought I might be hallucinating, but I was not.
It was Greg Scepter. “What the actual fuck, Teddy?” he said.
Scepter was still talking as the room went black.